Josh
Josh Tucker had made a lot of mistakes in his day. Big ones, like the day his mother had died. Little ones, like that time he'd had too much to drink playing poker with the men. Medium ones, like deciding he was man enough to break that stallion they'd brought in two summers ago. He measured his mistakes, not by his actions, but by the consequences thereof. That night of drinking was just a little mistake because all he'd suffered for it was a headache and a couple bouts of nausea the next morning. The horse was a medium mistake because he'd broken his arm and knocked himself out cold, but didn't suffer any lasting ill effects. His mother... well, suffice it to say that was a big mistake.
As he stood next to his new wife in the crowded barn, he wondered what level of mistake he'd just made. How long would this haunt the both of them? How much would they suffer for the lies they'd just spoken in God's name?
When he'd made the offer, it had felt like a good idea. Perhaps even noble in its own way, if a bit self-serving. He was gaining a wife out of the deal, and she was gaining a secure future for herself and her child. He'd known she was nervous when he made the offer, and downright scared when she'd accepted it. He just also figured that she'd feel better once she had time to settle into the deal. Instead, she'd only grown more anxious. He'd started avoiding her, just to keep away from the wrenching guilt her fearful eyes awoke inside him.
When dawn leeched into the sky that morning, he'd considered riding right up to the house and retracting his offer. The only thing that staid his hand was, to his shame, the fact that everyone now knew. The ranch hands, the folks in town, the preacher from the next county over... too many people were tied up in the charade.
Much like the marriage, this party had seemed like a good idea mere days ago, when he'd begun arranging it. He'd moved all his family's horses down to the main stables and pulled a half-dozen ranch hands off of their regular duties to clean up the private barn. Melissa had taken over those arrangements, directing his men with her usual flare and turning the dank space into a warm, colorful dance floor.
Josh wasn't partial to large social gatherings, but he'd thought it might cheer Amelia up. He'd had Melissa invite all the women she knew from town, put what remained of his money into a decent supply of liquor, and hired a band to play in a corner. The environment was in such stark contrast to the drab, solemn ceremony, Josh even found himself smiling a couple of times.
Then he'd catch glimpse of his wife.
She carried herself with rigid formality, accepting every offer of congratulations with a tight, trembling smile. She only danced once, and carried herself so stiffly he felt like he was holding one of the wooden figurines storekeepers kept in their windows to display the latest fashions. After their first obligatory dance he hadn't asked for another.
As the partygoers around her grew more raucous, Amelia grew more somber, her eyes more sunken and shadowed with exhaustion and anxiety. He stayed close to her side throughout the night, because he knew it was expected and because he hated the thought of leaving her alone to feign joy for an audience of strangers. He wanted to drape an arm over her shoulder and pull her close to his side, to shield her from the drunk men and the nosy women. He had a feeling, though, that so much contact would only make it worse. So he stood by her and held her clammy hand and fought the constriction of his heart as her fingers tightened around his hand with bruising strength.
"I think it's time for us to leave," he whispered in her ear after a small fight broke out in the corner by the band.
The look on her face was equal parts relief and terror, and hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. What did she think he was going to do to her?
"It's time for us to leave," he said again, pulling her toward the exit, desperate to get her alone and find away to explain that he didn't intend to hurt her. If they could make it out unseen...
"Hey, boss, have fun!" said one of the new ranch hands, slapping him on the shoulder as he passed and leering at Amelia. His wife tensed beside him and he offered the man just enough attention to fix the face in his memory. Then another man, a new kid, stumbled up wearing a drunken grin, halting their forward movement.
"Hey, Mr. Tucker, jus' wanna say congratula--" he hiccupped "--lations. She's a real fine piece of ass you've got, there." He, too, fixed booze-fogged eyes on Amelia's body, and Josh stowed away his identity as well before shoving him aside and dragging his charge toward the door.
"They'll both be gone by tomorrow evening," he said as they emerged into the crisp air and broke apart.
"It's fine," she said, her breath fogging the air. They'd left her coat inside, he realized, but there was no way he was taking her back in there and even less chance of him leaving her outside alone. He shrugged out of his jacket and offered it to her with a gruff "here" that made him wince. She took it hesitantly and tucked her arms into the overlarge sleeves, pulling it tight around her middle as they trudged up the sloping yard to the house.
