Thomas sat at the kitchen table and stared at the letter that had arrived from Michigan. He recognized his mother’s handwriting on the envelope. He’d been sitting there, hat propped on his head, mud caked on his boots, his coat still buttoned up, ever since he returned from taking Charlotte back into town.
All his life, he’d wanted to know.
And now he was afraid to open the letter.
A horse cantered up outside, hoof beats drumming. It was becoming quite a traffic junction, his isolated homestead. Thomas felt his stomach clench as he waited for someone to burst in through the door with some further calamity. Instead, he heard a polite, calm knock.
“Mr. Greenwood?”
He recognized the new, masculine voice of Gus Junior. “Come in.”
Gus Junior entered. He was starting to look quite grown-up. Short and squat like his father, his shoulders had padded out and his arms thickened with muscle.
“Mr. Langley sent this for you. Says it’s very urgent.” Gus Junior handed him a folded piece of paper.
Thomas took it. The letter was not sealed. It appeared to be a page hastily torn from a pad of hotel receipts. He unfolded the paper, scanned the few words scrawled on it and lifted his gaze to Gus Junior. “Did you read it?”
A smile drifted across the boy’s face, rueful and amused at the same time. “I’m a newspaper man. Can’t let a scoop pass by.”
“Will you print it?”
Gus Junior hesitated. His expression softened in an oddly understanding look for someone so young. “I’ll only print it if you turn up. Otherwise I’ll just write up something about the wedding. Mr. Langley is inviting everyone in town for a reception at the hotel. The newspaper is supposed to comment on what kind of dresses the ladies wear and what kind of food is served. And to say that the bride looked radiant.”
Thomas nodded. His mind filled with the image of Charlotte, how she had looked when she stood beside him on the porch of the Imperial Hotel, her body trembling with fear, her eyes wide with terror as she spoke her wedding vows in front of the preacher. She’d been beautiful then. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He gave Gus Junior a drink of water, helped the boy to draw a bucketful of water from the well for his mustang. Such a beautiful horse, Thomas thought as he watched the animal bend its head and drink. Charlotte would like something similar. It would be good for her to have a horse of her own.
When the thud of hooves had faded after the departing messenger, Thomas sat back down at the table. His eyes lingered on Art Langley’s note.
Charlotte Fairfax needs a husband. I’ve agreed to a marriage of convenience. Strictly a business arrangement. If you want to claim your bride, come to the church at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.
In his mind, Thomas listed every objection.
Charlotte was all wrong. Small and fragile and unused to hard work.
No, his heart shouted. She is learning. She’d made friends with the chickens. She’d even milked the cow. She had helped him tend the crops. She could produce edible meals. No one was born to a role in life. Everyone had to learn and adapt.
Charlotte would suffocate in the heat. She’d get lonely and bored. She’d grow old before her time with hard toil and childbirth. She’d lose her health and her will to live, and die of exhaustion.
No reason for it to happen, his heart protested. The doc’s wife was small, and she liked living in an isolated desert town. Dottie Timmerman had borne six children and it had caused her no harm. She’d worked hard all her life, not just as a mother, but as a nurse. During the boomtown days, she’d helped the doc set broken bones and take out bullets and patch up bodies bloodied in saloon fights and mine accidents.
Charlotte would be dissatisfied with him. He’d have no home to offer her. He’d have to take to the road, find a job. She’d learn to hate him. Hate was his destiny. He was born from hate and would carry the burden of it until he died.
Thomas found no strength in his heart to dispute the final argument. He reached for the letter on the table. He weighed the envelope in his hand, lifted it to his face. He recognized the scent of rose water, preserved in the thick paper, even after a week in the mail satchel. His heart seemed to cease beating as he tore open the flap.
There were two sheets, crammed with writing. The first page had a greeting on top.
Dear Thomas
Was it the first time those words had been addressed to him? His eyes skimmed the lines of text. Family news. Weddings. Children born. It was signed off “Your mother Evelyn.”
