The Prospector's Only Prospect, page 15
Nettie sobered, making him realize how hard his voice had become. He tried to reassure her with a gentle pat on her hair.
“Mick? Peas, Papa?” Harley toddled up to tug at his pantleg.
“I’m fresh out, kid.” Virgil showed him his empty hands.
“He wants milk, Papa,” Nettie said hesitantly.
“Oh. Look at you with all your new words.” Virgil couldn’t help but be proud of the little mite, even though he had nothing to do with how quickly he was learning.
“Harley, come with me. I’ll give you some milk,” Marigold called, still sounding hollow-voiced and unsettled. She bustled around, clattering a can off the shelf and picking up the water pitcher.
It was a stark reminder of her role here. And the fact he was behaving like his father, taking liberties with his employee.
Sickened, Virgil marched away without saying goodbye, hearing Nettie telling Marigold, “Do you know what Uncle Owen said?”
“Everything smoothed over?” Owen asked, falling into step beside him.
“Yes,” Virgil lied.
“Why is your collar wet?”
“Because I had to cool off.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” Owen sent a sideways smirk at him.
“Because I can’t tell Marigold to fuck off the way I can with you.”
“Yeah, I saw what happened when you tried.”
Asshole.
“Nothing makes me more eager to stand in ice water for eleven hours like talking to you, you know that?”
Which was what he did, because he still needed to cool off. The memory of her heat sat like a brand on his skin…and would for the rest of his life.
Chapter Fourteen
Marigold started the beans, adding a dab of molasses. Then she walked Nettie and Harley to a spot on the far side of the stream.
It was late in the day for an outing, but Harley was filled with milk and peach preserves and mischief. He needed the exercise. Marigold needed something to occupy her thoughts so she wouldn’t dwell on what had happened with Virgil. Would one call that lovemaking? Or wanton fornication?
Virgil had said she had nothing to be ashamed of, but men only said that until it was no longer convenient to have a woman of loose morals cluttering up their lives.
She seemed to have an unseemly appetite for relations, Ben had claimed in court.
As newlyweds, were you not trying to start a family? her attorney had argued. Would that not account for Mrs. Davis showing enthusiasm for the marriage bed? A wife is expected to submit to her husband, is she not?
To be frank, sir, she wished me to submit to her desires.
It had been humiliating. Intentionally so.
And had pierced her so keenly because there’d been a grain of truth to it.
Marigold hadn’t been sure what she sought when she and Ben were abed, but there’d been a hunger for something. To learn. To discover. Each time they’d joined themselves together, she had felt teased into welcoming him the next time he reached for her. She had wanted his touch and penetration without fully understanding why it was so beguiling.
Now she knew. That culmination Virgil had drawn forth in her was more than disconcerting. It was knowledge. It was dangerous because it incited a desire to feel that way again, uncaring that they weren’t married. Even though it was sinful and shameful and wrong.
“What about bears?” Nettie asked with an anxious look into the brush up the hill.
“Hmm? Oh. We’re only going this far.” Marigold took stock of where they were. “See? There are men over there making noise.” One was using a pickaxe against the bank, and another was rocking a wooden box so water and gravel sloshed. “I don’t think we’ll be bothered by anything other than mosquitos.”
Marigold had walked them a little distance downstream from the abandoned Ute camp. Leyohna had told her to watch for blossoms on a patch of brush to turn into berries here. The leaves looked like currant bushes, and the berries were a glossy red with fine hairs all over them. They were tart, perhaps not ripe enough, but they would make a nice marmalade. They would pick some today and check back over the next week to see if they sweetened up.
They stayed until the mountain shadow was across the whole valley. By then, she had also dug up some dandelion greens while Nettie kept Harley amused with catching grasshoppers. Every time she opened her hands to show one to Harley, it jumped away, startling them into squeals of laughter.
Marigold noticed the men nearby had stopped working to watch and laugh along with them. She waved and offered a weak smile as she gathered up the children for the walk back to the cabin.
She was in the strangest state of melancholy, feeling sensual and aware of everything around her while also insulated from it. There was a slight tenderness in her loins, as if she and Virgil had engaged in congress. She was anxious to see him yet preferred not. She was embarrassed and hating herself while nursing anger toward him and Ben and all men.
She’s not the sort of woman who would instill pious values into my children, she could hear Ben saying under oath. God must have seen it since He chose not to give us any.
Marigold had already been worrying she was barren, and that declaration hadn’t helped.
Now, she did have children in her life and would be heartbroken to lose them. They were demanding, but she was growing to love them—Nettie with her happy, inquisitive chatter, Harley with his cheeky smiles and never-ending cuddles.
And here was Levi, coming up the path as they arrived back at the cabin. He was leaned into the crosspiece of a handcart, pulling the two-wheeled box up the incline, headstrong and determined as his father.
“Are you on your way to Utah? I think you made a wrong turn.” Marigold had occasionally seen trains of Mormons starting out with such carts loaded with their meager belongings, women and children walking along behind. Now that she’d made a good portion of the journey herself in a carriage, she was even more in awe of their will and perseverance.