The house was dark and quiet, and Amelia went from wooden to stony as they crossed the threshold and climbed the stairs. He could feel her tucking herself away-- boarding up the windows of her soul and barring the door to her heart. Banking the fires that kept her alive and abandoning herself to whatever was about to happen. It filled him with equal parts shame and frustration. What had he done to make her so fearful?
He hadn't seen the inside of his old bedroom since he'd moved out, and he was momentarily distracted when he pushed open the door and stepped inside. It actually took him a second to recognize the space. What a difference a woman made. Although the drapes and pillows and bedclothes were still mismatched and worn, the room seemed to have brightened and pulled itself together. The furniture was rearranged, and the space was tidy and well-kept. The dresser on the right was covered in small bottles and brushes and pretty things that didn't seem to serve much purpose. The far bedstand was covered in books, and a large stack sat beneath the window seat.
One of the household servants had kept the fire burning, and stacked enough firewood against the wall to keep it blazing all night. Both lanterns were lit as well, and the three sources of light cast a warm, yellow glow over the room.
Amelia walked stiffly past him and stood in the center of the space, her arms still wrapped around her middle, holding his jacket shut against a new kind of cold. She stared at the ground, her jaw clenched so tight he could see the muscles move. She was terrified. His frustration grew, but he had to admit her fear wasn't entirely unfounded. Of course he wanted to celebrate the day. He wanted to consummate the promises they had both made. Hell, he wanted everything her body had to offer-- the smooth curves, the silky heat, the soft moans, the feathery brush of her hair.
God, he wanted it.
But not at the cost of her trust. He was a selfish man, and the thing he wanted most was for her to love him. Someday. And that day would never come to pass if he terrorized her into hiding.
But God... he wanted it.
"You can relax," he said, wishing he could tell himself the same thing.
She looked up at him sharply, and a spark of defiance danced in her eyes before the shutters dropped over them. She studied the floor and the words tumbled out of her mouth like she'd rehearsed them. "I appreciate all you're doing for me, and I want to give you what you want, tonight," she said to the worn floorboards. "I won't fight you and we can... whatever you want, we can do. Just please be gentle. I don't know if... I don't want what we do to hurt my child. So please be gentle."
Her words sent a shock of cold down his spine and he sank back against the second dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. She watched the floor and he watched her, wondering if he'd ever live long enough to erase the sin he'd committed today. He should never have married her. He should have found a way to provide for her without locking her into something she so clearly didn't want.
"Amelia," he started, but couldn't find the words for everything he wanted to say. Nothing that came out of his mouth would do justice to her fear or penance for his guilt. So he didn't even try. He was crude and abrupt because that was all he knew how to be. "If anyone asks, we consummated this marriage three times and that child you're growing is mine. And before you get to thinking nobody will ask, my father will, and he'll pry for more. You tell him three times and nothing else. And if Melissa asks you, tell her to mind her business."
"You mean you don't want..." she trailed off and looked up at him from beneath her lashes, head still bowed, as if she expected him to hit her. His stomach churned.
"No," he lied. "I don't."
She stared at him, her mouth opening and shutting as if she couldn't decide what to say or whether to say it. He barely had time to register the sickly pallor of her face and the glassy distance in her eyes before she gave a soft noise of distress and crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.
Amelia
"Amelia?"
Go away.
"Amelia, can you hear me?"
Yes. Now go away.
"Open your eyes for me, honey."
Something tapped her cheek and Amelia turned away from it and struggled against the dense fog that filled her head. She blinked open her bleary eyes and squinted at the face that swam and blurred above her.
Josh, she realized with relief.
Her husband, she realized with despair.
"There you are," he said, his mouth twisting into a tight, worried smile.
She wanted to sit up, but firm hands pressed her back down. She was lying on something soft. A bed.
"What happened?" she asked, raising a hand to her aching head.
"You fainted," he said as he sat back, giving her space.
"I don't faint," she protested weakly, fighting nausea as she tried once more to sit up. Again, he pressed her back against the bed.
"I guess sometimes you do," he said with a shrug. "Nothing to be ashamed of. You're pregnant, and you had a stressful day and I didn't see you eat or drink much of anything. How are you feeling now?"
"Fine," she lied, sitting up in spite of his worried look. He fetched a glass from the bedside table and filled it with water and she accepted it, hating how her hands shook as she raised it to her mouth. When she'd emptied the glass he took it gently and refilled it, passing it back.
"You know Brent fainted once?" he asked, his voice hesitant but tinged with amusement.
