looked away, his eyes seeming very blue in the bright sunshine. “I don’t want your pity.”
Pity? No, he misunderstood her. But he didn’t know that his being a foundling could only cement their bond. He couldn’t know how relieved she was to know an abandoned baby could grow into a successful, good man. She could put paid to the idea that her own son would never make anything of himself because she’d left him behind.
John shook his head and then walked away, back the way they had come earlier. Only he was no longer holding her elbow.
For a second she stared at his back. The bright sunshine was no longer warm.
“Are you coming?” he called.
She had to skip to catch up to him. Her stomach echoed the motion.
Ahead of them, gathered in front of his closed store, was a line. She hoped his wanting to reopen the store was the reason he was in a hurry. If her curiosity about his beginnings perturbed him, she didn’t know how to fix that. But until she told him about the son she’d left in Connecticut, he couldn’t know her curiosity sprang from a sympathetic place, not from shame or pity.
She’d had enough shame and pity herself. But for the first time she had hope. Hope that John wouldn’t judge her harshly, hope that her son would turn out all right, hope that her new husband wouldn’t abandon her. They had a connection much deeper than either of them could have suspected from their letters.
* * *
Once inside his store, John pulled his apron from the hook. Closing the store on the day the stage came in and the day before the largest packet ship to San Francisco went out was never a good idea, but he’d taken one look at Selina, her rich mahogany hair, her luminous skin and her hourglass curves, and any thought of delaying the marriage was squashed.
He’d wanted his ring on her finger as fast as possible, before every single man within a hundred miles was sniffing at her skirts. Before she had enough time to have second thoughts. After all, why would she want to marry him when a woman as beautiful as her could pick any one of a dozen men with gold lining their pockets? Not that he was poor, but there were men with big houses and more time to attend entertainments. Now, he wanted to hide her away so no man could tempt her from him.
“What should I do?” she asked.
What did she mean? She should start settling into their home, as women did. He suddenly had no idea what wives did all day. Or at least he didn’t know what they did before the children came. Well, beyond the cooking and cleaning, it seemed unmarried women were always changing from one outfit to another. Perhaps married women did that, too.
“Go upstairs, unpack and change.” He lifted the counter gate and ushered her through. The minute he touched her, a buzz shot through him. He yanked his hand back, lest he just throw her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs.
“Are you?”
The words could have been uttered in a foreign language for all the sense they made to him. He shook his head to clear it. “What?”
“Are you changing?” she asked.
“No.” He had his apron to protect his suit. The apron dangled uselessly from his finger. Besides, if he went upstairs and took off his clothes, and she took off her clothes—well, the chances of him returning to the store before everything was carted off were nil.
The corners of her mouth slipped down.
Women never understood a man’s urgency and need. As if by claiming her he could keep her by his side, he derided himself. He had to figure out his role as a husband. “I have to mind the store.”
“I don’t want to change just yet.” She smoothed the skirt at her hips. “I’ll be careful of my new dress.”
Her new dress made his loins ache. It was tightly fitted, unlike the dark jacketed thing she’d been wearing when she stepped off the stage. That had been bad enough. He’d stepped forward, mindful of not tugging at his trousers, which would have only drawn attention to his newly sprung problem. The hours until he could close the store and get her alone seemed an eternity. Somehow “get out of my sight so I can calm down” didn’t strike him as a good thing to say to his new wife. “You should get settled in.”
Her dark eyes narrowed, then transferred to his apron.
He pulled it over his head. It would at least hide his response to her. And he had to think of something else besides bedding her before his brain stopped working entirely. He had a hundred questions to ask her, but right now he couldn’t frame a single one.
She stood, still not heading for the narrow staircase at the back of the storeroom.
His heart pounded crazily. He pointed in case she didn’t see the stairs past the crates, barrels and sacks. If she was out of his sight he could concentrate on filling orders, stock shelves with his newly arrived goods, and get the mail sorted. He could scarcely keep his eyes off her or keep his mind on serving his customers. He’d be trying to keep other men from stealing her. Or too busy staring at her himself.
While he’d known she was pretty from her picture, he’d expected her to have some flaw, crooked or missing teeth, an annoying squeaky voice, a clubfoot or something that would have prevented her from finding a husband back East. He’d heard plenty of tales of woe regarding mail-order brides. Most arrived with shortcomings. Rarely were they pretty, no matter how much they’d gussied up for a nice photograph.
Wasn’t as if he had a whole lot of choice in brides, with bachelors outnumbering single women seven to one in California. Still, he’d been prepared to settle for whatever he got as long as he could have children with her. Children would fill that missing part of him. He hadn’t really thought a woman would fall in love with him, but a practical bargain he understood.
But so far his wife made him wonder if more than a practical marriage could be had. Or was there some flaw in her she just hadn’t revealed yet? More than likely she’d leave him when she realized he’d never learned how to be part of a family. He’d never had an opportunity to be a son or a brother, let alone a husband. He had to learn now and fast.
“Who’s the gal, Bench?” asked a sunburned miner, jarring John back to where he was.
“My wife.” The word was foreign on John’s tongue.
Her eyes widened and she stared up at him. His wife likely wanted a husband who could control his urges, not a brute. He never lost control, but damn, he wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss her thoroughly.
As if his eyeballs were glued to Selina, he had a hard time peeling his gaze away.
The miner, Olsen, had been one of the group waiting for the store to reopen. He regularly showed up after the mail came in on the stage, and often received thick letters. With a smirk on his face he looked Selina over.
Wanting to punch him, John drew in a slow breath. The man was a customer. “Haven’t had a chance to sort the mail yet. But I have a fresh shipment of tobacco.”
Olsen leaned his arm against the counter.
Selina grabbed his spare apron and pulled it over her dress.
“What are you doing?” John sputtered.
