He seemed to consider that and stood. Ungentle, as before, he plucked her off her feet, this time tossing her against him, he carried her, not to his sister’s room, but into his. He laid her on the bed and covered her with a blanket, but made no effort to join her there.

  “If I had to do this over again, I would not,” he replied. “You are a dish of cream, and I’m a cat eager to lap at it … or sugared pears picked ripe, their juices slipping from my lips.”

  She heated at his words, stuttering. “You have the right. I … I am willing.”

  Still, he didn’t move.

  “Please, Lafayette, what keeps you from it?”

  He shuffled in reverse. “If I had this to do over again, if I knew what succulence occupied my bed, I would not have wed. I wanted a companion. You painted yourself plain and dull, able to care for the house, tend to my things. I wanted … not decadence, ribbons, and bows, this Christmas, not cake coated in frosted perfection, not a feast for my senses, a light in my eyes, but instead a colorless, flavorless existence.”

  Pigeon’s heart squeezed in her chest.

  “You are everything I thought to avoid,” he said. With that, he revolved on his heel and left.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks to dampen the pillow and dry in her hair. She found in weeping, however, that she cried for the real woman more than Lafayette. She’d escaped what would have been a cold, dreary marriage. She’d been so eager, so happy to have been picked. She’d talked of the future, of love and friendship with him, but he would have cast her aside, treating her as no better than the horse or the cow … and how horrible a holiday it would have been, how long the days until spring, how empty his heart.

  *(Son 2:3-5)

  CHAPTER 3

  Lafayette descended into a torpor nothing could shake from him. He didn’t protest her presence in his bed, but arrived there late, often after she’d fallen asleep, and rose early before she awakened. In so doing, he avoided any need to face the truth that lay between them – they would never have a colorless existence. In fact, if anything, his avoidance of her increased the tension between them. They were two sparks awaiting the right kindling.

  He seemed to deny it though, taking on everything he’d wanted a wife to do. He cooked their meals, cleaning up the dishes afterward, as well as doing his chores outdoors. One day, she determined to do her part and decided, after watching him prepare cornbread, to make her own attempt. He prodded the crumbly burnt result with his thumb, his expression unsettled.

  “Well, go ahead,” she grumbled, “tell me how horrible I am. All you’ve managed to do is inherit an encumbrance.”

  His brow tight, he glared at her. “You stated it. I did not.”

  Giving a huff, Pigeon took his plate, dumping the contents in a waste bucket.

  “What am I to eat?” he asked. His hand pressed to his knee, his elbow pointed outward.

  “What do I care what you eat?” she replied. “I am a figment you pass by, your gaze intent on something else.”

  “Perhaps you should have lied to another man then, one with enough wealth and prestige to hire you a maid. She could have brushed your hair, helped you dress … wiped your bum.”

  Shocked by his insult, she emitted an angry grunt. Returning to the table, she grasped what remained of the cornbread and smeared it across his cheek. He erupted, his chair tumbling backward. Gripping her by the waist, he lifted her to his shoulder.

  Angered, she beat and failed at him. “This is always your solution,” she screamed, her fists pounding his back. “If the tables were turned, I would lift you and dump you in the horse trough.”

  His footsteps swerved, aiming for the door, and panic clutched at her. “You … you would not …” she gasped. Would not dunk her in there in this weather. Her head bobbling, blood rushing to it, she had a flash of the river, of the icy water dragging at her skirt, and desperate to avoid it, sought her escape.

  How cruel he was to take her back there and remind her of drowning. A sob choked in her throat, Pigeon twisted yet again, surprised when he stood her at the side of the trough.

  Lafayette shucked his shirt and waved toward the water. “Well?” he asked. “I’m ready. Dunk me in.”

  She couldn’t breathe, struck mute by his appearance. Her mouth agape, she snapped it shut and roved her gaze over toned muscles, a fine line of hair descending, entrancing, down the center of his abdomen.

