***Hello! I apologies for the long delay. Also, sorry for how little happens in this chapter. More will be forthcoming shortly. Hopefully with more forward movement, as it were.***
Josh
He woke slowly. Not with the usual, startled jolt from restless dreams. He woke with a dry throat and aching muscles and a warmth like he had never felt infusing his bones. It was better than a fire, better than sunshine, better than hot coffee on the trail. It was warmth like the way his stomach tightened when she smiled at him. Like the feel her fingers interlocked with his. Like her full lips parting beneath his.
Peeling open one gritty eye, he peered down at her. He'd never slept with a woman before. Not through the night. Perhaps that was a kind of blessing, though, because now that he knew that warmth, he wondered how he would sleep-- how he would live-- for even one night alone.
He had vague memories of her body pressed to his before he drifted off-- of her tense, dutiful offer of comfort and his own wary acceptance of her gift. This waking was a far cry from that awkwardness. She had turned to melted candlewax in her sleep, her body curving, curling, draping itself over his. The whole of her upper body rested over his chest, and he could feel the soft curves of her breasts pressed against his ribs. The silk of her calf was wrapped about his leg, and her bent knee...
Better to focus on other parts of her. Like her head, which rested on his shoulder. Her hands, one of which was curled gently around his bicep, the other tuckled close and nestled against her own bosom...
Damn. No single part of her didn't bring a single specific part of him wide awake. He didn't quite know what to do with his hands. One lay inoffensively on the sheets by his side. The other, sneaky, perverted bastard, had come to rest on the small of her back while he slept.
His fingers were curled loosely in the fabric of her nightgown, and he wanted to splay them out. Feel the warmth of her body seeping into his palm. He wanted to coil his body around hers and hold her close, share her air, luxuriate in the softness of her.
Every sore, aching muscle in his body turned to stone when she twitched and uttered a sleepy little groan, turning her face and pressing it into his chest while her back arched in a stretch. He wondered where she thought she was, as she let loose a contented sigh, one hand sweeping up his side, her arm tightening around him as she nuzzled against his body.
She must be dreaming.
Dreaming of Brent?
The thought brought last night's chill right back, and he fought a shudder. Perhaps he hadn't fought it well enough, because Amelia stilled and lifted her head, blinking heavily up at his face. Josh held his breath and waited for the realization to harden her sleep-soft expression. Waited for the shutters to drop over her eyes, for the tension to take over her body as she pushed her way off him as if he would reach out and snag her up if she moved too fast or too slowly.
She did move away, but only slightly, slipping off his body and propping her head on an elbow with a bleary smile.
"Morning," she greeted, and he wondered if she was conscious of the way her instep was rubbing up and down his leg. Was that deliberate, or some absent-minded early-morning fidget?
"Morning," he answered. Could she hear how thick his tongue felt in his mouth?
"Are you feeling better?" she asked, her brow furrowing in concern as she reached up and pressed her palm against his forehead. His blood was boiling just from the contact with her. Could she feel that?
"I'm fine," he made himself answer, his voice gritty. Between the fire, the cold, all the yelling at his men, and Amelia's closeness, he was surprised he could speak at all.
His wife rolled her eyes and patted his cheek before flopping onto her back by his side. He ached for the loss of her presence. Wanted to reach out and drag her back. Didn't dare.
"Well you scared me half to death last night," she grumbled, crossing her arms behind her head. Her belly rounded the sheets, and he felt an absurd urge to press his hand to the small bump. He had vague, foggy memories of his mother, her belly bursting with Melissa, and then again with Brent. She'd taken his hand and pressed his palm to the taut skin, and he'd felt the tickle of the baby's kick. He didn't much revel in the thought of anyone kicking Amelia, but he'd still like to rest his hand on her stomach and feel the life growing inside her.
Clenching his hands into fists, he crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the ceiling.
"I'm sorry for scaring you," he said woodenly.
