“Ruthie met them, in Landon. She told us all about them. Or wait…I guess she hasn’t yet. Not in this timeline. It’s so confusing.”
We’d reached the hotel, a white clapboard building with a deep front porch and a balcony running the entire length of the second floor. Malcolm paused with one boot on the bottom step, abruptly realizing, “You’d prefer a moment to yourself, I’d wager.” He adjusted his hat brim in a gesture both endearing and self-conscious. Keeping his gaze directed at the steps, he murmured, “I’ll inquire after our rooms for the evening.”
Sawdust coated my tongue; it took courage, but I stuttered, “You needn’t get…two rooms.”
His eyes lifted at once, burning into mine with such powerful certainty that a sharp thrill pulsed in my belly, undeniable as tomorrow’s sunrise.
Had I known how this day would end?
Of course I had; there was no other way, not from the second we first laid eyes upon each other many hours and miles ago. All paths circled back to this exact moment, facing each other on a dusty set of steps with evening light creating a golden nimbus around his upper body, his wide shoulders and lean arms, his cowboy hat. Without a word he lifted my right hand to his lips and tenderly kissed my knuckles, then my palm, before lacing our fingers and bringing our joined hands to his fast-thudding heart.
“I was hoping you might say that,” he whispered.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Muscatine, IA - June, 1882
OUR ROOM FACED THE MAIN STREET AND I PROPPED OPEN the window to the pleasant evening air, alone for the moment while Malcolm returned downstairs to ask after dinner and a pitcher of hot water for the basin. Elated and terrified in almost equal parts, feeling like a bride on her wedding night – and an ignoramus at that, one who had no earthly idea what occurred between a man and a woman – I fluttered around the cramped space, the narrow wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. The mirror revealed my sunburned face, cheeks and eyes blazing as brightly as if I’d spent the past two minutes guzzling a jug of wine. My heart was no longer only in my chest but hammering at every pulse point.
A knock sounded and I jumped as if prodded by an iron poker, almost too afraid to answer the door. I needn’t have worried; it was only the woman from behind the front desk, carrying a steaming teakettle, which she emptied into a porcelain basin on the dresser.
“There, my dear, you take a moment to wash up. Your husband said to tell you he would return with a plate of food, not to worry. And I’ve taken the liberty of bringing you a nightgown, as he said yours was ruined.” She handed me a length of white material I’d thought was a towel, trying not to wince at my unkempt appearance, and then bustled around the room, lighting both lanterns, clucking with maternal concern. “Poor dear. You wash up and rest, you’ll be right as rain in the morning. Soap’s in the top drawer.”
“Thank you,” I stammered as she took her leave.
Steam rose from the water in small curls; the basin was exactly like the one stationed on Gran’s dresser, back home. While grateful for the hot water I couldn’t help but wonder how in the hell a person was supposed to wash up with what amounted to about six cups of liquid. But it was better than nothing and so I drew the curtains at the window. The candlelight created golden ripples on the water as I brought the basin to the floor, small agitated waves. I stripped from my t-shirt and bra, cringing at the thought of putting them back on tomorrow, and left my hair in a braid as I scrubbed my face and armpits, in that order, using the small yellow-brown chunk of soap that lathered about as well as a stone.
Fumbling, cursing, dripping water everywhere, I knelt over the basin in a state of nervous anticipation so heightened my stomach seemed to be floating in a hot air balloon somewhere near the stratosphere.
Hurry, Malcolm. Oh God, hurry back to me.
I’m afraid I might die before you get back.
I peeled off my socks and jeans and panties, breathless, shaking hard now. There was less water in the basin than on the wooden floor at this point; the soap stung the skin between my legs, prompting another spill as I scrambled to rinse. Because I couldn’t get my clothes wet, I used the nightgown to mop up the mess on the floor, about halfway done and completely naked when a second knock sounded. I swallowed a shriek as Malcolm said, “It’s just me. If you’re ready, I brought us dinner.”
He sounded as if there was a large, fibrous husk lodged in his windpipe.
“Hang on!” I gasped, tearing the sheet from the bed and wrapping it toga-fashion around my damp body. I could hardly force air from my lungs, let alone words, but I managed to invite, “Come in.”
He opened the door and I saw immediately he had two plates piled with chicken and mashed potatoes balanced on his right forearm. I hurried to help him and he caught sight of me – and my lack of clothing – at the same instant. Heated tension flared between us with more impact than a lightning bolt. We almost bumped heads as I stumbled forward to take the plates from his arm, both of us talking at once, a rush of nervous babbling.
“I know this sheet looks stupid…my clothes are so dirty…”
“No, no, it’s not stupid at all…I shoulda given you more time up here…”
“Watch out, the floor’s all wet, I’m so sorry…”
“No, it’s all right…”
“I should have saved you some water…”
“There’s no need, I washed up downstairs…”
A flush blazing across
