No, nobody ever had. He’d thought this once maybe it’d turn out different. But he was as dispensable to Eleanor Dinsmore as he’d been to everyone from his mother on down to the state of Texas. He could give up and simply walk away from this place, away from her, but whether she loved him or not, he was happy here, happier than he ever remembered being, happy and comfortable and busy and achieving. And that was worth fighting for.
He swallowed his pride, crossed the half-scrubbed floor and squatted beside her, resting both elbows on his knees. 'I don’t want to go… but I didn’t hire on here to deliver babies,' he argued quietly, reasonably. 'I mean, it’s'-he swallowed-'it’s a little personal, wouldn’t you say?'
'I guess that would bother you,' she returned tightly, continuing to scrub, moving to a new patch of floor to avoid his eyes.
He considered long and hard, fixing his attention on the top of her head. 'Yes… yes it would.'
'Glendon did it… twice.'
'That was different. He was your husband.'
Still scrubbing, she said, 'You could be, too.'
A shaft of hot surprise sizzled through his veins. But what if he’d misunderstood? Weighing her words, he balanced on the balls of his feet, watching her rock above the scrub rag as the wet spot spread. Her cheeks grew flushed as she clarified, 'I mean, I’ve been thinking, and it’s okay with me if we went ahead and got married now. I think we’d get along all right, and the boys like you a lot and you’re real good with them, and… and I really don’t throw eggs very often.' Still she wouldn’t look up.
He contained a smile while his heartbeat clattered. 'Is that what you want?'
'I guess.'
But when she finally glanced up he saw only embarrassment at having asked. So… she was not in love, only in a bind… and he was convenient. But, after all, he’d known that from the first time he’d walked in here, hadn’t he?
The silence remained tense. He stretched to his feet and crossed to a window, looked out at the backyard he’d cleaned, the clothespoles he’d sturdied, thinking of how much more he wanted to do for her. 'You know, Eleanor, it’s silly for us to do this just because you put up some ad in the sawmill and just because I answered it. That isn’t reason enough for two people to tie up for life, is it?'
'Don’t you want to?'
He glanced over his shoulder to find her watching him with face ablaze.
'Do you?'
And neither of them spoke what was in their hearts.
At length, he glanced out at the yard again. 'It seems to me there should be some… some feeling between people or something.' It was his turn to flush, but he kept it hidden from her.
'I like you fine, Will. Don’t you like me?'
She might have been discussing which new rake to select, so emotionless was her tone.
'Yeah,' he said throatily, after a moment. 'I like you fine.'
'Then I think we ought to do it.'
Just like that-no harp music swelling out of the heavens, no kissing beneath the stars. Only Elly, seven months pregnant, struggling to her feet and drying her hands on her apron. And Will standing six feet clear of her, staring in the opposite direction. The way they’d laid it out made it sound as exciting as President Roosevelt’s Lend-Lease Program. Well, enough was enough. Before Will agreed, he was going to know exactly what he was getting into here. Resolutely he turned to face her.
'You mind my asking something?'
'Ask.'
'Where would I sleep?'
'Where would you want to sleep?'
He really wasn’t sure. Sleeping with her would be tough, lying beside her pregnant body and not touching it. But sleeping in the barn was mighty lonely. He decided to give away no more or less than necessary. 'The nights are getting pretty cool out in that barn.'
'The only place in here is where Glendon slept, you know.'
'I know.' After an extended silence, 'So?'
'You’d be my husband.'
'Yeah,' he said expressionlessly, realizing she wasn’t too thrilled at the prospect.
'I… I sleep with the light on.'
'I know.'
Her eyebrows lifted. 'You do?'
'I’ve been up at night and seen it.'
'It’d probably keep you awake.'
What was she doing arguing against it when the idea made her have to fight for breath?
He thought long and hard before trusting her enough to reveal a crack in his defenses. 'In prison it was never completely dark either.'
He noted a softening in her expression and wondered if someday he could trust her with the rest of his vulnerabilities.
'Well, in that case…' The silence welled around them while they tried to think of what to say or do next. Had this been a regular proposal with the expected emotions on both sides, the moment would undoubtedly have been intimate. Because it wasn’t, the strain multiplied.
'Well…' He rubbed his nose and chuckled nervously.
'Yes… well.' She spread her hands, then linked them beneath her swollen belly.
'I don’t know how a person goes about getting married.'
'We do it at the courthouse in Calhoun. We can get the license right there, too.'
'You want to drive in tomorrow, then?'
'Tomorrow’d be fine.'
'What time?'
'We’d better start early. We’ll have to take a wagon, ’cause the boys’ll be with us. And as you know, Madam’s pretty slow.'
'Nine o’clock then?'
'Nine should be fine.'
For a moment they studied each other, realizing to what they’d just agreed. How awkward. How incredible. Self-consciousness struck them simultaneously. He reached up to pull his hat brim down, only to discover he’d left his hat hanging on the fencepost. So he hooked a thumb in his hind pocket and backed up a step.
'Well… I got work to finish.' His thumb jabbed the air above his shoulder.
'So do I.'
He backed up two more steps, wondering what she’d do if he switched directions and kissed her. But in the end he followed his own advice and left without trying.
Chapter 8
Falling into bed that night, Eleanor lay wide-awake, thinking of the day past, the day to come, the years ahead. Would she and Will live peaceably or fight often? Fighting was something new to her. In the years she’d been married to Glendon, they’d never fought-perhaps because Glendon was just too lazy.
In the place where she’d grown up there was no fighting either. And no laughter. Instead, there had been tension, never-ending tension. From her earliest memories it was there, always hovering like a monster threatening to swoop down and scoop her up with its black wings. It was there in the way Grandmother carried herself, as if to
