Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: Itâs time for Joel to head back to jail, but the day of reckoning is fast approaching.
Warnings: 18+only.
A/N: Finally managed to get back to this one! Iâm going to try and manage expectations (and my sanity) a bit more by saying Iâll aim to post at least every other Friday. If I can post once a week, then I will đ„°
Monday evening rolls around before it feels as though youâve had time to process anything.
These last few days have felt like a whole marriage lived in miniature. The togetherness, the conversations, the love-makingâŠa moment in time of the whole life you might have had unspooling all at once, bright and desperate and doomed, because on Monday evening your timeâs up and Joel has to ride back into town and give himself up to the sheriff's office to await the outcome of the trial.
Youâve known it was coming â of course you have. But when Joel had helped you up into Jamesâs brougham for the ride home, youâd pushed the thought from your mind, consumed only with the true purpose of the stolen hours youâd been granted. And nowâŠnow reality looms like a harbinger of death over what has become so sacred.
It sits on the ranch like a shadow the whole day long. Joel had risen before dawn and done more work than three men â mended the pasture fence, reshod a mare, split a winter's worth of wood and stacked it under the lean-to against the day you might need it and he might not be there to swing the axe. You had watched him from the kitchen window through the long bright morning, stripped to the waist in the heat, driving himself at the work like a man trying to leave his hands' labour behind him in the very grain of the place, and you had understood that this was how he was saying goodbye to it.
To the ranch. To the life. To the small chance that he might not come back to any of it, despite how positive youâve both allowed yourself to feel in the cocoon of one anotherâs embrace.
The afternoon comes too fast.
He comes in at four o'clock, washes, and puts on one of his good shirts. Then he comes into the kitchen where youâre stood at the table not doing anything at all, only standing with your hands flat on the warm scrubbed pine, and he stops in the doorway, looks at you, and neither of you say a word.
"Please,â you whisper, your voice coming out cracked. "Don't say it's time yet, Joel. Not yet."
He crosses the kitchen in three strides and gathers you into him.
You press your face into his chest, wind your arms around his ribs and hold on the way a drowning woman holds a spar. His arms come around your back, his beard presses into the crown of your hair and he holds you just as hard. For a long while the two of you stand there in the afternoon kitchen holding on and saying nothing, because thereâs nothing to say that will make it smaller than it is.
"Darlinâ, we have to go soon. If I ainât through the Sheriffâs door by sundown he can send men out here, and I won't have men ridinâ onto this place after dark with you and Sarah in it. I'll go on my own two feet or not at all."
"I know. I justâŠI don't want you to go, Joel." The words tear out of you. "I know I have to let you. I know there's no help for it. But I don't want you to go and Iâm not going to pretend that I do."
His arms tighten. "Good," he says roughly, "don't pretend. I couldn't stand it if you pretended. Iâm done with any kind of pretendinâ for the rest of my life however long that turns out to be."
You laugh at that â a wet, broken thing â tip your face up, and he bends his head, and kisses you in a quiet and terrible way, a long careful pressing of his mouth to yours as though he means to learn the shape of it and carry the shape of it away with him into the cell. You kiss him back the same way, memorising, hoarding, and when he draws back at last his eyes are wet and yours are streaming.
"Where's Sarah?" you manage.
"Nappinâ. Clean wore herself out helping me stack the wood." His thumb wipes at your cheek. "I know it goes without sayinâ darlinâ, but if anythinâ bad does happen, Sarahâs yours â you understand me?â
"JoelâŠ"
"When I'm gone, whatever happens at that trial â she's yours. Youâre my wife, in every way possible now, so nobody can take her from you. She's yours. And this place is yours, free and clear, whateverâŠ" His voice catches. "Whatever they decide about me."
"Stop." You catch his face in both hands. "Stop talking like a man saying goodbye, Joel Miller. Stop it! You didn't do the thing they're saying you did. You defended this family. Any man in the county would have done what you did, and you know that James is positive about the outcome. We have the town council on our side, and you are coming home."
"You believe that," he says, eyes searching yours.
"I believe it with my whole heart. And I thought you did too."
"I do, IâŠwant it to be true."
He bends and presses his forehead to yours, and the two of you stand there breathing the same air in the afternoon kitchen until the light through the window begins to gild toward evening and thereâs no more putting it off.
You wake Sarah together, which is the hardest part. She comes up out of her nap warm and rumpled and slow to understand, and when she does, she comes apart in a way you havenât expected. She flings herself at Joel, burying her face in his neck, unwilling to let go. He sits down on the edge of her bed and holds her and rocks her, and his own face is a thing you have to look away from.
"Don't go, Pa, please don't go. I'll be good. I'll be so good. Don't go!"
"Babygirl, look at me." He draws her back and thumbs the tears off her cheeks. "You listen to me now. I have to go and talk to some men in town about what happened. That's all. And they're gonna talk it over, and they're gonna see that your Pa did right, and then I'm gonna come home. You hear? I'm gonna come home."
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"I don't know exactly, babygirl. But soon. And while I'm gone you gotta help out, okay? And you say your prayers. And you know what you can pray for?"
Sarah hiccups. "A baby sister?"
Joel's face breaks and mends in the same instant. "You pray for whatever your heart wants, babygirl," he says, thick. "You pray real hard and Godâs gonna hear you.â
He holds her a long while more. Then he stands, sets her small hand into yours, and looks at the two of you standing there together in the failing gold light and something passes over his face that youâll carry with you the rest of your life.
"My girls," he says.
Then he nods and goes outside to help TomĂĄs with the wagon.
****
The ride into town is made mostly in silence.
Joel handles the reins and you press against his side on the wagon bench with your hand tucked into the crook of his arm, the country going by gold and green and heartbreakingly beautiful in the last of the light, TomĂĄs silent in the back.
For some reason, you find yourself memorising it â the way the live oaks throw their long shadows across the road, the way the cicadas saw in the heat, the way the dust rises gold behind the wagon wheels, the warm hard press of Joel's arm against your side, and the smell of him. You memorise his profile against the gold light, the rough dark beard, the eyes fixed on the road, the small muscle working in his jaw.
"Darlinâ..."
"Yes?"
"When this is overâŠ"
"When this is over," you interrupt, "we are going to have the rest of our lives, Joel Miller, and I intend to be a very great trial to you for every day of them."
The corner of his mouth pulls. "That so."
"That is so. Iâm your wife proper now and youâll be sorry you ever wished me to speak my mind."
"I'll never be sorry for that." His hand leaves the reins a moment to cover yours in the crook of his arm. "Never once. Whatever comes, I want you to know that. You're the best thing that's happened to me since I lost Tess and I need you to know it before I go through that door."
The gold country blurs through your tears.
"I love you, Joel," you say, âand I need you to come home to me."
"I'll do everything a man can do to come home to you," he says, not quite a promise because heâs too honest a man to promise what he canât command, but as near a promise as the truth allows and you took it and hold it.
Sawyerâs Creek eventually appears on the hazy horizon. The same townsfolk who watched you leave a few days ago now watch you return with wide-eyes and whispers behind hands, but you lift your chin and look none of them in the eye.
Joel draws the wagon up before the sheriff's office and sets the brake. He sits a moment with the reins in his hands looking at the building, and you feel the breath go out of him. Then he wraps the reins, climbs down and comes around to lift you down, his hands spanning your waist and setting you on your feet in the dust of the street.
He nods to TomĂĄs and doesnât let go of your hand as you go up the steps to the door.
Inside, Sheriff Hayes is sat behind his desk, and when he sees you, he nods briefly, an acknowledgement of a bargain made and kept. In the corner, you see James leaning against the wall, a glint of satisfaction present in his eyes.
"Mr Miller,â James says, coming forward to shake Joelâs hand. "You're a man of your word. I told the Sheriff you'd be here by sundown on your own two feet and here you are. That counts for something."
"Mr Oliver." Joel nods in return.
"Well." Sheriff Hayes rises from behind the desk. âI'm as sorry about this as I was the last time, but I have to do it. Come on back, Joel.â
The moment arrives and though you thought you were braced for it, you realise youâre not. Not now, after everything. Joel turns to you, takes your face in both his hands, and looks at you as though he means to take the whole of you with him down the corridor and once more into the dark.
"JoelâŠ" Your voice wonât hold. "Joel, IâŠ"
"Darlinâ, you listen to me now. You go home, take care of my girl and take care of yourself â just like you did last time. You eat and you sleep even when you don't want to because I need you strong and I need Sarah minded and I can't do either of those things from in here. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes,â you swallow hard, âYes, I can do that."
"That's my girl." His thumbs wipe at the tears streaming down your face. "I'll be alright in here, just like I was before. It's a few days and then the trial, and thenâŠ"
"And then you come home."
"And then I come home," he says, and he kisses you, long, hard and desperate, one hand fisting in your pinned-up hair, the other splayed wide against your back crushing you into him.
You kiss him back with everything you have, both of you knowing it has to last and neither of you able to make it enough, and itâs Hayes clearing his throat who finally, gently, ends it.
"Come on now, Joel, before it gets harder.â
Joel draws back and presses his forehead to yours one last time, his breath shuddering against your mouth.
"I love you," he says low, just for you. "Don't watch me go through that door.â
You shake your head fiercely. âI watched last time and Iâll watch this time too.â
"DarlinââŠâ
"I'm not going to look away from you, Joel Miller. Not now, not ever. If you're walking through that door I'm going to watch you do it with my eyes open, and I'm going to be standing right here when you walk back out of it. That's my promise."
Something breaks and blazes in his eyes.
"God, I love you," he says.
Then he lets go of your face, steps back, squares his shoulders, and turns to Hayes.
âLetâs get this over with.â
Hayes nods and opens the door. You watch your husband walk through it, watch as he turns back once and lifts his hand, before the door closes behind him.
Then comes the sound of the cell door - the iron scrape and the heavy clang and the turn of the key, ringing down the corridor into the office, into your chest, into the marrow of you. You stand and listen to your husband being locked away, and something inside you that had the fortitude not to break the last time, but doesnât possess that same fortitude now, gives way.
James catches you before you can fall and sits you in a chair by the window. He crouches in front of you, letting you weep and not saying the useless things men say. Not telling you to hush or be brave or that it will all come right, only staying there, crouched before you, with a steady hand on your shoulder while the storm of it goes through you.
Because he knows what these few days have meant.
Hayes reappears, and, seeing how it is, pours a tin cup of coffee and sets it wordless on the ledge near your hand, retreating behind his desk to give you what privacy the small room allows.
It passes the way even the worst of things pass. You come back to yourself by degrees and wipe your face with the back of your wrist, drawing in a shuddering breath.
"Forgive me, Mr Oliver."
"There's nothing to forgive, Mrs Miller,â James replies. "I've done this work for a long time with a good many wives. There's not one of them didn't do exactly what you just did. You go ahead and feel it. It means you've got something worth feeling it over. That'll serve you in the days coming."
âButâŠbeforeâŠâ
âNo talk of before,â he shakes your shoulder gently. âWeâre living in the here and now.â
You nod and meet his gaze. "How many days? Don't spare me because I would rather know the shape of the thing than imagine it worse in the dark."
His eyebrows lift with something you might call amusement.
"That is exactly what I wanted to tell you. Word came in on the noon rider to say that the judge will be here in three days' time."
You stare at him. "Three days?â
"Yes,â he nods. âThree days and then we can hold the trial. I know three more nights in that cell sounds like a cruelty when you'd take him home this minute if the law let you, but this is a good thing. And if I do my work the way I mean to do my work, then at the end of the fourth day, your husband walks out that front door on his own two feet and rides home with you."
âYou truly believe he'll be acquitted?â
âMrs Miller, Iâve already been given a letter from the leader of your town council vouching for your husband.â
He looks at you levelly, and you understand that heâs a man who chooses his words with care and doesnât spend hope cheaply.
"I don't tell people what they want to hear. I tell them the truth. Three days, and then we have a fight I mean to win."
You close your eyes.
Three days.
It has a shape now, a bottom, and an end you can see â with hope shining.
"Thank you," you say calmly. "Thank you, Mr Oliver. You cannot know what it is to have a shape to hold onto instead of the dark."
"I have some idea." He rises and offers you his hand, drawing you to your feet, steadying you until heâs sure your legs would hold. "Now, I saw your man through the window, and heâll be able to drive you home. I'll come out to the ranch tomorrow to go over the particulars of the day with you â what to expect, where you'll sit, what the lawyering will look like so none of it takes you by surprise. Between now and the trial you're not going to sit alone at that ranch imagining the worst. You're going to be busy helping me build the thing that brings your husband home.â
You look toward the mouth of the brick corridor, where the shadow had swallowed Joel whole.
"Sheriff,â you say tightly, regaining the strength you know you possess. âBefore I go, may I say goodnight to my husband?"
Hayes looks up, mouth opening as if to refuse, then sighs and rises from his chair. âYou seem to like asking me to break the rules, Mrs Miller.â He shakes his head. âTwo minutes.â
You nod and wait for him to open the door, then move pass him down the now familiar corridor, the other cells empty on either side, until you reach the bottom. Joel rises from the cot to greet you, his hands going around the bars.
âDarlinââŠâ
âI had to tell you,â you say hurriedly. âMr Oliver says the judge will be here in three days. Three days, Joel. He says if he does his work you'll walk out on the fourth day and come home."
You felt the breath go out of Joel, the naked relief of finally having a date to keep in mind.
"Three days.â
"Three days, my love."
He shakes his head. "I thought it might take longer. I thoughtâŠbut this way, Sarah won't hardly have time to miss me again. Three days and it's decided, one way or the other. I can do three days standinâ on my head. Three days is nothinâ. You go home tonight, and you tell my girl itâs only three more sleeps and then her Paâs cominâ home.â
"I will,â you nod.
âThen, maybeâŠâ he pauses, almost bashful, âmaybe we can get to workinâ on that baby sister she asked for.â
Emotion swells in your chest, tears jump into your eyes and all you can do is nod.
âThree days,â he says, bending to kiss your fingers. âAnd then I don't ever leave you again as long as I live."
You press your mouth to the gap in the bars and Joel presses his to it in somehow one of the truest kisses youâve ever been given. And when you draw back, youâre both weeping and both, underneath the weeping, lit up from within by that hard bright number.
Three.
"Go on now,â Joel says. âGo home to my girlâŠour girl. I'll see you first thing, when they bring me to wherever it is theyâre planninâ on holdinâ this thing. You be in the front row where I can find you."
"I'll be in the front row. Eyes open."
"Eyes open." The old lazy, crooked smile pulls at his mouth. "That's my girl."
You make yourself let go of his hands and itâs the hardest thing youâve done all that long hard day, harder than watching him walk through the door, because now you truly know the shape of what youâre letting go of and you know itâs only for three days and even three days is three days too long.
But you let go, and you step back, keeping your eyes on him until Hayesâs broad body comes between you and gently turns you back up the corridor toward the office and the door and the purpling evening beyond.
James walks you out into the evening light and TomĂĄs immediately jumps down to help you into the wagon.
âThank you,â you say to the lawyer. âFor everything.â
âIâll see you tomorrow,â he nods sagely.
Then TomĂĄs clicks his tongue and the wagon leaps into life, setting off up the Street and out of town. You donât look back. You look ahead, up the darkening road toward home, toward Sarah, safe with Maria, who needs to be told three sleeps, toward the ranch and the split wood stacked under the lean-to and the bed youâll lie in alone tonight.
But only three more nights, only three, and then the trial, and then Joel will come riding home to his girls at last.
The first stars come out over the live oaks, and you ride home through the warm Texas night holding the hard bright number against your heart like a coal against the cold.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: Joelâs worried about you falling pregnant - until he isnât.
Warnings: 18+only đ
A/N: Iâm off on holiday next week so the next chapter will realistically not be posted until Friday 17th July.
For some reason, you thought that would be it. You thought that your virginity having been handed over and Doc Cooper having told you of the decision of the town council, you would spend the remainder of Joelâs time back at the ranch playing at normality â undertaking your chores and mothering Sarah whilst he worked, all of you pretending that Monday evening doesnât have to come.
You thought wrong.
You havenât realised how hungry a taste of something can make a person. All morning, youâve watched Joel move around the house like you always do and yet, you see him now in a completely different way. You see the sweat beading on his brow, the parting of his lips, the sounds coming from his throat and every single image undoes you every time. You have to step out of the room to fan your face or wipe your brow because it cannot be proper for a woman â married or otherwise â to be in such a constant state of arousal.
You can feel it between your thighs â the wetness that makes you press them together and breathe out heavily through your nose to try and calm yourself. And Joel seems oblivious to the effect heâs having on you, his hand resting briefly at your back as he passes you in the kitchen, or his boot nudging yours under the table, or his gaze slipping down from your eyes to your mouth and back again like heâs memorising the route.
By mid-afternoon, you canât take it any longer.
Sarah goes down for a nap, worn out by the long bright morning and the heat of the noon dinner, and she sleeps slow and deep behind the closed door of her room down the hall with the curtains drawn and the little oscillating breath of her sleep the only sound in there.
TomĂĄs and the other hands are taking shelter from the fierce heat, the world around the house quiet and still.
But youâre not still. Thereâs no way you can be, not sat astride your husband in the bedroom chair, all items of clothing long since lost to the floorboards, the heavy length of him deep inside you, your hips rising and falling slowly against his, your head tossed back, breasts thrust towards his waiting mouth.
âYesâŠâ you gasp, âyes, yes, yesâŠâ
His lips close over one stiff peak and suckle greedily, the warmth of his mouth against your soft flesh only adding to the heat surging through your entire body.
âYes JoelâŠyesâŠâ
He pulls back, breath ragged, hands sliding upwards from your hips across the span of your back, holding you steady, encouraging you as your rise and fall grows more urgent.
âYou look beautiful darlinâ,â he murmurs. âYou like that? Tell me you like it.â
âI like itâŠJoelâŠitâsâŠâ
âCanât get enough, can you?â A warm chuckle escapes his throat. âWell, I ainât complaininâ darlinâ. I got the best seat in the house right here â literally â and goddamn if I donât love watchinâ you like this.â
A small high helpless sound tears out of your throat as you move harder against him.
âLord ChristâŠâ he says softly and you open your sweat filled eyes to see him looking at the place where you meet. Following his gaze, you watch transfixed as your body takes him. âSee that?â he looks up at you. âSee how good you take me, darlinâ, how good we fit together?â
You donât have words. You can only moan as he slowly licks the pad of one thumb across his tongue then presses it gently, but firmly, against your clitoris, making your entire body jerk.
âThatâs it darlinâ,â you hear him murmur as you close your eyes again. âLemme make you feel good. You just keep doinâ what youâre doinâ â just like that.â
âJoelâŠâ You grip onto his shoulders, bowing your head forwards to rest against his. âJoel, itâsâŠitâsâŠ.â
âI know, just you keep goinâ. Do what feels good, darlinâ.â
âYou feel good,â you breathe. âYou feel goodâŠoh GodâŠâ You throw your head back again as his thumb circles your clitoris faster. âI never knewâŠnever knewâŠâ
âWell, you know now.â
"I canâtâŠcanât think of anythingâŠthereâs nothing else, Joel. Thereâs nothing in the world but you inside me. I canâtâŠohâŠ"
Before you realise whatâs happening, you feel him rise with you still wrapped around him, the hot hard length of him still buried deep inside, and your legs wind tight around the curve of his hips, your arms going around his neck.
He turns and carries you three steps to the wall, your back hitting it gently, causing you to gasp. His hands slide slowly down to the curve of your backside, gripping, lifting and pinning you with his chest against yours as he drives in.
He fucks you slow and hard and deep â there are no other words to describe it â and, once more, you canât think.
There is nothing but the hot hard length of him driving slow and deep and full into you and the high helpless desperate sounds tearing slow out of your throat that you donât bother to keep quiet at all.
"Harder, JoelâŠplease, harderâŠ"
You donât even know where such a request has come from. All you know is that you need more.
The slow rocking of hips breaks into something harder and faster as beads of sweat roll down his throat. The heavy salt smell of you both hangs thick as your heels catch at the curve of his backside and draw him harder against you with every stroke. Your nails score against his back and he groans into your mouth as his pace quickens.
You feel the heat building in your body, unshakable and unstoppable. âJoel, IâmâŠâ
You donât have time to form any other words as release crashes over you, and you wail against his throat as your body clenches around him. Seconds later â mere seconds â you feel it build again and you moan helplessly, grateful that heâs bearing your weight, for you know you couldnât bear it yourself.
His hips begin to lose their careful rhythm at last, the hammering coming slow and rough and desperate now, his control fraying, and you understand through the fog of your own pleasure that heâs close.
"I have toâŠâ he gasps. âIâŠâ
He begins to draw back, his hands at the curve of your backside loosening to lower you, the hot hard length of him beginning to slip from within you, and a sound of displeasure tears out of your throat.
"No!"
He stills. âDarlinââŠâ
"Please JoelâŠplease donât pull out, please. I want to feel you. I need to feel you. Stay inside me. Finish inside me, please.â
You expect an argument. You expect words of fear and trepidation and the ghost of Tess. You expect the careful man who initially lost his head and then rediscovered it when you reminded him of the consequences of a man finishing inside his wife.
But you donât get the argument, or the words. Instead, he simply groans your name, grips your backside harder and drives you back down onto him, sheathing himself to the hilt again and causing you to cry out.
âLike this?" he growls softly, hips snapping against yours.
"Yes⊠"
"You want me to finish inside you darlinâ?"
"Yes, please,â you moan, gripping him tighter. âPlease JoelâŠâ
"You want me to fill you up, darlinâ? You want me to put it deep inside you? You want it so deep it takes?"
For a brief moment, your brain canât compute what heâs just said, but your body and mouth react as though itâs the only language they understand. "YesâŠyesâŠ!"
âThe thought of it,â he gasps as he drives harder. âThe thought of you round with my child, the thought of you carryinââŠ"
He trails off to groan loudly.
"You want my baby?â
âYesâŠâ you gasp helplessly.
âIâm gonna fill you up, darlinâ. Iâm gonna put it so deep inside youâŠ"
"Yes Joel, pleaseâŠfill meâŠIâm close againâŠ"
Thereâs no time for you to feel scandalised by your own words, because the third release is coming hard.
"That's it, darlinâ,â he pants, reaching between you once more and circling you firmly. âFinish for me. Finish around me and let me fill you up. Lemme put it deep inside you.â
You groan as you clench around him, milking him slow and hard and desperate the way heâs begged and a low broken, wrecked sound tears from his throat as he falters and stills deep, driving one last full stroke to the hilt and holding there.
âI'mâŠI'm fillinâ youâŠ"
He gasps as he spills hot and wet deep inside you and your legs wind tight around the curve of his hips and hold him through every pulse.
"That's it, darlinâ," he breathes against your throat. "That's it. So deep. So deep inside you.â
He holds you against him, tilting you so the hot warmth of him pools inside you, his beard scraping against your throat, breath slowing with every shuddering pulse.
âMaybeâs IâŠI shouldnât have said it like that,â he says finally.
âSaid what?â you ask, your heart still thundering in your chest.
âBout fillinâ you.â He lets out a soft laugh, almost embarrassed. âAinât the most lovinâ words in the world. Guess thereâs a hundred better ways to say it.â
You nuzzle his neck with your nose and smile against his skin. âI donât mind. I liked it.â
Gently, he pulls back and looks at you, brows drawn together. âYou liked it?â You nod. âYou liked it when I talked âbout fillinâ you up?â
âYes.â
A smile breaks across his face, and he gently slides himself from inside you, both of you hissing at the sensation, before cupping your face with his hands and looking at you squarely.
âAre you tellinâ me, Mrs Miller, that you likeâŠdirty talk?â
You feel a flush creep up your neck. âI donât know. IsâŠis that sort of thing consideredâŠdirty talk?â
âSâpose it is, in a way.â
âThen I suppose, in a way, the answer is yes.â
He laughs and shakes his head, eyes wandering over your face as though heâs marvelling at every bit of you. âI bet a year ago you never imagined yourself ever standinâ naked in front of a man whoâs been givinâ you dirty talk âbout fillinâ you with his child.â
You smile softly, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. âA year ago, I never thought Iâd be this happy. I suppose the dirty talk is simply an added bonus.â
He watches you carefully for a moment, then nods. âWell, Iâm gonna keep makinâ you happy, darlinâ â dirty talk and all.â
****
The eveningâs cooled by the time Maria comes to the house bearing an apple pie and something that smells suspiciously like roasted chicken.
The white heat of the long afternoon has broken into the long slow gold of the early evening, and a soft breeze has thankfully come up at last from the south. Sarah wakes from her nap rosy and rumpled and starving, and Joel takes her out to Tessâs garden to water the flowers before supper. You want to give them that time together, so you stood at the kitchen table in a fresh print dress with your hair pinned up neat, shelling the last of the early peas into a bowl.
Maria lets herself in through the open kitchen door.
"Evening, Señora."
"Come in,â you greet her warmly. âThere's coffee on, or buttermilk if you'd rather â it's still cool from the well."
"Buttermilk would be lovely, thank you."
She places her wares down and pours herself a glass of the cool buttermilk from the crock, then leans against the sideboard, and watches you work for a long moment without speaking.
You feel it, but you keep your eyes on the peas, as a warm flush begins to climb your throat.
"What is it, Maria?"
"Nothing."
She sips at the buttermilk, her eyes not moving from your face.
"Maria."
"It is nothing,â she insists, the corner of her mouth pulling. "OnlyâŠyou look well.â
The flush climbs slow higher, but you keep your eyes on the peas and split another pod into the bowl.
"It's the breeze," you reply. "It's a mercy after the heat of the day."
"Mm. You look happy. Happier than I have seen you in a long time, even with the legal problems facing Don Joel."
The words come out quiet and plain and you still with a pea pod half-split in your fingers above the bowl, the flush blooming now across your entire face.
You don't trust your voice for a long moment, so you split the last of the pea pods, gather the empty hulls into your apron, and carry the bowl to the sink. Only then do you turn and look at her.
"I am happy, Maria," you reply. âAs you say, there are still challenges ahead. But with Doc Cooper and the town council on Joelâs side and Mr Oliver in our corner, Iâm feeling hopeful about all this business with the Reverend andâŠâ
You break off at the look at her face and know, with certainty, that those things are not what sheâs referring to.
"I'm glad of it," she says.
"WeâŠJoel and IâŠweâve talked a lot since he came home, about a great many things andâŠwell, things are different now. Better.â
âMm,â she says again, putting her glass down slowly. âHe is touching you.â
âIâŠâ you feel the flush deepen, your gaze drawn away from hers and down to the folds of your apron. âIâŠyes.â
âI am glad of it. It was a great concern to you when we spoke before and I told you â give him time. I have seen how Don Joel has used that time. TomĂĄs and I have both seen how he looks at you and how he speaks of you. We have both seen the change.â
You look up and meet her gaze, watching as she nods slowly. She knows the look of a woman who has finally, after a long, starved period, been thoroughly and gladly loved.
âYes,â you say softly. âThere has been a change for the better and IâmâŠIâm glad of it.â
Stepping towards you, Maria rests her hands gently on your upper arms and squeezes. âYou do not have to worry. His love for you is as great as it was for her â I can tell. And the fact that you have made space for her, makes all the difference.â
She glances outside to where, from the far window, you can see Joel and Sarah kneeling in front of the larkspur.
"I'll leave you to your supper. That little girl will eat the legs off the table when she gets in.â
"MariaâŠthank you. For your counsel and for being kind to me.â
"You would have managed without it,â she nods. âYou're stronger than you know. You came here to marry a grieving man with a motherless child and a wall of grief around him a mile high, and you stayed, and you waited him out, and you won him. But you're welcome, all the same. Get some food in that man tonight andâŠwhatever youâre doing, keep on doing it. It suits you."
She steps back out into the golden evening and crosses the yard, raising her hand to Joel and Sarah as she goes. Minutes later, Sarah comes tumbling into the house chattering brightly, her braids bouncing. Joel comes in behind her with the lazy crooked smile easy on his face, his shirtsleeves rolled and his eyes finding yours at once. The look that passes between you in the evening light is the look of two people who share a great many things now that no one else in the world knows.
Well, except perhaps Maria.
The flush blooms across your face again and you turn back to the peas to hide it, busying yourself with ensuring that the table is properly set and that everyone has what they need. When you set Joelâs plate in front of him, he thanks you, his hand coming up from behind and resting on your backside through your dress, only succeeding in making the flush worse.
Sarahâs chatter continues through the meal, leaving you dizzy at how quickly and ably she can leap from one topic to another with no apparent connection. Youâve almost finished eating when she puts her fork down and nods solemnly.
"I think Iâd like a baby sister."
The kitchen goes quiet. You donât dare look at Joel, instead keeping your eyes on your plate. The whole evening somehow holds its breath around the kitchen table, and across from you Joel goes very still with his fork halfway to his mouth.
"Or a brother. I don't mind which.â
She looks up, gaze shifting between the two of you.
"So, I think we should get one. A baby. I could help.â
She returns to her meat, seemingly satisfied, as though sheâs settled the whole matter with her words,
Across the table, Joel sets his fork down against his plate and you make yourself look up at him. His eyes are already on you, his smile quiet and warm, the look passing between you across the table holding a great many things.