The second sheet had no greeting. The ink was faded, as if the words had been written long ago. He guessed his mother had written the first page, had shown it to her husband and then slipped the second page in before sealing the envelope.
Your father was from Russia. His name was Grigory. I never knew his last name. He came one day, asked to sleep in the barn. He stayed for two weeks, working in the fields against his keep. Then he moved on. I told him to leave. I was too afraid to let him stay.
You were born nine months later. When your father returned from the goldfields you were already knee-high. It was clear that you couldn’t be his son. Not just the timing, but the way you looked. We are both small, with dark hair and brown eyes. You were big for your age even then, and you had fair hair and blue eyes. When you got older, your eyes became more gray than blue.
My husband was furious to find you in the house. I feared for my life. So I lied. I lied that I had been taken by force one night by the Russian after he got drunk and caught me on my way across the yard in the darkness. I said that was the reason he’d gone away, for fear of being hanged for his crime.
I had not allowed for my husband’s dark, brooding temper. He would not let the matter be. He spoke to people who’d known Grigory, got them to describe him in detail, and he went off looking for him. He was away for two months. When he came back, he seemed calmer, and he let me keep you.
I believe he killed your father. Because I was a coward, too afraid to tell the truth, an innocent man was killed. The man I loved. For I loved your father. I loved him from the moment I first saw him. And he died because of me.
The guilt has consumed me ever since. I love you, Thomas, my son, my child. I know that I’ve never shown you my love. Partly it is because I could never look at you without being reminded of my guilt. Partly it is because I was afraid of my husband’s rage if I showed you any affection.
He knew, Thomas. He knew that I’d lied. And yet he took his revenge out on Grigory. He wanted to punish me, not just for my adultery, but for the feelings I had for another man. He might have wielded the knife, but I was the murderer. I killed your father by loving him and then not admitting to the truth.
I hope that one day you will forgive me.
I hope that one day you will be loved.
For you deserve so much love, Thomas. You deserve all the love I left you without by making you into an outcast in our family. For my own protection I pretended that you were an unwanted child, born of violence and hatred, not a true child of mine, not a true brother to your brothers, worthy of being loved.
But you are, Thomas. You are worthy of being loved.
And I love you, my son. I love you more than I can put into words.
There was no signature. The paper had two small dark circles on it Thomas took as marks from teardrops. He blinked, added a few similar marks of his own. He folded the faded letter, went to the bookshelf in the corner of the room and slipped the single sheet inside his Bible.
A child had to take what was given to him.
A grown man could make his own decisions.
If he had the courage, he could choose to love.
And hope and pray that he’d be loved in return.
* * *
A crowd had gathered outside the church. Orphans were kicking pebbles along the dusty ground. Adults stood talking in clusters. Charlotte avoided meeting anyone’s eyes as she walked past them on Art Langley’s arm. He’d come by the schoolhouse to fetch her. She wore what she always wore out in public on important occasions—her green skirt and her white blouse, but today both were freshly laundered.
Someone had decorated the church with colored streamers. Doc Timmerman, tall and elegant in a gray suit, sat in the front pew beside his wife. Dottie wore a lemon yellow gown and a straw hat which appeared to have a bird’s nest complete with eggs perched upon it.
Behind the altar, Reverend Eldridge was leafing through the parish register and looking puzzled. When he saw her approach with Art, the preacher stepped forward. Unlike her first wedding, when he’d worn denim trousers, he was dressed all in black. Or mostly in black, for his feet were encased in thick red socks. Charlotte peeked past him. She could see no sign of the missing shoes.
“Would you like to invite the people inside?” Art asked her.
She shook her head. “I’d rather keep it private while we speak our vows.” She gestured at Dottie and her husband. “Expect, of course, the witnesses.”
The preacher picked up his prayer book and adjusted his spectacles. They took their positions, and the preacher launched into a long sermon in a sonorous voice. How different her first wedding had been! She’d been full of fear, facing an unknown future with a stranger. Now a single-minded purpose ruled her thoughts.