  “Here’s your chance,” he pressed. “I know I’m horrible, and I deserve it.”

  She sucked in a breath. “You deserve …” Approaching him, she danced her fingertips across his skin, noticing the ripple of it as she moved. Pausing above his heart, she glanced up and couldn’t speak for the terror framed there.

  He was afraid of her? Why?

  She didn’t ask, but withdrew her hand, lowering it to her side. “If I dunk you in the trough,” she said, “I will be forced to follow and lift you out.”

  His fear was replaced by curiosity.

  “If I was given to such things,” she continued, “I’d have your painting made exactly like this …” She nodded at him. “I’d hang it at the end of the bed and have the most delicious dreams.”

  He laughed. Hearing it, she started. Joy? Had he the capacity for joy?

  A smile on her lips, she bent down and retrieved his shirt, but held it just out of reach. “Shall we play a game, Lafayette? You try to catch it from me, and if you succeed, I promise to do whatever horrible chore you like. You’ll have to teach me, but I won’t complain.”

  He crossed his arms. “And if I lose?”

  Her expression sobered. “You will not lose.” She held there, unmoving, and relinquished the shirt at his tug. He put it back on, buttoning it, and she sighed. “I am weak,” she said. “I would lose ten thousand times to hear you laugh again.”

  His anger dissipated. “I am sorry, Pigeon, for being cross. The cornbread was …”

  “Burnt.”

  He smiled. “Burnt, but heartfelt. Since I’ve won this battle, I will teach you to make it properly.”

  She clapped her hands. “I cannot wait. Think of how delicious it will be.”

  He didn’t respond, but waved her back toward the house, and she preceded him happily. Yet the incident quivered within. What he didn’t speak of, had forbidden her to speak of, continually ruled his actions. He trusted no one, not even himself, and was likely to anger once again. What would happen when he did? And would they speak to each other afterward?

  “Lafayette … I was wondering if I might inquire …”

  Having assumed Pigeon had fallen asleep already, Lafayette glanced in her direction, unable to see her face in the darkness.

  Their argument days ago, in which he’d offered to fall in the trough, had broken through some of his stiffness toward her, but lingering was the knowledge he’d told her the truth about his expectations of their marriage. Her lack of comment on it had begun to dig at him, but he feared asking, not wanting to upset her. True, he’d described what he expected of a wife, but she was none of those things. She’d dared to face him in his most foul mood and that alone had gained her a certain amount of respect.

  He still worried about being near her, but he couldn’t treat her like a dull, boring woman any longer. “You can inquire what you like,” he replied. “I cannot guarantee I’ll have the answer.”

  She sighed. “It’s nothing as bothersome as that. I was simply wondering how you wished to celebrate Christmas.”

  Christmas was two weeks away and, she’d been here almost that already. Other than provide adequate food supply, he’d not given much thought to the holiday, mostly to avoid missing Cosette so much.

  “We’ve been invited to a party at the Millfords next week.” A servant had brought the invitation on his way through to town.

  She rolled toward him. He felt the wind of her breath and inhaled it, drunken.

  “Your sister’s inlaws?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I haven’t decided to go, but will, perhaps, leave it up to your discretion.”

  “To mine?”

  The surprise in her tone jabbed at him.

  “I suppose I’d like to, but I haven’t anything to wear. This gown is becoming thin with washing. It isn’t made for life out here.”

  He considered that. “I will take you to town. Perhaps, I can trade for enough cash and you can have a new one made. There have been others wanting to cut timber on the south side of this mountain.”

  “If … if you’re willing,” she said. “I don’t want to trouble you.” She laid flat again, apparently finished with the conversation.

  But a thought picked at him, and he rose up onto his elbow and hung over her. “What of people’s deceit?”

  At parties, he meant. She’d made the comment, and he’d agreed with it. She wouldn’t know why though ... how people who’d once loved him had hated him later.

  “I am not worried about deceit. I can spread it well enough on my own.” In her next breath, she backtracked. “I … I didn’t mean to imply … I’m sorry, Lafayette.”