Sarah scrapes the last of her gravy off her plate.
"Can we?" she asks, not looking up. "Can we get a baby?"
"Babies aren't quite something you get just like that, my love,â you say quietly. âThey comeâŠthey come when the time is right, and when a Ma and Pa are ready for them. They can't be hurried."
Sarah considers this.
"When will the time be right?"
You donât look at Joel because you can feel the flush blooming again across your face and hear his words from when he was buried deep inside you in your ear.
"I don't rightly know. Someday, maybe, if we're lucky and Godâs willing.â
"I'll pray for it," Sarah announces slow, with a childâs easy, total confidence. "I'll pray real hard and I know Godâll listen."
She slides down off her chair and carries her plate to the sink.
"May I be excused?â
âOf course, babygirl,â Joel says, his voice coming out rough and thick. âPut your boots on if youâre goinâ back outside.â
She tears off to find her boots, chattering to herself about babies, the screen door banging behind her as she leaves, and you and Joel finally look at one another again.
For a moment neither of you speak, then he laughs, soft and gentle and reaches across the table for your hand.
âDid you say anythinâ to her âbout babies?â
âNo, of course not,â you reply. âI wouldnât. Did you?â
"No, but sheâs clearly been thinkinâ on it. Our almost six-year-old daughter, planninâ our family for us.â He shakes his head. "Out of the mouths of babes."
"Out of the mouths of babes," you agree, squeezing his hand.
"Someday," he says quietly.
"Someday," you nod, holding his gaze, watching as his eyes shift from yours to your mouth and back again. âJoel MillerâŠâ
âWhat?â he grins. âCanât a man look at his wife and admire her of an eveninâ?â
âI feel as though you may be admiring me with nefarious purpose.â
âWell, if you call thinkinâ bout bendinâ you over this table and losinâ myself inside you again nefarious then Iâm guilty as charged, darlinâ. Of that, if not of anythinâ else.â
You canât help but laugh, and out across the yard, in the gold of the evening, Sarah kneels in front of her motherâs garden, telling her all about the baby sister or brother sheâs going to pray for. And the breeze carries it in through the open kitchen windows, Joel's fingers tightening warm around yours across the table, and neither of you let go.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: Doc Cooper brings news and Joel breaks down.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Apologies for the delay! đ„° If you think youâre missing from the story taglist or my permanent taglist, let me know. Losing track a bit! đ
You watch out of the window as Doc Cooper brings his wagon to a halt in your yard and looks around nervously. TomĂĄs emerges from the barn, his gaze flicking from the visitor to the door of the house that cracks back against its plinth as Joel steps outside.
The doctor stays seated on the bench, the reins nervously sliding through his hands, his eyes on Joel whom you can see step off the porch into the dusty earth and stop a respectful distance from the wagon.
âDoc.â
âJoelâŠâ the doctor licks his lips. âI wasâŠuhâŠhoping to speak with your wife if itâs not too much trouble.â
âSheâs restinâ,â Joel replies instantly and without embarrassment. âHeat this time of day gets to her â you understand.â
âOf course, yes. It can be hard on female fragility. Not that Iâm suggesting that Mrs Miller is fragile, far from it.â
Joel plants his feet and crosses his arms over his chest.
âIâm guessinâ youâre probably here âbout me, so makes sense that you just tell me whatever it was you were planninâ on tellinâ her.â
Doc Cooper pauses to consider, and you can see him weigh his options before nodding.
âWell, I was talking with the other members of the town council regarding your wifeâsâŠpropositionâŠand, wellâŠwe think that what she was saying soundsâŠreasonable. It does appear as though Reverend Sawyer may beâŠwellâŠusing the law for his own personal gain here on account of his grief over losing Tess.â
You see Joel bristle at the exact same moment the doctor does, and he raises a hand in supplication.
âIâm notâŠnot passing any judgment on what happened here that day, Joel, nor trying to pretend that I understand what youâve been going through this last year. But what I can say is that I can see the wisdom in having this matter dealt withâŠquickly.â
âYou wanna see me hang faster?â
âNo! No, no, no, no!â he shakes his head violently. âNo, no, I wasnât meaning that at all, Joel. I just meant that, for everything to carry on as normal, which is what we all want, it would be good to have this whole sorry business disposed of as quickly as possible. I meanâŠâ he lets out a short laugh, ânobody wants a long, drawn-out trial overâŠover this.â
Joel shifts slightly and you feel your breath hold tight in your chest.
âWe, the town council, are prepared to write to a letter to the judge, as your wife requested, expressing ourâŠdoubtsâŠand, of course, explaining that youâre an upstanding member of the Sawyerâs Creek community. I justâŠwanted to ask her if she would like us to provide it to your attorney directly â I understand that you have a Mr Oliver representing you now.â
Joel pauses and then angles his body slightly back towards the house, enough for him to be able to meet your gaze through the window. You nod, and he turns back again.
âSounds like a sensible idea. Youâll find him at the hotel in town.â
âSplendid!â Doc Cooper grins broadly. âIâm glad that weâve managed to sort this out so amicably and, with the writing of the letter, I can assume that things willâŠcontinue as normal, business wise?â
âIâll let my wife decide that once she gets confirmation of the letterâs delivery to Mr Oliver,â Joel replies. âSâpecially given sheâs the one who approached you âbout the matter in the first place.â
âOf courseâŠof course that makes perfect sense. And she did it with such fortitude too. You should be very proud of her.â
âI am,â Joel replies quietly.
The doctor nods and picks up the reins again. âWell, I wonât disturb you any longer. IâllâŠwait to hear further from Mrs Miller in due course.â
âYou do that.â
âYesâŠright then.â
He slaps the reins against his horse and the wagon jerks forward. You watch from the window as it circles the yard and then goes back in the direction it came from at speed, dust swirling behind the wheels. Then you hurriedly finishing dressing and make your way to the kitchen, in time to see Joel come back inside, the door slamming behind him.
âThat sounds promising,â you say. âThe judge would be a fool to ignore a letter from the town council.â
âThat he would be,â Joel replies with a slow smile. âI especially liked when the good doctor asked me if things would carry on as normal business wise.â
âYou could have just told him they would, rather than defer to me,â you giggle.
âYou handled the negotiation, darlinâ, so I reckon itâs on you to tell him one way or the other. Not this weekend though,â he adds, moving towards you. âThis weekend is just for us.â
Pulling you into his arms, he kisses you, slow, gentle and tender, the ache between your thighs pulsing once more, and you canât help but slide your hand carefully down his chest to his waist and then below, feeling his hardness press almost immediately against the confines of his trousers.
âAny more of that and Iâll have to take you right here on the counter,â he murmurs, dragging his lips from yours and planting hot kisses down your throat. âMight not be a bad idea. Fact is, a man oughta claim his wife in every damn room of his house to make it a home.â
The sigh of pleasure that escapes your throat quickly dies in the air between you as you suddenly recall his face in the bedroom moments before Doc Cooper interrupted, and his words to you about his reticence over giving you a child.
Youâre not so lacking in experience not to understand that the pleasures of the flesh usually lead only in one direction.
âJoelâŠâ you say tentatively. âCan we talk aboutâŠwhat you said before about not wanting another child?â
He freezes, lips still pressed to your skin, then slowly raises his head to look at you, his brow furrowed with pain. Cupping your face in his hands, he rubs his thumbs tenderly over your cheekbones.
âAinât âbout not wantinâ, darlinâ, ainât ever been âbout that. Fact is, when I look at youâŠI see your belly swollen and your eyes shininâ andâŠâ he swallows, âI think âbout how good it could be â you and me â bringinâ new life into the world andâŠand buildinâ our family in this home.â
âBut?â
Exhaling heavily, he moves away from you to sit down at the table, leaning his forearms on the wood and scrubbing his hands over his face.
âTess and meâŠwe wanted lots of kids. She used to talk âbout fillinâ this place with âem. She wanted six, at least, and I used to laugh and tell her thereâs no way we could afford to feed six mouths, and she would just look up at me with those eyes she had andâŠand Iâd agree to whatever she wanted âcause I loved her⊠âcause I wanted to make her happy.â
You sit down carefully opposite him.
âAfter Sarah, we were both surprised it took so long for her to fall pregnant again. She talked to Doc Cooper âbout it and he told her that there werenât no rhyme or reason to it. That some women just find it easier than others and that if it was meant to happen, it would.â
He pauses and looks at you.
âDay she told me she was expectinâ again was one of the happiest of my life. And neither of us thought anythinâ bout it. Just carried on like we had when she was expectinâ Sarah, never thinkinâ for one minute that anythinâ would be any different than it had been the first time.â
A soft, sad smile slips across his face.
âSheâd say that she wanted to give me a son, and Iâd tell her that it didnât matter to me what we got so long asâŠso long as it was healthy.â
âAny time I saw her, she looked happy,â you offer softly.
âShe was â we both were.â
He gets up and moves over to the counter, running his hands over the edges as though trying to find something to distract them whilst he continues to speak.
âI loved how she looked when she was carryinâ. Was a fight sometimes for me to keep my hands to myself, Lord help me, and she wasnât exactly fightinâ me off. The pregnancy did somethinâ to her and I wasâŠI was willinâ and able. The night âfore her labour startedâŠâ he pauses, âshe wantedâŠand IâŠI provided. You understand what Iâm sayinâ?â
âYes.â
âAfterwards, I left her sleepinâ and thenâŠthen it started a few hours later. I had to get TomĂĄs to ride for the doc âcause she was in so much pain so quickly that I couldnât leave her. I didnât understand, âcause when she was birthinâ Sarah, it took hours for her to get to that state. Hours of me pacinâ around outside in the yard orâŠor tryinâ to work. But she begged meâŠbegged me not leave, begged me to keep hold of her hand âcause I reckon she knew.â
He turns back to face you.
âI reckon she knew that somethinâ wasnât right andâŠand I stayed, darlinâ, I swear that I did. I sat with her and held her hand for the best part of two days andâŠand tried to get her to breathe through it. And I wiped her brow and I prayed, âcause I was so scared that she was gonna be taken from me and I cursed myself for layinâ hands on that night. Told myself if Iâd just let her be, if Iâd just turned her down then, she might have pouted âbout it, but it would have been okay. ThenâŠâ
âJoel, you donât have toâŠâ
âAnd she was pushinâ so hard and the screaminââŠâ he closes his eyes and shakes his head, lost in the memory. âI ainât never heard a woman scream like that before and she keptâŠkept prayinâ and begginâ the doc to do somethinâ to help the baby and he just kept sayinâ itâs lyinâ wrong, I need to turn it. And heâd put his hands on her belly and try movinâ the baby and sheâd scream more.â
Tears course down his face.
âI didnât know what to do, darlinâ. I swear I tried to help her, but I didnât know how. And thenâŠshe gave birth toâŠto Benjamin and he didnâtâŠdidnât cry. He was justâŠlayinâ there, lookinâ perfect but not movinâ or makinâ any sound and⊠Doc Cooper said he was gone, hadnât even drawn a breath, and IâŠI didnât know what to feel. All I wanted was for Tess to be okay. I told myself that if she was just okay, then we could get through what had happenedâŠwe could try again. But sheâŠthere was so much bloodâŠâ
You get to your feet and cross the space to him, resting your hand gently on his arm.
âHe tried, the doc, I know he tried, to get it to stop, but there was just too much. It soaked the bed andâŠand she was gettinâ weaker andâŠI knew then that she knew she was dyinâ. She told me she loved me and made me promise to take care of Sarah and I begged her, I begged her not to leave me. I told her that I couldnât live without her and thenâŠshe justâŠin my armsâŠâ
He breaks off as sobs rack his body and you slide your arms around his waist and pull him close, letting him cling to you as the painful memories wash over him. His arms encircle you and he squeezes you tightly, as though heâs afraid heâs going to lose you through the simple act of honesty.
âIâm sorry,â you murmur, âIâm so sorry, Joel, Iâm so sorryâŠit was selfish of me to thinkâŠâ
âNo,â he says, pulling back, face and eyes wet. âIt ainât your fault and you ainât ever gotta be sorry forâŠfor wantinâ family, darlinâ, I justâŠI donât know ifâŠâ
âJoelâŠâ
âI looked at you when you were layinâ in that bed sick with fever and I know I wouldnât survive losing the woman I love again.â He looks at you squarely. âIf anythinâ happened to you, darlinâ, I wouldnât make it. I wouldnât be able to bury you and carry on â I couldnât, not this time. I wouldâŠI wouldâŠâ
âSsshh,â you soothe him softly, pulling him to you again. âWe donât have to think about it right now, my love. Letâs justâŠjust be happy in the news Doc Cooperâs given us. Letâs think about all of this wretched business with the Reverend being over and you coming home for good and you, me and Sarah continuing our lives together. I have you, both of you. I donât need anything else, I donât.â
He exhales heavily, drawing your head under his chin and letting it rest there. You both stand for a long moment in the golden light, and you tell yourself that it doesnât matter. A year ago, you were a spinster living above your fatherâs store, never dreaming for one moment that you might have a husband, a home and a daughter. Youâve been lucky â so very lucky. Tessâs loss has been your wonderful gain, and a child of your own wonât ever change that.
âI ainâtâŠI ainât sayinâ no forever. That ainâtâŠI know I said I couldnât give you a child but I ainâtâŠI ainât sayinâ no forever, darlinâ. I justâŠtime, itâŠI needed time after you came here to understand that Tess was gone and you were here and maybeâŠmaybeâŠâ
âOf course,â you say, squeezing him gently. âSo much has happened in such a short space of time, Joel. Thereâs no rush, noâŠno demands on my part. There never will be, I promise you that.â
âI love you, darlinâ.â
âI love you too,â you say, drawing back and looking up at him, marvelling at the man in your arms. âMy husband.â
He bends and brushes his lips against yours, letting you taste the salt of his tears. âMy wife.â
And, for now, thatâs enough.
****
TomĂĄs brings Sarah home in time for supper. You and Joel had discussed whether it might be better to leave her with Maria so as not to unduly upset her, but the earlier conversation about children had clearly softened Joelâs resolve and when they finally reunited, you knew it was the right decision.
âAre you home for good, Pa?â she asks as you serve up the food and feel your chest constrict at her plaintive tone.
âNot yet babygirl,â Joel replies. âI gotta go back to jail on Monday night, but Iâm here until then, and Iâve missed you so much.â
âIâve missed you too,â she says and when you next look at your husband, you can see the tears hovering in his eyes again.
After supper, the three of you retire to the parlour and play some games together, before Joel takes Sarah to bed and reads her stories until she falls asleep in the crook of his arm.
You and Joel go to bed around nine and, after all thatâs been said and done, you arenât expecting anything to happen. You wash your face at the basin, brush out your hair, climb into bed and wait for him to settle beside you in the dark.
His beard brushes against the crown of your head, and his arm slides careful beneath your shoulders, turning you into him. Then his hand comes up and his fingers trace slowly downwards, pausing at the curve of your hip and curling there warm against your nightgown.
"Darlinâ, IâŠâ
âWhat is it?â
âI can pull out. I promise I will.â
For a moment, youâre not entirely sure what he means. âPull out of what?â
You feel him still slightly against you, then relax. âOut of you.â
âOhâŠâ youâre grateful for the dark hiding the flush that creeps up your neck at your naivety. âI didnât realiseâŠâ
He cuts you off by bending and moving his mouth against yours. The kiss is warm and unhurried, the taste of the evening meal lingering on his tongue against yours, and you lick deep into his mouth without a single moment of hesitation.
His hand draws your nightgown slowly up your bare thigh and you shift against him in the dark taking over to draw it up over your hips then your stomach, your breasts and finally your head. You let it fall off the side of the bed into the dark and turn slowly back into him.
His chest presses warm against your breasts, the tender peaks tightening at the contact, and you feel the hot length of him against your stomach.
You kiss him slowly, his arm drawing you tighter against him, and before you even know what youâre doing, before youâve even considered whether itâs proper or expected or, indeed, wanted, you pull slowly back, shift and swing your bare leg over the broad warmth of his hips, settling above him on your knees.
He inhales shakily beneath you, and his hands settle at the curve of your hips, the pads of his fingers tracing the warm flesh, which draws a soft sound from your throat. You reach down between you and take him in your hand, causing him to hiss your name.
Slowly, you guide him against you, the drag of the hot head of him against the wet of you pulling soft helpless sounds from both of you. Then you ease slowly down onto him, an inch at a time, and the stretch of him filling you feels devastating.
You seat yourself to the hilt and hold there, the tender ache between your thighs throbbing around him as your hands settle against his chest for balance. In the pale light, you can see his jaw clenched tight, eyes burning up at you as you begin to move in a slow rise and fall, the motion of which youâve no idea of before now. The bed creaks softly beneath you, the only sound in the dark beyond your mutual breaths, and you keep the rhythm careful and quiet in the sleeping house.
He guides you slowly, thumbs still tracing your skin, biting back sounds from his throat that you swallow when you bend over and catch them with your mouth, kissing him through the slow rocking of your hips.
He lets you ride him in the dark, building slow and warm, and you stretch around him with every slow press down. His hands slide from your hips, travelling the length of your bare torso to settle on your breasts, thumbs skating over the hardened peaks, and you canât help but throw your head back and gasp.
Then he moves, arms winding around you, pulling himself up so that his mouth can find your tender flesh, pulling one nipple and then the other into his mouth and suckling deep, the action turning the tender ache into hot sparks. You slide your hands into his hair, hold his head at your breasts and quicken your pace, entirely without thought or guidance or experience.
âOh JoelâŠâ you hear yourself whisper. âOh yesâŠ. yes, like thatâŠâ
âThat feel good, darlinâ?â he murmurs and all you can do is moan softly.
After a moment, he shifts again beneath you, rolling slowly, taking you with him until he lays you on your back and braces himself carefully above you on his elbows.
The slow rocking of his hips against yours is deeper than yours had been above him. The hot length of him strokes slow and full into you with every careful in-press, and your arms wind around his neck, your knees drawing higher against his hips.
âYesâŠyes JoelâŠâ
The heat in your stomach draws tight and the wave breaks through every inch of you. You bite into his shoulder to keep the helpless sounds from carrying down the hall to Sarahâs room, as your body clenches tight around him. He keeps the rhythm, rocking you through the long warm rolling of it, his beard pressed against your temple, his elbows braced on either side of your shoulders.
âDarlinââŠâ he says finally, voice tight. âIâm close, IâŠI need to comeâŠâ
For a second, he hesitates, then he pulls slowly out of you, dragging an empty sound from your throat. Then he comes up onto his knees above you and takes himself in his fist, the muscle of his arm flexing slow and hard.
He breaks seconds later, a wrecked sound tearing from him as he spills, hot and wet across your stomach in long heavy pulses, his hand working slowly through each one.
You feel it, but you donât look. You watch what you can see of him in the dark, wait until heâs completely spent, then reach out to draw him into your arms again. He comes down slowly, pressing his weight against your briefly, breath harsh and ragged, before rolling onto his side and taking you with him, pressing kisses to your temple.
"Thank you, darlinâ," he murmurs when heâs regained the ability to speak. âThank you.â
You lie together in the dark for a long moment, heartbeats slowly returning to normal, his chest rising and falling with impending slumber.
âJoel,â you whisper.
âMm.â
âIâmâŠIâm sticky.â
His breathing pauses for a moment, then his chest rumbles with laughter. âApologies, darlinâ, let me get you cleaned up.â
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You and Joel enjoy one another.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Taking a breather next week so the next part will be posted on 12th June đ„°
The drumming warmth of his chest beneath your cheek and the heavy weight of his arm beneath your shoulders holds you in a hazy place between waking and sleeping. The amber light of the bedroom begins its slow shift toward rose, the long, gold seams of late afternoon sun creeping slowly over the floor.
A deep, tender ache throbs slow between your thighs in counter-rhythm to the drum of your heart against his chest.
He stirs first, the hand, which has been tracing slow, lazy circles against your bare upper arm, stilling. His beard, which has been pressed warm against the crown of your damp hair, lifts, and the drum of his heart beneath your cheek picks up a fresh, deeper rhythm. You feel the slow, patient gaze of his eyes settle possessively across the bare length of you draped warm against his chest.
You donât open your eyes as you feel him bend his head.
His mouth presses a long, warm kiss against your head reverently and entirely without hurry, and the press of his lips draws a soft breath out of your throat against the warm hollow of his throat. He doesnât speak as he kisses lower, lips moving over your temple then your eyelid and the corner of your closed eye where the long lashes lie damp.
You open your eyes slowly and see his, soft and dark and entirely undone. His mouth meets yours, the kiss warm and entirely wordless. He parts your mouth, drags his tongue against yours and you close your eyes again and kiss him back.
Drawing back, he looks at you again, one thumb reaching to slowly trace your cheek. Then he presses a further kiss against your chin, and another against your jaw, and another at the soft pulse of your throat.
The soft pulse answers him and he kisses lower, his mouth travelling downwards to your collarbone and into the warm hollow there, dragging slow and warm, a soft sound escaping your throat. You raise your hand and lay it against the back of his head, sliding into his hair as he continues to kiss you lower.
His mouth travels across the slope of your collarbone, pressing against every inch of the bone before pausing and moving back along the slope on the opposite side, and you watch his head bowed against your upper chest in the deepening rose light with a drowning tenderness that closes your throat.
He kisses down your arm where the skin lies against the rumpled sheets, drawing sensations youâve not known your arm could feel from a kiss, then moves lower down your forearm to the inside of your wrist and across your palm. Then he pulls each of your fingers in turn into the warmth of his mouth before retracing his steps, back up your bare arm and across your chest. He pauses to gaze at the drawn peaks of your nipples before lowering his mouth and kissing the soft underswell of one breast, down to where it meets the slope of your ribs. Then he moves up the outer swell where it meets your collarbone, mapping the entirety of you.
You arch, your fingers tightening in his hair, and he pulls back, offers you a lazy smile then bends once more, lips closing around one tender bud.
You gasp as he suckles you slowly and deeply, the drag of his tongue sending sparks down through your stomach to the tender ache between your thighs. He draws your nipple into his mouth and holds it there, tongue working patiently, teeth grazing carefully, before letting it slip back into the air and moving to the other.
Rising, he kisses your mouth again, causing you to whimper as his tongue sweeps inside, before moving back down your body over your ribs, then your stomach, pausing at your naval to dip his tongue into the crevice before continuing. He moves to your hips, his hands settling there and sliding down your outer thighs as you part them instinctively, the swollen wet bloom of you exposed.
He presses a kiss against the inside of one knee, then the other, pausing briefly before dropping his mouth.
âJoelâŠâ
You groan and arch towards him again, as he slowly circles your clitoris, the sparks spreading upwards now, back through your stomach to your breasts. Then he draws the small bundle of nerves into his mouth.
You wail this time. Thereâs no other word for the sound that tears out of your throat as your hand flies back into his hair and your hips buck helplessly against his mouth. His hands slide up beneath you, cupping the curve of your rear and lifting, giving himself better access.
When it comes, the wave breaks slowly, your body locking helplessly tight around nothing at all, clenching around the empty, stretched ache he left there earlier, and your thighs tremble against his shoulders. Unconcerned, he rides you through the wave, his tongue plunging inside you, drinking the wet of what heâs made of you.
You sob as the second wave rolls over you, his tongue burying deep as you peak and then descend, and he finally draws back to look at you, his beard glistening.
âOhâŠJoelâŠâ
He crawls slowly up the wrecked bloom of your body and kisses you again, letting you taste yourself, and you open your mouth and lick deep into his without a single moment of hesitation. Then he gathers you to him, chests flush with one another, limbs entangled and you lay your hand against the scruff of his jaw.
âBeautiful,â he murmurs, turning his mouth into your palm and kissing it. âI love watchinâ you come apart for me, darlinâ.â
âI love coming apart for you,â you sigh in return, closing your eyes.
You lie together that way for a while until you feel a dryness in your throat and ease yourself upwards. His arm tightens instantly and you lean down to press a gentle kiss against his lips.
âWater,â you whisper before slipping out from under him, rising from the bed and walking across the floor to where the pitcher and cup sit on the dresser.
You pour water into the cup and drink, the cool of it against your throat a blessing, then you set it back down and stretch your arms above your head, lengthening your ribs and your waist and your back, before gazing at yourself in the mirror above the dresser.
You donât entirely recognise yourself. The woman looking back at you has loosened hair falling in heavy waves and breasts swelling in the light, nipples flushed and tender from her husband's mouth, and her skin glows in a way youâve never seen on yourself before.
You look at her and she looks back.
Behind you in the glass, the light falls across the bed, and you see Joel rising up on one elbow to look at you. You meet his gaze in the mirror and, for some reason, choose not to lower your arms.
For a long, suspended moment, neither of you move. The breath stills in your throat as you watch his gaze travel slowly and possessively down your shoulders, your breasts, your waist, the curve of your hips, the soft flare of your thighs, and return to your face.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rises and crosses the room towards you, the heavy length of him already thickening visibly with every step. You hold his gaze in the glass as he comes up behind you and settles his hands gently on your hips.
Leaning down, he presses his jaw against your shoulder, and you lower your arms, your hands settling of their own accord against the top of the dresser. His hands slide round and over your stomach, fingers spreading warm, the pads of his thumbs brushing the underswell of your breasts, the hot length of him pressing against the small of your bare back, fully hard. You feel the wet head of him leaving a smear against your spine as he settles his hips against yours.
His hands move to cup your breasts, thumbs grazing over your nipples and rolling them, and you groan and press back, your hips meeting the hot weight of him riding the small of your back. He grunts softly, his thumb pinching the tender peak of one breast and rolling it slow and hard until your breath breaks and your hands tighten on the dresser.
Instinctively, you press back harder, and his hands slide back down to your hips, pushing you gently forwards until youâre bent over the dresser, your breasts resting against the top. The porcelain pitcher rattles against its saucer and the cup trembles as your hands flatten on either side of your reflection.
Behind you in the glass, you watch his hand leave your hip and stroke himself slowly through the smear heâs left on your spine whilst the other pushes between your shoulder blade, flattening you against the top of the dresser, your rear arching higher, your thighs spreading open, exposing you to the light.
You feel him drag the hot head of him through the slick of you from behind, coating himself in you, and you moan, his eyes meeting yours in the glass before he drives inside you.
It takes one stroke, hilt-deep, to fill the raw aching heat of you from an angle that strikes on the very first inch of seating, the deep place inside you. Your knees buckle and only his hand on the small of your back and the dresser beneath your hips hold you up as he begins to move.
The high, broken cry that tears out of your throat rings in the empty bedroom as he claims you, his hips slapping against the curve of you on the down stroke, dragging the slick of you up the polished length of him on the withdrawal.
The dresser rocks hard, the pitcher rattles and the mirror shakes faintly against the wall behind it, distorting your reflections. Your hair spills forward with every stroke, your breasts drag hot and damp against the wood and your mouth holds in a steady, broken keening of high, open moans you canât stop, donât want to stop and have no part of yourself left to stop.
His eyes hold yours in the glass as the hand at your back drags up your spine, catches the heavy fall of your loosened hair at the nape of your neck and winds it around his fist.
He pulls, not hard enough to hurt but enough to drag your face from the top of the dresser, your back curving beneath his fist. The new angle drives the hot length of him into the deep place inside you so flush on the next stroke that you sob openly, a long, wet, broken sound.
âMine,â he says breathlessly. âMine, darlinââŠall mineâŠâ
The image of yourself in the mirror is one that should scandalise you. Your face arched, mouth open, eyes wet and black with want, your hair drawn back taut in his fist, your breasts swinging heavy with the rhythm beneath you, nipples flushed dark and tight.
But it doesnât.
And your husband behind you, broad and scarred and entirely undone, sweat running in beads down his chest, his eyes burning at your reflection, his hips driving into the curve of your rear in a wet relentless slap of skin on skin, only causes the sweet ache between your thighs to pulse harder.
You watch him in the glass, watch the muscle of his arm flex with every drive of his hips, the dark flush bloom up his neck and across the slick line of his collarbone, his eyes burning at you with a worship that has nothing careful left in it.
You hold his gaze and arch into the pull of his fist in your hair. He growls low, the sound guttural, wordless, the sound of something feral riding the bloom of his wife on her own dresser in her own bedroom. His fist in your hair tightens, his hand at your hip locks and the rhythm breaks open.
The dresser slams the wall on every stroke. The pitcher tips and rolls across the top, water spilling in a wide cool pool, and your hands scrabble wet against the wood for any purchase at all but find none.
The heat low in your belly draws tight and you slide your eyes to watch yourself in the glass as you shatter.
This time, itâs harder. Release tears through every inch of you with a devastating force that wrenches the strength out of every limb, and a scream rings through the house, as you clench helplessly tight around the hot fullness of him deep inside you and milk him in a hot rolling pulse of wet contractions.
The breath breaks ragged out of his chest as he bends over you but doesnât stop. He drives you slow and hard through the rolling wave and holds you there, the hot length of him hammering the deep, raw place inside you on every stroke through the rolling shudders, and the wave that should have broken once breaks again. You clench around him in a long, shuddering aftershock that rolls up out of the first without pause and the deep place inside you, raw and overstimulated and wanting, draws the second wave bigger than the first.
