***Hallo! As always, I'm sorry for spamming, especially with such long chapters :/
I am in a desperate struggle to finish this thing before I have to go back to working in an office, as that environment is decidedly not conducive to creative thought. I hope it's okay, in spite of the rush!!!***
Josh
"How are you feeling?" Amelia asked for the thousandth time as he pulled the wagon up in front of the porch.
"I'm fine, sweetheart," he replied for the thousandth time, setting the brake and wrapping the reins around the handle. In truth, he wasn't fine. Far from it. A whole cauldron of ugly feelings was brewing in his gut. Anger, shame, fear, humiliation, petty jealousy... not to mention his damned face hurt. He'd forgotten how much strength that old geezer hid beneath fancy wool suits and a whiskey glaze.
"Do you want me to take care of the wagon?"
"No," he snapped. Too harshly. Dammit. Her expression twisted with hurt before she turned the frown into a scowl.
"Don't be a jerk to me, Josh Tucker," she said, gathering up her skirt and hopping down from the wagon even though she damn well knew he liked to help her. Turning around she pulled Reb into her arms and fixed him with a pointed glare. "I'm not your enemy."
Before he could apologize, she'd wheeled around and marched up the steps. Feeling like an ass-- a bruised, pitiful ass who was one misplaced outburst away from being a bachelor-- he unwound the reins from the brake handle and guided the wagon back toward the barn.
He and Amelia hadn't talked much on the ride home, since Rebecca was there. She'd want to talk soon, though, and he wouldn't have a choice but to tell her the whole thing. It was hard to keep things from her, mostly because he never found he wanted to. He'd never revealed a worry that she wasn't able to immediately assuage. He just wondered if maybe they had finally found the limit of her ability to make things better.
He hadn't been terribly distressed when Brent had drawn her away to talk. She'd made it clear who she was choosing, and if her assurance didn't comfort him his brother's buffoonery certainly had. He was still uncovering all the facets of his wife's person, but he knew without doubt that she wasn't one to be drawn in by theatrics. She favored honesty over sweet poetry and independence over comfort. Brent's imaginary tour hadn't impressed her even a lick, and if it had Josh still wouldn't have worried. If she really wanted a house with balconies and paintings then he'd find a way to give it to her.
No, his brother's quiet communion with his wife didn't bother him. What dug beneath his skin was the conversation with his father. The man was always foul to him, but whatever conversation he'd had with Reverend Peters after the service had stirred him into a special kind of temper. The second Reb was out of earshot the old man had rounded on him.
"I've had enough of your arrogance," he had spat, jamming a finger in Josh's chest hard enough to bruise. "Your brother has returned to claim his due. It's God's will that those two be together, and I won't see you dirty the family name any more than you already have."
The God and damnation stuff was an old song, so Josh just lowered his gaze and let the old man drone on. As always, he revisited the day his wife died, as if Josh might have somehow forgotten what had happened. As if he didn't dream about it every other godforsaken night. Then he droned for a while about God's will and the evils of base pleasure and, in an ironic twist, the importance of fidelity.
"She belonged to your brother first, Joshua," he had said, and at that he couldn't help a comment.
"She doesn't belong to anyone, pa," he had muttered, feeling like a child being chastised for breaking something when it wasn't even him who knocked it off the shelf. "She's a free woman."
The old man had scoffed. "She's free, I'll give you that," he spat, throwing his hand back toward the distant couple, still deep in conversation. "Free enough to pleasure a man she doesn't love. But now her true husband is back, the father of her child, and--"
Josh had shot to his feet before he realized what he was doing, speaking before he realized the words were forming on his tongue. "Brent is not Rebecca's father, and Amelia isn't free in the way you're implying. She's a good woman, and she's loyal. She's married to me. She's my wife. Rebecca is our daughter, and if you think your pathetic, self-fulfilling prophecy can ruin what we have you're as delusional as you are weak."
For a second they had descended into silence, the old man's hands dropping to his sides as he stared. And then the strangest thing had happened-- a spark seemed to light in his father's eye, and a smile tugged at his mouth. Or maybe he'd imagined it, because the smile, bright and genuine, had quickly transformed into a cruel sneer.
"My, Joshua," he had mocked. "The backbone that woman is making for you is coming along nicely."