Reverend Eldridge lowered his book. He studied her, a benign smile on his wrinkled face. “You remind me of another bride I wedded recently.” Appearing flustered, he searched for something in his pockets. “I seem to have lost the card with your details.”
Art Langley cleared his throat. “My mistake. I forgot to bring the card.” He leaned closer to the reverend. “Would you have a blank one?”
The preacher shuffled in his red socks around the altar, searched beneath cloth and came back with a blank card. He lifted it to Art’s face and ran his finger along the empty lines. “You write the bride’s name here, and the groom’s name here.”
Art glanced back at the Timmermans. “Anyone have a pencil?”
A knot formed in Charlotte’s stomach. She recalled observing her father deal with business associates. Those kind of delaying tactics usually meant one intended to renegotiate the terms.
Art strode off to the entrance. “Anyone have a pencil?”
Gentlemen searched in their pockets. Ladies peered into their reticules. Eventually, Timothy Perkins was dispatched to fetch one from Gus Osborn at the mercantile. Gus had refused to leave the telegraph unmanned during office hours. Only one or two telegrams came to Gold Crossing each week, but he took his duties seriously.
Timothy returned with a pencil. Art took his time filling in the card.
The reverend took the completed card and smiled at Charlotte. “You resemble another bride I wedded recently.” He studied the card. “Do you, Arthur Langley—”
Art burst into a racking cough. “It’s the dust,” he wheezed. “I need air.” He hurried back to the entrance, coughed looked around and coughed again. Finally he came back. There was a worried frown on his face.
Reverend Eldridge picked up the card. “Do you, Arthur Langley...” His face crumpled, making him look like a distraught child. “Did I already ask...?” Appearing lost, he darted his gaze between the few occupants of the small church, and then he fastened his attention on the entrance.
“Come in,” he called out, waving a hand. “Don’t be shy.”
Charlotte turned. A big blond man stood framed in the sunlight, hat in his hand, the Sunday suit with a mended sleeve straining across his wide shoulders. He set into motion with slow, deliberate steps.
Behind him, the crowd filed in and settled into the pews. Art Langley stepped out of the way. Thomas handed his hat to Doc Timmerman and took his place beside Charlotte. Like a skilled pickpocket, Art swiped one card from the preacher’s fingers and slipped another one in its place.
The reverend smiled. “You remind me of another couple I married recently.” He lifted up the card, peered at it through his spectacles and said, “Do you, Thomas Greenwood, take this woman, Charlotte Fairfax, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
“But what about the other bride?” she whispered to Thomas.
He looked startled. “What other bride?”
“Gus Junior said you sent for another mail-order bride.”
His gray eyes narrowed, then sparkled with amusement. “You should know better than to believe everything you read in that scandal sheet.” He leaned closer to her. “I sent for your sister.”
“My sister? Oh, Thomas.” She flung her arms around his neck.
“Not yet,” the reverend said. “I must ask you first. Do you, Charlotte Fairfax, take this man, Thomas Greenwood, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Not releasing her hold around his neck, Charlotte smiled up at Thomas. “I do.”
“You may kiss the bride.”
Strong arms closed around her. Then Thomas dipped his blond head and his warm, hungry lips settled over hers. It seemed forever ago that he had kissed her, when she first arrived in his valley. That kiss had been only a light touching of their lips. Now he kept the kiss going, his mouth slanting across hers, lips parted, the heat of his mouth burning against hers, the pressure of it causing an odd tingling sensation low in her belly.
It felt so right. It felt like coming home.
When Thomas lifted his head again, Charlotte was standing on tiptoe, her hands on his shoulders, her face tipped up toward him. He spoke softly, his eyes searching hers.
“I’ll lose the farm. I can’t offer you a home. It will be a hard life with me.” His hands slid down to her waist, eased her closer against him again. “But I promise to love you.”
At first, Charlotte could only focus on the happiness that filled her as she heard his promise to love her. Then the rest of what he had said penetrated her mind.
“Lose your farm?” she said with a frown. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You’ve seen the notices. I borrowed money from the bank against the crops but the harvest is ruined. I can’t pay back the mortgage. The bank will foreclose.”
