“So, how did we get so lucky?”
He gave her his tantalizing wink. “We are pariahs, you and I. And being so, we are set free to explore beyond the bounds of what our choke-throated, respectable brethren back in civilization consider prudent and godly.”
He reached out, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I made the oath to love you with all of myself. Without reservation of body or soul, and in return, I would take any crumb you offered. First you gave me your companionship, and then your trust, and finally your body and soul. You gave me my life, a direction, and a way to discover who I am as a man. And being a pariah, I can love you down to the last drop of my blood.” He squeezed her hand again. “If I could, I’d put you inside me and melt your soul into mine.”
Her throat tightened; her heart skipped.
“Bret? I’ve never told you that I loved you.”
“Nor would I ask you to.”
She returned the squeeze of his hand. “I think, my dear, that we’ve saved each other. I spend most of my hours dreaming of you, seeing your smile, hearing what you’d say in response to my thoughts or notions. I try to keep that sparkle in your eyes down in a safe place inside my soul. I dream of your body, of holding you close, and locking you inside while we make love. If that isn’t loving you with everything I’ve got, what is?”
He swallowed hard, his smile trembling, an upheaval behind his glistening eyes. His voice almost broke as he said, “You have no idea what that means to me.”
“Never leave me, Bret Anderson.”
“Not even with my dying breath. We’re going to live, Sarah. Do all those things you’ve been dreaming about. We’re going to spend each day experiencing everything life has to offer. Never the trite or mediocre.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And if a child should come along?”
He locked his eyes with hers. “I’m surprised one hasn’t, given our healthy and athletic relationship. I will follow your wishes.”
“Meaning?” She felt her curiosity rising, having wondered what his desires were.
“Sarah, I can live with you as we are. Just you and me, adventuring and savoring life to the fullest. Were we to have a child, I will dedicate myself to loving it and raising it as a shared and cherished creation of our love. And, by God above, I swear I will be a better father than that cold fish who raised me.”
“I may not be able to have children, Bret. I’ve never told you. Never told anyone. After the rape … I knew I was pregnant. Hated it. Wanted it out. Did things. And one day, something tore inside me. Out it came.”
She paused, watching his eyes. “I don’t know what it did to my insides.”
His smile comforted, his hand gentle on hers. “Whatever comes, I will welcome it with delight and anticipation. I just want you.”
She smiled. “What about marriage?”
“Of course. If you’d like. Would it make a difference?”
“I have no idea.” She shrugged. “I won’t love you more for having stood up in a church. As far as I am concerned, Bret, you’re my husband. Right here. In the eyes of God, I declare it. In sickness and in health, until death do we part.”
“And I you,” he replied, his voice gone husky again.
She reveled in the glistening depths of his soft brown eyes, seeing right down to his emotional soul. Dear God, so this is what it really meant to be loved? How on earth had she ever managed to find this one man? This mate for her soul and dreams?
“Come on, Bret. I just declared our honeymoon.” She pulled him to his feet, leading him back to the bed. “Hope you ate enough oysters, because now that we’re officially man and wife, I want to see just how far beyond ‘conjugal duties’ two pariahs can go.”
78
April 22, 1867
The knock in the middle of the night sounded oddly timid.
“Coming,” Doc called as he slipped his feet into his worn slippers and made his way from the cramped bedroom in the back of the small frame house.
The night was as black as pitch, and he could hear water dripping from the eaves as he hurried across the front room.
At the door, he fumbled for the matches, struck one alight, and lifted the chimney as he lit the wick. Holding the light, he unbolted the door and opened it.
Three wet and bedraggled women, scantily dressed in white cotton chemises, huddled together under the protection of his small porch. Two were holding up the third, and now he could see the rain-washed pink of blood.
“Come in,” he urged, throwing the door wide. As they did, he raised the lamp, peering out into the gently falling spring rain. The lamp’s feeble light failed to pierce the cold stygian darkness.
Closing the door behind him, he followed the girls, who had veered into the small parlor and eased the bleeding girl onto Butler’s chaise longue where he “read to his men.”
“Sorry, Doc. Didn’t know where else to go.” The first of them turned to him, pulling back her wet and dark hair with thin white fingers. She stared at him with worried eyes made large where kohl had run and streaked her cheeks. Water beaded on her face, her thin cotton chemise clinging. Her nipples stood out on her breasts, the wet fabric outlining her belly and the concavity of her navel.
“What’s happened?” Doc asked, bending down with his light. The second of the girls was holding the wounded one’s hand, whispering, “Gina? We got you to Doc Hancock. It’s gonna be all right.”
“Excuse me.” He bent down, holding the light as he raised Gina’s chin, seeing the bruises, her left eye almost swollen closed. As he lifted, he felt bone rasp in her mandible. Broken jaw. “What happened? Who did