What could he say to that? "Just leave us alone," he had spat, praying that his fury wouldn't leave him. "If Brent couldn't hold onto her heart in the first place, he doesn't deserve her. Your meddling isn't going to change that."
"You act like she chose you, Joshua! You were a consolation prize, although prize isn't quite the right word is it? She never wanted you. Have you forgotten that without my meddling, you never would have had her in the first place?" Yes, that hurt, because of course he had considered it. On the nights he didn't dream of his mother he dreamed of Amelia, finally coming to the conclusion that she had options beyond him. But doubts like that had no place in this fight.
"Well, you meddled. It was so goddamned important to you that she be wed before the baby came, so I married her. She's my wife. If anybody has a pious leg to stand on, it's us. We're upholding our vows."
"Your vows were a sham, you insolent bastard! They were a stopgap and nothing more! You will give that woman and her child back to your brother. You and your foul blood have brought enough evil on this family and I won't let you drag us any further towards damnation."
Josh knew better than to argue with the man when he got like this, but dammit his family was at stake. What was he supposed to do, just listen and nod along? "You sound like a madman!" he had exclaimed, shoving a frustrated hand into his hair. "That rat of a preacher is filling your head with poison. I'm your flesh and blood, the same as Brent and Melissa, not some demon come to drag you to Hell. Your sin as you call it didn't cause any droughts. All these signs of a curse that you think you see are coincidence. God has nothing to do--"
"My wife died for my sin," the old man had yelled, heedless of his volume, his face blotchy red with rage. Josh should have known then to back down. Talk of the late Tucker matriarch never ended any way other than tears, bloodshed, or both. "How dare you scorn what your existence has cost this family. You were a gift from the devil and you cost us dearly. Or have you forgotten what price she paid?"
"Of course I haven't forgotten," he had pleaded, the fight bleeding out of him, replaced by anguish. Memories assaulted his senses like they always did-- the sound of screaming and the scent of blood so sharp in his mind they could have been real.
"Look me in the eye and tell me what happened was chance, you rotten cur. Tell me it wasn't punishment."
Josh had always suspected the old man's sudden, severe turn to religion had something to do with this-- this refusal to believe that what had happened was chance. Part of him understood the need to find reason in ugly, senseless chaos. But the larger part of him, which grew stronger with every day of being Amelia's husband, was tired of his father's cowardice. It was one thing to make Josh's life difficult, but it was an entirely different matter to threaten his family. It was long since time to drag the man back into the harsh light of reason.
"It wasn't a curse," he had stated, as calmly as he could manage with his heartbeat pounding in his ears, lifting his arms and letting him fall to his sides. "It was an accident. Hell, pa, it was a choice. She didn't die because of me, she died for me." Leaning close, with old anger bubbling up to join the new, he jabbed a finger at his father's chest. "She loved me enough to die for me, and you have made a mockery of her sacrifice."
And then, of course, he'd been staggering backwards with a knife of pain shooting through his skull, and the rest was history. The only positive side of the whole thing was the episode had put a hasty, premature end to Amelia's little rendezvous with Brent. He could have done without her fussing, but he'd rather she be fussing over him than sharing private words with Brent.
Maybe, just maybe, Brent bothered him too. More than he cared to admit. Maybe.
He took his time brushing the horse down and cleaning out the wagon, lost in thought, replaying the fight over and over in his head. He felt as if he balanced on a rope above some yawning chasm-- no matter which way he swayed, he'd lose his balance and tumble into the same abyss. If he was too passive, he would surrender Amelia and Rebecca to his brother's charm. If he was too aggressive he would surrender his family's safety to his father's madness.
He was still restless and angry when he finished his chores in the barn and started stalking toward the house. Too restless and angry. The sun was dying and lamplight flickered int he windows, and he knew that beyond those walls his wife would be preparing dinner. Rebecca would be sitting in the corner of the kitchen, yammering away. He couldn't stalk in there like this and blow cold wind over whatever cozy enclave they'd created for themselves.
Peeling off at the last minute, he stalked toward the woodpile at the side of the house. There was plenty already, stacked beneath the awning he'd built by the leeward wall, but it never hurt to split more. Especially in weather like this, which could go from fair to frigid over the course of an afternoon.