"Really?" she asked, frowning at him. She didn't particularly want to talk about Brent, but she'd rather discuss someone else's humiliation than her own."
"Yup," he nodded, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, presenting her with his profile. "He was about ten, I guess," he said with a one-shouldered shrug. "Really liked to climb stuff at that age. He was hangin' upside down from one of the rafters in the barn when pa came callin'. He wasn't supposed to be up there, of course, so he dropped down real quick, just in time for pa to round the corner. Brent stood up, said something about the color purple, and swooned like a distressed maiden, right there in my arms."
Amelia giggled in spite of herself and finished the last of the water. He took the cup and set it on the table.
"Was he okay?" she asked in spite of herself, in spite of all the evidence that Brent was obviously fine. She was greedy for details. Her heart was greedy for details. Her mind just wanted to forget him.
"Yeah, he was fine," Josh said, but his voice had grown darker, his eyes shadowed. Before she could wonder what he hadn't said, he changed the subject, nodding at her. "You need to get out of that dress. Melissa laced you up too tight, that's probably half of why you fainted.
She wanted to protest, but he was right. The dress was squeezing her so tight she could barely draw a breath. And he had said he didn't want her. She had nothing to fear. With his help she sat up, fighting her pounding head, and twisted to try to get a look at the back of her dress.
"I think I need your help," she said, reluctantly.
Instead of speaking, he helped her up, clasping her elbow when she wobbled, and led her to the stool in front of her dresser. She sank onto it, bracing her hands against the tabletop before her.
She watched him in the mirror as he worked, his forehead wrinkled in concentration as his fingers tugged clumsily at the buttons, hooks, and laces that held her captive. She almost laughed at the fierce, almost combative look on his face. Then he found some success and the dress began to part down her back. Cool air brushed over her spine, along with his fingers, glancing occasionally over her skin as he worked his way downward. It made her skin prickle, but not in a terrible way. She wasn't afraid anymore, she realized. Not the tiniest bit.
When he reached the curve of her lower back she shifted, twisting to catch his gaze. "I got it now," she said hoarsely, and his hands fell away as he backed up, sinking onto the trunk at the end of the bed.
"Will you turn around?" she asked, holding the dress up with one hand as she stood and worked the rest of the buttons with her other.
"You promise to sit down if you get feelin' dizzy? I got to you last time before you hit the ground, but I won't if I got my back turned."
"I'm feeling better," she said honestly, because she was. In many ways. "Thank you," she said lamely.
He shrugged, walked the few steps to the far side of the bed, and sat, tugging off his boots. She turned away herself and struggled the rest of the way out of her dress, replacing it with a cotton nightgown. Behind her, she heard her husband untucking his shirt and unbuckling his belt. Dread wound about her spine, but she ignored it. He'd said they wouldn't have sex, and he had yet to give her reason to question his honesty. He must just be preparing for bed as well...
Would he mind if she put a couple pillows or a rolled-up blanket down the middle of the bed? Just for a couple nights, until she got comfortable? She'd never slept well with another person in the bed-- not even Brent. She'd find a way to get used to it, though, like she'd find a way to welcome his touch. Like she'd find a way to look him in the eye and mean all the words she'd spoken in front of that preacher. To love and to cherish...
Someday. Someday soon.
Just... not tonight.
She sat on the low stool before the mirror and began to tug out the pins and ribbons that held her hair in its complex design, sighing as the tension released and the weight of her hair gradually fell across her back. Behind her, the trunk opened and shut, accompanied by the sound of creaking floorboards. The light of the far lantern dimmed as she passed a brush through her hair a few times and then wove it into a single braid. She didn't want to catch him in the act of undressing, so she kept her eyes averted as she strode to the basin and filled it halfway with water, dunking a cloth and using it to scrub what remained of the powder from her face.
With a bracing breath, Amelia dried her face and turned...
... and found the bed empty.
"Um... Mr. Tucker?"
A huff of exasperated laughter came from the far side of the bed before he spoke. "We're married, Mrs. Tucker," said his wry, disembodied voice. "You probably ought to call me by my name."
She flushed and went to the bed, crawling hurriedly beneath the covers. In spite of herself, she leaned over to his side of the bed and peered down at him. He'd stolen a pillow from the bed, and had a blanket folded beneath him on the floor and one tugged over him. His hands were folded beneath his head as if it was the most regular thing in the world to be camping on the floor of one's own room.
