coat,” Lincoln said.
Juliana hesitated, then lifted the long and surprisingly heavy black coat from its peg and put it on, nearly enveloped by it. With one hand, she held up the hem, so she wouldn’t trip or drag the cloth on the ground.
She stepped outside into the first timorous light of day, and immediately noticed that the eaves were dripping. The snow was slushy beneath her feet.
Would Lincoln ride to town and fetch back the justice of the peace, now that the weather was changing? A quivery, delicious dread overtook her as she hurried toward the Gainers’ cabin. Light glowed in the single window, and smoke curled from the stovepipe chimney.
She could refuse to marry Lincoln, of course—even though she’d slept in his room, in his bed , nothing untoward had taken place. Why, he hadn’t even kissed her.
She blushed furiously and walked faster, remembering the bath, trying to outdistance the recollection. He’d undressed her, seen her naked flesh, washed her. At the time, she had been too dazed by exhaustion and the delivery of Rose-of-Sharon’s baby to protest. The experience hadn’t seemed—well— real .
Now , however, she felt the slickness of the soap, the heat of the water, the tender touch of Lincoln’s hand, just as if it were all happening right then. She quickened her steps again, but the sensations kept up with her.
It was a relief when Ben Gainer opened the cabin door to greet her, smiling from ear to ear.
“Rose-of-Sharon’s been asking for you,” he said.
Juliana hurried inside so the door could be closed against the soggy chill of the morning. A fire crackled in the stove, and the cabin was cozy, scented with fresh coffee and just-baked biscuits. Even the pitiful little Christmas tree had taken on a certain scruffy splendor. Rose-of-Sharon sat up in bed, pillows plumped behind her back, nursing her baby behind a draped blanket.
The girl’s face shone with a light all her own, and Juliana felt a swift pang of pure envy.
Ben took Lincoln’s coat from Juliana’s shoulders and told her to help herself to coffee and biscuits, explaining that Tom had done the baking.
“I’ll be back as soon as we’ve fed those cattle,” he added, putting on his own coat and hat and leaving the cabin.
Ravenous, Juliana poured coffee into a mug, took a steaming biscuit from the covered pan on top of the stove. She sat beside the bed, in last night’s chair, while she ate.
When she’d finished nursing the baby, Rose-of-Sharon righted her nightgown and lowered the quilt to show Juliana her son. He was wrapped in a pretty crocheted blanket.
He seemed impossibly small, frighteningly delicate. His skin was very nearly translucent.
“Do you want to hold him?” Rose-of-Sharon asked when Juliana had finished the biscuit and brushed fallen crumbs from the skirt of the blue dress.
The only thing greater than Juliana’s trepidation was her desire to take that baby into her arms. Carefully, she did so, her heart beating a little faster.
“My mama sent that blanket,” Rose-of-Sharon said.“All the way from Cheyenne. Ben says he’ll take me and the baby home to Wyoming for a visit come spring so we can show him off to the family.”
The baby gave an infinitesimal hiccup. He weighed no more than a feather. “Have you given him a name?”
Rose-of-Sharon smiled. “I wanted to call him Benjamin, for his daddy, but Ben’ll have none of it. Never liked the name much. So we picked one out of the Good Book—Joshua.”
“Joshua,” Juliana repeated softly. She pictured the walls of Jericho tumbling down. “That’s a fine, strong name.”
“Joshua Thomas Gainer,” Rose-of-Sharon said.
Juliana looked up.
“Yes,” Rose-of-Sharon told her. “For Tom Dancingstar. Did Ben tell you I didn’t want him looking after me, because it ain’t proper for an Indian to tend a white woman?”
Juliana didn’t speak. She did shake her head, though. Ben hadn’t told her, and she was glad.
“If Joshua had
Juliana hesitated, then lifted the long and surprisingly heavy black coat from its peg and put it on, nearly enveloped by it. With one hand, she held up the hem, so she wouldn’t trip or drag the cloth on the ground.
She stepped outside into the first timorous light of day, and immediately noticed that the eaves were dripping. The snow was slushy beneath her feet.
Would Lincoln ride to town and fetch back the justice of the peace, now that the weather was changing? A quivery, delicious dread overtook her as she hurried toward the Gainers’ cabin. Light glowed in the single window, and smoke curled from the stovepipe chimney.
She could refuse to marry Lincoln, of course—even though she’d slept in his room, in his bed , nothing untoward had taken place. Why, he hadn’t even kissed her.
She blushed furiously and walked faster, remembering the bath, trying to outdistance the recollection. He’d undressed her, seen her naked flesh, washed her. At the time, she had been too dazed by exhaustion and the delivery of Rose-of-Sharon’s baby to protest. The experience hadn’t seemed—well— real .
Now , however, she felt the slickness of the soap, the heat of the water, the tender touch of Lincoln’s hand, just as if it were all happening right then. She quickened her steps again, but the sensations kept up with her.
It was a relief when Ben Gainer opened the cabin door to greet her, smiling from ear to ear.
“Rose-of-Sharon’s been asking for you,” he said.
Juliana hurried inside so the door could be closed against the soggy chill of the morning. A fire crackled in the stove, and the cabin was cozy, scented with fresh coffee and just-baked biscuits. Even the pitiful little Christmas tree had taken on a certain scruffy splendor. Rose-of-Sharon sat up in bed, pillows plumped behind her back, nursing her baby behind a draped blanket.
The girl’s face shone with a light all her own, and Juliana felt a swift pang of pure envy.
Ben took Lincoln’s coat from Juliana’s shoulders and told her to help herself to coffee and biscuits, explaining that Tom had done the baking.
“I’ll be back as soon as we’ve fed those cattle,” he added, putting on his own coat and hat and leaving the cabin.
Ravenous, Juliana poured coffee into a mug, took a steaming biscuit from the covered pan on top of the stove. She sat beside the bed, in last night’s chair, while she ate.
When she’d finished nursing the baby, Rose-of-Sharon righted her nightgown and lowered the quilt to show Juliana her son. He was wrapped in a pretty crocheted blanket.
He seemed impossibly small, frighteningly delicate. His skin was very nearly translucent.
“Do you want to hold him?” Rose-of-Sharon asked when Juliana had finished the biscuit and brushed fallen crumbs from the skirt of the blue dress.
The only thing greater than Juliana’s trepidation was her desire to take that baby into her arms. Carefully, she did so, her heart beating a little faster.
“My mama sent that blanket,” Rose-of-Sharon said.“All the way from Cheyenne. Ben says he’ll take me and the baby home to Wyoming for a visit come spring so we can show him off to the family.”
The baby gave an infinitesimal hiccup. He weighed no more than a feather. “Have you given him a name?”
Rose-of-Sharon smiled. “I wanted to call him Benjamin, for his daddy, but Ben’ll have none of it. Never liked the name much. So we picked one out of the Good Book—Joshua.”
“Joshua,” Juliana repeated softly. She pictured the walls of Jericho tumbling down. “That’s a fine, strong name.”
“Joshua Thomas Gainer,” Rose-of-Sharon said.
Juliana looked up.
“Yes,” Rose-of-Sharon told her. “For Tom Dancingstar. Did Ben tell you I didn’t want him looking after me, because it ain’t proper for an Indian to tend a white woman?”
Juliana didn’t speak. She did shake her head, though. Ben hadn’t told her, and she was glad.
“If Joshua had
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