She eased out of his embrace and clasped her hands together in front of her, scowling at him with a mix of frustration and triumph. “Thomas, why do you think Cousin Gareth tried to force me into marriage? Because he is madly in love with me?” She made a disparaging sound to dismiss the suggestion. “Because I have lots of money and he wants it. But he can’t have it, because now it’s yours.”
Even if she hadn’t loved Thomas, it would have been worth marrying him for the expression of utter incredulity that now flashed across his features. His lips moved. Then he said in a hoarse voice, “There aren’t any more secrets you’ve forgotten to tell me, are there?”
“No, Thomas. I think that was the last. But there’s work for us to do.” She ticked with her fingers. “We must take a train to San Francisco. Engage a lawyer and prove that I’m not dead. Get the family lawyer in Boston to transfer us some money. Employ detectives to find Miranda. She is probably in jail. And we have to send money for Annabel to travel out to Gold Crossing.”
Gus Junior burst in. “Telegram for you.”
Charlotte took the sheet. It was another Maude Greenwood message, so it had to be from Miranda or Annabel. She unfolded the slip and read the text out loud. “‘Money arrived from Thomas Greenwood. Miranda already on her way so I will travel. See you soon. Annabel.’”
She launched into his arms again. “Oh, Thomas, I do love you.”
Behind her, the bemused preacher said, “You may kiss the bride.”
* * *
The cart rattled through the desert in the late-afternoon sunshine. Charlotte curled her hands around the wooden bench to control the bouncing. A sparrow darted in the scrub, but by now she’d learned the birds didn’t sing during the day, only at dawn and dusk.
She turned to her husband. Art Langley had offered them a free night at the Imperial Hotel as a wedding present but she had told Thomas she wanted to go home. She wanted to re-create the evening of their first wedding, but this time she would do everything right.
“Do you notice I’m wearing a plain cotton dress?” she asked.
Before they set off after the reception at the Imperial Hotel, she’d gone back to the schoolhouse to change into the olive green four-dollar dress she had bought at the mercantile.
Thomas glanced at her. “You look lovely in anything.”
“Just you wait and see,” Charlotte muttered under her breath.
When at the end of the journey Thomas took a sharp left and urged Trooper into a canter to clear the brow of the hill, Charlotte craned her neck to take in the view that spread in front of her.
“What a pretty valley!” she cried out. “And you have a lake!”
Thomas shot her a frowning glance, as if he couldn’t quite figure out her remarks. Charlotte tried not to smile. He’d soon catch on.
When the cart rolled to a halt in the small clearing at the top of the path, she waited for Thomas to apply the brake and dismount. He circled the cart and reached up with his arms to lift her down. Just like before, Charlotte rested her hands on his shoulders for support, but this time she didn’t release her hold when her feet touched the ground.
She tipped her face up toward him. “You are supposed to kiss me now.”
Thomas smiled down at her, lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. Slowly, he deepened the kiss, his lips sliding over hers, tasting, tempting. His arms came around her, anchoring her to his chest. On and on the kiss went, and once again Charlotte felt that strange coil of excitement low in her belly.
“My,” she whispered when Thomas lifted his head. “That certainly was an improvement.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows in question. She gave him a little shove. “You should charge ahead now, as if the devil is chasing at your heels. I’ll follow.”
With a baffled shake of his head, Thomas turned on a sturdy boot heel and strode down the path toward the cabin. Charlotte suppressed a grin as she hurried after him. Her normally clever husband appeared a bit slow-witted today, but it was understandable. A man did not think clearly on his wedding day.
He was waiting for her by the porch steps. The sun was sinking below the hills and a cool breeze blew in from the lake. Leaves rustled in the tall cottonwoods. The pair of blue jays she remembered from that first day hopped around on the ground, screeching and flapping their wings.
“Now you have to show me the cabin,” she prompted him.
Thomas led the way and threw the door open. Charlotte clattered up the steps and entered the cabin, sweeping her gaze around the familiar room, the kitchen cabinets, the big window at the back, the floor where the setting sun threw dappled shadows on the smooth timber boards.