"Don't be sorry," she said, and her hand slipped through the crook of his elbow. Tugged on his arm until he gave it over to her keeping. Her fingers laced with his and he nearly died of the shock. "Just don't do it again. Need I remind you that you have a child on the way, Mr. Tucker?"
"Don't suppose you need to remind me," he sighed, letting his hand follow its urge and tighten around hers. Yesterday he'd have been sated with having her hand in his grasp. Now, though, he knew the feel of her whole body-- soft and supple and relaxed. What would she do if he reached out and dragged her back on top of him? Would she scream? Hit him? Or worse, would she cry? Beg for surcease?
He was so lost in his own thoughts, it took him a moment to realize silence had descended and Amelia's grip had loosened within his. She must have finally woken fully and realized with whom she shared her bed. Reluctantly, with an ache in his chest like some icy fist was squeezing his heart to a limp, empty lump of loss, he released his own hold. She pulled her hand loose and crossed her own arms over her chest.
"I'm sorry," she said, and the tears in her voice yanked him out of his self-pity and tossed him bodily onto the cold hard surface of reality.
"Amelia..." he trailed off, shoving himself upright, the aches and pains of yesterday's struggle forgotten. "Are you alright?"
She was crying, tears streaming over her temples as she lifted one hand and pressed her thumb and forefinger to her eyes. Her lip quivered even as her jaw tensed, and equal waves of anguish and determination rolled off of her.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice cracking. "Just since the baby... I'm sorry. I can't seem to get a grip of my emotions."
Be that as it may, something had made her cry. Someone. And the only person around was him.
"Did I say something?" he asked, panic rising in his gut. "What did I do, Amelia?"
She laughed without moving her hand, the sound choked and raw as she flapped her free hand and rolled onto her side, her back facing him.
"I'm fine, Josh," she said through sniffles. But she clearly wasn't. Women who were fine didn't weep like that. Even if they were with child.
"What's the matter, Amelia?" he pressed, wishing he could pull her into his arms for a whole new reason now. Perhaps she wouldn't welcome his touch as a husband, but surely she would accept his comfort as a friend? Not that it would be easy to draw a line in his own head, but he could keep his urges in check long enough to stop her damned tears.
"Nothing is the matter," she said, tugging her legs up, her shoulders shaking as she spoke through her increasingly intense sobs. "I just... I... I get sad sometimes. For no reason... no good reason... I'm... I'll be fine... just give me a second... I'll get you... I'll go and get you breakfast."
When Josh was seventeen, a horse had kicked him square in the chest. The force had tossed him five feet back and he'd cracked his head on the fence. When he woke up four hours after the incident, his head had felt as if someone had planted in axe right in the back of his skull. The bored-looking physician had informed him he had three cracked ribs, all of which stabbed like sharpened blades into his chest every time he had the nerve to draw a breath.
That pain had nothing on this. He needed to make it stop the same we he'd needed to brace a hand against his broken ribs for the entire month following the accident. It was an unconscious thing. A necessity. Even though his touch couldn't heal broken bone, it had given him some relief to press a hand to his chest.
His touch couldn't fix Amelia. He wasn't the man she cried for. He couldn't mend her broken heart.
But just as he'd walked around with a hand plastered to his pain, so he was drawn back to the bed and onto his side, tugging on Amelia's shoulder until she twisted around beneath the covers and curled into the hollow of his body. Her face pressed to his shoulder, her leg slipped between his, her arm went around his waist.
"Please stop crying," he urged, but his words only made her cry harder, so he shut his mouth and let his body speak for him. It seemed to know what to say better than he did, anyhow. When his foolish hand began to rub her back, she burrowed herself even deeper into his body. When his stubborn arms tightened around her, she seemed to relax in his hold. When his lips found their way, against his will, to the crown of her head, her sobs hitched and then slowed.