Peeling off his jacket, he hefted the ax and lifted the first log, setting it on the scarred and weathered stump. Raising the ax back and above his head, he let the weight carry it down. With a thick thunk, the blade burying itself deep into the center of the log, splitting it down the middle. The sides thumped to the ground and he bent to retrieve one, balancing it on the stump and repeating the process. Then again with the second half, until he had four clean quarters.
The work did little to absorb his thoughts, but it helped to have somewhere to direct his simmering physical energy. Lift, swing, thunk. If he was honest, a great deal of his agitation stemmed from the simple fact that he didn't care for getting hit in the face and not hitting back. Lift, swing, thunk. It went against a man's nature, dammit. In a sense, that had always been the worst part. Not the taunts about his mother, not the blathering about curses and the devil. Lift, swing, thunk. He hated the way it felt when his fists clenched and his blood roared and all he could do was back away. Lift, swing, thunk. It left him feeling like some fresh caught mustang, trapped in a tiny coral. Bucking and snorting and ready to kill and, somehow, rendered impotent by a few fleshy pink men and some aging wooden rails.
Lift, swing, thunk. Lift, swing, thunk. Lift, swing, THUNK, and when he went to raise the ax once more he found it buried deep in the stump. With a frustrated grunt, he yanked it loose, perhaps a little harder than was needed. It came loose and he stumbled backward, his teeth clenched against the frustration roaring at the back of his teeth.
"Josh?"
Dammit.
Raising his head, he saw Amelia standing at the edge of the porch. She'd changed into a soft green dress-- one of the ones that hung loose on her frame, draping perfectly over her curves. She had a gray shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her hair was in a loose braid. She looked so beautiful and he hated that it made him want to weep.
"I'll be in later," he said, but she only frowned, tugging the shawl tighter across her shoulders.
"We have enough wood to last us a month, love. Dinner's almost ready. Why don't you come in and clean up?"
"Amelia..." he growled warningly.
"Josh," she shot back, lifting her chin and glaring at him down her nose. "You weren't the only one who had a bad day. Get inside the house, clean up, and eat dinner with your family. I've given you time to brood, but that time is up."
God, he loved her. This was maybe his favorite thing about her-- the way he loved her even and especially when she made him want to run his fist through a wall with her stubbornness.
"Fine," he growled, grabbing another log and setting it upright on the stump. "Five minutes."
"Fine," she huffed, turning on her heel and stalking back toward the door, hovering at the threshold. "Oh, and Josh?" she called out over her shoulder.
"Hm?"
"Bring in an armload of firewood, would you? The box is almost empty."
* * *
Dinner was a quiet affair, but not terribly tense. Amelia and Rebecca filled the silence with lighthearted chatter, and Josh tried to pitch in.
He tried.
Everything he said felt phony, somehow. Like he was putting on some show of being a husband and father when really he belonged somewhere much colder than this cozy cabin with the smell of stew and woodsmoke and baking bread so cloying in his lungs. As always, he and Amelia tidied up the dishes together. Prepared Rebecca for bed together. Tucked her in together, locked up the house together, and washed up together. And all the while not a word was spoken beyond bare necessity.
He was on his back in the bed, one hand tucked behind his head while he stared at the ceiling. Amelia lay beside him, wearing a worn nightgown. She, too, was staring at the ceiling, her hands clasped over her chest. He waited for her to roll onto her side and start poking at him again and, in truth, he was ready for it now. He'd had time to work it through in his head and figure out how to tell it. When she shifted onto her side and tucked her arm beneath her head, he held his breath, waiting for the inquisition.
"Are you okay?" she asked, reaching out and brushing her fingers over the tender bruise he knew must be forming beneath his eye. Both would be ringed with black tomorrow, which would be a joy to explain to all the ranch hands. No big deal. Got beat up by an old man who thinks I'm possessed. Oh, and the old man is your boss. Reaching up, he captured her fingers and pressed a kiss to her palm.
"I'm fine," he said. "I can take a couple blows from an old man without falling into a swoon, Ames."
She scowled at him in the dark and pulled her hand back, tucking it close to her chest. That was her way of punishing him. She wasn't very good at exacting punishment. He'd give her a minute before she was touching him again.
"You know what I mean," she pressed, frowning at him.
"I know what you mean," he agreed, turning onto his own side to face her. "What about you? Are you okay?"
"I didn't get punched in the face."
"No, but your former lover tried to talk you into living with him in a make-believe mansion. That's no ordinary Sunday."
