glasses he’d never seen perched precariously on her nose. He wanted to slide them off and get a good look at her eyes, but then he’d get lost in them. Not good. He needed to say absolutely everything he wanted to say and make sure she heard every word.
“I’m ready now.” He flattened the letter on his lap—in case he needed it—and crossed his arms atop the desk. “Tell me what you think at the end.”
Her lips pressed together so tight they quivered. She shook her head but said nothing.
He took a deep breath and plowed forward. “To the woman I’ve only dreamed of. I figured you’d look down on me when you heard me read and saw how terribly I wrote. And yet you didn’t. I’ve lived my whole life hiding my difficulties from everyone. Especially you. I never believed myself worthy of your beauty or intelligence. But then, in a matter of days, I realized how much of a fool I was.” He waited until she caught up, hoping she’d look at him, but she didn’t.
“How could I have thought you’d think poorly of me when you’ve done nothing but care for the people around you? You’ve never given up on a person. Why, most people around here believe you’re a saint for not abandoning that one widow who died as bitter as ever, despite the constant vigil you kept by her deathbed.”
Rachel’s pen froze in the middle of the word bitter .
He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. She knew he was talking about her now, though she’d yet to look at him.
Leaning closer, he softened his voice. “How could a man not wish to live the rest of his life with you? Wake up to those rich-honey eyes, run his hands through that glossy hair, appreciate the mind God gifted you with, and be ministered to by the hands always ready to help. But when I realized I’d been wrong and that you might care for a simpleton like me, I couldn’t ask you to exchange your dream for years of rough farming. So I thought I’d try to woo you with my terrible handwriting, maybe have a good home ready when you graduated, but now . . .”
He bit the inside of his cheek and waited for her to look up. When she finally lifted her glistening lashes, he couldn’t help but smile despite the crazy question he was about to ask.
“But now that you’ve given up school on your own, do I have any chance of convincing you to marry me?” He rubbed his hands on his legs. “Um, now?”
Rachel’s eyes moved back and forth as if reviewing everything he’d said. “What about the bride you wrote to. Where’s she?”
“Miss Pratt’s heading west with the wagon train, but not with me. I never asked her to come, though she must have had reasons of her own for making it look that way.”
“Would you really marry me the day you proposed?”
He leaned closer. “Could you marry a man who can’t promise he’ll be able to spell your name correctly . . . well, ever?”
“If he can dictate a letter like that,” she whispered, “absolutely.”
He took each of her hands in his and rubbed the backs with his thumbs. Everything in him begged to kiss her senseless, but he had to make sure she knew what he could and couldn’t offer. “I can’t promise I’ll be prosperous. I can’t promise you’ll get to see your parents again, or—”
Rachel placed a firm finger on his lips. “You don’t have to be perfect to make me love you. I already do.”
He clasped her hands in his. “Enough to pack a trunk, hop in my wagon, and drive all night if the moon is bright enough?” He swept a strand of hair off her rosy cheek. “But I don’t know if a judge would marry us on a Sunday. If we can’t get anyone until tomorrow morning, we’re going to have a lot of hard riding to do.”
“Harold Avery’s a preacher, right?” Her eyes twinkled.
His smile grew slowly. He’d been grateful someone in the wagon train could ramble off a decent sermon while they traveled, but he hadn’t considered that perk. “Right. I’m so glad you’re
“I’m ready now.” He flattened the letter on his lap—in case he needed it—and crossed his arms atop the desk. “Tell me what you think at the end.”
Her lips pressed together so tight they quivered. She shook her head but said nothing.
He took a deep breath and plowed forward. “To the woman I’ve only dreamed of. I figured you’d look down on me when you heard me read and saw how terribly I wrote. And yet you didn’t. I’ve lived my whole life hiding my difficulties from everyone. Especially you. I never believed myself worthy of your beauty or intelligence. But then, in a matter of days, I realized how much of a fool I was.” He waited until she caught up, hoping she’d look at him, but she didn’t.
“How could I have thought you’d think poorly of me when you’ve done nothing but care for the people around you? You’ve never given up on a person. Why, most people around here believe you’re a saint for not abandoning that one widow who died as bitter as ever, despite the constant vigil you kept by her deathbed.”
Rachel’s pen froze in the middle of the word bitter .
He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. She knew he was talking about her now, though she’d yet to look at him.
Leaning closer, he softened his voice. “How could a man not wish to live the rest of his life with you? Wake up to those rich-honey eyes, run his hands through that glossy hair, appreciate the mind God gifted you with, and be ministered to by the hands always ready to help. But when I realized I’d been wrong and that you might care for a simpleton like me, I couldn’t ask you to exchange your dream for years of rough farming. So I thought I’d try to woo you with my terrible handwriting, maybe have a good home ready when you graduated, but now . . .”
He bit the inside of his cheek and waited for her to look up. When she finally lifted her glistening lashes, he couldn’t help but smile despite the crazy question he was about to ask.
“But now that you’ve given up school on your own, do I have any chance of convincing you to marry me?” He rubbed his hands on his legs. “Um, now?”
Rachel’s eyes moved back and forth as if reviewing everything he’d said. “What about the bride you wrote to. Where’s she?”
“Miss Pratt’s heading west with the wagon train, but not with me. I never asked her to come, though she must have had reasons of her own for making it look that way.”
“Would you really marry me the day you proposed?”
He leaned closer. “Could you marry a man who can’t promise he’ll be able to spell your name correctly . . . well, ever?”
“If he can dictate a letter like that,” she whispered, “absolutely.”
He took each of her hands in his and rubbed the backs with his thumbs. Everything in him begged to kiss her senseless, but he had to make sure she knew what he could and couldn’t offer. “I can’t promise I’ll be prosperous. I can’t promise you’ll get to see your parents again, or—”
Rachel placed a firm finger on his lips. “You don’t have to be perfect to make me love you. I already do.”
He clasped her hands in his. “Enough to pack a trunk, hop in my wagon, and drive all night if the moon is bright enough?” He swept a strand of hair off her rosy cheek. “But I don’t know if a judge would marry us on a Sunday. If we can’t get anyone until tomorrow morning, we’re going to have a lot of hard riding to do.”
“Harold Avery’s a preacher, right?” Her eyes twinkled.
His smile grew slowly. He’d been grateful someone in the wagon train could ramble off a decent sermon while they traveled, but he hadn’t considered that perk. “Right. I’m so glad you’re
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