You sob as his hand leaves your hip and snakes beneath you, slick with the sweat of you both, the heel of his palm pressing hard between your thighs, his middle finger finding your clitoris and circling it in counter-rhythm to the hammering claim of him deep inside you.
The third wave breaks before youâve finished riding the second and you scream again as his teeth catch your shoulder, marking what he doesnât have the words for. His hand leaves your hair, and both now settle at your waist, pulling you back hard against him â three, four, five slamming strokes that drive the dresser into the wall with such force that the mirror jumps on its hook.
He buries himself in you to the hilt and holds there and you feel the hot pulse of him inside you, thicker than before, harder and deeper though you almost canât believe itâs possible. The hot flood of him spills into the very heart of you in slow, heavy pulses, his hips jerking helplessly forward into yours with every movement, the wet of him and the wet of you mixing slick around the base of him where his hips press flush against the curve of your rear.
âYes darlinââŠGodâŠ!â he exclaims, collapsing against you, his beard scraping warm against your shoulder, his mouth pressing a warm kiss where his teeth have been.
You canât speak.
He draws slowly out of you, pulling one last broken whimper from your throat. You feel the hot wet of him slip down the inside of your bare thigh, and his hand comes around between your thighs and catches the slow trickle on his palm before it can reach your knee. Then he smears the wet of him against the curve of your hip, marking you with himself, and you watch in the glass, riveted with fascination.
After a moment, he rises behind you, drawing you up from the dresser, allowing you to flatten your hands against the damp wood for balance before turning you in his arms and laying his forehead gently against yours.
âDid I frighten you?â he asks softly.
âNo,â you pant. âNo, Joel, not for one momentâŠâ
âI love you.â
âI love you too,â you reply, closing your eyes and, for a long, suspended moment, you simply stand there, his breath hot against your mouth, his heart drumming against yours.
Then he moves and kisses you again, slow and soft, allowing you to wind your arms around his neck and for him to lift you and carry you back over to the bed. After he lays you down, he watches you for a moment with a soft smile, then crosses back to the dresser, returning with a cotton cloth. He cleans you slowly and when heâs finished, you rest your palm against his jaw again, stroking your thumb along his cheekbone.
âI donât know what to say,â you manage after a moment.
He chuckles and kisses the end of your nose. âWhich did you like best?â
âAll of them.â
âHmmâŠIâll remember that.â
Sighing heavily, he closes his eyes and rubs his face slowly against your palm, occasionally turning to drag his lips across the skin.
You lie there just watching him â your husband â and you feel a pull in your chest that makes you want to bury yourself against him and not move for the rest of your life. Youâve never felt more secure, more safe or more loved â in a way that you never thought you would.
âIs this how you loved Tess?â
The words are out before you can think on the wisdom of them and you feel him still slightly under your hand. The contended smile slips fractionally from his lips, and his eyes open just a little, as though heâs not sure heâs heard you right.
âSorry,â you say immediately. âI shouldnât have asked, IâŠâ
âNo, it ainâtâŠâ he shifts slightly and you drop your hand back to the bed. âIt ainât wrong to ask darlinâ, itâs justâŠâ he takes a breath. âIt was different.â
âDifferent?â
âWasnât the same man when I married Tess as I am now. I loved her dearly, but back then, I had no idea what it would be like to love someone like that and then lose âem. Makinâ love with you like thisâŠI do know and thatâŠthat just makes it different.â
âI understand,â you nod.
âNo, you donât, and I donât expect you to,â he says kindly. âJust want you to know thatâŠitâs different. And if youâre askinâ me if I was thinkinâ âbout her whilst I was inside youâŠâ
âOh, no,â you say hurriedly, feeling heat crawl into your face. âNo, I wasnât thinking about that. I would neverâŠâ
âItâs alright.â He cups your face with his hand. âThe answer is no. I wasnât thinkinâ âbout her or makinâ any comparison or anythinâ like that. I was just enjoyinâ you.â
You feel the flush spread and he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.
âLook at my wife, all embarrassed at the thought that her husband might enjoy beinâ in bed with her.â
âIâm not embarrassed.â
âYes, you are.â
âIâm not!â You turn your back mockingly on him and he laughs and immediately pulls you back against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck. âBut I suppose if youâre going to continue to enjoy me, perhaps we should speak about what might happen.â
âDarlinâ, I donât wanna talk about the damn Reverend or the trial or âbout anythinâ like that right now,â he mumbles. âI gotta good feelinâ about that lawyer of yours. He seems to know what heâs talkinâ âbout and I also reckon you did a good job of puttinâ the fear of the Lord into Doc Cooper, so we donât know yetâŠâ
âIâm not talking about that. Iâm talking about theâŠwell, the consequences of a husband and wife, freelyâŠâ You feel your face burn again. âI have no idea if IâmâŠcapableâŠandâŠâ
âCapable of what?â he asks, nuzzling into you again. âDrivinâ your husband crazy?â
âNo, capable of conceiving.â
He stills again, although this time you feel the difference in him. The stilling isnât gentle or fleeting, rather itâs immediate and hard, and even though your bodies are still warm from one another, you feel a cold sensation travel between you.
âConceivinâ?â
The word comes out quietly and you turn over again to face him.
âYes. Iâm thirty-four, thirty-five this Fall, but that doesnât meanâŠâ
You break off as you take in the look on his face. Itâs not confusion or concern or even anger â itâs pure horror.
âJoel?â
He opens his mouth and closes it again, then pulls hurriedly away from you, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting hunched forwards, his entire body seeming to sag under the weight of the words youâve just spoken. Suddenly, you feel naked in more ways than one, and you take hold of the throw at the foot of the bed and pull it over yourself.
âDid I say something wrong?â
âNo. But thatâŠit ainâtâŠâ he lets out a long breath. âI canâtâŠcanât give you that â a child. I canât.â
You frown. âButâŠyou have Sarah and Tess wasâŠâ He rises suddenly, the action startling you, and starts reaching for his discarded clothes. âJoel?â
Once fully redressed, he turns back around to face you, his face drawn in a way that you havenât seen in a long time.
âDarlinâ, IâŠâ
The sound of wagon wheels and the high whinny of an approaching horse interrupts whatever he was about to say, and he moves over to the window, pulls back the curtains and looks outside.
âItâs Doc Cooper.â
A mixture of panic and anticipation rushes through you. No-one on the Miller ranch is ill any longer, so there can be only one reason for such a visit.
âThe town council must have decided what theyâre going to do,â you say, scrambling off the bed and picking up your garments. âJoel, my dressâŠâ
âStay here,â he says, crossing the room to the door.
âNo, waitâŠâ
âI said, stay here. I can handle this darlinâ. Whatever heâs got to say itâs gonna be about me, so I oughta be the one to hear it. You stay here, listen from the window.â
âBut Joel, you canâtâŠâ
âI ainât gonna do anythinâ to him, darlinâ, I promise. Ainât nothinâ in this world gonna make me do anythinâ that could keep me away from you longer than I already have been.â He crosses back towards you and kisses you gently. âPlease, just stay here.â
Then he moves to the bedroom door, opens it, and disappears down the hallway.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You become Mrs Miller in every way possible.
The driver, whoâs been whistling tunelessly for the better part of two miles, falls abruptly and respectfully silent. You hear the soft creak of the box as he climbs down, the small jingle of harness as he moves to the heads of the matched bays, and the way he very deliberately busies himself, with the same flawless, professional discretion heâs shown throughout the ride, with the buckles of the lead bay's bridle, in a position that places his back entirely to the carriage door.
Joel doesnât wait. He pushes the carriage door open and climbs down in a single fluid motion. Then he turns and reaches up for you, his hands closing around your waist, lifting you down out of the brougham with the careful, possessive thoroughness of a man whoâs been counting the miles for half an hour and is no longer prepared to count any further.
He sets you down on your feet in the yard, his hands never leaving your waist, as TomĂĄs appears from the barn, wiping the back of his neck with a flannel.
âGood to see you PatrĂłn,â he says with a grin.
âAnd you,â Joel nods. âSee to the driver, will you? He deserves some rest and a cold drink before he heads on back to town. Mrs Miller and I ainât to be disturbed.â
âConsider it done,â TomĂĄs replies, nodding at both of you in turn before moving over to the driver and extending his hand.
You donât wait to witness the outcome of the exchange. Joel's hand moves from your waist to the small of your back as he gently guides you towards the porch steps. His palm presses warm and possessive through the fabric of your dress, the heavy boned stays and the thin torn linen of the chemise beneath, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers against your spine. Glancing at him, you understand that heâs holding himself on a tighter rein in the last twenty feet between the brougham and the front door than heâs held himself in the entire journey before.
Pushing open the door, he guides you across the threshold before closing and locking it behind you, the key turning smoothly. The decisive click of the bolt sliding home echoes in the quiet hallway, and the late afternoon sun falls through the side window in long warm bars across the floorboards. You stand in the dim, cool entry hall with your back to him and donât turn around.
Behind you, you can feel the heavy heat of his body and the ragged drag of his breath at the back of your neck â the careful trembling restraint of a man whoâs been holding himself on that rein and is now about to drop it entirely.
âWe should go to bed,â he says calmly, his voice wavering slightly over the last word.
âYes,â you reply breathlessly. âWe should.â
But you donât move, and neither does he, his breath hot at the back of your neck. The tremor in his fingers has spread into a visible trembling that you can feel through the warm pressure of his palm at the small of your back and the heat in your stomach, which has been simmering patiently, gives a patient, answering pulse.
You draw in a careful breath and finally turn around.
His eyes are inches from yours, and theyâre not lazy or crooked or careful at all. The man looking down at you is a man exhausted by restraint. And yet, you can see heâs still trying â can see the clenching muscle at the hinge of his jaw beneath his beard, the ragged restraint of his breath, the visible trembling of the hand thatâs left the small of your back and is now hovering, uncertain, between you, as though he doesnât entirely trust himself to lay it back against you.
âJoel?â Reaching out, you place one hand gently on his chest and his entire body reverberates under it.
"Darlinâ, please. If I touch you in this hallway, I ainât gonna make it to our bed and I ainât gonna take you for the first time on these damn floorboards. So, let me walk you to our room.â
You look up at him, well aware that the careful side of you, which was entirely absent from the brougham, would take her husband's offered arm and walk with him in careful, dignified silence down the hall to the bedroom.
The spinster, of thirty-four years, would expect it.
You ignore her and, reaching up with both hands, find the top brass button at the high collar of your dress that he so carefully fastened back into place in the brougham not ten minutes ago, and work it loose, followed closely by the second and the third.
Joel's eyes follow your fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"DarlinââŠâ
You undo the fourth button, and the dress falls open by half an inch revealing the scarlet flush again on the bare line of your collarbone. You turn slowly, your back to him, and begin to walk down the hallway, your fingers continuing to work the buttons free as you go.
You feel him follow, his hand catching your elbow after a few paces, and he turns you, his mouth on yours before you can draw the next breath.
The kiss is not slow or careful, rather itâs the kiss of a man whose restraint has cracked clean down the middle and his mouth opens against yours with a low, rough sound in the back of his throat thatâs almost a growl. His tongue slides against yours with a demanding heat that takes the breath out of your chest, and his hands leaves your elbow and your waist, gather up the entire length of your dress and hold you hard against him.
You let the small brass buttons go, your hands flying up of their own accord and fisting in his shirt at the muscle of his shoulders as you kiss him back with a hunger you havenât known you possess, the heat in your stomach now drawing tight in a single drowning heartbeat.
He walks you into the wall, your back hitting it hard, but with too little force to cause any damage. His fingers pull the folds of your dress higher, and you feel the cool air settle against the bare skin of your stocking-clad ankles, then your calves, then your knees.
"JoelâŠyou saidâŠ"
"I know what I said."
His hand reaches the soft tender crease at the top of your thigh again, the pads of his fingers tracing the slick heat of you beneath the gathered fabric, the slow, patient pressure of his thumb settling once more against your clitoris. You let out a high, helpless sound against the rough scratch of his beard as his lips dance over the skin of your throat.
He stops, pulls back and presses his forehead hard against yours, and you feel the long, ragged shudder that runs the entire length of his body as he lets out a low, rough broken sound against your mouth.
"DarlinââŠIâm tryinâ to get us to bed. Iâll get us there, I swear I willâŠâ
"I know,â you pant.
"Help me."
You exhale against his mouth and press your hand flat against the heavy thud of his heart beneath his chest feeling the ragged drag of his breath and the visible trembling of every line of his body beneath your palm.
You understand that he refused you in the brougham not out of any lack of want but out of the deepest possible declaration of intent, the declaration is costing him every shred of restraint he has left, and heâs asking you, now, to help him hold the last of it.
Drawing his hand carefully out from beneath the gathered layers of your dress, you lace your fingers through his. Then you turn, and start walking once more towards the bedroom, pulling him gently after you.
He follows closely with his hand tight in yours and his beard scraping warm and slow against curve of your shoulder where the dress has fallen open from the loosened buttons. His other hand fists in the fabric at the small of your back to keep you pulled against him and you make it another three steps before he stops, swings you round to face him and kisses you again.
You slide your hand from his and work the next brass buttons of your dress loose against his chest.
Then the next and the next.
The dress falls open from the small notch at the base of your throat all the way down to the high boned edge of the stays, and the scarlet flush is now blooming all the way down across the soft unstructured curve of your breast above the boned edge. The torn chemise has given up the fight of staying tucked beneath the stays and now hangs loose and disordered around the climbing heat of your skin.
He draws back from your mouth just far enough to look down at the bloom of you in the warm gold light. âDarlinââŠâ
"Yes?â
"Take off the dress.â
"Joel, the bedroom isâŠ"
"You ainât makinâ it to the bedroom in this dress, darlinâ âcause I wonât let you. So, take it off here, now.â
The scarlet flush blooms warmer across the soft swell of your bare collarbone as you raise your arms, allowing him to draw the dress up over your head with a patient, possessive thoroughness. He catches it in his hand, folds it once and lays it neatly on the floor at your feet, then he reaches up behind your head and gently draws the pins from your hair, teasing it with his fingers until it loosens from its knot.
A smile finally pulls at the corner of his mouth. "There, darlinâ, thatâs better."
You stand in your heavy boned stays and your loosened torn chemise and your layered cotton petticoat and your stocking-clad legs with your hair falling around the scarlet bloom of your bare shoulders and let your husband admire you.
His eyes travel slowly from your hair to your collarbone to the swell of your skin above the stays to the chemise to the petticoat to the line of your white stocking-clad ankles and he draws in a shaky breath.
âWe need to keep movinâ.â
You laugh and it comes out small, breathless and slightly hysterical, and he laughs too, low and rough and entirely undone. Catching your hand in his, he turns and starts to walk backwards, taking you with him, growing closer and closer to the bedroom door.
You make it there, then he turns you against the wall outside, his mouth dropping to your bare collarbone above the stays. His fingers find the heavy laces at the back, and you understand with a small, dizzy heartbeat that the stays arenât going to make it to the bedroom either.
He works the knot at the small of your back, his fingers not entirely steady. The knot resists and you hear the low frustrated breath through his teeth. Reaching back over your shoulder, his hand closes around your wrist and together you work the knot loose. The first lace gives, then the second, then a third, and a fourth, the heavy boned structure loosens against your ribs, and you draw in your first deep breath of the afternoon.
He draws the stays away from your body and lays them, with the same careful, reverent precision he gave your dress, on the floor outside the door.
The torn chemise falls soft and loose against the bare skin of your ribs, your unbound breasts and your waist, and the small dark peaks that he drew so thoroughly tight in the brougham are entirely visible through fabric, his eyes finding and focusing on them with a heated intent that makes your knees tremble.
He doesnât speak as he raises his hand, his thumb tracing one, very slowly, through the torn linen, the heat in your stomach draws tight again, and you sag back against the wall behind you with a whimper.
"Joel⊠the bedroomâŠpleaseâŠ"
He gathers you up, one arm going behind your knees, the other behind your shoulders, and lifts you off your feet against the heavy, hot length of his body. You wind your arms around his neck and press your face into the warm, slick hollow of his throat as he kicks the door open with his boot and carries you across the threshold.
The bedroom is cool and dim, the curtains still drawn from the morning, the room lying in a soft amber half-light, the late afternoon glow filtering through the gaps in narrow gold seams across the floorboards and the foot of the bed.
He lays you down on it, the sheets cool against the heat of your skin through the chemise. Your loosened hair spills across the pillow in a wave and he stands beside the bed for a long moment looking down at you, his hands at his sides, the ragged drag of his breath visible in the heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt, the tremor in his hands at his sides now entirely visible.
"Darlinâ IâŠI need a moment.â
You raise yourself up onto your elbows, the chemise slipping down off the curve of one of your shoulders, one nipple becoming visible through the loose, disordered linen, and Joel's eyes squeeze briefly shut at the sight of it.
"JoelâŠyouâve seen me before, that nightâŠâ
âNot like this,â he says, his voice hoarse. âNot in this light. I havenâtâŠnot like this.â
"Take your shirt off, my love," you encourage him, your voice lower and richer than you think youâve ever heard it before.
His fingers go to the buttons at the front of the shirt and work them free. The trembling makes the work clumsy, the third button resists, and he makes a frustrated sound through his teeth and simply tears the rest of the row open with one hard, sharp pull. Buttons scatter across the floorboards, but he doesnât look at them.
He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls to the floor in a heap behind him, the soft light of the dim bedroom falling across the plane of his bare chest, the rise and fall of his ribs, the dark scattered hair at his sternum and the pale scars from a life lived hard.
His hands go to the buckle of his belt, working it free, followed by the row of buttons at the front of his trousers. They fall to the floor around his boots, which he toes off, and he steps out of them, now naked before your eyes.
You draw in a small breath as the heat in your stomach draws tight, your eyes falling to the thick, heavy, hardness between his legs. Youâve never seen one before, other than in pictures in a medical book at the mercantile, and no drawing could have prepared you for this.
Sitting up slowly, you reach for him with both hands, and he comes to you, his weight pressing the mattress down beside you with a heavy creak, his hands settling at the loose, disordered chemise.
"Take this off, darlinâ,â he instructs softly and you raise your arms again, allowing him to draw the torn linen up over your breasts, over your collarbone, over the loose waves of your hair, whereupon he tosses it carelessly on the floor.
The layered cotton petticoat follows. He finds the tape at the waist, works it loose with fingers that no longer tremble but move instead with a hot, inexorable focus, and draws the petticoat slowly down the bare length of your hips and your thighs and your stocking-clad knees and your calves and over your boots. Then he sets the petticoat aside on the floor and sits back on his heels at the foot of the bed.
Youâre bare beneath him now save for the boots and the white silk stockings held in place by the ribbon garters tied above your knees. He doesnât speak as he bends his head and works the laces of your boots, one at a time, his fingers moving with a possessive thoroughness. The boots come off one after the other and drop quietly to the floor beside the bed. Then he works the ribbon garters at your knees, rolls the white silk stockings slowly down the length of your calves and over your ankles before drawing them off your bare feet and setting them aside.
He looks at you now, his eyes traveling the length of you with a rolling, devastated reverence. âLook at you."
"Joel, please,â you beg. âI canât wait.â
His eyes return to yours, a smile curving his lips again. "I know, darlinâ. Iâve made you wait too long and Iâm gonna fix that now.â
He comes up the length of the bed, his bare body settling along yours, his chest pressing against your breasts, nipples dragging against the dark scattered hair of his chest. The thick, hard length of him settles against the slick, bare heat between your thighs without yet pressing in, and you let out a long, broken, shaking sound.
His hand comes up, thumb tracing your cheekbone, eyes locked on yours. âDonât be scared, darlinâ. Iâm gonna be careful with you, I promise.â
"JoelâŠ"
"I gotta be careful, darlinâ. Itâs your first time."
"Please,â you whimper, your hips involuntarily sliding against his. âI donât need you to be careful.â
âYes darlinâ, you do. I gotta be careful with you this first time and then, once youâre warmed up to me, we can do things differently.â He drops a soft kiss on the end of your nose. âDo you trust me?â
âI trust you,â you whisper.
He presses his forehead against yours, the visible trembling of his body returning in a long, ragged shudder along the muscle of his back where your hands have wound. The ragged drag of his breath comes hot and uneven against your mouth, and you feel the slow, careful press of him slide once along the slick bare heat of you without entering, the patient drag of him learning the shape of what heâs about to do.
âFeels like youâre ready for me.â
âI am, please, I am.â
"I love you, darlinâ," he says gently.
"I love you too,â you reply, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
"Iâm gonna love you and protect you for the rest of my life, darlinâ. Now take a breath and hold on to me."
You inhale sharply and he presses in slowly, so slowly, to the slick, stretched heat of you, an inch at a time, filling you in the amber light of the bedroom while his hand cradles the side of your face and his thumb strokes slow against the curve of your cheekbone. Thereâs a small pain partway in, a bright thin sting that makes you whimper, and your fingers tighten on his shoulders, and he stills instantly.
"Darlinâ, if Iâm hurtinâ youâŠ"
"Youâre not, I promise. Itâs only... only new. Please, my love, donât stop."
He keeps going, slow and patient, the sting easing into a deep, full, astonishing stretch as he settles the last of the way into you, the hot length of him coming to rest fully inside you. His hips press flush against the inside of your bare thighs, and the heavy thud of his heart drums against yours through the bare press of his chest. He doesnât move. He holds himself perfectly, trembling still, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your mouth, his eyes burning down into yours from inches away.
The bedroom is utterly silent.
You can hear the slow tick of the clock and the distant sound of cattle outside the curtained window, the ragged drag of his breath against your mouth and the ragged drag of yours against his.
You feel the heavy press of him at the very heart of you, fuller and deeper than youâve imagined a man can reach inside a woman, and the realisation settles through every limb at once that the spinster in you is, in this single, suspended moment, being entirely and finally replaced by something else, by the woman who will lie in this bed for the rest of her life beside the man who loves her.
"You feelâŠso goodâŠâ he murmurs. âSo good darlinâ. So warm and wetâŠâ
The heat in your stomach answers the heavy hot press of him with a slow, patient pulse, and you shift experimentally beneath him, making the smallest movement of your hips against his, and the hot rolling wave of sensation that subsequently travels the length of your spine causes you to let out a moan against his mouth. His eyes squeeze shut and his hand at the side of your face tighten.
"Donât move, darlinâ, not yet. JustâŠjust give me a moment."
"I canât, Joel. Please, I need to feel it allâŠâ
The careful patient husband whoâs been promising you all afternoon that heâll be careful makes one last valiant attempt to hold the line and loses.
âYouâll feel it darlinâ,â he promises shakily. âYouâll feel all of it â every damn inch.â
The first slow withdrawal and the slow, heavy press back in take your breath away entirely. You arch against the bed, your hands gripping his shoulders, and a broken sound escapes your throat which he answers with a low, rough sound of his own against the side of your neck.
He finds a rhythm, slow at first with a heavy careful roll of his hips into yours, the broad heat of him filling you and withdrawing and filling you again, slowly, carefully learning how your body answers his. He braces himself on his forearms on either side of your head, his chest moving slick and warm against your breasts, his beard scraping slow against the curve of your jaw with every slow, heavy roll.
The rhythm builds and the heat in your stomach draws tight at the heavy claim of him with a speed that startles you. The flush blooms warmer across your collarbone and your hands slide down his shoulders to the broad line of his back, your fingertips finding the shifting muscle beneath the slick skin, your heels pressing into the back of his thighs to pull him deeper.
Youâve never felt like this before.
"JoelâŠmore, pleaseâŠmoreâŠâ
He makes a rough, undone sound against your mouth, and the careful roll of his hips deepens, becoming harder. The bed beneath you begins to creak softly with the rhythm, the headboard rocking, just perceptibly, against the wall behind it. His hand at the side of your face slides down along your throat and your collarbone and settles at the curve of your breast, his thumb finding the peak that his mouth so thoroughly suckled in the brougham, and the pressure of his thumb against it sends fresh hot sparks down to feed the slow, tightening boil low in your stomach.
"JoelâŠIâm... already, my love, I can feel..."
"I know, darlinâ."
"How can I be... already... how�"
"Youâve been waitinâ, so long, darlinâ, we both have.â
The slow, careful patient man is nowhere now. What moves above you is something hotter and more focused, the heavy claim of a husband whoâs finally been given the run of his own house, and the heat in your stomach draws to a crescendo.
"JoelâŠ"
"Come apart for me,â he pants, âcome apart for me in our bed."
"JoelâŠ"
"Look at me.â
You look, his eyes burning, as the heavy roll of his hips doesnât falter. His hand slides back down your body, in between where youâre joined, and once more finds your quivering clitoris, circling against it in counter-rhythm to the heavy press of him deep inside you, and you realise youâre going to break as a rolling wave gathers itself in every limb.
"JoelâŠâ you gasp. âJoel, IâmâŠâ
âYes, let go for me darlinâ, let go. Scream my name.â
"JoelâŠâ
âYesâŠâ
âJoelâŠ!â
The wave breaks and you arch up against him with a high-pitched cry that fills the bedroom and doesnât need to be muffled. Your fingers grip tightly to the slick skin and the muscle of his back, your heels dig into the back of his thighs, and your body clenches helplessly around the hot full length of him deep inside you. The wave rolls through you and keeps rolling, and the heat of him, deep inside you, turns every wave of it incandescent, and you hear him swear low and rough and absolutely undone against your throat.
"OhâŠdarlinââŠmineâŠmy girl, my sweet girlâŠ! I love youâŠIâm gonna give you everythinââŠ!â
His rhythm shatters, the roll of his hips becoming something harder, faster and entirely unrestrained. The bed creaks harder beneath you, the headboard knocking harder against the wall, and his hand leaves your slickness and slides up to the curve of your hip, pulling you open wider and gripping you there with a force that will leave fingerprint bruises by morning that youâll carry like a benediction.
He drives deep and hard, pressing so tightly against you that you can barely draw a breath. Then a long, ragged shudder runs through his entire body, and you feel the hot pulse of his seed deep inside you, deep, full and astonishingly intimate. The broken sound he makes against the curve of your throat is nothing youâve ever heard out of any man and something that youâll carry in your bones for the rest of your life.
For a long, suspended, trembling moment he holds there, his hand still locked at the curve of your hip, his chest heaving against your breasts, the heavy drum of his heart beating hard and ragged against your sternum. His forehead drops to the hollow of your throat, his beard scraping wet and warm against the slick skin of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your collarbone.
The headboard stops knocking against the wall.
The bed stops creaking.
The light pools warm and unchanged across the floorboards and the foot of the bed, and the cattle continue to low outside, entirely unconcerned with whatâs just unfolded.
Joel doesnât move for a long time.
His weight presses you down into the warm tangled linen, his hand at your hip slowly relaxing, his breath gradually evening out and the heavy drum of his heart gradually slowing. Eventually he raises his head, eyes soft now, the heavy claim of a moment ago entirely drowned in the warm aftermath.
âThat wasâŠyou were so good, darlinâ, so goddamn goodâŠâ
You canât, in that moment, form a word. Every breath has been torn from your body by the very act of loving and being loved.
His hand comes up to trace your cheekbone with a careful tenderness that makes your eyes sting again. Then he brushes a loosened strand of hair back from the slick skin at your temple, bends his head and presses a long, slow, reverent kiss against the corner of your mouth.
"My wife."
"YesâŠ"
"Mrs Miller."
"Mr Miller," you echo, your voice catching slightly over the word as you regain your breath.
"Did you enjoy that?" he asks, nuzzling the tip of your nose with his own.
You laugh, small and watery, feeling absolutely, profoundly, gloriously undone in his arms. âYesâŠyes I enjoyed it very much.â
âIâm glad,â he murmurs, kissing you again, ââcause we got forty-eight hours before I need to go back to jail.â Slowly, he withdraws from you, the resulting coolness making you gasp. Then he rolls over onto his back, his arm sliding beneath your shoulders, and he gathers you against the warmth of his chest. âAnd once ainât gonna be enough for me darlinâ.
âMe neither,â you reply.
âYou were too damn good. Iâm gonna need to love you again before sundown and beyond. LordâŠâ he squeezes you gently. âNever thought Iâd get to feel this way ever again.â
You gently kiss the top of his chest, your hand sliding over the sweat of his stomach, fingers gently stroking the skin there before slowly slipping lower into the hair under his naval.
âEasy darlinâ,â he murmurs against your hair. âYou gotta give a man a minute to recover from an encounter like that.â
âTick tock,â you giggle, as his free hand moves to your jaw and pulls you slightly upwards so that his mouth can meet yours again.
The amber light of the bedroom holds the two of you in the bed, and you can honestly and truly say that the careful spinster of thirty-four years is finally, and entirely, gone.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You and Joel head home.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
The paperwork is signed in Sheriff Hayes's office that afternoon.
James handles the entire transaction with the unhurried efficiency of a man arranging a routine carriage hire, the bond already drafted in his elegant copperplate hand, the surety figure entered, a sum so large that Hayes blinks twice at the page, the personal guarantee of the attorney of record signed and witnessed.