She laughed, reaching out and clasping his hand in hers. Less than a minute. "True," she agreed, lifting one slender shoulder in a shrug. The smile slowly fell from her face and her expression grew pensive. "I'm okay," she said finally, shrugging again. "It's not easy. It's... it's harder than I thought it would be, having him back."
Josh's heart shot into his throat and then plummeted down to his stomach. He pulled his hand away from hers, but she held fast, her face twisting in a grimace.
"Let me finish," she said, yanking his hand close to her chest and holding it there like a prisoner. "It's not hard because I want to be with him, you dolt. It's hard because... because..." she bit her lip and wrinkled her nose. "I suppose it's like this. When he was gone, he was gone. I missed him terribly at first, but after he'd been gone a while I suppose I just stopped thinking about him. He was as real to me as any other piece of history-- I believed in him but he never factored into the present."
"And now?" he prompted, when she trailed into thoughtful silence. Shaking herself, she gave him a sad look.
"Well, now he's part of the present again," she said. "He's tangible and real and causing trouble. He's no longer some lowlife who got me pregnant and left, he's a man who wants a role in Rebecca's life. He's not just your erstwhile absentee brother. He's your father's son, the heir to his fortune-- a fortune we depend on for our livelihood. It's just... it's all very real and I would have rather it remained imaginary."
He nodded, prying his hand loose from her grip and brushing a tendril of hair behind her ear. He rested his palm against her cheek, her skin warm and smooth, shifting beneath his touch as she cast a shy smile at him through the curtain of the lamplight.
"Can you make me a promise, Ames?" he asked, the words fighting him as he forced them through a throat that seemed determined to close.
"Of course." She wrapped slender fingers around his wrist and he brushed the pad of his thumb over her cheek, fighting for the courage to open a door he'd much rather lock.
"You have to promise me if you ever... if you change your mind."
Her mouth firmed into a thin line and she yanked her face away from his touch. "Josh, you can't be serious. How many times do I have to tell you I--"
"Enough," he lied. She could tell him she loved him every day until he died and it wouldn't be enough. "You've said it enough. But you can love two men at once, Amelia. Maybe you don't now, but it could happen. And I just need to know that you'll be straight with me if it does."
"It won't."
He couldn't help a smile at the spark of indignation in her eye and the high flush in her cheeks. Winding his hand around the nape of her neck, he pulled her back toward him and kissed her, long and languid. "It won't," he agreed when he pulled away. "But will you please just promise me? I love you more than life and I love Reb somehow more than I love you. But sweetheart I couldn't live with myself if you ever came to feel like you were trapped here."
"I'm not trapped here, Josh. I'm your wife."
"Some would say that's a kind of trap," he argued reluctantly. "That's why I want to know if you ever find yourself... if you ever want to go somewhere else. I never wanted to trap you."
"So what?" she spat, pulling loose from his grasp and sitting up in bed. He'd expected a little less fire, here. He was giving her an escape route, dammit. She should be thanking him, not getting all bent out of shape. "A few silly words and you would just let me walk out the door and into Brent's arms?"
The thought made him sick. But... "Yes," he said firmly as he pushed himself up as well, hating the way her face wilted at his words. "Yes, I would. You married me because you didn't have a choice, Amelia. I want--"
"Oh, come off your high horse, Josh," she said, rolling her eyes. "I had a choice. Or have you forgotten that you took me to town and bought me a train ticket? Do you not remember transferring the entirety of your savings into my name so I could make a fresh start?"
His face grew hot. He'd never intended her to find that out, but it wouldn't have taken much work to deduce once they were married and she had access to his accounts. "That's not--"
"I had a choice," she snapped, giving him a fierce glare. "You gave me a choice, and even if you hadn't I'd still have had a choice. I wouldn't have been the first woman to raise a child by herself. We'd have survived. I chose to marry you. I am choosing to stay."
"But what if--"
Her dramatic sound of frustration cut him off and she thumped her fists against the mattress. "Fine!" she exclaimed, her voice hushed in spite of her anger. Fighting in a room adjacent to a sleeping child was much like making love in a room adjacent to a sleeping child-- nerve wracking and stifled. "Fine," she repeated, folding her arms over her chest, her eyes on fire. "I'll tell you. Is that what you want to hear? If I somehow forget how much I adore you and fall madly in love with your selfish little wiesel of a brother, I give you my word I will tell you. I'll even let you help me pack my bags and load the wagon and drive me to said wiesel's garish, unnecessary mansion! I'll invite you to our wedding, presided over by the charming Reverend Peters! I'll even let you do the honors and tell your daughter why she's got to call you Uncle Josh."
