Libbie: Bride of Arizona (American Mail-Order Bride 48) by Linda Carroll-Bradd

satisfied, he was consumed with weariness. He moved to her side and clasped her hand. “I want to hear your stories, Libbie, I do. But I need sleep.” Craved it, actually.
    Nodding, Libbie stepped forward. “Of course, you do. I can stargaze any time.”
    They took a few steps without speaking. On the chilly air came the hoot of a scavenging owl and the shriek of its prey.
    Libbie’s grip tightened on his fingers, but he rubbed a reassuring thumb over the back of her hand. “Nothing to worry about.”
    The deep silence of the pre-dawn hour surrounded the couple, almost cushioning them in their own private world as they approached the porch steps.
    “I’m glad you’re back, Dell. I was lonely.”
    The words were spoken so softly he almost missed them as he plodded toward the house, his thoughts focused only on his bed. But her vulnerable tone grabbed him in the throat. Swallowing past the lump, he released her hand and slipped an arm over her shoulders. “I’m sorry for that. Tomorrow will be better, I promise.”

Chapter Six
     
    Hunger pushed Libbie out of bed the next day. She could no longer ignore how her stomach cramped and rumbled. After a quick washing using cold water from the bedside pitcher and bowl set, she donned her riding outfit and then paused with her hand on the bedroom door knob. When she and Dell entered the house last night, they’d fallen silent, as if the four walls of enclosed space had stolen the ease of their reunion in the barn. Almost by tacit agreement, they’d moved in different directions as soon as they climbed the stairs and reached the landing.
    Glancing back at the room, she searched for where she’d set down her mbira . Today she intended to go outside and work with her birds, reacquainting them to the sounds of the metal thumb piano. As she scanned the area, she spotted the messy sheets, the rumpled quilt, and her clothes hanging over the sides of the portmanteau. The realization of her new station in life hit, and she sagged backwards against the door.
    No one would enter the room and tidy up like when she’d exited her Boston room and gone out running errands or attending her classes. Here in Arizona, no assistance like Mary or Sally had provided would be forthcoming. Libbie Anke Stirling was responsible for straightening the bed and putting away her clothes. No food would be downstairs, already cooked and placed in serving dishes, waiting for her to make a selection. As a new wife, she was expected to prepare the meals, and clean the house, and wash the laundry, and sew new clothes. Weariness over what lay ahead tugged on her body.
    Where will I find the time? She had to help Jomo build a sturdier shelter, become familiar with the two youngest birds, and then exercise them all. With a sigh, she crossed to the open portmanteau, scooped up her underclothes, and stuffed them into the top bureau drawer. Then she shook out her three day dresses, hooked them on the row of clothes pegs, and did the same with her two skirts and her other riding outfit. Probably she should ask about an iron to spruce up her shirtwaists but not now. A long strip of blue-patterned seshweshwe cloth that could be converted into her South African village dress was draped over the top of a dress. Displayed before her were clothes from all three of the countries where she’d lived—but still, she was uncertain of which one to call home. With this marriage, she hoped to create a place that would truly be her home.
    Would she ever visit the compound in South Africa again? Although her research was specific to the small villages of friendly generous people and their native instruments, what value did those musical studies have if she was living in America? Probably she be better off by forgetting about her previous life and making a different and new one. But that task would be so hard, because she’d also be ignoring the memories of her beloved parents. When tears threatened, she whirled and dashed down