Hayes reads the document carefully, scratches the back of his neck, and signs his own name beneath the lawyer's.
"You need to back here by sundown on Monday, Joel," he says gruffly, handing over the previously seized gunbelt. "Don't make me come out to the ranch."
"You won't need to."
"And don't go anywhere near Reverend Sawyer neither."
"Wasn't plannin' on it,â Joel replies, tipping a nod to Hayes whilst you watch, your heart in your mouth for a myriad of different reasons.
From the moment he agreed to the bond, Joelâs hand hasnât left your body, moving from your hand to your back, to your hip, settling warm and sure, even when he bends to sign his own name on the paper, and you canât help but feel the shift in the air between you.
James steps out onto the boardwalk and gives quiet instructions to his driver, before turning to face you both.
"My driver shall take you home to the ranch and then return here. I will be staying at this townâs fine hostelry for the next two nights and will be entirely occupied with the further preparation of the case. I shall not, I assure you, have the slightest occasion to disturb the privacy of your household. Should you require me, please send a rider and I will attend you forthwith.â
He smiles at both of you in turn.
âI shall expect you both back here at the Sheriff's office on Monday evening, not a minute later. Now â go home. The case will keep."
He bows, then walks off down the boardwalk in the direction of the Bluebonnet Hotel before either of you can consider uttering another word.
Joel helps you into the brougham then climbs up after you and pulls the small door shut with a soft click. You sit on the soft leather bench with him beside you. Not across from you, on the opposite bench where James had ridden that morning, but beside you. His shoulder presses warmly against yours through the fabric of your dress and the heavy length of his thigh runs the full length of yours, separated only by the layers of your skirt and his trousers. The whole right side of your body is suddenly, intensely aware of the whole left side of his.
Neither of you speak as the brougham rolls out of town, but you notice the townspeople stop and stare, and see their faces register, one after another, the fact that Joel, whoâs been in a cell for over a week, is now riding home in a lawyer's brougham with his wife beside him.
Eventually, the town falls behind, and the rolling country opens up. The grasses ripple in the hot afternoon wind, a pair of hawks circle lazily over the distant hills, and the horses settle into a steady, smooth trot, the inside of the brougham filling with the warm, leather-scented heat of the afternoon.
Joel's hand settles, very slowly, on top of yours where it lies on the bench between you, his thumb stroking across the back of your knuckles and you canât help but feel a small, electric shock travel up the entire length of your arm and settle, hot and trembling, somewhere just below your collarbone.
You draw in a small, careful breath and deliberately donât look at him as the pad of his thumb traces a slow, deliberate path across the back of your bare hand, from the second knuckle to the small bone of your wrist, and back again. The carriage rocks gently beneath you and you can feel the heat of his palm against the back of your hand, the slight tremor in his fingers and the careful, restrained pressure of a man holding himself on a very tight rein.
You stare resolutely out the small front window, feeling the slow climbing flush spreading up the side of your throat, the heat gathering in your cheeks and the strange hot fluttering thing low in your stomach that youâve not felt since he was arrested. The last time you felt it, you had been lying in bed in the master bedroom with Joel above you, his mouth and fingers doing slow, patient, devastating things between your thighs that, until that moment, you hadnât in your entire life imagined a man might do.
It was the most intimate thing youâve ever experienced and, until now, itâs the last time he properly touched you.
Not, in thirty-four years, have you had occasion to discover that your own mind contains the capacity for such persistent and specific replay of a certain event. But youâve discovered that you can summon the memory of that night at will and that it can buckle your knees without warning.
And now, youâre unsure that you can survive the time it will take to get back to the ranch with his hand on yours like this.
"Joel," you say, your voice coming out thinner than you intend.
"Yes?â
âIâŠâ
"Come here," he says, before you can finish your thought.
His hand slides up the length of your bare forearm, beneath the loose pushed-back cuff of your sleeve, his palm closing warm around the bend of your elbow. He draws you, gently and inexorably, off the bench beside him and into his lap, your thighs bracketing his, and the small, startled sound that escapes your throat is swallowed against the rough scratch of his beard at the corner of your mouth as he catches your face between his hands and kisses you.
Your full weight presses against the heavy, hot length of his thighs beneath you, your skirts crumpling around your shins, your hand bracing against the plane of his chest beneath his shirt. The brougham rocks beneath you, the bench creaks and you hear a faint, eloquent, entirely tactful cough from the driver's box outside,
"The roadâs a touch rougher through the bottom mile coming up, sir. I'll keep the bays at a walk to spare the carriage."
"Much obliged," Joel replies as the horses slow and the carriage rocks into a smoother, slower rhythm. The dim leather-scented heat closes in around the two of you, and Joel's eyes burn down into yours, a smile pulling up at the corner of his mouth. "Iâve been thinkinâ âbout that night in our bed for the entirety of the time Iâve been away from you, darlinâ."
The slow climbing flush thatâs been gathering up the side of your throat goes all the way to scarlet in a single beat. You close your eyes and feel his thumb stroke slowly along the bone of your jaw, his fingers burying in the heavy coil of your pinned hair at the nape of your neck, his other hand settling possessively at the curve of your hip on top of your skirts.
"Joel," you whisper. "Iâve beenâŠIâve been thinking about it too."
The low rough sound he makes in the back of his throat isnât quite a groan and his hand tightens at your hip as his mouth drops to the soft skin beneath your ear. The rough scratch of his beard moves warm and slow against your throat, and you canât help but whimper.
"Look at me, darlinâ.â
You open your eyes and find his, soft and burning all at once. His hand leaves your hip and travels, with infinite slow deliberation, up the high boned front of your dress, his fingers finding the topmost of the small brass buttons at your high collar and working it loose.
You watch, transfixed, as the first button gives and then the second, the third and the fourth. The neckline of your dress falls open by perhaps an inch, exposing the chemise beneath and he bends his head, his mouth touching the small notch at the base of your throat and dragging across the soft skin.
The hand at the back of your neck catches you as you sag against him, holding your head tilted exactly the way he wants it, his palm settling at the small of your back to anchor you against his chest, whilst his fingers continue the patient work of the small brass buttons.
The fifth gives, then the sixth and the seventh. The dress falls open from your throat to the high boned edge of your stays beneath, and the slow climbing flush spreads now to the bare skin of your chest, blooming hot and visible across the pale curve of your collarbone in the dim light.
He murmurs your name against the base of your throat, and it takes everything in you not to start weeping.
"Look at you, dressed so proper for me today. Tell me what youâve been thinkinâ âbout, darlinâ."
You draw in a small, shaky breath. This is not what you considered might happen when you stepped into the brougham. You expected Joel to take you home and, yes, take you to bed. But this is something else entirely, something that your head knows you should be resisting but your body is demanding, and your mouth speaks the words before you can stop yourself.
"Iâve been thinking about your hands, Joel, andâŠand your mouth..."
"Where?â he murmurs softly.
"YouâŠyou know where."
"Tell me anyway, darlinâ. I wanna hear you say it."
You close your eyes and feel the patient, anchoring weight of his hand at the small of your back, the scratch of his beard pressing warm against the side of your throat, and lose all sense of propriety.
"Between my thighs, Joel."
The low rough sound he makes is definitely a groan this time.
"Between my thighs, where I wasâŠwhere I needed you," you pant. "YouâŠyou did things that Iâd heard about but never imaginedâŠand Iâve been thinking about it, lying alone in our bed and I want to feel you there again. I needâŠâ
You stop, the careful side of you making one last attempt to clap a hand over your mouth before you can finish the sentence, but you ignore her.
"I need you there again."
Joelâs eyes squeeze shut, his hand at the small of your back fisting in the layered fabric of your skirts, and a long, ragged shudder runs the entire length of his body beneath you. He presses his forehead hard against the curve of your bare shoulder where the dress has fallen open, his ragged breath coming hot and uneven against your skin.
"God woman, you drive me crazy.â
"Iâm sorry, I shouldnâtâŠâ
"Donât be sorry, darlinâ,â he says, raising his head. âDonât be sorry for any of it. Most natural thing in the world for a man to want his wife and her to need him in return.â
His eyes are entirely undone now, and you have no time to say anything further because his mouth finds yours, hot and open and his tongue slides against yours with a slow, demanding heat that takes the breath out of your chest. His hand leaves the small of your back and travels up the line of your ribs through the thin linen of the exposed chemise. His palm settles against the high boned edge of your stays, his thumb tracing the upper curve of the structured fabric where it cups the soft, unstructured swell of your breast, and he finds the small ribbon at the front of the chemise that you tied that morning in a neat bow.
He draws the ribbon loose and the chemise falls open down the high front of your stays.
The cool air of the brougham touches the bare skin of your chest, the slow climbing scarlet flush that has spread across your collarbone and the warm, soft curves of your breasts pressed up by the structure of the stays into the loosened neckline of the chemise. Joel's eyes move slowly down, his smile tugging at the corners of his mouth again.
"Look at you, darlinâ."
"Joel, pleaseâŠ"
"Ssshh, let me look."
His hand traces the warm, soft swell of one of your breasts where it presses up above the boned edge of the stays. His thumb strokes slowly, across the soft skin just below the curve of your collarbone, and then lower, dipping into the loosened linen, finding the small dark peak thatâs drawn tight in the cool air.
You whimper once more as his mouth follows his thumb. He bends his head and his mouth drops, slow and patient, into the loosened linen of the chemise, his lips closing warm around the peak, making you arch against his chest.
Your hand flies up of its own accord and tangles in the hair at the back of his bent head, your other hand fisting in his shirt, and a long, high climbing sound escapes your throat that you have to bite back hard against the side of your tongue to keep from carrying out to the driver's box. The slow rolling boil low in your stomach, which has been simmering patiently, draws tight.
"JoelâŠ"
He doesnât respond.
âJoel, the driverâŠâ
When he raises his head, you can see his mouth is warm and slightly damp. He smiles and his thumb returns, very deliberately, to the peak his mouth has just abandoned, and the patient pressure of it sends a fresh small climbing sound out of your throat that you bite back even harder.
His mouth returns to the soft swell of your breast above the stays and his other hand, which has been anchored at the curve of your hip, begins to travel, slowly and deliberately, downward.
You feel his palm slide along the layered fabric of your skirts to the curve of your knee, feel his fingers gather a slow careful fold and draw it slowly upward.
The air settles against the bare skin of your stocking-clad ankle, then your calf, then your knee where the small ribbon garter holds the white silk in place. His fingers slide higher, beneath the gathered fold of the skirt, beneath the layered cotton petticoat, along the soft bare skin of the inside of your thigh above the stocking.
You clamp your lips together, desperately trying to stifle the sound you want to give him.
His mouth continues to move over your breast as his fingers travel higher along the bare skin of the inside of your thigh, slow and patient, and you understand in a single, dim heartbeat that he has no intention of stopping, and that you have no intention of asking him to.
Very slowly, his fingers trace the skin of the inside of your thigh above the small ribbon garter, the drag of them hungry and deliberate, the touch of a man whoâs spent a week lying in a cell remembering this skin and is now, finally, returning to it.
You feel his fingers reach the tender crease at the top of your thigh and pause. His mouth leaves your breast, and he raises his head to look at you, the pad of his thumb tracing a slow patient circle against the skin of your inner thigh as he waits.
You part your lips, a soft sigh escaping as you do so.
"JoelâŠyes."
"Yes what, darlinâ?"
Frustration rolls through you. "Donât make me say it."
"I wanna hear you say it,â he replies, voice low.
You close your eyes against his eyes and his smile. The woman you once were, would die of mortification at what comes out of your throat next. But sheâs not in the brougham. The woman who remembers that afternoon in the barn, and that night in bed is, and she speaks instead.
"Yes, Joel. PleaseâŠtouch me."
He groans this time, long and low, and his fingertips travel the last small distance up the skin of your inner thigh, the pads of two of them settling, very gently, against the slick heat of you beneath the gathered layers of your skirts, your petticoat and your chemise. He pauses there, pressing his forehead against the curve of your bare shoulder and lets out a long, slow ragged breath that you feel move through the entire length of his body beneath you. His fingers donât move for a long moment, and you understand that heâs just discovered exactly how ready for him you already are, and that the discovery has nearly undone him entirely.
"Darlinâ, youâre..."
"Yes, I know."
He draws in a breath, raises his head and meets your gaze, the smile gone, the expression on his face that of man whoâs not been entirely certain he would ever again be granted access to the slick heat between his wife's thighs, and whoâs now finding her ready for him before heâs even properly begun.
His fingers move, tracing you in a slow, careful exploration, learning all over again exactly what they learned on the night before his arrest and he finds the small bright knot of you.
You close your eyes as his thumb settles against it with the exact pressure youâve been replaying in your mind, and the rediscovery of it now beneath his actual touch is so much more devastating than the memory that you let out a small broken sound thatâs very nearly a sob.
"Look at me, darlinâ,â he demands, voice slightly hoarse.
Opening your eyes, you realise you canât entirely focus. The slow rolling boil low in your stomach has spread through every limb, the flush spreading across the bare skin of your chest above the loosened linen, and the pressure of his thumb between your thighs is drawing you tighter, tighter, tighter, with every slow circling pass.
âI want you to look at me when you come apart for me."
His thumb doesnât change its rhythm. The patient, circling pressure of it goes on, and the heavy fullness of one of his fingers slides carefully inside you. The slow rolling boil low in your stomach draws tight to the point that you know itâs going to break, and you hold his gaze as the carriage rocks gently beneath you and the driver keeps the horses at their courteous slow walk.
"Thatâs it darlinâ,â he says, sensing how close you are. âCome apart for me.â
The slow rolling boil flashes white. And in the same breath, with his thumb still circling you and his finger still pressed deep inside you, his other hand leaves the gathered layers of your skirt and flies up to the boned edge of the stays, hooking his fingers into the chemise and dragging it downwards.
The material tears free of the small ribbon and your breast spills out. His mouth is on you before youâve drawn the next breath, closing hot and open around the peak. You feel the rough, wet drag of his tongue against it, the slow scrape of his teeth, the deep patient pull of his suckling, and the slow rolling boil that has just flashed white at the pressure of his thumb goes incandescent.
You cry out.
Itâs not a small, bitten-back sound, not a sound you can muffle even if you think to try. It comes out of your throat high, broken and entirely unguarded, a sharp helpless sob of his name that fills the interior of the brougham and carries clear through the front window to the driver's box.
You feel the slow wave break and roll through you with the wet drag of his mouth still working at your peak and the pressure of his thumb still circling and the heavy fullness of his finger still pressed deep inside you. Your back arches hard against the plane of his chest and your hand fists so tightly in the hair at the back of his bent head that you know it must hurt.
Outside on the driver's box, you hear the sound of someone starting to whistle.
Itâs a tune you donât recognise, a tuneless, careful, loud, meandering melody designed entirely to fill the air between the driver's seat and the front window of the brougham, and to give the gentleman and the lady inside it the courtesy of pretending that the driver has heard nothing at all.
You sag against Joel's chest, the wave still rolling through you. His mouth remains on your peak, his wet tongue working it slowly, gentling now, the deep patient pull of his suckling easing into something slower and almost reverent, drawing the very last shuddering pulse of it out of you while you tremble in his lap.
When he finally raises his head, his mouth is damp and slightly swollen, his smile nowhere to be seen. Whatâs on his face now is something else â something hungrier. Something that hasnât yet, despite everything, been satisfied.
You draw in a small, shaky, drowning breath and realise you know exactly what you want.
"JoelâŠnow. Now, my love, please. I canât... I canât wait until we reach the house. I canât. Please, I canât.â
His eyes burn down into yours. The slow rolling boil in your stomach, which has just broken over you in incandescent white waves, is already drawing tight again at the wet sight of his mouth and the drag of his thumb still circling between your thighs.
"Joel, claim me hereâŠnow. I donât care about the driver or the dignity of anything. Joel, please."
His hand comes up and catches your face, his thumb beginning to trace slow against the flush of your cheekbone, and for one long, suspended heartbeat, you think heâs going to do it. You think heâs going to lift you, gather your skirts higher, work his trousers free and take you right there on the soft leather bench of Jamesâs hired brougham with the driver whistling tunelessly on the box outside.
But he doesnât.
His thumb stays on your cheekbone, the ragged drag of his breath comes hot and uneven against your mouth and, very slowly and deliberately, he shakes his head.
"No."
You stare at him.
"JoelâŠ"
"No, darlinâ.â
"PleaseâŠâ
His hand cradles the side of your face, his eyes burning with something quieter and deeper and so utterly serious that you feel the breath catch in your throat.
"Weâve waited so long for this, darlinâ. I ainât gonna take you for the first time in a carriage on a public road with a driver on the box. I ainât gonna do that to you."
"Joel, I donât care, I wantâŠ"
"I know what you want, darlinâ, believe me, I know. I want it too.â
He presses his forehead against yours, his beard scraping warm and gentle against your cheek.
âBut thereâs a bed at home â our bed â and I ainât had the privilege of lovinâ you in it, not properly. Not the way a husband loves his wife. And when I take you for the first time, I want you to be lyinâ underneath me in that bed, skin on skin, with your legs wrapped around my waist and my lips on your body and your mouth screaminâ my name. Not like this, in a cramped carriage where I canât get to see you or touch you the way I want to.â
You stare at him and the slow rolling boil low in your stomach eases very slowly into something different. Something slower and warmer and entirely undefended. The hot, helpless ache of his refusal sits side by side in your chest with the slow rising understanding that the refusal isnât a refusal at all. Itâs the deepest possible declaration of intent.
"JoelâŠâ your voice shakes slightly. "Promise me you wonât stop, not entirely. Iâll go mad, Joel, I will."
The smile pulls, finally, back to the corner of his mouth and the pressure of his thumb, which has stilled between your thighs, resumes its slow, careful circling. The slow rolling boil low in your stomach gives a patient answering pulse.
"No, darlinâ, I wonât stop. But I ainât gonna claim you until weâre in bed. Now, let me put you back together."
His fingers are patient and methodical. He draws the torn linen of the chemise carefully back up over the small, wet, flushed peak of your bare breast and the soft unstructured swell of it, tucking the loosened fabric back beneath the boned edge of the stays. The small ribbon at the front of the chemise is beyond saving, the bow you tied that morning entirely torn loose, and he simply tucks the loose ends down into the boned edge and lets it lie.
He smooths the loosened linen back into its proper modest position and works the small brass buttons of your dress back through their loops one at a time, from the stays back up to the small notch at the base of your throat, his fingertips brushing the scarlet flush at your collarbone with each button. Then he tucks a loosened strand of hair back behind your ear, draws your skirt back down over your stocking-clad knees and sets you back on the bench beside him with the possessive thoroughness of a man arranging something precious.
The pressure of his thumb on the back of your hand on the bench between you resumes its slow careful circling. The slow rolling boil low in your stomach, which has not in fact been entirely emptied by either the broken white incandescence of a few minutes ago or the slow warm refusal that followed it, simmers patiently on, and the brougham rocks smoothly on toward the rise that will bring you within sight of home.
Outside on the box, the driverâs tuneless whistling goes on.
You exhale and turn to glance at your husband. âNot long to go now.â
âNo,â he agrees, ânot long.â
âAnd you did say...." you hesitate, though you know not why because dignity and decorum have long since been lost to you, âyou did sayâŠscreaming your name, didnât youâŠ?â
He smiles again, his arm settling warm and possessive around your shoulders as the brougham rolls on through the long, gold Texas afternoon toward home.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: James Oliver lays out his strategy to Joel.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
James retires to your old room shortly after a very fine supper of roasted spring lamb, during which he charms Sarah with stories about a cat his elderly aunt kept in New Orleans that wore a small velvet collar and could open doors. He bows to you, thanks Maria warmly for the meal in his elegant Spanish, and retreats with the easy, unhurried tread of a man whoâs concluded his day's business to his complete satisfaction.
âPlease go home,â you tell Maria once everything has been cleared away and she nods gratefully, hanging her apron up by the door and heading outside to meet TomĂĄs. You wave them both away knowing that youâre more than capable of providing what the house, and your guest needs, moving forwards.
You donât retire for another three hours.
Instead, you sit at Joel's desk in the parlour with a single lamp burning low beside you, ostensibly reviewing all the papers, but in truth doing nothing more than staring at the brass fittings of the inkwell and replaying every word of Jamesâs surgical interrogation in your head.
The intimacies. The barn. The night before the arrest. The third option.
We resolve the matter at its source.
When you finally climb into bed, you lie there, staring at the ceiling, and think about the precise, infinitely complicated question of whether you wish to be consummated under the auspices of a bond posted by an attorney.
You donât know the answer.
You know that you love Joel with an intensity that makes your hands shake when you think about him too long. You know that the memory of his hands and mouth mapping the curves of your body before his arrest is a sense memory so vivid and so frequently revisited that you sometimes have to pause and draw breath because the heat of it suddenly overwhelms you. You know that had it not been for Samuelâs illness, and then your own, the question would no long be relevant, because the consummation would have long since been sealed.
You know that you want your husband in a way that completely shocks the spinster you once were, and that this want has only grown more urgent and more specific since the iron door of the Sheriff's office slammed shut behind him.
But to do it like this, with a lawyer's pencil hovering somewhere in the background and a bond filed in a Sheriff's office all so that you can swear on a Bible that your marriage is real as proof at a circuit trialâŠ
It makes something deep inside your chest curl up tight, like a fist.
You donât want the pressure, or the expectation. You want it to happen in a natural way â two people choosing, deciding â not because one might hang, or face a lifetime in prison, if it doesnât.
Youâre still thinking about it when the dawn light begins to creep through the curtains. Dragging yourself from your bed, you wash quickly then dress smartly in grey cotton with black piping at the cuffs and collar, your hair pinned in a tight coil at the nape of your neck. You look at yourself in the mirror for a long moment and decide you look exactly as you wish to look.
You look like a woman conducting the business of her family, not like a woman whoâs spent the night turning over the question of whether to sleep with her own husband under the strategic guidance of a lawyer she met yesterday.
After breakfast, and once TomĂĄs has collected Sarah, the drive to town is made in Jamesâs hired brougham. He sits across from you on the soft leather bench, dressed in a beautifully tailored dove-grey suit with a deep navy cravat, his hat resting on his knee and his notebook tucked under his arm. He doesnât speak for the first several miles, rather simply gazes out the small window at the rolling Texas landscape, his profile turned away from you, allowing you the dignity of your own composure.
"Mr Oliver," you say finally, as the outskirts of Sawyer's Creek come into view on the horizon.
"Yes?â
"Have you considered, sir, that my husband may not... may not be agreeable to the strategy you propose?"
He turns his head and looks at you, his eyes warm with a kind of dry, considered amusement.
"Mrs Miller," he says gently, "Iâve considered very little else since I drafted the bond paperwork last evening. I assume that this will form the substance of our conversation with your husband this morning. I donât propose to ambush him, you understand. I propose to lay the strategy before him exactly as I laid it before you, to answer his questions with the same frankness, and to give him the same opportunity to refuse that I gave you. He is my client, ma'am, not my pawn. I donât intend to move him about the board without his consent."
"Thank you."
"Youâre most welcome.â He looks back out the window. "I should add, however, that his likely initial response is one Iâve already privately predicted to myself, and have prepared for. He will not, I think, take the proposal well at first hearing. Men of his particular character very rarely do. We must allow him the room to be properly outraged before we allow him the room to be properly persuaded."
"I donât want to persuade him to anything he doesnât want, Mr Oliver"
"Of course not, I wouldnât dream of suggesting otherwise. I propose only to inform. The persuading, if there is any to be done, is entirely a matter between yourself and your husband. I shall absent myself at the appropriate moment."
The brougham rolls into the Street a few minutes later. The town is already at its mid-morning bustle, but you notice at once that the energy on the boardwalks has shifted in your absence. Heads turn, conversations stop and a pair of women outside the milliner's shop nudge each other and whisper behind their hands as the polished black carriage rolls past. The story of your encounter with Reverend Sawyer has, as you had hoped, become the only story in town.
The brougham comes to a stop outside the Sheriff's office. James steps down first, offers you his hand, and helps you to the dusty street. Then he tucks your hand into the crook of his arm and guides you up the wooden steps.
Sheriff Hayes looks up from his desk as the door opens, his eyes widening by perhaps a quarter of an inch when he registers the cut of Jamesâs suit and the easy, aristocratic poise of his entry.
"Mrs Miller,â he greets you, rising slowly. âSir."
"Sheriff Hayes," you say calmly. "This is Mr James Oliver of Oliver, Gerard, and Beaumont, attorneys at law of Galveston. Heâs agreed to represent my husband in the matter of the upcoming proceedings."
"Sheriff,â James extends his hand courteously. "Mrs Miller tells me you have been a model of professional courtesy throughout this most regrettable matter. I thank you for it, sir."
Hayes shakes the offered hand looking faintly stunned.
"Well, uhâŠJoel Miller's a good man, sir. I'll be glad to see him out of that cell, if you can manage it."
"We shall see what can be managed, Sheriff. For the moment, Mrs Miller and I require a private consultation with Mr Miller. Have you a room suitable for the purpose? The cell itself is, I understand from Mrs Miller's description, somewhat inhospitable to the careful review of legal documents."
Hayes hesitates for only a moment, then nods firmly. âYou can use my office here. I'll bring Joel through directly, but Iâll have to stand outside the door, you understand.â
âPlease.â Hayes gestures to his desk and James nods before sitting down into the recently vacated chair with you taking one opposite.
He sets his notebook precisely in the centre of the desk, aligns the pencil beside it, and folds his hands on top. He looks perfectly composed, perfectly patient, perfectly prepared to argue a complex matter of common-law marriage doctrine in a country sheriff's office without breaking a sweat.
You, on the other hand, canât seem to stop the butterflies from swirling in your stomach.
The door behind suddenly opens and Joel walks in, your breath catching when you see him.
Hayes has clearly taken some pains since your last visit. Joelâs been given the opportunity to wash, his hair damp and combed back roughly from his forehead, his beard trimmed back to how it looks normally. Heâs been allowed to change his clothes, and he somehow seems both larger and gaunter than when you last saw him through the iron bars, the hollows beneath his eyes more deeply shadowed.
His eyes find yours instantly and the relief that breaks across his face is so complete and so undisguised that it takes every shred of your composure not to leap up from the chair and throw yourself into his arms.
James rises smoothly to his feet and extends his hand as Hayes mutters something indecipherable and slips out of the office door.
"Mr Miller, sir. Iâm James Oliver, of Galveston. Iâve been retained as your counsel of record, and Iâve already had the considerable pleasure of an extensive consultation with your wife. I have the honour, sir, to inform you that you are now represented by, if you will forgive the immodesty, the finest trial attorney west of the Mississippi River and we shall have you free of this absurdity very soon.â
Joel looks at the offered hand, at the immaculate suit, then he reaches out and returns the handshake.
"Thank you, sir."
"The honour is entirely mine. Please, sit down.â
Joel sits down beside you, his eyes drifting over your face with an intensity thatâs almost physical and reaches for your hand, his warm fingers enveloping yours. âYou look better, darlinâ.â
"I am better," you reply as firmly as you can.
James clears his throat very politely.
"Mr Miller, with your indulgence, sir, I shall now lay before you, as concisely as possible, the substance of the case as I understand it, the prosecution's likely line of attack, the defensive strategy I propose, and the specific legal mechanisms by which I intend to effect that strategy. The matter is somewhat urgent, sir, as the judge will be arriving before the end of the month and certain preparatory actions must be taken without delay. I shall require your active consent to several proposals. May I proceed?"
"UhâŠsure,â Joel replies, glancing quickly at you and then back again.
For the next thirty-five minutes, James lays out the case with the same precise, surgical clarity he used with you the day before. He summarises the evidence on both sides and the political situation in town following your encounter with Reverend Sawyer on the boardwalk. He lays out the doctrine of defence of conjugal estate and the precedents along with the prosecution's likely counter arguments.
You watch Joel listen intently, shifting occasionally in the chair and nodding where it seems appropriate.
Then James arrives at the matter of consummation, and you watch the precise instant when he understands where the lawyer is going. You watch the small, tight muscle that jumps in his jaw and the deep flush that begins to climb very slowly up the back of his neck, just above the open collar of his shirt, and which creeps upward into the hollows beneath his ears.
James doesnât look at Joel while he speaks. He keeps his eyes fixed on his open notebook as he explains the legal doctrine and the prosecution's likely line of inquiry. He tells Joel that youâve been entirely forthright with him about the current state of the marital relations, that no judgment whatsoever attaches to that fact, and that the defence have three options for handling it, of which he favours the third.
He explains the legal mechanism of the consultation bond and that with appropriate surety and his personal guarantee, the Sheriff can temporarily release Joel into Jamesâs custody for purposes of trial preparation for a period of up to forty-eight hours. He explains that no witness is required to verify the specific use of those hours, only that the prisoner be returned at the appointed time. He explains that this will, in his professional judgment, render the prosecution's line of inquiry as to the legal status of the marriage entirely moot.
He sets down his pencil, closes his notebook and finally looks at Joel.