  In speaking, she gripped his night shirt and though their skin didn’t touch, the weight of it dragged at him.

  Her voice fell to a whisper. “I have stood naked before you and am ashamed.”

  She referred to the removal of her dress and yet, at the same time, spoke of a deeper meaning he couldn’t quite grasp. “You need not be ashamed,” he replied. “I acted beastly, and like you’ve said many times, you are my wife.”

  “In name, Lafayette, but not in spirit. In spirit, you shove me aside.”

  “We are close now.”

  “Yet I feel your heartbeat, how it races in your chest. What makes you afraid?”

  His tongue cleaved to his mouth, dried as if he’d eaten ashes. He’d shared his pain with no one, not even Cosette, though she knew of it.

  “If you will not tell me now,” Pigeon said, “then will you think about it? We pledged ‘for better or for worse,’ yet you keep the worst hidden within. I believe in God and remember His most important attribute is forgiveness.”

  “People do not forgive,” he said.

  “Some don’t. My parents wouldn’t.”

  Wouldn’t. He caught the term and stared at it. Wouldn’t because of marrying him? He couldn’t recall her mentioning her parents in any of her letters. He’d assumed they’d passed long ago like his.

  “Parents will forgive the most,” he replied.

  “You have not met mine, and I pray never will. If it were their will, I’d be shipped to California as some rich man’s bride.”

  Something in her tone spoke the truth, and again, she’d never mentioned that. Had she married him to avoid another man? If so, did she now regret it?

  “He’d hire me a maid,” she continued, “to dress me and wipe my bum.”

  He would have laughed at her repetition of his own words, except for the manner in which she’d said them, derogatory. He found himself wanting to soothe her. He dropped lower, forcing her fingers against him, and swallowed the burn of it cascading from their tips. “I would dress you in silk,” he said, “then undress you and spend limitless time sampling each bit.”

  “Words without meaning,” she replied.

  “I mean them.”

  “You are afraid of them, but I’m not sure who will break if you followed through … you or me.”

  “Both.” He blurted and wished he hadn’t. “Both,” he repeated, softer. “You will break, and then I will mourn.”

  Her hand shifted from his chest to his cheek, and she urged him nearer. “Ah, Lafayette, if a river cannot drown me, then a man who once fed saints cannot harm me either.”

  Her mouth lifted, and he could not stop himself. Nor were her lips flavor enough. He lost himself rolling the richness of her throat, her breasts, on his tongue, and though his flesh screamed at him when he’d finished, he allowed her their closeness, her cheek to his chest, her fingers tucked beneath his shirt engraving themselves on his side.

  He feared for her, but he needed her. One side warring with the other for dominance in a battle with a worrisome ending, and he no longer wanted to choose between them, but instead, live again and love again. And this time, get it right.

  Lafayette’s affection filled Pigeon with promise. It also told her something she’d suspected for days; she was not his first experience with a woman. Realizing that upset her at first, then a second truth muted her unhappiness … that if he was so afraid to take her as his wife, something horrible must have happened the last time. It explained so much and, given his words, hinted toward the woman’s illness or death. Also, that he blamed himself somehow. She wondered what his sister would say about the situation, but, not knowing her at all, was left with her speculations.

  She looked forward to the trip to town and rose the next morning in high spirits. Seated in the wagon, she was hard pressed to be still though, too much energy coursing through her. She finally settled for pleating and un-pleating her skirt, until the persistent cold helped still her further.

  Lafayette drove north, the way they’d come on their first trip home, but outside the mountain pass went west instead. The landscape was truly beautiful, even in its winter barrenness, stark tree limbs scratching at a cobalt blue sky. The lack of foliage gave a view of town she imagined she wouldn’t see from this distance at other times of the year. It was a small place, one main street begun at a livery, then lined with a post office, milliner’s shop, hostelry, and grocer’s.