“What a beautiful home.” She strolled over to the hand-carved love seats, ran her fingertips over the scalloped edge of the back of one. “It must take a lot of skill to make something like this.”
She spun around and rushed up to the stove. “And a brand-new cookstove, with an oven compartment. How wonderful.” She gave the green enamel front a pat with her hand. “I’m going to call it Vertie. It’s for vert, the French word for green.”
Finally, Thomas was catching on. The humor she loved so much sparked in his eyes.
“I’d best go and see to the animals,” he said. “You can fetch water and make coffee.”
She beamed him a smile. “I was just going to suggest the same. You might also like to fetch my bag from the wagon and put it in the bedroom.”
She waited for Thomas to go, and then she picked up the steel bucket from the kitchen counter and set off toward the well behind the cabin.
Outside, rodents rustled in the grass, and the distant splash of a beaver tail came from the creek. Frogs croaked in a pond, and the inquisitive pair of blue jays chased after her. Nature’s rush hour, Charlotte thought with a contented sigh as she hung the bucket on the well spigot.
Caution slowing her motions, she cranked the pump handle and achieved a steady flow of water that hardly splashed at all. She gave a tiny shriek, just in case Thomas was expecting it. As if on cue, he charged out of the woods.
He gave her a long glance full of regret. “I was looking forward to seeing you in a soaked dress and your hair hanging all disheveled.”
“There are limits to the lengths one is prepared to go for authenticity,” she said primly, and handed him the bucket. “You carry this. I’ll go and change into my nightgown in the privacy of the bedroom.”
Her heartbeat quickened as she darted back up the path toward the cabin. She wanted to give Thomas a perfect evening, a perfect wedding night, but how could one make something perfect when it was something one had never done before?
In the light of the setting sun that slanted into the bedroom, Charlotte opened the leather traveling bag Thomas had fetched from the wagon. She took out a nightgown of old silk and lace, the color of faded roses, hand embroidered with tiny seed pearls around the neckline.
It was the most beautiful garment she had ever seen, and of all people it had been Mrs. Duckworth who’d given it to her. On the morning of the wedding, the thin, sour-looking widow had knocked on the schoolhouse door with a parcel in her hands.
I’ll never have an occasion to wear this again, she’d said with a touch of sadness. But I’d like to see it put to use. She had lowered her voice and went on, a blush heating her cheeks. It has seen many happy nights. I hope it will see some more.
With a wistful thought of how she had misjudged the lonely widow, Charlotte slipped out of her green cotton dress and into the silk nightgown. For a second, she stood still and took a deep breath, one hand pressed to her chest. Then she gathered her courage, coaxed her feet into motion and returned to the parlor.
Thomas was seated at the table. She could feel his eyes on her, bold and possessive and perhaps a little impatient. “You look...” He paused, searching for the right words.
“Like a bride on her wedding night?” Charlotte supplied.
Thomas nodded. For another minute, he simply stared at her. Then he started, like an actor remembering his lines. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Would you like supper?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll make coffee.”
She went to the kitchen counter and bustled about, measuring the coffee, filling the pot with water, lighting the stove. Through it all, she could feel Thomas watching her, and a new seductiveness entered her movements. She could never have imagined she possessed such boldness.
Thomas didn’t mention eating again, although that last time he had set out bread and cheese. Neither did he offer to give her the shawl his mother had made. Charlotte knew he was saving his gift until morning, the way it should have been.
“See?” she told him when the coffee was brewing. “Not a grain scattered on the ground.” She sat down opposite him. “Now we should talk and get to know each other while the water is boiling.”
Thomas contemplated her. “I already know everything I need to know, but there is something I’m curious about. You said you want to go to San Francisco and engage a lawyer to draw money from your inheritance. How are you going to claim your fortune if everyone thinks you’re dead? You can’t telegraph your sisters to confirm who you are because you don’t know where they are right now. Isn’t it best to wait until they get here?”