"Mr Miller, I have laid before you the strategy I believe most likely to secure your acquittal. I shall not pretend that it is not a strategy of considerable personal intrusion because it is and I do not propose it lightly. I propose it because, in my professional judgment, it is the cleanest and most decisive defence available to us, and because your wife has authorised me to lay it before you for your consideration. The decision, sir, is entirely yours."
Joel doesnât move, his eyes fixed on a small knot in the wood about six inches in front of him. The deep flush at the back of his neck has spread now, climbing into his cheeks above the beard, mottling the rugged tan of his face with patches of hot, embarrassed red.
He doesnât look at you, or the lawyer, though his hand remains firmly around yours.
"Mr Oliver," he says finally. "I appreciate the trouble you've gone to and what youâve said here today. But youâre sittinâ in my Sheriff's office tellinâ me that the way out of this cage is for me to take my wife to bed under a writ of paper."
"Mr Miller, IâŠ"
"I ainât finished, sir."
James closes his mouth.
"My wife," he says, very quietly, "has been my wife for almost six months now and sheâs the most decent person Iâve met in longer than I care to remember. And she has been kind enough to put up with a marriage to a man who hasnât done right by her in the way that... in the way that a husband should. I shouldâve bedded her that first night and I didnât. She knows why and she understands it.â
He squeezes your hand.
âBut that is between her and me. It ainât between her and me and the Sheriff and you and a circuit judge. It is between her and me, sir."
The last word comes out hard, almost a growl, and you see Jamesâs fingers tighten very slightly against the edge of his notebook.
You sit very still in your chair and donât breathe as you feel the hot, stinging pressure of tears rising behind your eyes, furiously, absolutely refusing to allow them to fall. You stare at the side of Joel's face, at the deep red flush across his cheekbones, and you understand with a sick, sinking lurch in your stomach that heâs not refusing the consummation, but rather the audience. Heâs refusing the violation of the small, private, infinitely careful thing the two of you have built together. Heâs refusing to have it weighed and measured and entered as evidence in a courtroom.
You understand it absolutely, and yet, beneath the understanding, thereâs another, smaller, more painful voice whispering in the back of your mind that asks whether perhaps, despite all heâs said and done, he simply doesnât want you in that way.
You donât allow your face to move, but you feel the small, tight muscle in your own jaw lock, the hot pressure climb higher behind your eyes, and you slide your hand back to your own lap.
Across the table, James registers the change in you with the speed of a man flicking a card across a green baize table. His eyes dart to your face for less than half a second, then snap back to Joel.
"Mr Miller," he says quietly, "I take your point entirely. I shall give you and Mrs Miller some privacy in which to discuss the matter between yourselves. I shall step outside into this glorious morning and inquire as to whether the Sheriff might be able to procure some coffee. I shall return shortly and should you wish to dismiss the proposal entirely, sir, I will receive the dismissal without argument, and we shall pursue an alternative defensive strategy."
He stands up smoothly, picks up his notebook and pencil, tucks them under his arm, nods once and then crosses to the door, pulling it shut behind him with a soft, deliberate click.
For perhaps ten seconds, neither you nor Joel move. Somewhere outside the door, you can hear the low murmur of Jamesâs voice politely inquiring after the Sheriff's coffee mingled with the day-to-day workings of Sawyerâs Creek.
Joel keeps staring at the knot in the wood as you draw in a small, careful breath.
You mean to keep your voice perfectly level, to be the woman of steel who stood in Doc Cooperâs office and threatened to bankrupt the county, and the woman who had eviscerated Reverend Sawyer on the boardwalk in front of half the town.
You mean to be that woman, but what comes out of your mouth, instead, is a small, thin, betrayed whisper.
"You donât want me."
Joel's head snaps up, the deep flush across his cheeks turning, in an instant, from embarrassed red to a stark, drained white. His eyes fly to your face with a force that almost rocks you backward in the chair, his hands raising up in a single sharp, helpless gesture.
"DarlinââŠ"
"Itâs alright, Joel," you say, hearing your voice shake over the words. "I understand. PerhapsâŠperhaps time in a cell has given you the opportunity to think and perhaps youâve decided thatâŠâ
He leaps from his chair, surges forward and then heâs on his knees beside you, his hands seizing yours where they sit clenched in your lap.
âLook at me,â he demands, his face inches from yours. âDarlinâ, look at me.â
You slowly raise your eyes.
"Do not ever, ever say those words to me again. Do you understand me? Do not ever in your life say those words to me again."
"JoelâŠ"
"There has not been a single hour these last months that I havenât wanted you. Iâve wanted you sittinâ at the breakfast table and when you bend over Sarah's reading book at night and when you walk across the yard and when youâve been sick and when youâve been well and IâŠâ
He breaks off, his body shaking.
âYou have to know that I couldnât have touched you the way I did in the barn if I didnât want you. Nor would I have been so goddamn foolishly jealous of Samuel Thorne if I hadnât thought he was tryinâ to take whatâs mine. Darlinâ IâŠweâŠâ he swallows. âI couldnât have loved you the way I did that night if I didnât want you. Hell, if things had been differentâŠâ
"Joel," you whisper.
"You ainât been undesired, darlinâ, youâve been worshipped. Thereâs a difference. I didnât want your first time to be when some stranger was lyinâ sick down the hall, or when you yourself werenât fully healed andâŠand in the barnâŠâ he lets out a ragged breath. âWell, that wouldnât have been right neither, and maybe we oughta be thankinâ TomĂĄs for interruptinâ us like he did.â
The hot pressure behind your eyes finally breaks and you feel the first tear spill over your lashes and slide down your cheek, hot and silent.
"Then whyâŠwhen Mr Oliver saidâŠ"
"Because I donât want it like this neither," he grounds out, his thumbs stroking frantically across the backs of your hands, his eyes misting. âNot on a goddamn writ. Not under a bond. Not for evidence to try and satisfy other people. Weâve been buildinâ somethinâ between us that is so careful and so quiet and so utterly ours that Iâd rather chew off my own hand than have it dragged into a courtroom and weighed as a strategic asset. Do you understand me, darlinâ? Do you understand what Iâm tryinâ to say?"
"I understand.â
"Do you?"
"Yes, Joel. I understand, I do."
His shoulders sag and he leans forward, pressing his forehead against your clenched hands where they rest in your lap, his hair brushing your wrists. You feel the small, fine tremor that runs through his frame and watch, dizzily, as your own tears drip down onto the back of his head. You feel your hands unclench beneath his and turn over, palm up, your fingers threading into his beard, thumbs pressing gently against the rough plane of his cheekbones.
"Joel," you say quietly. "My darling, look at me."
He raises his head.
"You are the most caring, generous man Iâve ever known, and I donât know why I said...â you shake your head. âYouâre right about Mr Oliverâs proposal. I had the same response when he laid it before me yesterday afternoon. Youâre right and Iâll tell him that we decline the third option, and weâll find another way. I still havenât given up on Doc Cooper and the town council andâŠâ
"I didnât say I declined the third option, darlinâ."
You stare at him. âIâŠâ
"I said not like this. I didnât say not at all."
"JoelâŠ"
"Lemme finish."
He shifts on his knees, drags a hand across his face, then he takes yours back, turns it over and presses his thumb into the soft centre of your palm, slowly, deliberately.
"Iâve been sittinâ in a brick box for over a week thinkinâ âbout you. Just about you, nothinâ else. There is nothinâ else to think about in this place, darlinâ. Iâve thought about the night before I was arrested more times than I care to admit to a man of God or a lawyer. Iâve thought about it until Iâve very nearly worn the memory smooth. And what Iâve been thinkinâ, darlinâ, in the small hours of the night is that I might hang without ever havinâ known what it is to love my own wife properly and I canât allow that. Do you understand what Iâm tellin' you?"
"I think so.â
"So when that lawyer comes in here and tells me that he can have me released for forty-eight hours under a consultation bond, and that the bond will hold up before a circuit judge, and that the only condition is that I'm returned to this cell at the appointed hour... when he tells me that, darlinâ, what my mouth says is not like this, and what my mouth means is that I will not have it weighed in a courtroom. But underneath what my mouth says, darlinâ, there is another thing my mouth wants to say, and what that other thing wants to say is yes."
You go very still. "Yes?"
"Yes." His eyes donât waver. "If youâll have me on the condition that no piece of what passes between us is ever entered into evidence. If youâll have me on the condition that the bond is the law's business and what happens at the ranch is ours and ours alone, and the lawyer can argue the rest of the case on his own pretty wits without our help, then yes, Iâll walk out of this Sheriff's office and not waste a single one of those forty-eight hours."
You look at him for a long moment, kneeling at your feet on the dusty floor, his hands wrapped around yours, his eyes burning with a banked, hungry fire that has nothing to do with strategy and nothing to do with consummation evidence and everything to do, simply, with the man youâve married who wants you.
You lean forward in the chair, take his face in your hands and press your forehead against his.
"Then yes, Joel," you whisper. "On those conditions, yes."
His shoulders sag again, but this time from a long, slow exhalation of profound, weary relief, as though something heâs been carrying for a great deal longer than a week has at last been set down on the floor between you.
You sit there with your foreheads pressed together for a long, quiet moment, listening to the slow, even sound of his breathing. You feel the rough scratch of his beard against your cheekbone, the warm pressure of his hands on yours and the steady, deep, drumbeat rhythm of his pulse where your fingertips rest against his throat.
"Youâd better call your lawyer back in here,â he says finally. âWe got a bond to sign."
You laugh, small and watery and slightly broken, but itâs a laugh that feels like the first sip of cool spring water at the end of a very long, very dry road.
When James comes back into the office, he doesnât look at your damp lashes or the faint pink at the rim of Joel's eyes. He simply resumes his chair, opens his notebook and lifts his pencil.
"So, have we arrived at a determination?"
Joel clears his throat. "We have, sir, but I have a question first.â
âOf course, ask away.â
âDoes my wife have to take the stand? I mean, is there any way, if this thing goes to trial, that we can avoid that happeninâ?â
James blinks. âUnfortunately not. If weâre forced into a trial, your wife will be a very important witness and given how articulate she is, I would be remiss not to use her.â
âJoel?â You look over at him. âI can do it.â
He pauses for a long moment, his gaze fixed on an indeterminate spot, then blinks twice and nods. âThen we'll take the option you suggest, sir â with conditions."
âName them."
"First, what happens at the ranch over those forty-eight hours is the ranch's business. Not yours or the Sheriff's or the judge's. You wonât ask either of us about it. You wonât ask anyone else who knows us about the state of our marriage. If the prosecution puts that question to my wife on the stand, sheâll answer it truthfully and with dignity, and thatâll be the end of it. I expect you to intervene if any questions are asked tryinâ to probe into the nature of timinâ or method or the like. We ainât manufacturinâ evidence, sir, weâre conductinâ a private marriage. Are we clear?"
"Entirely clear,â James nods, his pencil moving over the page.
"Second, Iâll not give the Sheriff a single cause to regret signing the paper for this bond, so I gotta be returned here on time."
"Noted."
"Third." Joel pauses, his hand reaching for yours again. "My wife sets the pace of every moment of those forty-eight hours. If she changes her mind about anythinâ, the bond still stands and I still return on time. Are we clear on that too, sir?"
"Crystal clear, Mr Miller."
James sets down his pencil and looks across the table at the two of you for a long, considered moment.
âThe bond paperwork has already been prepared and all it requires are the appropriate signatures. I believe you shall both be on your way back to the ranch within the hour."
âWhat about you?â You frown. âDonât you have to come with us?â
âMr Miller is being released into my custody, yes,â James nods, âbut I have some business that I need to attend to in Sawyerâs Creek and therefore it would seem more appropriate for me to remain here in town until that business has concluded. Youâre welcome to the brougham, of course.â
You glance at Joel. âButâŠâ
âI am liable for what happens whilst Mr Miller is under bond, but that doesnât mean he has to be in my sight at all times. Obviously, were you to flee the state, there would be ramifications for me, but youâre not planning to do that, Mr Miller, are you?â
The pause before Joel answers is longer than you would have considered appropriate, but just as you open your mouth to gently nudge him into responding, his grip tightens around your hand.
âNo sir, I am not.â
âGood,â James smiles. âWell, letâs get you out of here.â
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You recover from your trip to town and then finally get the help you need.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
Maria tells you afterward that TomĂĄs carried you through the front door like a sleeping child, his face streaked with dust and panic, shouting for your sister who took one look at your pale, slack face and immediately marshalled the household into a state of efficient emergency. Sarah was swept off to the kitchen with strict instructions not to cry, cool linen cloths had been fetched and the curtains in the master bedroom were drawn against the brutal afternoon sun.
You sleep for nineteen hours straight, waking at dawn on the second day to find Maria sitting in the rocking chair beside your bed, a wooden bowl of cool water in her lap, her hands wringing out a fresh cloth. She clicks her tongue at you in fierce disapproval the moment your eyes flutter open, and immediately feeds you a thin, salty beef broth from a porcelain teacup, holding your head up with one strong hand as if you were no older than Sarah.
âI sent your sister home,â she explains, when you ask after Maggie. âShe has three children of her own to care for and another one on the way. I am here to help now.â
âBut you have your own familyâŠâ
"And they will manage. You do not get out of this bed today, Señora," she pronounces firmly, brooking no argument. "Not tomorrow either, perhaps. You drink, you eat and you sleep. The world can wait one day for you. The world will not fall down."
You donât have the strength to argue.
The second day passes in a soft, dim haze of broth and rest. Sarahâs allowed in twice, perching carefully on the edge of the bed, her small hands stroking your hair with a tenderness that breaks your heart. She brings her rag doll for you to hold, and you press your cheek against the faded calico, while she tells you in great detail about a large bird she saw that morning in the yard.
In the late afternoon, TomĂĄs rides back from town carrying a single folded note in his shirt pocket, sealed with a smudge of cheap candle wax. He tells you that Sheriff Hayes stopped him on the street and asked that it be passed to you.
Your hands shake slightly as you open it, eyes immediately blurring when you recognise the handwriting.
My darlinâ,
I heard you collapsed in the goddamn street. Hell, woman, I told you not to push yourself. Youâre no good to me dead. Rest, eat and listen to what everybodyâs tellinâ you to do. The town can wait. Sawyer can wait. I can wait.
I also heard what you said to that old bastard. Hayes has heard âbout nothinâ else for two days. My God, darlinâ, I donât have the words.
Get well. Thatâs an order from your husband.
I love you.
Joel
You read the note three times, lying in the dim amber light of the curtained bedroom, then carefully fold it and tuck it beneath your pillow, falling asleep with your fingers pressed against the rough paper, smiling for the first time in three days.
By the morning of the third day, your appetite returns with a vengeance.
You eat three eggs, two thick slices of buttered toast, a small steak, and a bowl of stewed peaches at the breakfast table, all under Maria's fiercely satisfied supervision. You drink two large cups of strong, milky coffee and colour gradually returns to your cheeks. The trembling in your hands stops completely and by midmorning, youâre dressed in a soft, simple cotton day dress, your hair pinned neatly back, sitting on the porch watching the sun slide across the sky.
Just before noon, the sound of a hard-galloping horse comes pounding up the long road from town. You stand, your heart kicking sharply in your chest, and walk to the window in time to see a young boy from the Sawyer's Creek telegraph office reining his lathered horse to a halt in the dusty yard.
TomĂĄs meets the boy, words are exchanged and a folded yellow telegraph slip changes hands, along with a silver dollar. The boy tips his hat, wheels his horse around, and is galloping back toward town before TomĂĄs has even turned to you.
"From the schoolteacher, Señora," he says, handing you the yellow slip.
You unfold it with steady fingers, the language compressed into the brutal economy of the telegraph operator's pricing.
HAVE SECURED COUNSEL STOP MR JAMES OLIVER OF GALVESTON FORMERLY OF NEW ORLEANS STOP TRAVELING NORTH ON CIRCUIT BUSINESS STOP HAS AGREED TO DETOUR THROUGH SAWYERS CREEK STOP ARRIVING MILLER RANCH FRIDAY AFTERNOON STOP HE IS THE BEST IN THE STATE STOP TRUST HIM COMPLETELY STOP
SAMUEL
You read the telegraph twice, then a third time before letting out a long, slow breath that you feel youâve been holding for three solid days.
Youâve heard nothing from the town council, nothing from Doc Cooper, nothing. You donât know if theyâve held the meeting youâre so desperate for. You donât know if theyâve decided to write to the judge or leave Joel to his fate. You want to take the wagon back into town and ask, but you also donât want to appear desperate after being so controlled before.
You look back down at the words on the page.
James Oliver. A real lawyer, a Galveston man with New Orleans training. A man who handles the kind of legal matters that you imagine involve railroad barons and cotton magnates and federal land disputes. The best in the state, Samuel says and you know heâs not a man given to careless superlatives.
Friday is tomorrow.
You fold the telegraph slip carefully, slip it into the pocket of your dress then turn to TomĂĄs. âCan you ride into town, or have one of the other hands go?â
âOf course, but why?â
âI want Joel to know. I want him to get a message that thereâs help coming.â
TomĂĄs nods. âIâll ride myself before supper.â
âThank you.â
You turn and step back inside the house, moving towards the kitchen where Maria is baking bread. "Thereâs a lawyer coming,â you say, trying to keep your voice level. âCan you help me prepare the guest room for him?â
âNo,â she says, turning and putting her hands on her hips. âI will not help you.â
âButâŠâ
âI will do it for you, Señora.â
âPlease, Maria, I canâŠâ
âYou will conserve your strength. The last time you felt well enough to exert yourself, you came home in Tomasâs arms. You will sit and you will let me organise the room and the food and you will not argue. Or it will be an altogether different message Don Joel receives.â She wags a finger in your face. âGo and sit.â
You realise that sheâs not for changing her mind, and so you make your way back to the parlour, your mind whirring, and spend the rest of that day in a state of focused, electric preparation.
You gather all the papers you have and lay everything out on Joelâs desk so that the parlour resembles a small war room â chairs pulled up to the desk, fresh ink in the well, sharpened steel-nibbed pens in a neat row and a stack of blank ledger paper.
You have no idea what Mr Oliver will require, but youâre determined not to be found wanting.
****
By the following morning, the house is gleaming. The guest bedroom is immaculate and the scent of fresh bread and roasting lamb drifts through every room. Sarah, sensing the importance of the day, has been brushed and braided and dressed in her best blue pinafore, and been firmly, but kindly, instructed by Maria that sheâs to be on her very best behaviour.
At precisely two o'clock in the afternoon, the sound of carriage wheels drifts up the long road from town.
You stand on the front porch with TomĂĄs behind you and Sarah beside you, her small hand gripped tight in yours, her dark eyes wide with curiosity.
The carriage that comes up the road is a fine one. Itâs a polished black brougham with brass-trimmed lamps, drawn by two matched bay horses, the driver perched neatly on the box in a clean black coat, clearly hired at considerable expense. It rolls to a smooth halt in front of the porch steps, and the driver climbs down to open the door.
The man who steps down from the carriage is not at all what youâve expected.
James Oliver is perhaps forty years of age, tall, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Joel, but certainly not built to wrestle cattle for a living. Heâs dressed in a beautifully tailored charcoal-grey traveling suit, with a crisp white linen shirt, a deep burgundy silk cravat, and polished black boots that have clearly been cleaned at the last stop.
His hair is a thick, wavy auburn, neatly combed back from a high forehead, with two distinguished streaks of premature silver at the temples. His face is clean-shaven and somewhat lean, with a fine straight nose, a wide, expressive mouth, and the most arresting pair of green eyes youâve ever seen on a human being.
He removes his hat as he steps down, tucking it beneath his arm, and walks up the porch steps to greet you.
"Mrs Miller, I presume," he says, his voice carrying a faint, refined trace of a Louisiana drawl. "James Oliver, ma'am, of Oliver, Gerard, and Beaumont, attorneys at law. Mr Thorne speaks of you with the warmest possible regard. It is my profound honour to make your acquaintance."
He bows over your offered hand, and you notice with sharp interest that he doesnât kiss it. He simply holds it for the briefest, most respectful of moments, and releases it.
"The honour is mine, Mr. Oliver," you reply. "Mr Thorne spoke highly of you in his telegram, and Iâm profoundly grateful that youâve agreed to detour from your business to assist us. May I present my daughter, Sarah."
"Miss Miller." He bows gravely and Sarah, who has clearly been preparing for this moment, drops a careful, wobbling curtsy in return. Jamesâs mouth softens into a genuine, charming smile that completely transforms his sharp face. "Your father is very fortunate. I can see at once that youâre a young lady of great composure."
Sarah turns scarlet with delight and ducks behind your skirts.
You usher him into the house, TomĂĄs taking his bags and Maria appears in the parlour doorway with a silver tray bearing a tall glass of lemonade. He accepts it with another small bow and a perfectly composed thanks in fluent, beautifully accented Spanish that makes Maria smile broadly.
"You speak Spanish,â you observe, leading him into the parlour.
"My mother was from Veracruz, ma'am," he says with a small, easy smile. "I am, as my professional rivals are fond of pointing out, something of a mongrel. It serves me well in courtrooms across the southern circuits. People underestimate a man with too many tongues."
You close the door behind you and immediately, James sets down his lemonade, walks to the desk, and gestures for you to take a seat. He waits until youâre settled before he seats himself across from you. Then he reaches into the inside breast pocket of his coat and produces a small, neat black leather notebook and a pencil.
"Mrs Miller," he begins. "I donât like to beat around the bush. I am going to ask you a great many questions over the next several hours. Some of them will be uncomfortable. Some of them will feel intrusive. Some of them will seem entirely unrelated to the matter at hand. I beg you to answer every single one of them with the most complete and unflinching honesty of which you are capable. The state of Texas is preparing to argue that your husband is a violent, premeditated felon. My job is to prove otherwise. I cannot do that job if you protect me from the truth. Is that understood?"
His words make your stomach go cold with anxiety.
âI understand, IâŠIâm not sure how any of this works.â
âYouâve never been involved with the law before,â he states kindly.
âNo, never. Iâm not even sureâŠI donât know what happens in a case like this.â
âWell, the judge will come to hear the case. But there will also be a prosecutor, acting on behalf of the state, not the alleged victim per se. It will be his job to prove the case and my job to disprove it.â
âAlright,â you nod. âI understand.â
For the next two hours, he interrogates you with the focused, surgical precision of a master diagnostician. He extracts from you the entire history of the case in meticulous, chronological detail. Your life growing up in Sawyerâs Creek, your work at the mercantile, how you came to know the Sawyer family, how you came to know Joel, Tessâs death and your ultimate arrangement to marry. You tell him everything as calmly and carefully as you can, leaving nothing out, including the Reverendâs fury over your marriage and his threats to remove Sarah, before finally reaching the story of what happened when you were sick with the fever. You also tell him about your approaches to the town council and what you said to the Reverend in the street.
He takes notes constantly, the pencil flying across the page in a tight, elegant shorthand you canât read. He never once interrupts or expresses shock, or sympathy, or judgment. He simply asks, listens and records.
When you finally finish, he sets down the pencil and looks at you with a flicker of grim satisfaction.
"Mrs Miller, you are an extraordinarily good witness. Clear, precise, chronologically consistent, and emotionally controlled. I take it youâve heard nothing from the town council since making overtures to the chairman.â
âNo nothing.â
âThen we proceed on the basis that this matter will run to trial. Given how well you comport yourself, I shall enjoy putting you on the stand."
âIâd prefer not to have to take the stand.â
"Iâm afraid it cannot be avoided," he says pleasantly. "But we shall discuss that later. For the moment, I have a number of additional questions that I must ask you. Some of them are of a delicate and personal nature. I apologise in advance for the intrusion."
He turns the page in his notebook.
"The state's case rests on the argument that your husband attacked Reverend Sawyer with premeditated, lethal intent. To rebut this, I must establish without any possible ambiguity that he acted under the legal doctrine of defence of habitation and, more importantly, defence of conjugal estate. That is to say, I must demonstrate to the court that your husband was protecting not merely a guest in his home, but his lawfully wedded wife and the sanctity of their marital bond. The deeper the bond, the more reasonable the violence of the response. A man can be hung for striking a stranger but acquitted for half-killing one who threatens his wife. Do you follow?"
You nod.
"Good. Then I must ask you certain questions about the nature and condition of your marriage. The court will require proof that your union with Mr Miller is, in the eyes of God and the laws of Texas, a complete and legitimate marriage. Youâve already provided me with the marriage certificate from Weatherford so that is all in order, and youâve lived here together since you wed, are treated as a wife and referred to as such by locals. In short, the community recognition of the union is also in order."
He pauses and then looks at you again.
"There remains one final element required for the legal completeness of a marriage under Texas common law. I refer, of course, to the consummation. I require you to confirm that the marriage has been consummated, at which point I shall make a notation, and we shall move on to the next matter."
You sit absolutely still and feel your face go from its normal pallor to a sudden, scalding heat, the blood rushing up your neck and into your cheeks so violently that your pulse hammers in your ears. Your hands suddenly feel impossibly conspicuous, and you canât decide what to do with them.
James watches the colour climb into your face with dispassionate, clinical patience and doesnât look away or seem embarrassed. He simply waits, pencil poised over his notebook.
You open your mouth. You close it. You open it again.
"Mr Oliver," you begin, and your voice comes out as a thin, papery rasp, almost unrecognisable as your own. You clear your throat and force your spine into a rigid, unyielding posture against the back of the leather chair, then fold your hands more tightly in your lap. "Mr Oliver, I... I find that I must..."
The words simply wonât come.
His eyes sharpen by a single, perceptible degree as he waits, his expression schooled into a careful, professional blankness that gives away absolutely nothing. But you see it, the small flicker behind his eyes. Heâs already read the answer in the violent scarlet flood that has climbed up your throat, and heâs now waiting only for the formal confirmation.
You take a slow, steadying breath and think of Joel sitting in that brick cage. You think of his bruised, scraped knuckles, the rough, unshaven beard shadowing his jaw, his eyes burning.
If James Oliver needs the unflinching truth in order to save the life of the man you love, then by God, heâll have it. Even if it costs you every last shred of your dignity.
"My marriage to Joel," you say quietly, "hasnât been consummated in the legal sense to which you refer."
Jamesâs face remains entirely composed, his elegant posture entirely unchanged. But you see the small, almost imperceptible tightening at the corners of his wide mouth, the way his fingers settle the pencil with a deliberate, controlled precision against the edge of the notebook. You understand at once that this is the visible equivalent, in a man of his profound self-discipline, of someone else cursing aloud and throwing the notebook across the room.
The silence in the parlour stretches out for perhaps five seconds, but which feels like five hours.
"I see," he says finally. "Mrs Miller, I must ask you to forgive what will sound like an impertinent series of follow-up questions. The legal definition of consummation in the state of Texas is, I assure you, considerably narrower than the popular understanding of the term. I must be precise. May I proceed?"
"Please do,â you whisper.
"Has there been physical intimacy between yourself and Mr Miller of any kind?"
"Yes."
"Of what nature? I require the specific but I assure you, I have heard a very great deal in this profession. Nothing you say will scandalise me or indeed leave this room."
You close your eyes for a single, brief moment then open them again, fix your gaze on the desk, and force the words out, one at a time, in the same flat, clinical tone the lawyer himself has used.
"There has been kissing andâŠembracing. There have been... certain other intimacies, of a manual nature on Joelâs part, handsâŠmouthâŠdirected toward... toward myself."
"Prior to his arrest?"
"Yes."
"For the first time?"
"Yes."
"But not the first physical contact of a... shall we say, a heated nature?"
"No. There was an incident some weeks prior inâŠin our barn. Kissing andâŠand touching but...but of a considerable intensity."
The pencil resumes its motion across the page, making rapid, tight notations in that elegant, illegible shorthand.
"Has Mr Miller ever made an attempt at full consummation which you have refused?"
"No, never."
"Have you ever made such an attempt yourself, which he has refused?"
You hesitate, the memory of that humiliating night in the very room the man himself will be sleeping in, flooding back unbidden and unwanted. âYesâŠonce, many months past now. IâŠI asked him to come to my bed and he did. HeâŠhe kissed me, but then he couldnâtâŠâ
âI see. And what was the reason, if you donât mind me asking?â
You mind very much, but you press on out of necessity. âHe was still grieving his late wife.â
"Mm,â he says, writing more on the page. âBut this was before the kissing and theâŠintensityâŠof the barn.â
âYes.â
âAnd before the other instances.â
âYes.â
"Then am I to understand that the lack of consummation is not the result of any incompatibility, repugnance, or refusal between the parties, but rather of a mutually agreed deferral?"
"Yes, IâŠI suppose that would be right. We were⊠interrupted in the barn by Mr Thorneâs arrival and then JoelâŠJoel didnât want to do anything whilst another man was ill in our home. Besides, he knew that it would be myâŠmy first encounter and he wanted to....and then, following Mr Thorneâs recovery, I myself became ill and soâŠâ
The parlour falls entirely silent. Somewhere in the house, you can hear Sarah laughing at something, hear the distant, mournful bellow of a cow in the south pasture, hear the steady, rhythmic tick of the mantel clock above the fireplace and, more loudly, the blood roaring in your own ears.
James sets down his pencil and sits back in the chair. He laces his fingers together over his stomach and looks at you for a long, considered moment before suddenly smiling.