  The carved wooden cross atop a church steeple glowed above the rest, and Pigeon turned her gaze toward the building, its whitewashed sides reflecting the sun’s glare. “Have you attended?” she asked, unthinking. “I’d like to attend Christmas service.”

  He replied without any hint of unhappiness in his tone. “They will not have one. Their pastor left six months ago to take his wife to see doctors in Little Rock.”

  She spun back toward him. “There isn’t a pastor?”

  Lafayette shook his head.

  “You are one.” She made the statement, noting the immediate stiffening of his posture.

  “I told you, I am not one any longer.” Anger flashed in his voice, but he seemed to hold his reaction to it in check.

  “You can read the Scriptures,” she pressed. “You said you have no wisdom, not that I believe that, but can you not turn to Matthew and Luke and read of Mary and Joseph and our Savior’s birth?”

  “Leave off, woman.” A spark hissed in his throat.

  She inhaled and stared at him. “Your troubles, Lafayette, though they may be awful indeed, are primarily in your mind. Whatever you did or didn’t do, there is no judgment from me, and your sister still loves you. Who cares what other people say, although …” She paused. “I suspect that your reason for moving here, for taking up farming, is directly related to other’s opinions.”

  He brought the wagon to an immediate halt, clutching the reins so tightly she feared they’d break.

  “If we were home …”

  “If we were home then what? You’d toss me around again? Jump in the trough? Take a leap from the hay loft? Your need for violence isn’t the behavior of a man who held the Word of God in his heart. Have you asked yourself why?”

  “Right now, I am asking myself if leaving you at the hostelry is a good solution.”

  Pigeon smiled. “Only if you join me. You would miss me tonight.”

  He scowled, his brow drawn downward, the lines of his face flint-like.

  “I will let the issue go for now,” she said, “as people are beginning to watch and what an introduction you will be forced to make that you and your ‘wife’ fight each other like crazed wolves.”

  This snapped him out of his rigidity, but did nothing to improve his mood. He shook the reins, continuing forward to park outside the milliner’s shop. She didn’t wait on his help to alight, but did so on her own.

  “I am told there’s a seamstress inside,” he snapped. “I will leave you to it and seek out those who wish to cut lumber.” He seemed only too glad to part, stomping off.

  Pigeon watched him go, releasing a long breath when he’d crossed the rutted road. She revolved in place and aimed for the door. A chime on the handle rang sweetly in her ears; the fragrance of fruits and spices tickled her nostrils once inside.

  “Good morning,” said a woman from the other side of the room. A bolt of cloth in her arms, she shifted her grip on it, laying it crosswise on a smoothly polished wooden counter. The golden color of the fabric seemed to brighten the space.

  “Good morning. It smells lovely in here.”

  The woman smiled through thin lips. Of average weight and height, her hair was also an average color, sort of mousy brown. Her eyes were friendly, though unremarkable.

  “I have a weakness for Christmas tea,” the woman replied. “Would you like a cup?”

  “That’d be lovely, but I should introduce myself. I’m Pigeon Faulkenberg.”

  The woman had already circled the counter and, from beneath it, lifted a second teacup. She halted mid-motion. “Faulkenberg? As in Lafayette?”

  Pigeon nodded. “We were married two weeks past.”

  The woman’s following expression held a note of concern. She did her best to hide it, however, ducking her gaze to fill the cup, then sliding it in her direction.

  “It’s all right for you to worry,” Pigeon continued. “I know how cross he is.”

  The woman poured her own cup, curling her forefinger around the delicate handle. “I am sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to appear ungracious.”

  “And you haven’t. No fear. We will leave off the topic. I am here about a dress anyhow. I need something more serviceable, but also nice enough I can wear it to a Christmas party. I love my new home. Nevertheless, would love to make friends and celebrate, however small.”

  The woman pursed her lips, any hint of her previous discomfort fleeing, and tilting her gaze, she scanned her figure. Her face smoothed, and she set down her cup. “First, my name is Wilma Vail.”

  “So nice to meet you Ms. Vail.”