Levi got the cart as far as the flat stretch of dirt near the cabin and dropped the crosspiece. He fell onto the grass with his tongue hanging out, making Nettie giggle. Harley fell on him to wrestle, making Levi chuckle.
“It didn’t all fit in the wheelbarrow,” Levi said.
“What is it? I thought your father was buying a pair of slates and a fresh tin of saleratus.”
“Pa said it’s for you to make socks for us.”
“That’s a lot of socks.” She glanced at the case of wool. It would make two pairs for each one of them with enough to make a cardigan for Harley and a few scarves. Nettie would enjoy learning to knit those.
Marigold felt down the side of the cart box, looking for extra pairs of needles, and came up with a quilted bonnet wrapped in a gingham apron.
“That’s pretty,” Nettie said, then pointed to ask, “What’s that?”
“A sewing basket.” Marigold lifted out the heavy wicker basket beside the wooden crate. She grunted at the weight.
She knelt in the dirt and set it before her, sensing it had been very valuable to its original owner. The two flaps were decorated in needlepoint vistas of a duck pond and a fancy country house. She spared a moment of prayer for whomever had owned it. Sadly, it was a common enough story for people to die along the trail. She couldn’t imagine another reason it would have been sold, since it would provide a means of income for a widow.
“What’s in it?” Nettie asked, kneeling down beside her.
Harley copied his sister, crouching to ask, “Wa-nin-it?”
Even Levi sat up with curiosity.
“Let’s see.” Marigold was ridiculously excited.
When she opened the flap, she discovered the basket was lined with pale blue silk. There were special pockets containing two pair of scissors, one with long blades for fabric, one with very short blades for nipping threads.
There was a soft leather case full of crochet hooks and embroidery needles and a quilted strip holding two dozen dress pins. A pleated pocket on the inside of one lid was meant to store small projects while they were in process. The other side held a pocket with a measuring tape and a tiny leather case with three silver thimbles nested inside it, each with a different flower decorating its rim.
“Oh!” Nettie said reverently.
“Oh,” Harley copied with big eyes.
“Aren’t they lovely?” Marigold let Nettie try one on her finger. Harley had to try it, too.
Levi inched closer but shook his head when she offered to let him try it on, smirking at the idea, but he continued watching as she explored the rest of the contents.
There were whole spools of thread and ribbons in various colors, full boxes of buttons, snaps, hook-and-eye closures, along with a tin of straight pins. She found three sizes of knitting needles, a swan-shaped pin cushion with a belted band to secure it on her wrist, and in the very bottom, embroidery hoops and precut squares of loosely woven linen for needlepoint.
Did Virgil understand the value in this?
“He really said you should give this to me?” She couldn’t believe it.
“And that we should eat without him. Can we please?” Levi clutched his belly. “I’m so hungry.”
“Me, too,” Nettie said, holding her own belly.
“Me,” Harley said pitifully, even though he’d filled up on berries an hour ago.
“You are turning into a little parrot,” Marigold told the tot, catching at his round tummy.
She went about feeding the children and washing them for bed. At Nettie’s insistence, she told them the story of the three bears, being sure to clarify that the wee baby bear was the injured party.
Everything in her would have loved to crawl into bed and not speak to Virgil for a week, she was still so embarrassed, but now she had this extravagant basket to wonder about.
The air was cool, and the last of the evening light was fading when she went outside.
“Oh.” She came up short as she realized Virgil had arrived home.
He stood beside the cart, looking down on the contents.
“There’s beans and sourdough, but not much left. Levi is eating like a man. I guess he’s working like one.” She moved across to the fire, trying to think how to act naturally around him when he’d had his hand up her skirt a few hours ago. “I can fetch pickles to fill it out.”
“Thanks, but I had your peaches—” He cleared his throat as he lowered onto a log round and didn’t bother finishing.
She begged the ground to split open and swallow her. She wished for a bear to leap out of the darkness and knock her dead with one swipe of its paw. Maybe she would simply succumb to the flames of embarrassment roaring like a bonfire through her and be turned into a pile of ash where she stood.
But she had to speak to it and plainly or they’d never get past it. She pressed her palms together and opened her mouth.
“Where did this come from?” Virgil asked.
“What?”
“This.” He held up the wooden spoon he was using to scrape beans onto his plate.
“One of the men gave it to me.”
“Who?”
“Um…” She had to think. “Jeb? The one with the crooked shoulder, not the Jeb with the thick eyebrows. The Jeb with the eyebrows carved the egg cups.”
“Why? Did you ask them to? Did they charge you?”
“No. I gave one of them some of the butter Nettie churned. The other refused to take anything.”
Virgil sighed. “I don’t think it’s wise to accept these courting gifts. It’ll only rile the men against each other.”
“What? No one is courting me.” Were they? “They’re being friendly.”
He dropped the spoon into the pot and set it down. “Are you really that naive? You see anyone carving egg cups for me?”
“You’re not friendly, are you?”