"Mrs Miller," he says quietly, "your husband sounds like a kind, caring man."
You feel the scalding heat in your cheeks abruptly transmute into something else entirely, something hot and stinging behind your eyes. You blink rapidly and look down at your hands.
"He is," you whisper. "Heâs the very best man Iâve ever known."
"I do not doubt it." He lets the moment breathe for exactly the right length of time, then his sharp, professional focus snaps back into place and he picks up the pencil. "However, we must now have a frank and somewhat unpleasant conversation about what this fact means for the legal defence of your husband. May I proceed?"
"Yes, of course."
"The doctrine of defence of conjugal estate under Texas common law requires the demonstration of a fully completed marriage. Texas, ma'am, is a community property state with strong canonical influences inherited from its Spanish and Catholic legal antecedents. Where the marriage has not been consummated, it is held to be voidable on petition of either party. That is to say, either party may, in certain circumstances, apply to a court to have the marriage declared null on grounds of non-consummation. The marriage is not, in the strictest legal sense, complete. Do you follow?"
"Yes,â you reply, your throat dry.
"The prosecution will, I assure you with absolute certainty, attempt to introduce this fact into evidence. They will ask you on the witness stand, under oath, whether your marriage has been consummated and use your answer to argue that the defence of conjugal estate does not apply, because no complete conjugal estate yet existed. They will argue, in the most insinuating possible terms, that Mr Miller's violent response was not the action of a husband protecting his wife, but the action of a brutal man who has not yet established the rights of a husband at all."
"But how would they even know to ask such a question?"
Jamesâs wide mouth tightens into a thin line. âBecause whomever they send to try this case will not be a stupid man. They will be wise to the defence and will use whatever they can to disprove it. And I cannot, for any reason, condone you lying under oath. Indeed, I would require to stand up and walk away now if you told me that was your intention.â
"No, it isnât,â you say weakly.
"Very well. Let us turn to strategy. The fact of non-consummation is, in legal terms, a vulnerability. It is not, however, a fatal one. We have several options, and I wish to lay them all before you so that we may determine our course together."
He turns a fresh page in the notebook.
"The first option is that we argue that consummation is not, in fact, a strict legal requirement under modern Texas statute, that the older common-law doctrine is in retreat, and that the prosecution's reliance upon it is reactionary and improper. This argument is legally sound but rhetorically weak. I do not favour this option."
âAlright.â
"The second option is that we argue that the marriage was, in fact, consummated, and we use the intimacies you have just described as the legal basis for that argument. Texas common law on this point is, if you will forgive the expression, unsettled. There are precedents, particularly out of the Spanish canonical tradition, which hold that any willing carnal contact between spouses is sufficient to constitute consummation. The incident in the barn and the other intimacies could be characterised in such a manner. However, this argument would require you to testify in considerable, public, and deeply mortifying detail about the specific nature of those intimacies. I do not favour this option either.â
You feel your stomach turn.
"The third optionâŠâ he pauses and looks squarely art you, âis that we resolve the matter at its source."
You frown. âI donât understandâŠâ
"You consummate the marriage, Mrs Miller, before the trial. That way, you can give full and honest testimony.â
You stare at James and he stares back at you, perfectly composed, perfectly professional. Thereâs no salacious gleam in his eyes, no undue insinuation in his mouth. He has proposed the consummation of your marriage with dispassionate, professional clarity. A problem with a known and entirely actionable solution.
"Mr Oliver," you say carefully, "my husband is currently in a jail cell in Sawyer's Creek. Short of my..." you break off, swallowing hard at the thoughts in your mind of you and Joel, together, in that place. âHow would weâŠ?â
âIâm very glad you ask. As it happens, I have a number of thoughts on the subject. I have it on good authority, that the circuit judge will be here before the month is out - so, five, six days more at most. Texas law permits the temporary release of a prisoner into the custody of his attorney for the purposes of consultation regarding his defence, provided that surety is posted and that the attorney accepts personal legal responsibility for the prisoner's return. The doctrine has been used in Galveston with considerable success, and I see no reason why it should not be persuasive in a smaller jurisdiction. With the proper bond posted and the proper papers drafted, ma'am, I believe I can have your husband home for one night. Possibly two."
You open your mouth, then close it again.
Jamesâs mouth curls into a small, deeply satisfied smile. He picks up his pencil, turns to a fresh page in his notebook and once again meets your gaze.
"Now then," he says pleasantly. "Shall we discuss the precise wording of the bond?"
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You start executing your plan.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
You walk out of the Sheriff's office on legs made of pure, vibrating steel, the bright sunlight hitting you like a physical assault after the dim gloom of the cell block. For a single, dizzying moment, the dusty main street tilts violently beneath your feet. You grip the porch railing of the Sheriff's office, your knuckles going stark white, and force yourself to breathe through the wave of nausea.
Not yet. You canât fall apart yet. Joelâs still behind those bars. Sarahâs still waiting for her father to come home, and Reverend Sawyer is still walking around Sawyer's Creek with his head held high.
You have work to do and youâre not about to let the lingering remnants of a fever stop you now.
Tomås is instantly at your elbow, his face dark with concern, his hand hovering just under your arm in case you sway. "Señora. You are pale. We should go home now."
"Not yet," you murmur, pushing off the railing and straightening your spine. You smooth the front of your dress with hands that you refuse to let tremble. "I have another call to make, but Iâd be grateful for your arm. I need to go and see Doc Cooper. As the chair of the town council, heâs the first person I need to speak to.â
"SĂ, Señora," TomĂĄs nods, offering his arm. "But please eat something first. There is bread in the wagon."
"Bread can wait. Iâd rather do this now. Please?"
He hesitates for a brief second before nodding and offering his arm. You walk down the wooden boardwalk together, your chin tipped high, ignoring the renewed stares of the townspeople, many of whom youâve known all your life but are seeing you now in a new guise.
As you pass the Silver Dime, the scent of sweat and stale whisky wafts through the swing door making your stomach turn over. But you swallow hard and keep going until you reach Doc Cooperâs clinic.
âThank you TomĂĄs,â you say, sliding your arm free. âI can manage from here.â
âIâll wait out here,â he replies and you nod before pushing open the door and stepping into the cool, shadowed interior.
The waiting room smells of carbolic soap and dried herbs and the first person you see is Mrs Cooper, sitting behind a small desk, knitting. She looks up, her face draining of colour the instant she recognises you.
"Mrs Miller!" she gasps, dropping her knitting needles into her lap. "Goodness, we weren't expecting... are you ill? Has the fever returned?"
"Iâm perfectly well, Mrs. Cooper, thank you," you reply smoothly, though the suffocating heat of the cell block still clings to your skin like a film. "Iâm here on a matter of urgent town business and I need to speak with the Doctor immediately. In private."
Her eyes dart nervously toward the closed door at the back of the room. "Heâs... heâs with a patient at the moment, my dear. If you would care to waitâŠ"
"I would not," you interrupt, your voice perfectly polite but cold. "Please inform him that Iâll be in his office as the matter canât wait."
You donât wait for her permission. You do the thing you would never have dreamt of doing in a million years whilst life consisted of you standing behind the counter at the mercantile. When you existed as mere furniture, rather than someoneâs wife. You walk directly past the small desk, open the door to the doctor's private office, and step inside, closing it firmly behind you.
The office is small but meticulously organised. A heavy oak desk dominates the space, covered in medical journals and a brass microscope. Glass-fronted cabinets line the walls, displaying neat rows of brown apothecary bottles and gleaming silver instruments that as a child you would stare at in wonder. The air smells of pipe tobacco and ether.
You sit down in the chair facing the desk, fold your hands neatly in your lap, and wait.
As it turns out, you donât have to wait long.
The door bursts open precisely ninety seconds later and Doc Cooper hurries in, wiping his hands on a clean white towel, his face already shining with a fresh sheen of sweat.
"Mrs Miller!" he exclaims. "My word, this is most irregular. Most irregular indeed. My wife informs me you would not waitâŠ"
"I would not," you confirm calmly. "Please close the door, Doctor."
He hesitates, his eyes darting toward the open doorway as if his wife might rescue him from this encounter. Then he sighs heavily, shuts the door, and walks around to sink into his heavy desk chair. He sets the towel down, folds his hands on the desk, and tries to compose his face into a mask of professional concern.
âIt is wonderful to see you looking so well again, my dear. I must confess, I feared for you when I visited the ranch. You were in a much worse condition than Mr Thorne.â
âYes, but as you can see, Iâm now quite recovered.â
âYes, thank heavens. It is a curse indeed that one who helps heal another is inadvertently struck down by the same malaise.â He clears his throat. âSo, may I ask, my dear, what appears to be the trouble? Is it residual weakness from the fever? Some lingering... feminine complaint, perhaps?"
You stare at him for a long, freezing moment, letting the silence stretch out until his nervous smile falters and dies on his lips. This is a man who has known you your entire life, treated every bump and scrape and childhood illness â and he knows exactly why youâre here.
You lean forward slightly in your chair. âDoctor, we have known one another for many years, so let us not insult each other's intelligence. Iâm not here as your patient. Iâm here representing the Miller ranch to inform the chairman of the Sawyer's Creek town council exactly whatâs going to happen over the next few weeks."
Doc Cooperâs flushed face goes even redder. He fumbles to remove his spectacles, polishing them frantically with the corner of the white towel. "Iâm sure I don't know what youâŠ"
"You know precisely what I mean," you cut in, your voice never rising above a perfectly civil murmur, which somehow makes it ten times more terrifying than a shout. "My husband is currently sweltering in a brick cell, charged with attempted murder for the crime of defending his dying wife from a vicious man who came uninvited to our home to celebrate her impending death. You know this is the truth, Doctor. You saw the condition of my husband when you attended to me, and you know the kind of man he is."
He swallows hard, refusing to meet your eyes. "The legal proceedings, my dear, are entirely outside my purview. I am a man of medicine, not law."
"You are a man of medicine and the chairman of the town council," you correct sharply. "Iâd like you to convene a meeting.â
âFor what purpose, exactly?â
âSo that I may explain what Iâm sure you already know â that the town council has the authority to write a unanimous letter of character to the judge. A letter that would carry significant influence on the question of whether this case proceeds to trial at all."
"My dear, Reverend SawyerâŠâ
âI think addressing me as Mrs Miller would be more appropriate for the purposes of this conversation.â
Doc Cooper pauses, then inclines his head slightly. âMrs MillerâŠReverend Sawyer, as you know, is a beloved spiritual leader of this community. To publicly contradict his sworn testimony would beâŠ"
"Profitable," you finish smoothly.
You let the single word hang in the air between you and watch the small, calculating mind behind the flushed face begin to whir.
"I beg your pardon?" he says carefully.
"Profitable," you repeat. "Let me speak plainly, Doctor, because weâre both adults and Iâve very little patience left for euphemism. Everyone in Sawyerâs Creek, and the surrounding towns, purchases from our ranch. They rely on our beef to survive, not just in feeding their own families, but for their own businesses as well. Our ranch also purchases our flour, our coffee, our cloth, our nails, our lumber, our medicines, and our liquor from Sawyerâs Creek merchants to the tune of approximately eleven thousand dollars per year."
Doc Cooper's mouth falls slightly open.
âNow, I am hardly going to cause hardship to my own father, but as of today, everyone who has a contract or agreement with our ranch will find that contract or agreement under review.â
You lean back in your chair, folding your hands neatly in your lap.
"If my husband walks out of that cell a free man, Doctor, every single contract or agreement will be reaffirmed and indeed expanded. The Miller ranch will continue to flourish and prosper, as will everyone in this town. If, however, he is bound over for trial, or, God forbid, hangs from a gallows on the basis of the vindictive words from a bitter preacher... I will personally see to it that the grass grows over the foundations of every business in this town within eighteen months."
The silence in the small office is absolute as Doc Cooperâs face slowly cycles through several shades of red, his eyes wide with a dawning, profound horror. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.
"Mrs Miller," he finally rasps, his voice cracking slightly. "What youâre proposing is... is coercion. Itâs intimidation of a public official."
"Itâs business, Doctor Cooper," you correct serenely. "Reverend Sawyer is attempting to use the machinery of the state to settle a personal grievance. Iâm simply informing the elected leadership of this community of the financial consequences of allowing him to do so and Iâd like the opportunity to address them on this point.â
âI donât thinkâŠI mean, I am the chairman and I canâŠâ
âThen you may make whatever decision your conscience dictates. Iâm merely ensuring you make that decision with all the relevant information at hand."
You stand up slowly, smoothing the front of your dress with hands that you absolutely refuse to let him see tremble.
"You have one week," you state, looking down at him from your full, unyielding height. "One week to convene your council and draft a letter to the judge expressing the community's grave doubts about the credibility of Reverend Sawyer's testimony and the unblemished character of my husband. If such a letter hasnât been drafted, signed, and dispatched by the morning seven days hence, Iâll instruct TomĂĄs to begin the process of dismantling our local accounts and cancelling all contracts and agreements."
The doctor sits frozen in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles have gone white.
"Good afternoon," you murmur politely, then you turn, open the door, and walk out, moving through the small waiting room with perfect, glacial composure, offering a polite nod to Mrs Cooper before stepping back outside.
And there, standing not ten feet from you on the wooden boardwalk, is Reverend Sawyer, with Belle by his side.
Your heart stops as her gaze immediately locks onto yours, the narrowing of her eyes a sure indication of the ill-will she continues to bear towards you for stealing what she, and her father, believe is hers. Youâve never liked her. Hadnât you said to your father when he told you of the Reverendâs plans that Belle was not Tess?
The two sisters could not have been more different in outlook, Tessâs pleasant, charming manner at severe odds with Belleâs dour, sullenness. But the younger Sawyer girl shares her sisterâs dark hair and blue eyes and would most likely be married now were it not for her fatherâs obsession.
"Mrs Miller," the Reverend intones, his voice deep and rolling. He doesnât tip his hat or nod, he simply stands there, blocking your path on the narrow boardwalk, his pale eyes raking over you with thinly veiled disgust. "I had heard the rumours that you had risen from your sickbed. I confess I was sceptical, but here you stand, in defiance of God's evident will."
The world goes very, very still.
The dusty sounds of the main street â the creak of wagon wheels, the distant laughter from the saloon, the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith's hammer â all fade into a deep, ringing silence. You can feel the blood pulsing in your temples and the muscles in your jaw locking so tight your teeth ache.
This man. This man whose chapel you have sat in, Sunday after Sunday, and listened to. This man who holds himself up as a true example of Godliness. This man whose beloved daughter had once been Joelâs wife â as dear to him as you now know you are.
This is the man who stood in your yard and spoke of your death. This is the man who wished for the fever to take you so that his pale, sour daughter could climb into Joel's bed. This is the man whose vicious scheming has put your husband in a brick cage in the suffocating heat.
"Father," Belle says, her gloved hand tightening on her father's elbow, the angry look on her face clearly at odds with her wish for a public conversation. "Father, perhaps we shouldâŠ"
"Hush, Belle," the Reverend snaps, his eyes never leaving yours. "I will address this woman. The Lord has placed her in our path for a reason."
You take a single, deliberate step forward on the boardwalk.
TomĂĄs, standing a few feet away, instantly straightens up, his eyes narrowing. He takes two steps toward you, his hand drifting toward the knife at his belt, but you stop him with the smallest, sharpest shake of your head.
This is your fight.
"You will address me, will you?" you say softly.
Your voice comes out perfectly level and so quiet that the Reverend has to actually lean slightly forward to hear you. But the words slice through the still afternoon air like a freshly stropped razor.
"I hadnât realised, Reverend, that there was anything left for you to say to me. You spoke quite eloquently to me in my fatherâs store before my marriage and then you came to my home and told my husband that it was the Lordâs will that I die from the fever and that he might then seek comfort from⊠Belle.â
Your gaze slides to her and you donât even bother trying to disguise your own contempt, beneath you though you know it is.
Belle snorts slightly. âComfort? You make it sound as though all I craved was his bed.â
âIf the shoe fits.â
Belle gasps, but the Reverend's pale, granite face doesnât so much as flicker.
"I spoke God's truth," he says coldly. "Your marriage to that man was a violation of the natural order. You, a nondescript spinster, a mercantile ownerâs daughter, presuming to take the place of a virtuous Christian woman in the bed of a respectable widower is an aberration of that order. A widower marries his wifeâs sister, if she is fortunate enough to have one. The fever was a judgment. Your survival is an abomination."
"Tess wanted me to marry Joel,â Belle adds smugly. âShe wished for it. She told me, that if anything ever happened to herâŠâ
"Be silent," the Reverend says, without even turning his head, and Belleâs mouth clamps shut.
You smile, the cold, slow, lethal smile of a woman who has spent thirty-four quiet years cataloguing every cruel man who has ever underestimated her, and who has finally, finally found one she can ruin, made almost all the more sweet in the knowledge she has known him all her life.
"An abomination," you repeat softly, tasting the word. "How interesting. My understanding of listening to you from your pulpit week after week, year after year, is that the doctrine teaches us that all life is sacred. That every breath drawn upon this earth is a gift from the Almighty. And yet here you stand, in broad daylight on a public boardwalk, informing me that my continued breathing is an abomination. Tell me, Reverend, do you reserve this view exclusively for women who decline to deliver your daughter into a marriage?"
A small, sharp gasp comes from somewhere behind you, but you donât turn to look. A small crowd has begun to gather on the opposite side of the street. Two women have stopped outside the milliner's shop, a pair of cowboys pause in the doorway of the feed store and out of the corner of your eye you can see Mrs Cooper peeking through the window, her face white.
Good, you think, let them all hear.
The Reverendâs pale face finally begins to colour, a thin, angry red creeping up from his black collar into his gaunt cheeks. "You will not address me in such a manner, woman! I am an ordained minister of the Gospel. I am a duly elected member of this community. I have served the spiritual needs of Sawyer's Creek for more years than I care to remember, and I will not be lectured by you â a child I baptised, a woman whose mother I buried, a spinsterâŠ!â
"You will be lectured by whomever I choose," you say quietly, taking another small, deliberate step forward, close enough to smell the sour, stale odour of his black wool coat and see the muscle twitch in his jaw.
Belle moves slightly behind her father as though she fears you mean to strike her.
"You came to my home, sir," you continue, your voice never rising above that soft, lethal murmur. "You came while I lay dying, and you tried to barter my husband's future over my unburied body. You provoked a grieving man to violence so that you might bring a charge against him, see him hang or take his child from him, all because he wouldnât marry the woman you believe he should. You have shown no interest in your granddaughter since her mother passed and yet you now seek to inveigle your way into her life by destroying what little she has. You are a liar and you are a sinner and you have the unmitigated gall to call my survival an abomination."
"How dare youâŠ" he snarls.
"I dare," you cut in coldly, "because there is nothing left in this world that you can take from me. Youâve already tried to take my life, and youâve already tried to take my husband. Youâve failed at both and there is nothing left in your bag of tricks that frightens me."
âIf you had just let him marry me, none of this would have happened!â Belle snaps.
âAnd did he make you an offer?â You turn your gaze to meet hers. âDid he come to your door, fall to his knees and beg for your hand? No, he did not. He came to my door and asked for my hand. If my husband harboured even the slightest inclination towards you, he would have asked you. Clearly, he favoured me over you. And as for Tess desiring you as her successorâŠâ you look Belle up and down. âKnowing her as I did, I fail to see how that could be even remotely possible.â
Belleâs jaw drops. âYouâŠ! Everyone knows he hasnât taken you to his bed! A marriage of convenienceâŠhuhâŠas if he could everâŠâ
Your chest burns, and you want to rebut her, you do, but instead, you summon every ounce of restraint you have, ignore her, and turn your full, freezing attention back to the Reverend whoâs now vibrating with rage. His eyes bulge slightly in their sockets, and the thin red flush has climbed all the way up to the crown of his narrow skull.
"You will regret this day, woman," he hisses, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. "I will see your husband hang, and if that proves unsuccessful, I will show him to be the unfit father that he is. I will demonstrate that Sarah, my granddaughter, is better placed in my care than in the care of a man who cannot control his temper and a woman who has no claim to her!â
You look at him for a long, slow, deliberate moment â this pathetic, bitter, small man who has spent his entire life mistaking the volume of his voice for the authority of God. As a child you feared him, as an adult you tolerated him. Now â you pity him.
âYou are nothing to me, Reverend,â you smile. âYou are a sour, bitter little man in a dirty black coat, and I will not waste another breath conversing here with you. Tess would be ashamed of both of you. Good afternoon, Reverend, Belle."
You step around him on the boardwalk and donât look back. You walk at a perfectly measured, perfectly civil pace down the wooden planks, your skirts swishing gently around your ankles, your spine straight as a rifle barrel, your chin held high.
Behind you, you can hear the Reverend sputtering, his voice rising into an incoherent, choked rasp mingling with Belleâs higher pitched, righteous indignation. You can hear the absolute, deafening silence of the small crowd thatâs gathered, every single person utterly transfixed by what theyâve just witnessed.
You walk, one foot in front of the other, the boardwalk stretching out before you, somehow seeming impossibly long. The wagon is just there, just twenty feet away, just across the dusty street in front of the Sheriffâs office and you can feel TomĂĄs behind you close but not touching.
Don't fall. Don't fall. Not here. Not in front of them.
The edges of your vision begin to soften, the bright sunlight taking on a strange, hazy quality, the collars of the storefronts blurring and bleeding together like wet paint. The deafening silence of the boardwalk is slowly being replaced by a high, ringing tone in your ears.
You step down into the dirt of the street, the drop, no more than six inches, jolting painfully up through your spine. Your knees, which felt like steel only moments before, suddenly feel like wet paper.
Twenty more feet. Just twenty more feet.
You force one foot in front of the other. The wagon seems to be receding further away with every step, and you can feel TomĂĄsâs heat at your back.
Ten more feet.
A fine, cold sweat starts to break out across your forehead and along the back of your neck, soaking into the high collar of your dress. Your heart is hammering so hard against your ribs that you can feel each individual beat shaking your entire body. The triumphant adrenaline thatâs carried you through the encounter with the Reverend is draining out of you like water from a cracked cup, and underneath it, the deep, profound exhaustion of a body still recovering from a near-fatal fever comes rushing up to claim its due.
Five more feet.
"Señora," Tomås says from behind.
You make it, your hand catching the rough wooden side of the wagon. Your fingers grip it, hard, and for a single brief moment you think you might be able to climb up unassisted. Then the world simply tips sideways. The ringing in your ears swells into a roaring tide. The hazy sunlight contracts into a single, narrow tunnel of light, and the tunnel rapidly starts collapsing into pure black. Your knees give out completely, and you feel yourself slumping toward the dusty Texas dirt.
"Madre de DiosâŠ" TomĂĄs catches you before you hit the ground, his arms sweeping under your knees and around your shoulders, lifting you up against his chest. Youâre dimly, distantly aware of the smell of him and the sound of his voice, murmuring close to your ear.
âDonâtâŠâ you whisper, your eyes fluttering. "Don't... don't let them see..."
"Hush, Señora," he says fiercely, lifting you up over the side of the wagon and laying you down carefully on a bed of soft wool blankets. "They have seen nothing. They have seen only a great lady, finishing her business and going home. Now you rest."
He bunches a folded blanket beneath your head as a pillow then pulls another one up over your trembling shoulders, despite the heat. Then he pulled the canvas cover up over the wagon bed to shield you from the sun and the prying eyes of the town, the world above you becoming a soft, dim, filtered amber.
"You stay there, Señora," he commands gently, his face appearing in the gap at the front of the cover. "You do not move. You do not speak. Iâm taking you home now."
You canât answer him, can only close your eyes, sinking deeper into the soft wool blankets, the violent trembling in your limbs slowly, slowly beginning to subside as the wagon rocks into motion.
The horse surges forward, the heavy wooden wheels crunching over the dusty street. You can feel the rhythmic sway, the gentle jolt of the rutted road, and somewhere in the haze you register that TomĂĄs is driving faster than heâs ever drove with you aboard.
You drift, the encounter with the Reverend and Belle replaying in fractured, dreamlike pieces behind your closed eyelids. Youâve done it. Youâve publicly humiliated a man who has spent years building a fortress of false respectability in this town. Youâve done it in front of witnesses. By tomorrow morning, every household in Sawyer's Creek will be repeating the words youâve spoken on that boardwalk. By tomorrow afternoon, Doc Cooper will be convening the town council in a state of barely contained panic.
The dominoes are falling.
Youâve set them all up. Youâve walked into the lion's den with a perfectly civil smile, and quietly, methodically tipped the first one over.
Now you just have to survive long enough to see it through.
Hold on, Joel, you think, your hand drifting up to press against your fluttering heart. Hold on, my love. The storm is coming.
And then, finally, blessedly, the darkness rises up and claims you completely, and you know nothing at all until the ranch comes into view, and TomĂĄs shouts for Maggie, and the great unbroken sky stretches out above you.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: Joel battles his inner demons whilst you work to help his cause.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Imprisoned Joel makes me slightly feral. Might need to think about a conjugal visit đ
The third day in the holding cell is when the suffocating, claustrophobic reality of the cage truly begins to sink its teeth into Joelâs bones.
For a man whoâs spent the better part of his life under the vast, unbroken canopy of the sky, breathing in the scent of prairie grass and rain, the eight-by-six brick box feels like a coffin. The air is entirely stagnant, baking in the relentless afternoon sun that beats down on the flat roof of the Sheriff's office, smelling of hot iron, old urine, and the sour, metallic tang of his own unwashed sweat.
He sits on the edge of the sagging iron cot, his forearms resting heavily on his thighs, hands clasped loosely between his knees. His knuckles are bruised a deep, mottled purple from where heâd driven his fist into the whitewashed brick wall the night before, a sudden, violent spasm of caged aggression thatâs left a permanent indentation in the mortar.
Heâs stripped down to his bare skin, his shirt discarded on the foot of the bed, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and a thick, rough beard now completely shadowing his jaw. He looks exactly like the dangerous, feral brute Reverend Sawyer claims him to be.
And, God help him, the man in the cell next door is doing everything in his power to push that brute right to the surface.
"I'm telling you, Miller, it was a flawless job. Flawless."
The voice belongs to a young man who calls himself Billy The Laredo Kid, though Hayes had booked him under the name William Flanagan. He canât be more than nineteen, all gangly limbs, nervous energy, and a desperate, pathetic need to be recognised as a hardened outlaw. Heâd been tossed into the adjoining cell for holding up the feed store with an unloaded revolver and has spent the last forty-eight hours talking about it as if he had robbed the Union Pacific.
"I had the drop on the clerk," Billy rambles pacing his cell with jerky, agitated steps. "I walked in, cool as a cucumber, see? Spun the cylinder. Told him, 'Empty the till, old man, or I'll paint this wall with your brains.' You should've seen his face, Miller. He was shakinâ like a leaf in a hurricane. That's what it takes, see? You gotta have the ice in your veins. You gotta be willing to pull the trigger."
Joel doesnât move a single muscle, doesnât blink. He simply stares at the dust motes dancing in the single, harsh shaft of sunlight slicing through the high barred window.
"Course, the Sheriff got lucky," Billy mutters, his boots scuffing against the dirt floor. "Caught me sleepinâ off the adrenaline in the livery stable. But when I get out of here... man, I'm headinâ for Mexico. Gonna join up with a real crew. You know about that life, Miller? You ever run with a crew before you settled down with all them cows?"
Ice in your veins.
Joel lets out a slow, hot breath through his nose.
The kid has no idea what ice in the veins actually looks like. He has no idea what it feels like to pull a trigger and watch the light permanently leave another man's eyes. He thinks itâs a game, a dime novel adventure.
Joel closes his eyes, shutting out the sight of the iron bars, and lets his mind sink down into the dark, heavy waters of his own memory.
He doesnât want to think about the kid. He doesnât want to think about Sawyer, or the circuit judge, or the possibility of a hangman's noose or â what some might say would be better but which he knows would be worse â losing Sarah.
He wants to think about Tess.
She knew him and the darkness that lives inside him, the feral, violent instinct that he keeps so carefully leashed. Sheâd never shied away from the truth heâd told her one night, six months after the wedding, lying together in bed. Heâd been so afraid that she would disown him, rail at him, scream that he wasnât the man sheâd thought she was marrying. But sheâd been calm and careful. Sheâd never asked him to be a civilised gentleman, rather simply demanded that he aim that violence at the world, and never at her. And because of how much he loved her, heâd been able to do that.
He lets out a ragged sigh, for he still misses her, but whilst the memory of her death still carries a dull ache, itâs no longer the all-consuming void it had once been. The void has been filled by you.
He thinks about you now, about the way you move through his house. Thereâs no wasted energy, no loud declarations, only a calm, meticulous competence that has completely rebuilt the foundation of his life. He thinks about the scent of you â lavender soap and fresh cotton, a clean, pure smell that manages to cut right through the stink of the cattle and the dust of the plains.
He thinks about the moment in the Sheriff's office, right before the iron door slammed shut.
He can still feel the desperate, frantic grip of your hands clutching the front of his shirt, can still feel the agonising heat of your tears soaking through the fabric, burning against his chest, can still hear the sheer, unadulterated terror in your voice, completely stripped of your usual practical composure.