To his utter astonishment, his body turned out to be a much better husband than he was. Gradually, she relaxed. The tears dwindled. Stopped altogether. She didn't pull away, but remained in his arms, and the weight of her in his grip had his blood turning to syrup in his veins. He could tell by the light coming through the curtains that it was still early in the day. They can't have been asleep for more than few hours.
Surely they deserved a little more rest.
Amelia heaved in a deep breath, and her arm tightened around him for a fraction of a second before she released him and, to his wrenching disappointment, pushed away.
He caught a glimpse of her tear-splotchy face before she rolled onto her back and covered her face with her hands.
"I'm so sorry," she moaned, her voice muffled. "My emotions are so unpredictable these days. In five minutes I'll be laughing like a lunatic."
"Something made you cry," he said hesitantly, hitching himself up and frowning down at her. "Maybe if you tell me what it is, you won't feel so bad."
In truth, he didn't really want to know. He didn't want to hear about Brent. He didn't want to hear her good memories, and he didn't want to hear her heartbreak. Both were little more than evidence of his brother's importance.
But if it would make her stop crying...
"Is it Brent?" he asked, grimacing when she broke into a peal of humorless laughter. She lifted her hand enough for one bloodshot eye to meet his as she flashed him a wry smile.
"Not everything is about Brent," she said, replacing her hands with a forearm over her eyes as she swatted him with the back of her hand.
"Did I do something, then?" He'd been half out of his mind when he arrived home. What if he'd said something? Dear God, what if he'd touched her in his sleep? He'd certainly had a dream or two about her over the past few months. What if his body, warm and pressed against hers, had acted out some part of his fantasies?
His stomach roiled and he flopped onto his back and pressed his own hand against his face, digging his fingers into his eyes. "Ames, what did I do?" he groaned, horror sluicing through his veins like snowmelt. "I'm sorry if I--"
"It's fine," she interrupted on a beleaguered sigh, something sharp-- an elbow?-- nudging him in the side. "I'm just oversensitive, that's all. It's... I spend so much time feeling bad... trying to convince myself not to feel bad... it's just harder than it ought to be to know how much of a burden all of this is to you."
A burden? "A burden?" he lifted his hand and turned his head, frowning at her. "What's a burden?"
She flushed scarlet, pressing her hand against her belly. Her mouth parted, and then a fresh crop of tears sprang into her eyes and she covered her face once more, turning it away.
"Amelia." He shoved once more onto his side and glared at her, furious with himself. "Ames, surely you don't think this baby is a burden to me."
She sniffled and shook her head, not as if to disagree but more as if she was trying to jolt something loose.
"It's fine, Josh," she said, her voice cracking. He sensed, more than saw, her body begin to curl away from him once more, and stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
"It's not fine, Amelia," he insisted. "Answer my question. Tell me what I've done. Tell me what I've said to make you think that being a father to this child and a husband to you is anything other than an honor."
She hesitated, peeking at him through her fingers. "Don't be angry," she whispered. "That's not what I meant."
"Then tell me what you meant!" he exclaimed, frustration getting the better of him. He cared about Amelia. Hell, he was coming to love his wife, God help him. But he was damned sick and tired of this tension between them. She was always dancing around on her tiptoes, avoiding certain subjects. He was forever blundering about, knocking over the awkward subjects she was so carefully avoiding. Making her cry with his missteps. Goddammit, a man could only take so many tears. "Tell me what you meant," he demanded again, through gritted teeth.
She sighed, dropping her hands from her face and shoving into a sitting position, twisting around to face him. He sat up as well, fighting a shiver as the cold air swept away the lingering warmth of their intertwined body heat, trapped beneath the covers.
"You have to promise not to be angry," she demanded, frowning severely at him, her brows dark slashes over bloodshot blue eyes.
"I won't be angry."
"And you have to promise not to laugh at me."
"Amelia..."