"Are you going to sleep down there?" she asked hesitantly. His face, limned by the dim, flickering light, moved in what she guessed was a grin and she found herself wishing his eyes weren't hidden in the shadows. He didn't smile enough. That ought to be one of her duties, she thought. As a wife, part of her job ought to be making him smile.
"You fainted dead away when I said I wouldn't touch you, Amelia," he said on a sigh, the grin disappearing from his face. "I figure you probably aren't quite ready to have me up there stealing your blankets."
Not quite ready... so he did expect her to be ready someday. Of course she'd had that same thought herself, but it felt different when he said it. When Amelia thought it, it was a distant shore to which she would someday travel. When Josh said it, it was a looming wave, rolling and crashing toward her where she stood on a wind-beaten beach.
Brent had promised to take her to the ocean someday. She'd only ever read about it. Maybe Josh would take her, if she asked. He certainly seemed inclined to make her happy.
She dimmed the light and collapsed back against the pillows with her hands clasped over her stomach, staring at the ceiling. Flickering firelight played with the shadows. She felt warm, for the first time all day. For the first time in weeks.
"Josh?" she said, and his given name felt soft and friendly on her tongue. There was such a long pause before he answered, she thought perhaps he had fallen asleep.
"Yeah?"
"Congratulations on your wedding," she said, hoping he heard the smile in her voice. He'd been good to her and he deserved to know that, while she wasn't ready to share her bed, she was at least grateful that he was willing to share his life.
"Thank you, Amelia," he said quietly. Then his tone ticked up, still gruff but with a cautious, teasing edge. "Congratulations are due to you as well, I hear. Some gossip in town told me that husband of yours already has you with child."
"Thank you," she whispered, rubbing a hand over her belly. She rolled onto her side and stared at the edge of the bed. She was relieved he wasn't beneath the sheets with her, but equally and strangely relieved that he was in her room.
"Josh?" she asked again, tucking the blankets up to her shoulder and fingering the ring around her finger. It was a pretty thing, and she wondered where he'd found it on such short notice.
"Hm?"
She took a deep breath. She wanted to gift him something. He'd given her his name, his livelihood, the ring, the party... what did she even have to give in return, besides her body?
"My parents called me Ames," she said, before she could lose her nerve. She hadn't given that name to anyone. Not even Brent. Even saying it brought tears of nostalgia and loss to her eyes.
"Sorry?"
"Most people call me Amelia, or Amy," she explained. "My parents called me Ames. Before they died, I mean. You can call me that if you like."
He didn't answer right away, and she held her breath. Now that the words left her mouth, it felt like a paltry offering. Shame burned her cheeks. You can call me Ames, she had said, as if that made up for kicking him out of his bed and denying him sex after all he'd done for her.
"You sure?" he asked, his voice quiet and uncharacteristically soft.
"I'm sure," she answered, willing the tears from her voice.
"Thank you." He was smiling again. She could hear it. That particular wifely duty was turning out to be much easier than she'd expected. Maybe she'd amend it to making him laugh and smile. He seemed to have a sense of humor, bubbling just beneath that tough, dry shell he wore by day. She smiled to herself. She'd bet she could find it.
"Good night, Josh," she said, sliding a hand over the mattress toward the edge of the bed and wondering how it would feel to have him beneath the covers with her. Her spine prickled, and she didn't quite know why.
"Sleep well, Ames," he answered. She closed her eyes and quieted her breath until she could hear his-- a gentle disturbance in the cozy, fire-lit air. Drowsiness was a heavy blanket, smothering her, dulling the memories of the day's turmoil and shrouding the future in a friendly orange glow.
She drifted off as she always did those days-- to thoughts of Brent. This time, though, her imaginary love wasn't a grown man, walking by her side through the streets of Paris or standing behind her as they gazed at the open ocean. This time, he was a boy-- scruffy and rambunctious and forever making trouble. Hanging upside-down from the rafters and pilfering his father's liquor. She smiled fondly at the mental image, rubbing a hand over her belly. She wouldn't mind having a wild little boy, forever coming to her with scraped knees and mud-stained clothing.
As sleep finally claimed her, the picture shifted. The frame widened. Brent was still there, but he wasn't alone. Another boy stood just behind him-- this one solemn and dark, with worry-lines already creasing his youthful face. The flaxen-haired little troublemaker made her smile, but the dark-haired boy made her heart stutter and squeeze in her chest. Brent's childish laugh echoed in her ears as she dozed, but, oddly enough, it was Josh's voice that followed her into the darkness.