"I can't let them put you in a cage."
A deep, involuntary shudder rips through him.
The thought of you out there, alone on the ranch, recovering from a fever that nearly sent you to the grave is a physical torture worse than anything the law can inflict upon him. He knows TomĂĄs is there, and that his friend will defend you with everything he has if needs be, but itâs not the same as him being there. He isnât there to stand between you and the door. He isnât there to pull your warm, pliant body flush against his chest in the dark and listen to the steady, reassuring thud of your heart.
He needs you. Itâs a terrifying, absolute truth that heâs only fully realised in the suffocating silence of this cell. He needs the way you look at him.
He needs the way you look at him because of what you see.
"Joelâs a good man! Heâs never broken the law!"
Your voice echoes in the cramped brick cell, bouncing off the whitewashed walls, ringing with that fierce, unwavering, beautiful conviction. You stood in front of the Sheriff, your chin tipped up in defiance and defended his honour with the absolute certainty of a woman who believes sheâs married someone worthy.
You believe heâs a good man.
Joel lets his head fall forward, burying his face in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp, pulling at his hair as a bitter, sickening wave of shame washes over him, so heavy it makes his stomach clench.
You donât know. You donât know that the man you weep for, the man youâre currently writing letters to defend, the man whose bed you share, is a complete and utter fabrication.
He closes his eyes, and despite his desperate attempts to keep the vault locked, the memory of the before bleeds through the cracks.
It doesnât come in a clear narrative â it never does. It comes in jagged, visceral fragments of sensory terror.
The biting, freezing cold of a November night in Missouri.
The deafening, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of iron train wheels tearing over steel tracks.
The heavy, suffocating weight of a canvas mask pulled down over his face, smelling of damp wool and his own panicked breath.
He'd been so young, barely nineteen, falling in with men who spoke of easy money and victimless crimes, men who had promised that a blown safe was just a transaction against a faceless bank.
But it hadn't been faceless.
The memory surges forward, sharp and merciless. The sudden, blinding flash of a lantern swinging around in the dark baggage car. The terrified shout of a guard, a man with a grey moustache and a picture of a little girl tucked into his pocket watch. The deafening, concussive roar of a gunshot in the confined space.
Joelâs hands tighten in his hair, his breath catching in his throat.
He can still feel the heavy Colt revolver bucking violently against his palm, can still smell the acrid, choking cloud of black powder smoke, can still hear the sickening, wet thud of the guard's body hitting the wooden floorboards.
He hadn't meant to do it. It had been pure, blind, animal panic. But the intent didn't matter, because the blood had been hot, and it had been real, and itâs permanently stained his soul.
Heâd run, abandoned the crew, abandoned the money, and run until his horse had collapsed beneath him, crossing the Red River into Texas with nothing but the clothes on his back and the deafening echo of that gunshot ringing in his ears. Then heâd spent the next thirty years digging his hands into the dirt of whatever ranch would employ him until he had his own, desperately trying to scrub the phantom blood from his skin.
He knows heâs built something good and honest, become a father and somewhat of a respected man. Heâs never raised his hand in anger, never taken a cent that doesnât belong to him, never stepped a single toe out of line. Heâs built a fortress of civilised decency to keep the boy from the train car locked away forever.
And it had worked, until Sawyer had threatened the one thing in this world that Joel loves more than his own redemption.
"...you ever kill a man, Miller?"
The question cuts through the suffocating silence of the cell block like a gunshot and Joel's head snaps up.
Billyâs standing at the iron bars that separates their cells, his hands gripping the metal rods, his face pressed against the gap. The kid's bravado has slipped slightly, replaced by a morbid, genuine curiosity as he stares at the brooding man in front of him.
"I heard the deputies talking," he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They said you nearly tore a reverendâs head clean off his shoulders. You don't look like a rancher, Miller. You look like a man who knows how to put somebody in the ground."
Joel stares at the kid, at the smooth, unscarred face, the wide, naive eyes that think violence is a romantic adventure and stands up. But he doesnât rush the bars or shout, he simply unfolds his frame from the cot and walks slowly, deliberately toward the dividing wall of iron rods.
Billy's eyes widen and he instinctively takes a half-step back, his hands dropping from the bars.
Joel stops inches from the iron and looks down at the kid, his eyes entirely devoid of light, devoid of humanity, devoid of anything. The boy from the train car and the monster who pinned a man of God to a buggy, stare out through his face.
"You wanna know âbout killinâ, Billy?" he rasps.
Billy swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, entirely paralysed by the lethal, suffocating threat rolling off the man in front of him.
"It ainât a game," he whispers, his face inches from the bars, his eyes locking onto the kid's terrified gaze. "It donât make you a man, it makes you a ghost. It means you wake up every single night for the rest of your miserable life smellinâ copper and gunpowder. It means you can never look your own child in the eye without wonderinâ if they can see the rot inside you."
âIâŠuhâŠâ
"You pray to whatever God you believe in that you never have to find out what it feels like, âcause once you cross that line, kid, you can never, ever cross back. Now sit down on your cot, shut your damn mouth, and don't speak to me again until the Sheriff opens that door."
Billy doesnât hesitate. He scrambles backward, his boots slipping on the dirt, and practically collapses onto his own sagging mattress. Then he pulls his knees up to his chest, staring at Joel with wide, horrified eyes.
Joel holds the kid's terrified gaze for three long seconds, ensuring the lesson has taken root before turning away, walking back to his own cot and sitting down heavily, the adrenaline slowly draining from his blood, leaving behind a profound, aching exhaustion.
He hates this, hates the violence that lives so close to the surface, hates that heâs let Sawyer provoke him into revealing it.
Reaching down to the foot of the bed, he picks up his discarded shirt, lifts the collar to his face, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. Beneath the smell of his own sweat and the dust of the ride into town, thereâs a faint, lingering trace of lavender soap.
You.
The scent hits his brain like a physical blow, a sudden, agonising rush of pure, unadulterated longing.
He remembers the way you looked that night, the way the moonlight had spilled over your pale skin as you lay in bed, the way your breath hitched when his mouth had traced the curve of your collarbone and then moved lower. The absolute, terrifying trust in your eyes as you had opened yourself up to him, offering him a purity and a devotion that he absolutely does not deserve.
He buries his face in the shirt, shoulders shaking with a silent, invisible tremor.
"Heâs a good man."
He isnât, he knows he isnât, but God help him, he wants to be.
He wants to be the man you see when you looked at him. He wants to be the impenetrable fortress that keeps you safe from the ugly, violent reality of the world. He wants to spend the rest of his life tending to the garden of your practical, beautiful soul, watching you bloom in the harsh Texas dirt.
Heâll do anything to keep you.
If Sawyer pushes this to trial and wins, if the circuit judge demands a hanging, or even if all he wants to do is take Sarah and hand her to her grandparents, Joel knows exactly what heâll do. He wonât let them put you on a witness stand. He wonât let them drag your name through the mud of a public courtroom.
Heâll break Hayesâs neck, steal a horse, and ride back to the ranch. Heâll pack you and Sarah into a wagon in the dead of night and drive you so far into the Mexican frontier that the law will never be able to find you. Heâll abandon everything and become a ghost all over again, just to ensure you and Sarah keep breathing.
But until that moment comes, he has to play the game. He has to sit in this sweltering brick box, swallow his feral pride, and trust that youâre out there fighting a war on his behalf.
The sun finally dips below the horizon, taking the harsh shaft of light from the high window with it. The cell block plunges into a thick, suffocating gloom, illuminated only by the faint, flickering orange glow of the oil lamp in the front office.
Billy remains completely, thankfully, silent in the next cell, too terrified to even shift on his mattress.
Joel lies back on his cot, the iron springs groaning in the dark, and drapes his shirt over his chest, keeping the faint scent of lavender pressed right against his heart.
He stares up at the ceiling, the phantoms of his past swirling in the dark. For the first time in more years than he can remember, the phantoms donât drag him under. The boy, the dead guard, the blood in the dirt â they all rage against the edges of his mind, but they canât penetrate the fortress that youâve built inside his chest. The faint scent of lavender soap is an anchor, heavy and absolute, holding him fast to the present.
Heâs Joel Miller, husband and father, and heâs going to walk out of this cell and spend the rest of his life worshipping the woman whoâs going to save him.
Closing his eyes, his breathing finally evens out into a slow, steady rhythm, and he lets the night take him.
****
While Joel fights his demons in the dark, youâre waging a very real, very calculated war in the light.
You sit behind his desk on the fourth day, dressed in a crisp, dark blue day dress, your hair pulled back into a severe, immaculate bun. The lingering weakness of the fever is still there, a dull ache in your joints and a slight tremor in your hands when you hold the pen too long, but you ruthlessly ignore it, fuelled by a cold, burning adrenaline that completely eclipses physical frailty.
âAnd youâre sure thatâs what he said,â you ask, raising your eyes from your paper to look at TomĂĄs, sat as he is in front of you, twisting his hat in his hands.
âYes maâam,â he replies. âHe said, sheâs going to die in that bed and the way he said itâŠâ he shakes his head, âfroze my blood to ice.â
You nod, not because youâre happy to hear the words repeated, but rather because TomĂĄs sounds so sure. âAnd then what happened?â
âAnd thenâŠJoel grabbed him andâŠuhâŠâ
âSay it.â
âWellâŠhe said that if the Reverend said one more word about you dying, that heâd bury him right next to Tess.â TomĂĄs looks away. âIâm sorry. I wish those had not been his words.â
âYes, I know butâŠJoel was provoked, severely provoked.â You look at TomĂĄs again and wait for him to nod. âThat has to be our position â that he only acted the way he did because of the Reverendâs provocation. That heâs not a violent man and that heâs never done anything like this before.â You shake your head. âThe idea of Joel killing anyone is justâŠâ
âExactly,â TomĂĄs sits forward. âJoel is a good man, a kind man. Iâve never known him to raise his voice or hands unnecessarily and he loves you so much.â
Swallowing hard against the lump of emotion forming in your throat, you quickly add some more lines to the page and then pass it to TomĂĄs to sign.
âWill this be enough?â he asks, fixing his signature at the bottom.
âI donât know,â you reply honestly. âAt the end of the day, itâs going to be the Reverendâs word against Joelâs â and yours.â
âThen I shall tell the truth, as always.â TomĂĄs stands. âDo you need anything else right now?â
âNo, TomĂĄs, thank you. Please carry on with your work.â
Nodding, he puts his hat back on his head and moves through the parlour to the door, letting it swing softly shut behind him as he steps back out into the yard.
Letting out a long breath, you sit back in the chair, stretching your spine and rub your hands over your face before looking back at the papers in front of you. So far, you have TomĂĄsâs account of what happened and a telegram response from Samuel expressing regret at whatâs happened, promising to ask around to see if he can find someone who might be able to help with the legalities.
Now that you pause and think on it, it doesnât feel like much to show for four days.
âI think you should take a break now.â Looking up, you see Maggie framed in the parlour doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. âIâve made chicken broth and thereâs still some bread left. Come on, you need to keep your strength up.â
Smiling wanly, you rise and cross the room towards her. âI should be caring for you. Youâre the one growing new life inside you.â
âNonsense,â she flaps her hands in your face. âThis is my fourth child, so there is nothing that Iâm not prepared for. Randall told me that Iâd likely give birth halfway through doing chores and just carry on doing them.â
You follow her into the kitchen and sink down at the table, a fresh wave of exhaustion crashing over you. âWhereâs Sarah?â
âPlaying outside with the boys. We can eat in peace first, then Iâll call them in.â
She moves efficiently around your kitchen, ladling the steaming broth into bowls and placing them down on the table, a hunk of bread between you, and two glasses of iced tea to wash it down.
âNow â eat, I insist.â
Slowly, carefully, you lift the spoon to your mouth, the broth warm and soothing, despite the summer heat, and you suddenly realise that youâre hungrier than you thought. But, halfway through your bread, you suddenly pause and drop it onto the table.
âWhat is it?â Maggie asks, eyes widening. âDo you feel illâŠdo youâŠ?â
âNo, IâŠâ hot tears blind you as a sudden vision of Joel in the Sheriffâs cell slams into your mind. You know for a fact that he wonât be dining on home made broth or fluffy bread and the very thought of the unfairness of it all makes your throat close up. âI shouldnâtâŠnot when JoelâŠâ
âNo, I wonât have that nonsense,â Maggie says firmly, reaching across the table and taking hold of your hand. âJoel wants you to get well and stay strong. You can only do that if you take care of yourself and that includes eating properly. Youâll be no use to him if you waste away. Joelâs a grown man whoâs lived a life. Iâm sure heâs experienced hunger before and survived.â
âButâŠâ
âNo buts. Eat.â
Reluctantly, you lift the discarded bread, remove a small piece and put it into your mouth, guilt clawing with every bite. âI donât know if I can do this, Maggie,â you admit softly. âIâm notâŠyou know Iâm notâŠâ
âI know that you are my big sister and you have always been strong and practical and sensible,â Maggie reminds you. âYou can do this and you will do this. Look what youâve done already.â
âBut all Iâve done isâŠâ
âYou have a statement from an eyewitness. Youâve contacted someone whoâs in a position to be able to offer some assistance. Youâve got a list of customers â yes?â
âYes.â
âGood. What are you going to do with it?â
You pause and meet her gaze. âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean, what are you going to do with the list?â Maggie lifts her glass. âThese people assume theyâre going to get their beef the way they usually do, without question. TomĂĄs and the others are going to make sure that happens butâŠâ
You blink. âBut what?â
Maggie shrugs. âWhat if it didnât. What if, suddenly, there was no beef. What would people do? How would they feed their families? How would they run their own businesses?â
Your breath catches in your throat as the realisation of what sheâs insinuating settles in you. âYes, what would they do? Oh, my Lord, Maggie, youâre a genius!â
âWell, IâŠâ
âIâm going to tell everyone who buys from us, in whatever guise, that all agreements are now under review. Iâm going to ask for a meeting of the town council and Iâm going to tell them that if they allow Reverend Sawyer to railroad my husband to the gallows over a bruised ego, the Miller ranch will pull every single dollar of our business and bankrupt Sawyer's Creek within six months."
You leap to your feet, your chair scraping against the floor, the fire inside you renewed.
âThatâs the spirit,â Maggie grins, âbut I still need you to eat.â
âAnd you and Randall and Pa, and Randallâs father,â you barrel on, sitting back down and lifting more bread. âYouâll give statements supporting Joel, wonât you? Youâll speak to his good character?â
âOf course,â Maggie nods. âYou already know that we will.â
âI do, butâŠâ you exhale shakily. âOh Maggie, what ifâŠ?â
âNo what-ifs.â Rising, she ladles out more soup and pushes the bowl back in front of you. âNow, youâre going to eat another full bowlful â yes you are â and then we can consider what to do next.â
Gratefully you dig in once more to the delicious broth, feeling every mouthful as though itâs responsible for your renewed vigour.
"Iâm protecting my family,â you say between spoonfuls, unsure who youâre effectively talking to now, your sister or yourself. "Reverend Sawyer wants to use his influence? Fine. Iâll use our financial weight to crush his pulpit into kindling.â
****
By three o'clock that afternoon, youâre sitting in Joelâs wagon, TomĂĄs driving toward town, holding a covered basket in your lap, containing fresh bread, roasted beef, and a jar of cold, sweetened tea. Maggie agreed to remain at the ranch with Sarah and the boys until you return and her firm grip of your arm and decisive, supportive nod was all youâd needed to summon the strength to climb aboard.
You know it hasnât been a week. You know Sheriff Hayes could refuse you entry to see Joel, but youâll be damned if you donât at least try.
TomĂĄs pulls the wagon to a halt outside the Sheriff's office, then jumps down and offers you his hand, helping you down to the dusty street.
"Wait here," you instruct, adjusting the basket on your arm before climbing the step to the Sheriffâs office and walking inside.
The bell jingles and Hayes looked up from his desk, immediately rising to his feet and respectfully removing his hat. âMrs Miller,â he greets you cautiously. âItâs only been four days.â
âI know how many days itâs been since I had my husband at my side,â you reply curtly. âBut Iâve brought him some supper, and I wish to see him.â
âMaâamâŠâ
âI wonât cause any trouble. Iâm not intending to try and spring him from his cell, if thatâs what youâre worried about.â
âNo maâam,â Hayes chuckles, âIâm not worried about that, though I reckon you could do it if you set your mind hard enough.â He pauses, holding your determined gaze, and then exhales. âItâs not a pretty sight back there. It's hot, it stinksâŠâ
âYou said he would have access to fresh waterâŠâ
âHe does, butâŠwell, Joelâs not in the best frame of mind. He hasn't slept much."
"Heâs my husband," you say, your voice brooking absolutely no argument even as your heart clenches at what you might find. "Open the door."
To his credit, Hayes doesnât argue. Grabbing the heavy iron key ring from his belt, he walks to the back of the room and unlocks the heavy door, pulling it open with a loud groan of hinges.
"Five minutes is all I can give you," he murmurs gently. "I'll wait out here."
You step through the doorway, the suffocating heat and the smell of the cell block hitting you like a physical wall, the air thick and heavy. For a moment, you pause, almost overwhelmed by it, almost minded to turn and step back out into the Sheriffâs office and run to the safety of the street.
But you donât, because Joel is here and you need to see him. You walk down the narrow, dimly lit corridor, your eyes slowly adjusting to the light, and finally you see him, standing at the front of his cell, hands gripping the thick iron bars. Heâs naked from the waist up, covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair wild and unkempt. He looks, for all the world, dangerous and feral, like a caged beast ready to tear the world apart.
But the moment his eyes lock onto yours, the beast completely vanishes and he breathes your name, his voice a raw, broken scrape that tears straight through your heart. You set the basket down, not caring about the dirt or the smell or the young man staring at you from the next cell and rush forward, throwing yourself against the iron bars.
Joelâs hands shoot through the gaps, frantically grabbing you. He canât pull you into his arms, so he settles for gripping your waist, your arms and your face, his fingers tracing your features with a desperate, starving urgency.
"You shouldn't be here," he says, hot breath washing over your face as he presses his forehead against the bars, trying to get as close to you as physically possible. "It's too hot and youâre still weak. God, look at you, you're pale."
"Iâm fine," you reply, trying not to weep, trying to stay strong for him as your own hands fly up to grip his wrists, your thumbs frantically stroking the bruised, scraped skin of his knuckles. You press your face against the bars, your lips finding his through the cold iron.
He kisses you with a devastating, bruising hunger, his mouth open and desperate, tasting of coffee and salt and profound relief. Itâs an awkward, uncomfortable angle, the bars pressing painfully into your cheekbones, but neither of you care. You kiss him until your lungs burn, pouring every ounce of your love and your fierce, unbroken resolve straight into his mouth.
"I'm getting you out of here," you whisper fiercely when you both finally pull back, your hands cupping his jaw through the bars. "Do you hear me? You are not going to hang, Joel. Iâll not allow it. Samuel has promised to help us with whatever connections he can find, Iâve got TomĂĄsâs account of what happened in the yard, and now Iâm going to tell everyone who deals with the ranch that all agreements are under review.â
Joel pauses. âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean, Iâm going to make clear that if people in this town want to side with Reverend Sawyer over this nonsense, then theyâre going to lose our beef. And I donât think for one moment people are going to want to risk that. As soon as I leave here, Iâm going to ask for a meeting of the town council.â
âDarlinââŠâ
âIâm going to make it plain to them Joel, exactly what the consequences will be if they donât see this whole despicable thing for what it is â the Reverend taking out his anger at you not marrying Belle on our family.â Your chest heaves, your whole body emboldened by the words youâre saying.
Joel lets out a watery, exhausted chuckle, his hands stroking your arms as he looks at your immaculate dress, your perfectly pinned hair, and the absolute, terrifying steel in your eyes.
Heâs never seen anything like it in his entire life.
"Youâre magnificent," he murmurs softly, then turns his head and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the palm of your hand. "My beautiful, ruthless girl. What did I ever do to deserve you?"
"You loved me," you answer simply, a single tear cutting a track through the dust on your cheek. "You fought for me. Now itâs my turn to fight for you â for us â and Iâm going to do it, Joel, I swear it."
"Time's up, Mrs Miller," Hayes calls out apologetically from the front office.
You donât want to let go. The physical pain of pulling your hands away from his skin is agonising, his fingers clinging to yours until the very last second.
âIâll be back,â you whisper, bending to retrieve the basket of food, lifting out the contents one by one and passing them through the bars to him. âI just need you to hold on a little longer, my love.â
âMrs MillerâŠâ Hayes calls again, stepping into the corridor. âDonât make me come down there.â
You stood back up, smoothing your skirts, your spine straightening into that familiar, unyielding posture. âI love you,â you say, pressing forward one last time so that your lips can brush his.
âI love you too,â Joel replies as you turn and start walking back down the corridor.
Once back in the Sheriffâs office, the heavy door closed behind you, you push the now empty basket up your arm and fix the other man with a hard look. âThose conditions are completely unsanitary.â
âThis is a jail, Mrs Miller, not a hotel,â he replies.
âI understand that, but basic hygiene shouldnât be ignored. I want you to ensure that my husband has access to a pump to wash himself, otherwise overhauling you, and your office and standing in this town, might just be my next endeavour once this one is over.â
And with that, you sweep out the door and into the street, leaving the Sheriff open-mouthed.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You and Joel face the law.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Thank you for all the kind comments and reblogs. Much appreciated. I love our pair đ„°
Iâve now reached the maximum number of people I can mention in these posts. If anyone knows how I can get around this, let me know đ„°
The morning sun breaks over the Texas plains with a blinding, unforgiving heat, but inside the master bedroom of the Miller ranch, the atmosphere is thick with a completely different kind of tension.
Joel stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his chest, already dressed for town â clean trousers, a freshly laundered shirt stretched taut and his hair slicked back, still damp from the pump. But his eyes are narrowed into a fierce, stubborn glare.
"You can barely stand for ten minutes without your knees shakinâ," he rumbles. "You know itâs a rough wagon ride. The dust will choke you, the sun will bake you, and the stress is gonna set your recovery back a full week. I ainât lettinâ you do this."
You sit on the edge of the mattress, wearing a clean blue cotton dress, the simple effort of lifting your arms to button the high collar of your bodice having left a light, trembling sheen of sweat on your forehead. Your legs feel entirely like water, but your jawâs set with a determination that matches his own.
"Iâm going, Joel," you state, gripping the edge of the mattress to steady yourself. "Iâm your wife and I am not going to hide in this house like a coward while you ride into town to face a jail cell for saving my life."
"I told you, I ainât gonna be sittinâ in a cell," he says, taking another heavy step until heâs towering directly over you. Then he drops to one knee, hands gently gripping your thighs through your skirts, his thumbs pressing into the soft fabric. "I'm gonna walk in there, pay the fine, Hayes is going to clear the warrant, and I'll be back before supper."
"You don't know that," you argue softly, reaching out to frame his face, feeling the rigid tension in his jaw and the heavy, frantic beat of his pulse beneath his skin. "Reverend Sawyer is a spiteful, vindictive man and if he has the town council in his pocket, Sheriff Hayes might not have a choice. And if... if they try to lock you away, Joel, I need to be there. I need them to look at me, alive and breathing, and know exactly why you did what you did."
He closes his eyes and leans his forehead heavily against yours, a ragged, exhausted sigh tearing its way out of his chest and washing hot across your lips. You know he hates this, hates the idea of parading your weakened, fragile body in front of the townâs judging eyes, that he wants to lock the front door, board up the windows, pull you back into the centre of the bed, and keep you completely insulated from the ugly reality of the world.
And you love him for it â and for the way he made you feel last night.
But you know he also recognises that heâs fallen in love with the fierce, stubborn fire that burns inside you and that he canât cage the very thing he worships.
"If you start to feel faint," he murmurs, lips brushing against yours, "if you feel even a fraction of that fever cominâ back... Iâm turninâ the wagon around, and I don't give a damn if the entire United States Cavalry is waiting for me in Sawyer's Creek, understood?"
"Understood," you breathe, kissing him back with every ounce of weak strength you possess. âI love you.â
âI love you too,â he mumbles. âToo damn much for either of our own goods.â
****
The journey into town is exactly as brutal as he predicted.
He hitches his strongest, most reliable horse to the wagon, laying a thick pile of soft wool blankets on the wooden bench to cushion your ride, then sits impossibly close beside you, his thigh pressed solidly against yours from hip to knee, his left arm wrapped securely around your waist the entire time, acting as a physical brace against the jolts and sways of the rutted dirt road. He drives with one hand, eyes constantly darting from the road to scan your pale face, checking your breathing, completely ignoring the rolling landscape.
Sarah sits in the back of the wagon bed, nestled among empty feed sacks, clutching her rag doll to her chest, her eyes wide and solemn. You know she doesnât fully understand whatâs happening, but that she knows something is fundamentally wrong, her usual boisterous energy entirely absent and replaced by a grim, suffocating silence.
By the time Sawyer's Creek finally comes into view through the shimmering, oppressive heat haze, you feel thoroughly exhausted. The base of your spine aches with a dull, throbbing rhythm, and your head is swimming slightly from the glare of the sun. But you force yourself to sit up straighter, drawing a deep breath of the dusty air and smoothing the wrinkles from your skirts.
You will not let Reverend Sawyer, or anyone else in this town, see you break.
The wagon rolls onto The Street, the wheels crunching loudly in the quiet mid-morning air, the reaction of the town instantaneous and deeply unsettling.
People stop dead on the wooden boardwalks, the women sweeping the steps of the Silver Dime pause, their brooms freezing mid-stroke, their mouths falling open. Men loading heavy grain bags outside your fatherâs mercantile stop working, wiping the sweat from their brows as they stare. Every single eye in Sawyer's Creek turns to lock onto the Miller wagon.
Theyâve clearly all heard the rumours â that the new Mrs Miller is dead or dying a gruesome death. Theyâve heard that Joel has gone completely mad with grief, nearly murdering a man of God in a fit of unhinged, violent rage.
And yet, here you are, pale, visibly weakened, thinner than you had been a month ago, but sitting upright beside your husband, his arm wrapped possessively, undeniably around your waist.
Joel completely ignores the stares, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He doesnât offer a single nod or tip of his hat as he pulls the wagon to a halt directly across the street from the Sheriff's office, setting the heavy iron brake with a sharp, violent yank.
Before he can even wrap the reins around the brake lever to climb down, a frantic, cracking shout echoes from the direction of the mercantile and you turn your head, breath catching in your throat at the sight of your father practically running towards you, your name tearing from his throat.
"Pa," you gasp, tears instantly springing to your eyes.
Joelâs out of the wagon before you can react and he doesnât wait for you to try and stand on your shaking legs. Reaching up, he grips your waist, and lifts you effortlessly down, setting you gently on your feet just as your father reaches you.
"Oh, thank God. Thank the good Lord," your father weeps, throwing his thin arms around you, crushing you in a desperate, trembling embrace. âMaggie told me that you were well, that youâd been spared, but I knew I wouldnât believe it until Iâd seen you for myselfâŠâ
"I'm alright, Pa," you reassure him, burying your face in his shoulder. "I'm alright. The fever broke and Iâm getting stronger every day."
Your father pulls back, his hands gripping your shoulders tightly as his tear-filled eyes frantically scan your pale face, looking for the lingering signs of death. Then he looks past you to where Joel stands a few steps behind.
"I... I don't know how to thank you for saving my girl, Joel. Everyone in town was so sure the sickness would take her.â
"They talk too much in this town," Joel says quietly, stepping closer and resting his hand firmly on the small of your back, his fingers splaying possessively over your spine. "She fought it off on her own. I just sat there and watched. She's the strongest woman I've ever known."
âI thank the Lord for the strength of both of you.â
Joel turns back to the wagon, gently lifting Sarah out and setting her on the boardwalk beside you. "We got some business to attend to with Sheriff Hayes, sir. It ainât gonna be pleasant, and it ainât for a child's ears. Can I ask you to keep Sarah at the mercantile until we come for her?â
Your fatherâs eyes widen as he looks at the Sheriff's office across the street, then back at Joel. "Of course," he says quickly, reaching out to take Sarahâs hand. "Come along, little one. Iâve got some fresh peppermint sticks behind the counter."
Sarah looks up at Joel, her lower lip trembling slightly, sensing the impending separation. "Pa?"
He kneels down in the dust, completely ignoring the stares of the townspeople watching, and cups his daughter's face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping a smudge of dust from her cheek. "I'll be right back, babygirl,â he says, pressing a fierce, lingering kiss to her forehead. âYou go with your grandfather and be good for him."
He stands up and you both watch your father lead Sarah safely inside. Then, he turns back to you, and the softness completely vanishes from his eyes, replaced by the cold, iron-clad determination of a man preparing to walk onto a battlefield. He doesnât ask if youâre ready. He knows youâre exhausted and he simply holds out his arm.
You take a deep, shuddering breath, wrapping your hands around his bicep, drawing strength from the sheer, radiating heat of his body, and together, you step off the boardwalk and walk to the Sheriff's office.
The journey feels like an absolute eternity, every step sending a jolt of exhausted pain up your spine, your legs feeling heavier with every yard. But you keep your chin tipped high and your eyes fixed straight ahead.
