Lyla shrank into the corner of the seat as Jared yanked the brake handle hard enough to splinter it, grabbed up the reins, and snapped them with a resounding crack! The horses lurched into motion, and she held to the side of the seat when the wagon rocked violently.
Jared’s hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles glowed in the moonlight. His jaw thrust forward and his eyes narrowed into slits. She’d never seen him so angry, and guilt smacked as hard as he’d applied to reins to the horses’ rumps. But how could she answer his question? Could she really admit, “You made me fall in love with you#x201D;? Of course not. It would do neither of them any good. So she sat in silence, battling tears, until he pulled up to the small barn behind her house.
She started to climb over the edge, but he barked, “Stay put.” She waited while he hopped down, rounded the wagon, and then held his hands to her. She blinked back more tears as she allowed him to help her from the high seat. He was a gentleman even in his fury. She wished he’d left her to sit in the wagon and rot.
The moment her feet met the ground, he released her and stomped to the front of the wagon. He grabbed the leather leads securing the horses in their traces. “Go on in. I’ll put the team away for you.”
She scuttled after him, wringing her hands. “Jared, I—”
“Go inside, Lyla.”
Lyla. Not Lithe Legs. She hung her head. “A–all right.” She turned to go.
He blasted a huff. “Wait.”
She angled her gaze over her shoulder. “What?”
“They’re showing interest in each other, but they haven’t made a commitment yet. We aren’t done.”
Lyla closed her eyes. She couldn’t continue spending time with Jared. Not knowing she was heading to a reservation and he to a land claim. Not knowing there was no future for the two of them together. She needed time away from him to repair her heart. “Jared, I—”
“Don’t worry. We won’t be together. Not for this plan.”
She cringed. He sounded so harsh. So cold. So unlike Jared. “What then?”
“We’ll send letters. Every day for the next week.”
She slowly turned to face him. “What kind of letters?”
“The lovey kind of letters.” His hard tone didn’t match the idea of being lovey. “I’ll write to your aunt, you write to my pa. Sign ‘em ‘Your Secret Admirer.’ In the letters we’ll arrange a meeting spot. If we do a good job with the writing—fill ‘em with mushy talk an’ so forth—they oughtta be interested enough to come to the meeting spot. Then when they’re face-to-face, they’ll figure out they really do care about each other.”
Lyla toyed with the idea. Writing letters would mean no contact with Jared, but they would still be guiding Mr. Hardwick and Aunt Marion toward each other. She wished he’d thought of this plan before her foolish heart had plummeted head over heels for him. “It … it could work. Where should we have them meet?”
One of the horses poked its nose against Jared’s collar. He curled his arm around the horse’s neck, giving it a few light pats. It seemed his anger was fading. “Someplace where nobody else’ll see. Maybe … behind the church. At that bench beneath the willow tree.”
“When?”
“Probably better wait until after supper. Let’s say seven o’clock next Saturday night.”
“All right. I suppose we’ll want to slide the letters under each other’s front doors rather than using the postal service.”
He nodded and headed for the wagon. “That’d be best. Then they’ll arrive on time.” He heaved himself into the seat. “Since that’s set, head on inside. As I said, I’ll see to your team, and …” He shook his head. Hard. As if dislodging a flea from his ear. “Never mind the ‘and.’ Good night, Lyla.”
Never had a farewell felt so final. Lyla scurried into the house and to her room. She wanted to be sound asleep by the time Aunt Marion returned. Her aunt would likely be full of questions about Lyla’s early departure, and she wouldn’t be able to answer without bursting into tears, which would open more questioning. It was best to simply go to sleep.
