She felt Dwight tighten his arms a little more. “That’s not true, darlin’. Not true,” his voice was hushed but his tone was irrefutable.
Against his chest, she murmured, “As God as my witness, no man had ever touched me…and none has since.”
“I believe you, honey,” Dwight declared against her temple, his voice rough. She felt his lips press against her hair in a way that made her feel precious and cherished.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief, pressing it into her hand. As she dabbed at her nose, she went on, “When we docked at Brownville, Hobbs told me he would buy me some pretty clothes to wear, and that he would back me and get me started in the business. I figured that would be my lot in life and I had no other choice. We were walking up the hill from the wharf when all of a sudden, he knocked me down, took out a big knife, and cut the lacings on my shoe where I kept my money. Cut my leg and left me lying there bleeding as he ran away, laughing! I screamed my head off and Tobias came running. Well, you probably know the rest.”
Little by little, she had felt her husband’s body tense as her story unfolded, and now he burst out with an oath, “If I ever see that jackanapes face to face, I’ll work him over so good he won’t be able to do that to another girl, ever again! And…if he is the one who pushed Mr. Swigert out of the barn loft, that’s attempted murder. For that and for what he did to you, I’ll make sure he hangs!”
His words, the way he held her so protectively, and the sheer vehemence in his declaration, all worked on Mary’s heart. How could she not fall in love with this man?
Heaven help her.
Chapter 12
D wight sat at his small desk in the corner of David’s large office. The tall, narrow window to his left showed a gray November afternoon, and he was lost in thought as he stared at a framed portrait of Mary and himself, taken by a traveling photographer.
He remembered the day quite well. The man’s name was Herman Heyn. All of his personal belongings and photographic equipment were stored inside a covered wagon, and he’d come to town looking to open a portrait studio. He had set up shop in a vacant lot next to a recently opened eatery, the Steamboat Café. As luck would have it, Dwight had promised to take his wife to lunch that opening day.
The intrepid photographer had snagged them just before they had reached the door of the establishment and had flattered and cajoled them into posing for him. Escorting them inside the large tent he’d erected, he’d positioned them just so. Then, just before he’d instructed them to hold still and not breathe while he counted off the exposure time, he had made the comment that all expectant mothers were beautiful, but Mary was downright captivating. The joy in her eyes in the photograph stemmed from the man’s compliment. Matter of fact, the man’s flowery praises toward Mary had rankled Dwight more than he’d like to admit. But Mary had comported herself with her usual modesty.
Ruminating on that day, he remembered another little scene…
Inside the café, they had just begun eating when a sandy-haired man wearing boots, blue jeans, a black vest, and black Stetson—which he politely removed—stopped by their table. Ignoring Dwight, the man addressed Mary, “Well, hello there, Mary. Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. Not since…” he had hesitated and quickly looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Not since that day at court.”
Court? Dwight had scowled up at the back of the interloper’s head, speculating over who the heck the man was and what his words truly meant.
Mary smiled at the man politely. “Yes, that’s true. Um…how have you been, Keith?”
“Oh, can’t complain, can’t complain,” the affable man had answered. He hadn’t paid Dwight so much as an ounce of acknowledgment, which had made him begin to get steamed—especially with the way the man was looking at Mary and she at him. As if there was a secret shared between them.
It was then that Mary seemed to realize her lapse, and she lifted a hand in his direction. “Keith, um, this is my husband, Dwight Christiansen. Dwight…this is Deputy Keith O’Neill, Tobias’ good friend and…” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “your proxy for our wedding.”
The man had finally turned toward him, his green eyes glinting with mirth. He’d then had the audacity to toss his head back with a loud ha at Dwight’s glare before leaning over and murmuring in Dwight’s ear, “Yep. She was my wife first, fella. Remember that. Treat her right, or you’ll answer to me.”
Then, with a bout of raucous laughter, he replaced his Stetson and touched the brim in a playful farewell before sauntering out the door. Only Mary’s gentle hand on his arm had restrained Dwight from going after the popinjay and giving him what for.
With a soft snort, Dwight shook the memory out of his head and once again focused on the portrait.
Thanksgiving was steadily approaching, and it seemed Dwight’s delightful little wife was growing bigger with child by the day. Gazing at her pleasant image in the sepia-colored photograph, Dwight could see she had been much smaller at the time.
Now at nearly seven months enceinte, the baby made his or herself known quite frequently, with movements that fascinated the young couple. On many occasions, Mary had allowed Dwight to put his hand on her belly to feel the child stretching its