“No,” Charlotte said firmly. “I want some money quickly, in case Miranda and Annabel are in trouble and I need to bail them out. And we’ll need money to pay back the mortgage on your farm.”
She got up to check on the coffee and spoke from the stove. “And it won’t be a problem to prove who I am. I told you, Papa was a sea captain, and he often brought business associates to Merlin’s Leap. Shipping agents, ship owners, sailors, merchants. San Francisco has a big seafaring community. We’ll be able to find someone who recognizes me and can confirm my identity. And I had another meeting with Mr. Wakefield before he left town. He has signed an affidavit to confirm that the woman buried at Merlin’s Leap is his fiancée, Maude Jackson, and that there was a mix-up with our identities because we had exchanged gifts.”
Using a cloth to protect her hands from the heat, Charlotte picked up the coffeepot, carried it to the table and poured into the cups waiting there. Before she lowered the pot, she slid a slate pot holder beneath it to protect the tabletop.
Thomas took a sip. “Good coffee. Just right.”
Charlotte nodded, took a mouthful. It was perfect.
Outside, the darkness was thickening. Thomas got to his feet. “I’ll light the lamps. And I’ll have to go out again, to check on the animals.”
Charlotte watched as he lit two lamps, a storm lantern for him to carry when he went out to take care of the chores, and an oil lamp to leave burning on the parlor table. Nerves twisted in her belly. She hated to waste such good coffee, but her throat seemed to have closed up.
“I’ll get into bed and wait for you.” Her voice revealed her tension.
Thomas gave her a long look, then merely nodded and turned to go. She noticed that he too had left most of his coffee. At the door Thomas turned back. “It will be all right, Charlotte,” he said. “There’s no need to be nervous.”
But nervous she was. She carried the lamp through to the bedroom with unsteady hands and settled in the big feather bed beneath the patchwork quilt. As an afterthought, she jumped out again and crouched to peer beneath the bed where Thomas usually stored the bundle board. There was no sign of the wooden divider. A thought crossed Charlotte’s mind: Thomas had probably burned it.
She slipped back under the covers. It seemed only seconds had passed when she heard footsteps thudding up the porch steps, and then their trail traversed the parlor, and Thomas entered, his presence filling the room.
He didn’t say anything, merely ran his heated gaze over her reclining shape beneath the covers. And then he began to undress. One by one, he shed his articles of clothing. Charlotte saw lamplight play on the magnificent lines of his chest and shoulders, shadows leaping and dancing as his muscles flexed with the movements.
He bent to slide the long johns down his legs, and she admired the powerful arch of his back, the lean line of his waist. Straightening, he tossed the undergarment on the back of the chair and turned to face her, fully naked, not a stitch on him.
“I thought you wear pajama bottoms,” she said on an intake of breath.
“I lied. I sleep naked, but I didn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”
With the urgency of purpose in his step, he strode up to the bed and lifted the edge of the patchwork quilt. “But now,” he said in a husky murmur, “offending your delicate sensibilities is my duty as your husband.” And with that, he jumped into bed and bundled her into his arms.
Love welled up in Charlotte as she nestled against his warmth. He always knew how to protect her, how to reassure her, and now he was using humor to ease her anxieties.
A few moments later, she felt the pressure of his arms ease around her as Thomas drew their bodies apart. “Shall we take this off you?” he said, tugging at her nightgown. “It would be a shame to ruin it.”
Not waiting for a reply, Thomas slid one hand along her body, down to her knees, and gathered the flimsy silk in his fingers. Slowly, he edged the garment upward along her body and over her head. Charlotte helped, lifting her hips, raising her shoulders, holding her arms high.
Thomas let the nightgown drop to the floor by the bedside. “There,” he said. “That’s better.” Bracing his weight on one elbow, he pulled the patchwork quilt aside and studied her. Charlotte could see his eyes flickering over her, and there was heat in his gaze—heat and hunger and longing.
“It’s all right,” she told him. “I’m not scared. You can do anything you want.”
Thomas laid his hand flat on her belly and held it there. He had big hands, and the weight of that simple touch reminded her of his strength.