“Can’t argue that,” he said flatly.
She folded her arms, growing defensive. “Are you accusing me of flirting or teasing? I only want to feel accepted, Virgil. To have a friend or two.” This conversation took on added magnitude as she recalled what had happened between them earlier. “I’m not… I haven’t—” She swallowed. Thank goodness it was growing darker since her cheeks ached with a confused blush of hurt and shame. “If what happened today makes you think I’ve been with some of these men—”
“I know you haven’t,” he said bluntly and set aside his bowl. He poked at the fire, making sparks lift into the night air.
She watched the light and shadows shift in his face, trying to read his expression as the light flared and faded.
“How?” She moved to sit on one of the log rounds across the fire from him. “I mean, I told you what my husband said. I understand why you might think—”
“You said he lied.”
“You believe me?”
“I do.”
“Even after the way I acted today?” Smoke must have drifted into her eyes, because they began to water and burn. She had to sniff back a nose that wanted to run.
“Yes. And today proves it.” His shoulders came up.
“How?” Her voice was squeezed by the pincers that had taken hold of her heart.
He buried a curse into his palm, bracing his elbows on his thighs as he rearranged his face with his hand.
“You’re not as experienced as I presumed you would be, having been married and all.” He lifted his face to hold her stare, even though it was growing dark enough she could only see the glitter of firelight in his eyes. “It’s one thing if your husband never got you there, but no one has. It’s a pretty good bet you’ve only been with him.”
Marigold sat very still, trying to absorb that he believed her while at the same time doubts were swimming inside her, making her wonder if she believed herself.
She hid her face in her own hands, tortured enough to confess in a low voice, “I wanted to.”
“Wanted to what?” he growled.
“I don’t know. Feel like that.” She kept her hands over her hot cheeks, toes curled in her shoes, unable to look at him. “I didn’t know that was how I wanted to feel, but I realize now that’s what I was chasing when I encouraged him to make love to me. He told everyone in the courtroom that I invited him to bed me. He said I was too forward and demanding. That it proved I was a harlot.”
After a stunned silence, Virgil spat, “He’s the biggest piece of shit alive, isn’t he?”
She had to choke a laugh at that. It was either that or cry. She picked up the corner of her apron to dab under her damp eyes.
Virgil rubbed his thighs. “You know, Marigold, I recently learned that women have the right to feel however they want to feel. Men aren’t supposed to tell them what to think of themselves, so is there a reason you’re still letting that prick tell you who and what you are?”
“You’re going to throw my words back in my face like that?” She lifted her wet lashes. The corners of her mouth didn’t know if they wanted to go up or down.
“I am,” he said gently. “And if you’re looking for a man’s opinion of you, I’d say you’re smart enough to know you’re better than that one will ever be. Not that the way we behaved today proves either of us possesses much intelligence,” he added drily.
“I thought you would blame me.” She scratched at a berry stain on her apron. “Say I wasn’t suitable to be around your children.”
“Then I shouldn’t be around them, either. Should I?”
Oh, why did he have to make her like him so much? She folded her hands. “What are we going to do?”
“Not that. Not unless we’re planning to marry.” He rubbed his thighs again. “I won’t be like my father, making children I refuse to recognize.”
She nodded, not wanting to raise children without the commitment of their father, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to marry and give up this nascent autonomy she was finding here. On the other hand, marrying Virgil wasn’t nearly as objectionable a prospect as it had seemed when she had first arrived. Not with today’s memory throbbing between her thighs.
“I have to finish this cabin,” he continued absently. “We’ll have frost soon, and that’ll cost us another batch of men. I should get their help with adding a couple of rooms while they’re still here. At least then you and I won’t be sleeping on top of each other.”
She was aware of him every night, above her. After today, she would speculate even more how it would feel to press her body up against his in the night, to feel his skin brushing hers and his hardness entering her.
She looked away so he wouldn’t read the longing in her eyes. Her gaze snagged on the handcart.
“Oh. Um, the sewing basket.” She rose and moved toward it. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” He stood and kicked the fire down. “Why would you think I expect you to pay for it?”
“Well, you did just tell me to quit accepting courting gifts. I don’t want to give you a wrong impression.” She was teasing, trying to defuse the undercurrents still swirling around them.
“It’s tools to do your job, Marigold. Same as I give the men who work for me,” he said testily. “I thought Nettie would like some of the ribbon on one of her dresses or in her hair. The price was right, so I bought it.”
He sounded so surly, she was almost offended, but she heard the defensiveness beneath his purchase of such an extravagant gift. She bit her lips to hide her smile.
“Do you need help carrying it inside?” He came across. “Is that why it’s still out here?”
“No, I put it back in the cart so Harley wouldn’t get into it. I can’t think where I’ll store it to keep him out of it.”
“The table?” He handed her the basket and took up the crate of wool. “Leave it on my bed when I’m not in it.”
“Your bed isn’t high enough,” she said with exasperation. “He started climbing up there while you were gone. He’s so proud once he’s there, then he cries because he doesn’t know how to get down.”
