Seasons of Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #4) by Ruth Glover Page A
Authors: Ruth Glover
Tags: FIC000000
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matter specifically, it was Robbie’s understanding that it was to be a relationship without intimacy. It would not be a true marriage,but a business affair; no word of love was ever mentioned between them.
Until that moment, Robbie, to do him justice, had not thought, even remotely, of marriage with Alice Hoy. Having heard of her illness, he had gone over to the Hoy place after the death of Barnabas simply to be a good neighbor, knowing there was a great need of a man on the place. After all, there were chores every day, the seeding hadn’t been done or the garden planted. He and the other men—and women, too—of the district had taken on these responsibilities, though it meant some neglect of their own places in a very busy season of the year.
Yes, Robbie’s one thought had been to help—that was his purpose in going, his only purpose. Realizing that he had not harbored cunning thoughts or had any devious plans concerning the Hoy property, was the only comfort Robbie had at this time when, at last, he saw the entire situation through another’s eyes—the eyes of Tierney Caulder. Now it seemed wrong, all wrong.
Again the image of Tierney’s stunned face rose before him, stamped on his heart from the moment he had tried to explain. Stunned and anguished then, it had not been much different each time he had seen her since that dreadful night.
When he went to talk to her, Robbie had thought that he and Tierney would be comforted by the realization that all would yet be well, that the present circumstance was for a purpose, and that he and she were, in truth, bonded in heart and mind, now, as ever.
It had not turned out that way. Tierney had staggered as from a physical blow, her face desolate, her eyes brimming with a pain that she did not, probably could not, express in words. Instantly Robbie knew he had done a terrible thing.
And she had avoided him from that night on. The first time or two that he had gone to the Blooms to see her, her white face and stricken eyes had struck panic to his heart—had he irrevocably destroyed their chance of happiness together?
Tierney had sat on the step with him, wringing her hands helplessly, and talked, or tried to talk, of his plans.
“I’m happy for ye, Robbie,” she had said, “if that’s what ye want sae bad—more land. I’d hae thought y’d be happy as a king wi’ your ain wee homestead.”
The Scots accent and the muffled words told of the misery of her heart.
And then she had said, “Ye canna keep coomin’ o’er here, Robbie. I’ll nae see ye again . . . it’s not reet . . . right. Dinna coom, Robbie.”
And Robbie knew she was right; he stayed away.
He had seen her next at church. Though Robbie had not made church attendance a practice, he went the first Sunday Tierney was in Bliss, knowing she would be there with the Blooms—faithful members. Sitting behind her, watching the sun through the window as it rollicked among the glints and gleams of her ravishing head of hair—his heart turned over. He had, indeed, done a terrible thing. Perhaps a final thing.
Then, remembering Alice, too ill to come to church, he felt that he was being unfaithful, in some way, by hungering for Tierney, and he groaned within himself over the strange turn of events that had brought him to this painful moment. Promised to one woman by words, pledged to another in his heart—Robbie, quite naturally and for the first time in his life, felt guilt-ridden. Perhaps a prayer . . .
But Robbie Dunbar was not a praying person. Perhaps, if he had been, he thought grimly, he wouldn’t have gotten himself in such a fix.
He had erred. He had erred greatly. Not only to Tierney but to Alice. Alice deserved better, if only for the short time she had left.
It became clear to Robbie, as he thought on the entire sordid situation, that he had placed himself in as unprincipled a state as could be imagined. Loving Tierney, marrying Alice—and accompanying this was the unspoken
Until that moment, Robbie, to do him justice, had not thought, even remotely, of marriage with Alice Hoy. Having heard of her illness, he had gone over to the Hoy place after the death of Barnabas simply to be a good neighbor, knowing there was a great need of a man on the place. After all, there were chores every day, the seeding hadn’t been done or the garden planted. He and the other men—and women, too—of the district had taken on these responsibilities, though it meant some neglect of their own places in a very busy season of the year.
Yes, Robbie’s one thought had been to help—that was his purpose in going, his only purpose. Realizing that he had not harbored cunning thoughts or had any devious plans concerning the Hoy property, was the only comfort Robbie had at this time when, at last, he saw the entire situation through another’s eyes—the eyes of Tierney Caulder. Now it seemed wrong, all wrong.
Again the image of Tierney’s stunned face rose before him, stamped on his heart from the moment he had tried to explain. Stunned and anguished then, it had not been much different each time he had seen her since that dreadful night.
When he went to talk to her, Robbie had thought that he and Tierney would be comforted by the realization that all would yet be well, that the present circumstance was for a purpose, and that he and she were, in truth, bonded in heart and mind, now, as ever.
It had not turned out that way. Tierney had staggered as from a physical blow, her face desolate, her eyes brimming with a pain that she did not, probably could not, express in words. Instantly Robbie knew he had done a terrible thing.
And she had avoided him from that night on. The first time or two that he had gone to the Blooms to see her, her white face and stricken eyes had struck panic to his heart—had he irrevocably destroyed their chance of happiness together?
Tierney had sat on the step with him, wringing her hands helplessly, and talked, or tried to talk, of his plans.
“I’m happy for ye, Robbie,” she had said, “if that’s what ye want sae bad—more land. I’d hae thought y’d be happy as a king wi’ your ain wee homestead.”
The Scots accent and the muffled words told of the misery of her heart.
And then she had said, “Ye canna keep coomin’ o’er here, Robbie. I’ll nae see ye again . . . it’s not reet . . . right. Dinna coom, Robbie.”
And Robbie knew she was right; he stayed away.
He had seen her next at church. Though Robbie had not made church attendance a practice, he went the first Sunday Tierney was in Bliss, knowing she would be there with the Blooms—faithful members. Sitting behind her, watching the sun through the window as it rollicked among the glints and gleams of her ravishing head of hair—his heart turned over. He had, indeed, done a terrible thing. Perhaps a final thing.
Then, remembering Alice, too ill to come to church, he felt that he was being unfaithful, in some way, by hungering for Tierney, and he groaned within himself over the strange turn of events that had brought him to this painful moment. Promised to one woman by words, pledged to another in his heart—Robbie, quite naturally and for the first time in his life, felt guilt-ridden. Perhaps a prayer . . .
But Robbie Dunbar was not a praying person. Perhaps, if he had been, he thought grimly, he wouldn’t have gotten himself in such a fix.
He had erred. He had erred greatly. Not only to Tierney but to Alice. Alice deserved better, if only for the short time she had left.
It became clear to Robbie, as he thought on the entire sordid situation, that he had placed himself in as unprincipled a state as could be imagined. Loving Tierney, marrying Alice—and accompanying this was the unspoken