“I want to make a baby,” he said. “That’s what I want.”
For a while, they lay in silence, his hand heavy on her belly. Outside, the wind rustled in the trees. An owl hooted in the darkness. One of the windows stood ajar, and through it came the faint scent of flowers from the lakeshore.
Thomas spoke quietly. “I had a letter from my mother. She told me about my father. He was that big fair-haired drifter I mentioned before, but he didn’t rape her. She loved him. But she felt guilty about betraying her husband, so she lied about it.”
Charlotte stared up at him. “How could she—”
Thomas shook his head to silence her questions. “We’ll talk more about it some other time. You can read my mother’s letter. But tonight is not about the past. Tonight is about you and me, and the future.”
His eyes held hers. “I only mentioned it because I wanted you to know before we might make a baby that I wasn’t born of violence. I was born of love, just as any child of ours will be.”
Charlotte touched his cheek with her fingertips, the way she had done on the day they first met. “I’m glad you found out the truth,” she told him. “But even if you had been born of violence, it is clear to me there is no cruelty in you. Whatever hardships you may have suffered while you were growing up, they didn’t poison your mind. They did the opposite. No man could be gentler or kinder. You’ll make a wonderful father to any child we may have.”
Thomas accepted her comment with a wordless nod. His hand on her belly began to move around in a slow, lazy circle.
Charlotte lay languid on the soft feather mattress. All her senses seemed heightened. She could feel the slight abrasion from the callused skin on Thomas’s palm, could feel the quivering in his muscles and knew he was restraining himself, forcing himself not to hurry, to give her time.
Little by little, his hand edged up to her breast, cupping it gently. “It fits perfectly,” he said, cradling the weight in his palm. His thumb brushed across the nipple and Charlotte gave a moan of pleasure.
“You like that?” Thomas said.
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
He repeated the caress, then let his hand slide downward, below her belly. Charlotte made another frantic, inarticulate sound and arched her back on the bed.
“Yes, oh, yes.”
A fire burned within her now. New, daunting sensations caught her and swept her along with them, like the ocean waves at Merlin’s Leap. Thomas leaned over her and kissed her, a deep, probing kiss that made the knot in her belly tighten until she thought she could bear it no longer.
He lifted his head and looked into her face.
“Ready to make a baby?”
Her gaze swept along the curve of his shoulder, saw the healing scar there, and the puckered ridge where the bullet had skimmed his arm, and a new curiosity sparked in her.
“Can I touch you, the way you touch me?”
Thomas smiled. He rolled onto his back and crossed his forearms beneath his head. “You can touch me anywhere you like.”
A little shy now, Charlotte rose to a kneeling position on the bed and studied his body in the soft glow of the lamplight.
“Have you always been so big and strong?” she asked.
“I was big even as a boy, but I only developed the strength when I worked the mines, and then on the farm. Hard labor makes muscles grow.”
Tentatively, she ran her hand over the padded contours of his chest. When she brushed past a flat brown nipple, Thomas flinched, so she did it again. “I love your size and strength, because you use it to protect those who are vulnerable.”
“And I love your courage and determination.” He reached out for her, tucked her into the curve of his body and rolled over, until he lay above her, his weight braced on his elbows, his legs sliding between hers. “And now you need to show some of that courage and determination, because I expect this will hurt.”
“You bore a knife wound and a bullet without complaint.”
There was a rueful tone to his voice. “I hope this won’t be quite as bad.”
He lined his body with hers and slowly entered her. It did hurt. Charlotte gasped with the pain. Thomas kissed her—deep, comforting kisses—and between the kisses he whispered soothing words to her while his powerful body moved above her with the gentleness that was so much a part of him.
And then the pain eased, and in its place came a new sensation, like a temptation that called for something more. Charlotte moved with him, her hands clutching his shoulders, seeking to meet the rhythm of his thrusts.
Would it always be like this? This amazing sense of togetherness, of discovery, of belonging? Tension gathered deep inside her, and then it broke into an avalanche of pleasure. She wrapped her legs around Thomas’s waist and clung tight, holding him close, holding him to her, and felt the same waves of release roll through his body that had just buffeted her own.