There was a rusty blade in his chest, sawing through his ribs. "Ames..."
"What?" she asked, flaring her eyes at him in challenge. "That's what you're asking for, isn't it? That's what's important to you? Holding on to your dignity and your honor, even if that means walking your wife by the hand to another man's arms? Placing your child into the keeping of a man who spent the last decade drinking and gambling and God knows what else?"
Well dammit, now he was frustrated. Shoving the covers aside, he shoved out of the bed and began pacing, struggling to keep his footsteps quiet. Amelia followed, and he fought his roaming eyes as they pulled by instinct to her chest in that flimsy white cotton.
"You're twisting my words," he growled.
"No, I'm not!" she gritted out, jamming her fists into her narrow hips, her feet spread. The stance wasn't very ladylike at all, but he wanted to grab her around the waist and toss her on the bed and make her whimper. "You're the one twisting it, Josh. You have this sad, poetic little prophecy all written out in your head but you've left out all the important bits. All the real bits. It's all nobility and zero substance. Don't you see that if you loved me so damned much you'd fight for me? For our life? For our family? I don't want you to sacrifice for me, love. I want you to fight for me."
He stared at her, with her heaving chest and her mussed hair. Fight for me. Didn't she see he was trying to? If he'd learned anything, it was that choosing not to bloody his knuckles was a much harder battle than swinging a fist. With the way he was feeling it would be the easiest thing in the world to saddle Copper, ride to the house, and beat his brother to a bloody pulp. It would have cost him nothing to break his father's jaw and stop that poison from spilling out of his mouth. Fighting was easy. Didn't she see that? Anybody could do it, even his flighty, pompous little brother.
Brent was fighting for her. Josh was fighting for her.
Even in his head it barely made sense. With a muttered curse, he sank onto the trunk by the foot of the bed and dropped his face into his hands. Part of him hoped Amelia would sit beside him and keep tearing him apart. He liked the way she fought as much as he liked the way she loved. But her footsteps creaked across the floorboards and she climbed back into bed. The yellow light of the lantern faded, and he sat there in the dark, listening to her toss and turn. She was so angry, he thought that maybe he ought to leave her be. He could go for a ride, or get some work done out in the barn. Lord knew there was always something to do around the property, and he didn't think he'd be getting much sleep.
Then he heard the muffled hitch of her breath. Fight for me. That he could do, at least in this small way.
Rising, he tiptoed back to his side of the bed and crawled beneath the covers. Amelia lay on her side, facing away from him, her shoulders shuddering with silent sobs. If she'd pulled away from him just then it would have cleaved his heart in two so, when he tugged on her shoulder and she flipped around, burrowing into his chest, he could have wept himself.
He held her tight against him while she cried, tucking her head beneath his chin and letting his hand trail up and down the curve of her back. When his arm, pinned beneath her weight, went numb, he didn't dare let go. He simply rolled onto his back, banding an arm across her lower back and cradling her head against his chest with the other so she had no choice but to follow him.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmured, stroking her hair and hating the comfort he took in her tears. "I'll fight for you. I swear on my life, I'll fight for you."
She nodded minutely but didn't stop crying, clinging to him like he was the one liable to leave. Maybe she knew what he knew-- that maybe that was what it would mean to fight for her. Maybe it would mean he left without her to find work. Maybe it would mean he left with her to find a new home. Maybe it would mean bloodying Brent's nose to keep him from harassing them. Maybe... maybe it would mean walking away. Maybe he would wake up one morning and see a glaze of disenchanted boredom in her eyes. Maybe Rebecca would come to adore her Uncle Brent and beg to move into the mansion with all the toys and books she could ever want. Maybe he would have to fight the need to horde his girls for himself. Fight his own selfish desire to keep them. Fight his foolish pride, telling him that he was the kind of man who could give them the life they deserved.
Fight for me.
Whatever that might mean in weeks or months or years, right now it simply meant holding her until the tears ran their course. So he tightened his grip and breathed in the scent of her hair and prayed that the fight would always come so easy.