Asked For by Colleen L. Donnelly Page B

it slowed her down. She straightened in the chair and smoothed her skirt where he’d been sitting. The skin of her hands looked old instead of young, thin and dry instead of well. She flexed them. They would improve with time. She’d eat more, drink more water, get back on her feet so some of her vibrancy returned.
    “Cletus helping you plenty in the evenings still?” Ella asked.
    Lana nodded, clutching her hands on her lap. He held the boys and corrected the girls, well, corrected Magdalena. Betsy stayed quietly out of the way while Magdalena took advantage of her father being held down by two babies.
    Ella jostled Alex as his head swiveled from side to side, keeping an eye on his brother and sisters, especially the sister racing from room to room shouting at her horse to go faster and faster. Ella watched the back of Alex’s head, her mouth working before she finally spoke. “Cletus behaving himself?”
    Lana kept her face toward her children. Ella’s question embarrassed her, but it also exasperated her. Such things were no one’s business, just hers and Cletus’. Ella had told Lana the doctor warned Cletus she shouldn’t go through another childbirth. The first time Ella said it, vague memories of a tall shadow leaving her bedside, the sound of a door opening and closing after a man had said, “Do you understand?” ran through Lana’s mind. She’d hoped it was part of a dream, not Cletus leaving her side after his second—maybe his last—son had finally been born.
    “He’s fine,” Lana answered, hoping Ella would be satisfied. Behaving himself was too much for Cletus, and Lana knew it. She saw it in the way he watched her when he was home. The doctor’s edict and the fact she’d been slow healing and too torn up inside to be the wife he needed had toppled her king from his throne. The hunger in Cletus’ eyes, the wolfish appetite which lay behind them, made his celibacy, even though temporary, look intolerable. His eyes stalked her, followed her around the house, viewing her as if she was a meal withheld instead of a wife. He was hungry, he was frustrated, he was a pot of simmering fury, waiting to see if it was true she’d never give him another son. Let him do whatever he wants.
    “Good.” Ella gave a sharp nod of approval. “He doesn’t need to bury another wife. I know that sounds harsh, but you’re a treasure, whether he realizes that or not.”
    A treasure. Lana felt cold inside. She thought of Cletus’ first wife’s photo on his chest of drawers. Had that woman been a treasure before she died? Or even afterwards? Sons were his true treasure, not her, not his other wife. If she stopped giving him sons, he’d blame her, say it was her fault, and he’d be right. She’d given him two. She glanced from Alex to Harold. Two wouldn’t be enough. If she was no longer able to give him babies, especially sons, Lana may as well not even be here, not even to satisfy his nightly yearnings. She might just as well be a photo on Cletus’ dresser.
    The back door opened and men’s voices flowed into the house. Lana straightened as much as she could. Her skin felt cool and clammy. She brushed her hair back with her hands.
    Magdalena shot into the room and back out again. Harold watched the doorway he knew his father would walk through, a bounce in his excitement. Ella became quiet, the men’s voices and Magdalena’s foot-beats the only sounds.
    Cletus’ voice overpowered Carl’s. It rose, gruff around the edges—he sounded upset. Lana watched the door. Cletus had been more and more upset lately. Tension had grown along with the hungry look in his eyes. Lana clasped her hands and buried them in her lap.
    “Morgan.” Cletus spit the name. Mr. Morgan. He owned a restaurant in town. Lana’d never eaten there, but Cletus had. He used to eat lunch there often, especially since his welding shop was across an alleyway from it, directly behind the business next door to it. Cletus had an ongoing battle