As Thomas sank beside her, she could hear his harsh breathing, could feel the trembling in his limbs, and realized they mirrored her own. He hauled her into his arms and held her close, her head tucked in the crook of his neck where she could feel the frantic thrumming of his pulse.
Later, when their heated bodies had cooled and their swift heartbeats calmed, Thomas pushed up on one elbow and looked into her face. “Welcome home, Mrs. Greenwood,” he said. “I forgot to say that when I lifted you down from the cart.” His eyes searched hers. “I love you, and now that you truly belong to me, I trust you will never try to leave me again.”
* * *
Thomas yawned and stretched his limbs on the big four-poster bed at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco. Beside him, a breakfast tray from the room service sat upon a marble-topped nightstand. A streetcar clattered by outside. Dawn light rimmed the thick curtains that blocked out the view over the city.
Charlotte was already up, sitting on a plush velvet sofa. A cream satin nightgown hugged her feminine curves. She adjusted his mother’s shawl on her shoulders and leaned down to pick up another document from the low table in front of her. Turning over the page, she studied the text in the light of the electric lamp on a stand beside her.
“Come back to bed,” Thomas called out to her.
His wife glanced over at him and smiled. “In a bit.”
His whole body tingled with love and contentment. He couldn’t decide which part of marriage he liked the best. To sleep beside his wife all night, with her curled up against him, just as she had on their first night together, when he had tried to stay awake to enjoy every moment of it. Or to join their bodies in the act of love and bring pleasure to each other, with greedy touches and fevered kisses as their passion rose. Or to simply watch her in idle moments, just as this.
To talk. To share. To cherish.
To love and be loved.
Charlotte rose and walked over to him, her steps soundless on the thick carpet, the satin gown rippling against her slender frame. Thomas let desire flood over him. He’d been right to believe God had been just in his creation, giving men and women an equal capacity to enjoy the physical side of marriage. His fragile wife had proved anything but fragile when it came to satisfying his needs and her own.
“I need you to sign this.” She held out a parchment deed and a pen.
Thomas scooted up on the bed. “Is it important to you?”
“It is.”
He nodded, took the document that would transfer his land into their joint names. Warmth filled him at the thought that despite all her wealth it mattered to Charlotte that they would share the ownership of his valley. At first, he’d been alarmed to find out he’d married a rich woman. He’d worried she might want him to go and live in some fancy mansion in the East.
His relief had been great when he learned that the only home she wanted was his sheltered valley. His fears allayed, he had learned there were benefits to having money. Room service and satin nightgowns. Lavender soap and bathtubs big enough for two. Generators ordered from Edison Machine Works.
They had engaged Pinkerton detectives to track down Charlotte’s sisters. So far, there had been no news, but it was early days. He could tell Charlotte was worried. He loved to hear her reminiscing about the feisty Miranda and the young, sensitive Annabel. His sisters-in-law. Thomas looked forward to welcoming them, having a warm, loving family, something he’d missed all his life.
He glanced at the deed in his hand. There was a blank line after the description to identify the parcel of land. He looked up at his wife. “It says nothing where the name should be.” Charlotte had told him she wanted to name the place. He’d always just called it “The Valley” or “The Farm.” Others might say “Greenwood’s place.”
“Sign the document first,” she told him.
He carefully wrote out his name.
“Aren’t you going to read it first?” his wife asked.
Thomas smiled, a little rueful. “I trust you’ll not lie to me again, ever. You learned your lesson the hard way. I hope you learned it well.”
“I did,” she said, a little shamefaced. And rightly so.
He handed the deed back to her. “What’s the name?”
She lifted the document to her face and blew on it to dry the ink, lips pursed into a circle that made him want to reach up and kiss her. Satisfied that his signature wouldn’t smudge, Charlotte clutched the deed to her breast, raised her eyes to him and said, “Paradise. The name of our valley is Paradise.”
* * * * *
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