Sunday, by deliberately arising late and lazing in her room, Lyla avoided her aunt’s queries. After church, Aunt Marion invited Mr. Hardwick and Jared to lunch. Jared looked past Lyla as if she didn’t exist and politely declined. Mr. Hardwick then also thanked Aunt Marion and said he’d better eat at home. Lyla feigned a headache and went straight to her room when they returned to the house, leaving Aunt Marion to eat alone at the kitchen table. Guilt nearly sent Lyla to the kitchen, but instead she retrieved her pot of ink, pen, and writing paper and sat at the little table in the corner of her room to pen the first “secret admirer” letter to Mr. Hardwick.
She dipped her pen, touched its nib to the paper, and wrote, Dear. Then she paused. Should she call him Grover or Mr. Hardwick? Aunt Marion never called the merchant by his first name, but surely one who’d fallen in love would not be formal. She couldn’t imagine calling Jared by the stilted Mr. Hardwick.
“Stop thinking about Jared!” The words emerged in a harsh command. She clapped her hand over her mouth, appalled. Had Aunt Marion heard her? She listened, her heart pounding, but no footsteps sounded in the hall. With relief, she leaned over the page again. Even though Aunt Marion consistently called Jared’s father Mr. Hardwick, she would use his given name in the correspondence. Jared had said to make the letters “lovey,” and Grover was more lovey than Mr. Hardwick.
Dear Grover,
I hope you won’t think me forward by calling you Grover. It’s how I think of you.
And I think of you often.
Lyla’s face heated. Was she writing to the father or the son? She nibbled the end of the pen for a moment. If she wrote from her heart to Jared, only replacing the father’s name, the letter would be lovey. And real. Maybe it would help dispel some of the pent-up feelings coursing through her each time she thought about leaving Friendly and never seeing Jared again.
With Jared’s face hovering in her memory, she dipped the pen and continued writing.
Although I’ve never been blatant enough to confess my deepest, fondest feelings for you, they reside within my heart and accompany me every waking moment. Yes, dear, you are on my heart from the moment I arise until the very last moment before I lapse into sleep. Even then, your smiling face enhances my dreams and makes me long for morning when I might hear your voice, inhale your musky scent, gaze into your—
She gasped, jerking the pen. She’d nearly written sapphire eyes. But Grover Hardwick didn’t have Jared’s wonderfully rich blue eyes. His were hazel. She scowled. How could she elaborate on hazel? Ah, yes …
… gaze into your eyes of greenish-gold, the colors of sunlight on a sea of grass.
This lovey letter writing wasn’t too difficult when one allowed her imagination free rein. And it was taking the edge off her deep heartache. She bent over the page, new paragraphs already forming in her mind. Then an errant thought flitted through.
Was Jared writing his first lovey letter right now, too?
For the first time in his life, Jared wished he had a desk or table in his room where he could write in privacy. Pa had shuffled off to his room for his Sunday nap after a simple lunch of cheese on white bread sandwiches with canned peaches, but knowing that he could emerge at any minute and catch Jared midletter at the dining room table left him edgy and unable to concentrate. This letter wasn’t going well at all.
He scowled at what he’d written so far.
Dear Marion,
I hope you’re having a good day. Mine is fine. It’s a little warmer today, more like springtime, and I like that.
He closed his eyes and groaned. Was he writing to a lover or to a stranger? He’d told Lyla to be lovey. This letter wasn’t lovey. It was boring. He wadded up the page. He removed another sheet from the tablet and laid it on the table in front of him. Then he sat for long minutes staring at the thin lines marching across the page. What should he do?
And suddenly he knew. He’d write to Lyla. Being lovey with her wouldn’t stretch him at all. He’d been pretty mad at her last night. Was still pretty mad. But only because he’d fallen for her. Fallen so hard it’d left bruises on his heart. But she wasn’t interested in him. Not as anything more than a friend. It made him mad that he wouldn’t have a chance with her, but being mad didn’t erase his feelings. So he’d write them all down. At least if they won her aunt to loving his pa, they’d accomplish something good.
He licked the tip of the pencil lead, aimed the point at the paper, and used his neatest script to start again.
Dear Marion,
You’re probably going to call me too bold, but I have to say this: I think you’re beautiful …