"Fine..." she slapped a frustrated hand against the mattress by her hip. "I said that you needed to take better care of yourself, and asked if you needed a reminder that you have a baby on the way. And you got all severe and sighed and said you didn't need the reminder. As if it's some constant, heavy weight on your mind. Now, I know it's not reasonable. I have no right to expect you to be excited about this baby. But sometimes I get selfish and emotional and I wish you were excited. Especially after nights like last night, when I felt like we were finally really becoming husband and wife. And it hurt my feelings something awful to have you sigh like that, like I'd just reminded you that death looms over us all or something. And I know it's not so serious, and I haven't got a right to be sad. But like I told you, the baby makes me feel my emotions very... intensely. So I cried. And instead of leaving me be, you were kind and you comforted me, and of course that just made it all worse. You're very confusing, Josh. You're a very good husband, but you're very confusing, and--"
He couldn't help himself.
He laughed.
Although, to be fair, he had only promised her that he wouldn't be angry. He'd never actually promised not to laugh.
Her diatribe broke off on a fierce scowl, and she smacked his arm, fresh tears springing into her eyes that belied her furious expression.
"Josh, you promised not to laugh."
Still laughing, he pulled her into his arms, tucking her head beneath his chin and tightening his arms around her slender shoulders.
"I made no such promise," he chuckled, lowering his face to her hair and pressing his lips once more to the crown of her head. That seemed, somehow, safer than kissing her on the lips like he really wanted. He felt it struck a nice balance between his ever-growing, over-powering affection for her and the unspoken requirement that their relationship resemble that between close friends.
Damn it all, she was crying again. With a sigh, he smoothed a hand down the back of her head and rubbed her back.
"Please stop crying, Ames," he pleaded. "It kills me."
"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his chest. She was getting tears and snot all over his shirt, and he should have been repulsed. Why did he find it endearing?
"Don't apologize. Just listen," he said, dipping his chin so that she could hear him without lifting her head. "I understand how you feel, but I swear on my life you misinterpreted what I said. I sighed because... well, to be honest I don't know why I sighed. Sometimes I just breathe like that, I guess. I don't know. I reckon men don't pay as much attention to the way they breathe as women do. But about the baby... Amelia, I am excited. It is not a burden. Being your husband is not a burden. I enjoy it very much, and not only when you're rescuing me from frostbite."
At that, she raised her head, her face puffy and splotched from her tears as she scowled up at him. "You have to be more careful," she scolded, and why did that make him grin like a fool?
"I'll be more careful," he promised, dropping a kiss on her forehead. Again, it seemed the safer option. Far safer than the pink bud of her lips. Her nose. Her ears. Her throat...
"I'm sorry for crying so much," she said, swiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"Don't be sorry," he urged, using his thumb to catch a teardrop that lingered on her jaw. "Just tell me when you get to feeling sad from now on. And stop thinking you can read the way I breathe. I suppose one day we'll know each other that well, but I reckon we've got a few months at least before we get to that point."
She grinned sheepishly, reaching for his hand and twining her fingers with his. "You're an awfully fine husband, Mr. Tucker," she said, her voice husky with tears. "To be honest, I never could have anticipated liking you as much as I do."
Could an abundance of like, compiled over time, turn into some modest form of love? Perhaps. He'd never been overly fond of a horse when it first came into his possession, but he cried like a child every time he had to put one down. He didn't remember looking upon Melissa and Brent as anything other than squawling, ugly little critters when they were first born, but he'd die, kill, and anything in between for either of them, now. He hadn't given Amelia much thought when she first arrived, other than to note that she was beautiful, but he was quickly and irrevocably surrendering his heart to her keeping.
Yes, he supposed, given the right conditions, like turned to love fairly often. And it did so in colder hearts than the one beating in Amelia's chest. There was hope, and he could live on hope, so long as that hope was supplemented by the warmth of her body curled beside his in bed, the occasional brush of her lips, and the curl of her fingers around his. He could live like that for a lifetime.