Joel pushes the door open, the bell above it ringing sharply. Inside, the office smells of stale coffee, sharp tobacco smoke, gun oil, and old sweat. Sheriff Hayes is sitting behind his desk, a stack of wanted posters and telegraphs pushed to the side. Two deputies â young men, barely out of their teens but wearing heavy gun belts â lean against the far wall, a tin pot of coffee sitting on the small iron stove between them.
The moment the bell rings, all three men look up, and Hayes instantly rises to his feet, eyes widening as he takes in your pale, exhausted form leaning heavily against Joel's side.
"Mrs Miller," he breathes, pulling his Stetson off his head and tossing it onto the desk. "Good Lord, ma'am, itâs a profound relief to see you on your feet. We were all praying for you."
"Thank you, Sheriff," you murmur, your voice steady despite the frantic, deafening hammering of your heart against your ribs.
Joel doesnât offer any pleasantries. He steps fully into the room, keeping you tucked securely against his side, his arm tight around your waist.
"I'm here," he says. "I told you I'd come when she was well enough to stand. Now, where's the paperwork? Tell me what the fine is for puttinâ my hands on that so-called man of God so I can pay it and take my wife home."
Hayes doesnât reach for his ledger or open his metal cash box. He stands behind his desk, his face suddenly ageing ten years, a deep, heavy grimace settling over his features. Then he looks at the two deputies, giving them a subtle, silent nod and they instantly straighten up, their casual posture vanishing as their hands drop to rest uneasily on the butts of their revolvers.
The suffocating tension in the room spikes to a terrifying, lethal level.
"It's not a fine, Joel," Hayes says quietly.
Joelâs grip on your waist tightens. "What the hell are you talkinâ âbout?"
"Reverend Sawyer didn't just swear out a complaint for disturbing the peace or simple assault. He wired the circuit judge in Weatherford and told him youâd lost your mind, that you tried to crush his windpipe in cold blood, and that you threatened to murder him in front of witnesses. The judge signed a felony warrant, Joel, for attempted murder. I didnât want to tell you all of that when I came out to see you, but thatâs the bare truth of it."
The room completely stops spinning and the air rushes out of your lungs in a violent whoosh.
Attempted murder.
"That's a damn lie!" you gasp, the sheer, overwhelming injustice of it ripping the breath, and the obscenity, from your lungs.
You step forward, pulling away from Joel's side, ignoring the weakness in your legs, and slam your hands down onto the edge of the Sheriff's desk.
"He didn't try to murder him! Reverend Sawyer came to our home while I was sick and taunted Joel! He told him it was God's will that I die so Joel can marry Belle. Joel justâŠjust pushed him away!"
"Don't," Joel says softly, reaching out to grip your arm, trying to pull you back.
"No!" you cry out, hot, furious tears spilling over your lashes as you glare at the Sheriff, your chest heaving. "You canât do this! Joelâs a good man! He has never broken the law! He was defending his home and his wife from a cruel, vindictive man who wants to see me dead!"
"I know that Mrs Miller," Hayes says gently, âbut my hands are completely tied. The warrant is signed by a federal circuit judge. I don't have the authority to set bail, and I don't have the authority to dismiss it. BesidesâŠâ he takes a breath. âOn top of the warrant, Sawyerâs also filed petition with the judge to have Joel declared an unfit father, just like he said he was planning to do before you took sick. He reckons that this attempted murder charge will go in his favour.â
Hayes looks past you, his gaze meeting Joelâs.
"Iâm sorry, but I have to arrest you, Joel. I have to lock you in the holding cell in the back, and you have to stay there until the circuit judge rides through to hear the case."
"And how long will that take?" Joel asks quietly.
Hayes swallows hard, glancing nervously at the deputies. "Two weeks, maybe three, depending on the weather. The bridge at Stephenvilleâs almost finished being repaired, so that should help speed matters along.â
A cold, horrifying shudder rips straight down your spine.
Three weeks. Three weeks locked in a filthy, suffocating iron cage. Three weeks taken away from the ranch, away from Sarah, away from the bed where heâs just nursed you back to life and where, last night, heâŠ
Joelâs hands drop to his sides, his jaw locking so tight you can actually hear the sickening sound of his teeth grinding together in the quiet room. When you glance down, you can see the fingers on his left-hand twitching near the handle of his own gun.
"Joel, don't," Hayes warns softly. "I can see what youâre thinking and Iâm begging you not to make me have to do this the hard way. You draw on me, and you'll hang. Think about your daughter, Joel. Think about your wife."
Joel freezes, then looks down at you before letting out a long, ragged, tearing breath that sounds like a dying man's last gasp. Then he slowly, deliberately raises his hands to his shoulders, away from his gun belt.
"Take the gun," he growls.
Hayes lets out a sigh of relief, then steps around the desk, his hands shaking slightly as he reaches out to unbuckle the belt from Joelâs waist. Then he takes the gun and lays it carefully on the desk, out of reach.
"I'm sorry, Joel," he murmurs. âIf there was any other wayâŠâ
"Don't apologise to me," Joel says coldly. "Just open the damn cell."
"No!" you sob, the horrifying reality of the situation finally shattering your composed facade.
You throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms frantically around his waist, burying your face flush against his chest. You donât care that the Sheriff and the deputies are watching, donât care about the town's suffocating propriety. You cling to him as if the floorboards are falling away beneath your feet, your fingers digging so hard into his shirt that your knuckles turn white.
Joelâs arms sweep around you, crushing you against him with a desperate, bruising force that drives the breath completely from your lungs, then he buries his face in your hair, inhaling the scent of your skin as if itâs the only oxygen left in the room.
"Listen to me," he says, breath washing over your ear. âYou go back to the mercantile, you take Sarah, and you have TomĂĄs drive you straight back to the ranch. I know heâs here in town and heâll be glad to do it. Then you lock the doors and don't let anyone on the property. Not Sawyer, not the law, nobody."
"I can't leave you here," you weep. "I can't let them put you in a cage like an animal for three weeks. Joel, you'll go mad in there!"
"I'll be fine," he swears fiercely, forcing you to look up at him, his eyes shining with unshed tears, completely stripped of their pride, leaving nothing but the raw, beating heart of a man entirely, helplessly consumed by you.
"I ain't gonna hang,â he promises, frantically wiping the hot tears from your flushed cheeks. "I'm gonna wait for that circuit judge, and I'm gonna look him in the eye and tell him exactly what happened. And we, you and I, are gonna show him that weâre the best damn family Sarah could have. But I need you to be strong, right now. I need you to go home, eat, and rest. Promise me."
âIâŠâ
"Promise me," he demands. "Promise me you'll go home and get your strength back. Don't let that bastard Sawyer win by lettinâ the sickness take you while I'm locked up."
"I promise," you choke out, the words tasting like bitter ash in your mouth. You reach up, your hands covering his, pressing his rough palms tighter against your skin. "I promise, Joel. But Iâm not going to just sit there and wait. Iâm going to get you out of here. Iâll find us a lawyer, someone who can help. IâllâŠIâll do everything I can."
A sad, fiercely proud smile touches the corners of his mouth and he leans down, capturing your lips in a bruising, devastating kiss. He thrusts his tongue past your teeth, tasting your tears in a profound claiming that completely ignores the three men standing mere feet away and you kiss him back as hard as you can.
When he finally releases your mouth, he takes a deliberate, step back, breaking the physical contact, leaving you shivering uncontrollably in the stifling office.
"Alright,â he says, turning back to the Sheriff. "Let's get this over with."
"Right this way, Joel," Hayes gestures toward the door at the back of the room.
One of the deputies steps forward, pulling a heavy ring of iron keys from his belt, the sound of the keys clinking together deafening in the quiet room. You stand frozen, your arms wrapped tightly around your waist, as Joel walks towards the back room.
The door groans open on un-oiled hinges and Joel steps through into the dim, suffocating gloom of the cell block. Then it slams shut behind him with a final, violent clang that echoes like a gunshot, followed by the heavy, sickening sound of the lock turning into place.
The silence in the office is absolute and suffocating. Hayes lets out a long, heavy breath, rubs the back of his neck, and turns back to you, his face lined with deep pity. "Mrs Miller, I can have one of the boys drive your wagon back to theâŠ"
"No, thank you, Sheriff," you interrupt, your voice steady.
The tears that have been streaming down your face suddenly, miraculously stop and you reach up, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand, your spine straightening with a sudden, absolute rigidity that completely defies your physical weakness.
"My husband's foreman is in town," you state coldly, your chin tipping up. "Heâll drive me and my daughter home. I expect you to ensure my husband is fed three hot meals a day, that heâs given clean water, and that heâs treated with the respect he deserves whilst heâs in your care, Sheriff. If I hear that heâs been mistreated in any way, youâll answer to me."
Hayes blinks, clearly taken aback by the sudden, terrifying steel in your tone. "Yes, ma'am. You have my word, he wonât be harmed, and you can visit â once a week.â
You donât respond to his offer. Instead, you turn on your heel and walk out of the office, the bell jingling sharply above your head.
The walk back to the mercantile is a blur. The townspeople are still watching, still whispering behind their hands, but you donât see them. Your mindâs racing, a cold, calculating fury burning away the lingering exhaustion of the fever.
Reverend Sawyer clearly wants a war. Heâs trying to use the law to destroy the man you love, to rip a father away from the child he claims to care so much about, all out of bruised pride and spite â but heâs severely underestimated the new Mrs Miller. Heâs severely underestimated the woman heâs watched grow up as mere furniture.
You push through the doors of the mercantile to find your father at the counter, Sarah sat on top, two peppermint sticks in her hands. His head turns and when he sees you walk in alone, the colour completely drains from his face.
"Whereâs Joel?â he asks, straightening up, his hand reaching for Sarahâs.
"He's in a cell, Pa," you say, your voice ringing with a terrifying, absolute calm.
âWhat? ButâŠyou mean, the judgeâs warrant?â
Sarah drops her peppermint sticks, and they shatter against the floorboards. She looks up at you, her eyes instantly filling with tears. "Where's Pa?"
Your heart breaks all over again, but you donât let it show as you cross the room and pull her into your arms.
"Pa had to stay with the Sheriff for a little while, my love," you say smoothly, stroking her braids and trying to project a total, unwavering confidence that youâre not sure you possess. "There was a misunderstanding with a very foolish man. But weâre going to fix it. I promise you, weâre going to bring him home."
You look up over Sarahâs head, your eyes locking with your fatherâs.
"Pa, I need you to find TomĂĄs. Joel says heâs in town. Tell him to bring the wagon to the front immediately. Weâre going back to the ranch."
Your father hesitates slightly, stepping forward, his hands trembling as he reaches out to touch your shoulder. "What are you going to do, my love? If a federal circuit judge signed that warrant, Joel couldâŠSawyer has half the town council in his pocket.â
"Then Iâll empty his pockets," you say fiercely, standing back up, keeping Sarahâs small hand gripped tightly in yours. "Pa, Sawyer is a liar and a hypocrite. He came to my home and wished for my death. He provoked my husband, and now heâs using the law to enact a personal vendetta and separate a father from his child â a child, to whom he has paid scant attention to in almost a year. I wonât let him destroy my family."
Your father nods, the corners of his mouth upturning in a smile. âI believe you, my love. You wait here â Iâll fetch TomĂĄs.â
You nod as he disappears, trying to keep yourself from breaking down again, trying to stay positive for Sarah. Trying to be the wife Joel needs you to be right now.
****
The ride back to the ranch is the longest, quietest journey of your life.
TomĂĄs drives the wagon, his horse tethered behind, his face set in a mask of dark, murderous fury. He doesnât speak, he simply snaps the reins, pushing the horse as fast as he dares, desperate to get you back behind the safety of the ranch's borders as he knows his boss would want.
When you reach home and walk through the door, Sarah clinging to your skirts, the sheer, overwhelming absence of Joelâs presence hits you like a physical blow. The parlour feels hollow, the kitchen cold. You look around and think that you might, for the first time, understand how Joel felt that first morning after Tess died.
âDonât worry about the ranch,â TomĂĄs says. âI can keep things going for now.â
âThank you,â you reply weakly. âI appreciate that.â
âAnd Maria will help too. Whatever you need, weâre here for you.â
After he disappears back outside to tend to the horse, you stand alone in the parlour and allow yourself exactly one minute. You close your eyes, wrap your arms around your waist, and let one single, ragged sob tear its way out of your throat, mourning the loss of Joelâs heat, his scent, his voice.
And then, you open your eyes and walk to the desk in the corner where he keeps the ranch ledgers and payroll. You pull open the drawer, completely ignoring the stacks of cattle receipts and bank notes, and take out a bundle of fresh, crisp paper and a bottle of black ink.
âWhat are you doing?â Sarah asks, peering over the back of the armchair.
âHelping your Pa, my love,â you reply, âthe only way I know how.â
You sit down, dip the metal nib of the pen into the ink, and take a deep breath.
Reverend Sawyer thinks youâre a weak, sickly spinster who has been bought and he thinks Joel is a dumb, feral brute who can be easily caged and disposed of.
Heâs wrong.
You begin to write. You write down every single word Joel told you the Reverend said that day when he came. You write down the exact timeline of events, the brutal, unvarnished truth of a man of God weaponizing a woman's impending death to secure his own legacy. You make a note to speak to TomĂĄs about what he saw and heard.
You draft a telegram to Samuel who you hope might have connections that could assist you. You begin to compile a meticulous list of everyone who relies on the beef Joel raises and anyone who might be prepared to speak well of him.
Then, when Sarah gets bored and wanders off into the kitchen, you pause, rise from your chair and move over to the window to look out across the garden at the larkspur and the roses, bright and fierce against the dry landscape.
âHelp me, Tess,â you whisper. âHelp me save him.â
Joelâs fought the fever for you, been willing to throw his life away to keep you breathing.
Now, youâre going to fight the entire damn state of Texas for him, and youâre going to burn Reverend Sawyer's reputation to the ground in the process.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: Your health slowly improves, then Maggie drops a bombshell about something Joelâs been keeping from you.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Moving forwards, Iâm aiming to post on Tuesdays and Fridays đ„°
The journey back from the edge of the grave is not a sudden, miraculous leap, but a slow, agonising crawl.
For the first few days after the fever breaks, youâre entirely confined to bed, your body completely hollowed out by the fire thatâs consumed you. Your limbs feel like theyâre made of water and lead and simply lifting a cup of broth to your lips makes your arms tremble violently with exertion.
But youâre never alone.
Joel becomes your shadow, your anchor, your entire world, abandoning his duties on the ranch to become your caretaker, his hands capable of the most breathtaking tenderness youâve ever experienced.
When youâre too weak to stand, he brings a basin of warm water and a cake of lavender soap into the bedroom and bathes you. He strips away your sweat-soaked nightgown with a clinical focus that completely ignores his own starving desires. He washes your pale, trembling body with a soft cloth, hands moving over your collarbones, your ribs, the swell of your breasts, and the curve of your thighs with a reverence that makes you want to weep. He doesnât look at you with feral, predatory lust, but rather like youâre made of the most precious, fragile glass on earth, terrified that if he presses too hard, youâll shatter.
"I've got you," he murmurs as he lifts you effortlessly against his chest to change the damp sheets beneath you. "You're safe, just rest."
By the end of the week, Sarah comes home from Mariaâs and the moment you see her dark eyes wide and shining with unshed tears, your heart swells until you think your ribs might crack. Joel lifts her onto the bed, and she crawls carefully against your side, burying her face in the crook of your neck.
"You didn't go away," she whispers into your skin, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric of your nightgown.
"I'm right here, my sweet girl," you promise, your weak arms wrapping around her solid little body, "and I'm not going anywhere."
Joel stands at the foot of the bed, watching the two of you without saying a word. But the look in his eyes is so profoundly, overwhelmingly full of love that it physically takes your breath away because you can see that heâs looking at his family.
At night, the dynamic shifts into something deeply intimate, yet entirely chaste.
Joel refuses to let you sleep alone, instead stripping down to his drawers and climbing into the bed beside you. He doesnât, however, make a single attempt to ravish you. The dark, filthy promises he whispered against your neck before the fever struck are completely suspended. He knows your body is still knitting itself back together, and he absolutely refuses to take an ounce of your recovering strength for his own pleasure.
Instead, he holds you flush against his chest, wrapping his arm securely around your waist, anchoring you to the mattress and buries his face in your hair, his hot breath washing over your neck in a slow, steady rhythm.
Itâs heaven. But as the days bleed into the second week of your recovery, you begin to notice a subtle, dark undercurrent beneath his devotion.
Youâre growing stronger, able to sit up in the parlour and walk to the kitchen with his arm around your waist, the colour returning to your cheeks. But Joel isnât relaxing, if anything the tension in his body seems to wind tighter.
You begin waking up in the middle of the night to find the bed beside you empty, only to see him standing by the bedroom window, staring out into the night, his shoulders hunched, his jaw locked so tight the muscle leaps under his skin. When you call his name, he turns, returning to the bed to pull you fiercely against his chest, telling you that everythingâs fine and you donât have to worry.
But you can tell that heâs carrying something. A heavy, suffocating weight that he refuses to let you see.
You assume, quite naturally, that itâs the ghost of Tess. You assume the sheer terror of watching you nearly die in the exact same bed his first wife perished in has left him with a deep, psychological scar. So, you try to soothe him by pressing soft, reassuring kisses to his jaw, running your fingers through his hair and promising him over and over again that youâre healthy, youâre whole and that youâre not going to leave him.
He always kisses you back, a desperate, bruising pressure against your lips, but the dark shadow in his eyes never fully dissipates.
On the Tuesday of your second week of recovery, he finally agrees to leave the house for more than ten minutes, TomĂĄs having come to the porch, insisting that a section of the northern fence has completely collapsed, leaving the cattle free to wander toward the ridge.
"I'll be back in two hours," Joel tells you, his eyes sweeping over you as you sit in the armchair, a quilt draped over your lap. "Don't get up. Don't try to cook. If you need anythinâ, you wait for me."
"Iâm perfectly fine,â you smile softly, reaching out to squeeze his thick wrist. "Go and fix the fence. I promise Iâll just sit right here and read, and Sarah can keep me company."
He leans down, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to your mouth, his thumb dragging possessively over your lower lip before he finally forces himself to walk out the door, leaving you wishing, not for the first time, that he would confide in you.
****
An hour later, the sound of wagon wheels crunching against the dry dirt of the yard breaks the quiet of the house, Sarah having dozed off for an early afternoon nap. You set your book aside and slowly push yourself up from the chair, your legs still slightly shaky, and walk to the front window.
When you look out, you see Maggie, easing herself slowly down from the seat before heading to the back of the wagon and lifting a large, covered tin pot. Walking to the front door, you pull it open as she climbed the porch steps.
âOh, thank goodness,â she gasps, her eyes widening as she takes in your pale, slightly thinner frame. Rushing forwards, she practically shoves you back inside the house. "Get back in that chair right this second! You have no business being on your feet!"
"It's so good to see you," you laugh weakly, allowing her to herd you back to the parlour where you sink back gratefully into the armchair. "I'm doing much better, truly. The fever broke over a week ago and Iâm getting stronger every day."
âYouâve had us worried sick! Paâs been climbing the walls, but I told him Iâd come out to make sure you were fine before he makes the trip. Heâs been looking a little wan himself of late,â she clucks, bustling towards the kitchen to set the heavy pot on the stove. "I brought you a venison stew, thick and rich, exactly what you need to put some meat back on your bones. Joelâs going to run himself into an early grave trying to do the work of three men and nurse you at the same time."
"Heâs been wonderful," you murmur, a soft, involuntary flush warming your cheeks at the thought of your husbandâs tender care.
Maggie walks back into the parlour, pulls up a chair and sits down opposite you, her sharp eyes studying your face with a mixture of profound relief and a strange, nervous hesitation.
âYou werenât to know, of course you werenât, how you might catch that fever. Youâre too caring for your own good â Iâve always told you that â and now all this business with the Reverend, odious man that he is. Why the Lord sees fit to bring such troubles to our doors Iâll never know.â
You blink, brows drawing together in genuine confusion. "The Reverend? Why, what happened?"
Maggie freezes, her mouth opening then snapping shut and she stares at you, her eyes darting toward the hallway, then back again, the colour slowly draining from her face.
"AreâŠare you telling me you don't know?"
"Know what, Maggie?" you ask, a cold, prickling sensation of dread beginning to uncoil at the base of your spine. "Joel hasn't said a word recently about the Reverend and he hasnât darkened our door since I came here. Iâve been considering that whatever legal claim he wished to bring has long been extinguished in his mind.â
Maggie lets out a long, heavy breath and shakes her head. "Oh, LordâŠso Joel didn't tell you? That stubborn, foolish man."
"Tell me what?" you demand, your voice gaining a sharp, desperate edge.
Maggie leans forward. âThe day your fever was at its worst... Reverend Sawyer came out to the ranch. He told folks in town he was coming to offer a prayer over you, but you know how he is.â She pauses and lets out a long breath.
The cold dread in your stomach turns into a block of solid ice. "What did he do, Maggie?"
"Nobody knows exactly what was said," she continues, âbut according to Mrs Smart, the Reverend came tearing back into town looking like he'd seen the devil himself. His suit was torn, his neck was bruised black and blue and he ran straight to the jailhouse, screaming that Joel had tried to murder him right there in your yard.â
Your breath hitches violently in your throat.
"He swore out a warrant for assault," she says grimly, âand Sheriff Hayes rode out here the very next afternoon with two deputies to arrest Joel."
"Arrest him?" you gasp. "But... Joelâs been here every single day. He hasn't left my side."
"Hayes came back to town and apparently told the council that Joel was standing on the porch like a mad dog. Mrs Smart said he told Hayes that if they wanted to take him to a cell while you were dying, they were going to have to put a bullet in his head to do it."
The room completely stops spinning as you suddenly understand the origins of the heavy, suffocating weight Joelâs been carrying, the dark, brooding tension in his body as he stares out the window into the night. He hasnât just been terrified of losing you to the fever â heâs waiting for the law to come back and drag him away from you.
"Hayes is a good man," Maggie sighs, shaking her head. "Apparently, he told the Reverend that Joel wasn't on the property when he got here, to buy him some time. But the town council is breathing down Hayes's neck now and the Reverendâs demanding justice. Hayes told Joel that once you were better, he needed to turn himself in or heâd come back to get him."
You canât breathe, the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of what Joelâs done crashing over you like a tidal wave. Heâs assaulted a man of the cloth, drawn a line in the dirt against the law itself, risked absolutely everything, just so he wouldn't have to leave your side while you fought the fever.
"Why?" you whisper, tears of absolute shock and terror welling in your eyes. "Why would Joel attack him?"
"Come now, you know what the Reverendâs like," Maggie says gently, reaching out to squeeze your trembling hand. "Heâs still convinced that he holds higher claim to Sarah than Joel does, not forgetting how badly he wanted â and still wants â Belle to be the new Mrs Miler, even if he hasnât, so far, done anything about it. But Joel loves you. Anyone with eyes can see that, and if the Reverend perhaps said something un-Christian about you... well, Iâm sure Joel wouldnât have taken it kindly.â
You pull your hand away, your heart hammering a frantic, deafening rhythm against your ribs.
Heâs a wanted man. Your husband, the man whoâs bathed your feverish skin with agonising tenderness and held you tenderly every night is facing a jail cell.
âThis canâtâŠhe canâtâŠâ
âYou must speak with him,â Maggie says firmly. âYou have to make him tell you about this, because it isnât something he can fight alone. If he does turn himself into Hayes, then the judge will have to come andâŠâ she trails off.
âYes,â you say weakly, fighting down the lump in your throat. âYes, Iâll speak with him.â
Maggie lingers a little longer, tentatively revealing that sheâs expecting another child, news you greet with appropriate delight albeit your mind is completely overburdened with the news about Joel. When she finally bids you farewell, you sit alone in the parlour, the silence of the ranch pressing down on you with suffocating force.
When Sarah wakens, she comes and sits on the floor at your feet with her dolls, then you read together, but the words blur before your eyes, the prose making no sense as you wait for Joel to come home.
An hour later, the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots sounds on the porch, and the screen door whines on its hinges as he finally steps inside. He looks exhausted, but the moment his eyes land on you, the tension in his shoulders instantly softens.
"Hey," he rumbles, tossing his hat onto a peg and walking straight toward you. "You look pale. Did you get up?"
Dropping to one knee in front of your chair, he kisses the top of Sarahâs head then reaches out and gently cups your face, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones, searching your skin for the heat of the fever.
"Maggie came by," you say, locking your gaze on his, your voice perfectly steady, but incredibly quiet.
Joelâs hands freeze on your face and his eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw instantly locking tight. He takes a breath and turns to Sarah. âHow are the kittens today, babygirl?â
âGood Pa,â she replies.
âHave you fed âem yet?â She shakes her head. âWell, you run along and do that. Iâll be out to help you in a minute.â
Sarah scrambles to her feet and rushes out of the room, Joel waiting for the door to close behind her before turning back to you.
"What did she tell you?"
"She brought stew, and she told me that Sheriff Hayes rode out here with two deputies while I was unconscious. She told meâŠshe told me that you assaulted the Reverend and that the Sheriff means to arrest you."
He remains on his knee, chest heaving with slow, deliberate breaths, then looks away from you, staring at the braided rug beneath his boots, his jaw twitching violently.
"Joel, look at me.â He doesnât move. "Look at me!" you demand, your voice cracking with a sudden, fierce spike of adrenaline.
He slowly lifts his head, the look in his eyes terrifying. It isnât guilt you find there, or regret, but rather a dark, lethal, entirely unapologetic defiance.
"Did you attack the Reverend?" you ask, your heart pounding in your throat.
"I pinned him to his buggy," he says quietly. "TomĂĄs pulled me off âfore I could break his jaw."
"Why?" you whisper. "Joel, I know heâs said and done some terrible things, butâŠâ
Joel surges upward, unfolding from the floor with a sudden, violent speed that makes you gasp. Then he stands over you, the sheer, radiating heat of his anger completely filling the air around you.
"Because he stood in my yard and told me you were gonna die!" he snaps, his voice making you flinch and grip the armrests of the chair.
His chest heaves frantically, his hands flying up to grip the back of his own neck as he paces a tight, agitated circle in front of you.
"He stood there with his damn Bible," he snarls, his voice a raw, ragged scrape of pure hatred. "And basically, told me it was God's will for you to burn to death in that bed, so that I could marry Belle and give Sarah a proper mother. He smiled about it. He stood in my yard, and he smiled at the thought of puttinâ you in the ground!"
He turns back to face you.
"I told him if he said another damn word about you dyinâ, I would bury him right next to his daughter, and I meant it.â
He drops his hands from his neck, his shoulders slumping slightly as the adrenaline burns off, leaving behind a raw, exhausted desperation. Then he takes a slow step toward your chair, eyes locking onto yours with an absolute, unbreakable intensity.
"And then Hayes came. He wanted to drag me to a cell, wanted to take me away from you while you were burninâ up and I told him no. I told him he'd have to shoot me dead on the porch, âcause there was no force on this earth that was gonna pull me out of this house âtil I knew you were safe."
You stare up at him, completely paralysed. The sheer, overwhelming magnitude of what heâs done â what heâs been willing to sacrifice â is staggering. It feels like a terrifying, violent, entirely unhinged kind of love, and God help you itâs exactly the kind of love you need.
Throwing the quilt off your lap and ignoring the trembling weakness in your legs, you push yourself up from the armchair.
"Don'tâŠ" Joel starts, his hands instantly coming up to catch you.
But you donât fall. You step directly into his space, wrapping your arms tightly around waist, and press your face flush against his chest. He freezes for a fraction of a second, then crushes you against him with a desperate, bruising force, burying his face in the crook of your neck, a deep, shuddering groan tearing out of his throat as he breathes you in.
"You foolish, wonderful man," you weep into his skin, your tears mixing with the dust and sweat on his shirt "You could have been killed. They could have shot you right there on the porch."
"I didnât care," he swears fiercely against your neck. "I still don't care. If I had to do it again right now, I'd break the Reverendâs jaw and throw Hayes off the porch. Youâre mine and I protect what's mine."
You cling to him, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart hammering against your own ribs. "What are we going to do?" you whisper, pulling back just enough to look up into his face. "Sheriff Hayes said you have to turn yourself in when I'm well. You can't go to jail, Joel. Sarah needs you. I need you."
Joel reaches up and gently wipes the tears from your cheeks. "I ainât goinâ to jail," he says. "Hayes is a fair man. He knows the Reverendâs a snake, and half the town council buys their beef from this ranch. They can't afford to have me locked up, and they know it."
He frames your face with his hands, eyes burning with an absolute vow.
"Tomorrow morninâ, I'm ridinâ into town. I'm gonna walk into the Sheriff's office, and I'm gonna pay whatever damn fine I need to for disturbing the peace. But I ainât sittinâ in a cell. Iâm cominâ right back here to you."
"I'm coming with you," you say instantly, your chin tipping up in defiance.
"No. You're still too weak to ride in the wagon. You need to stay here with Sarah."
"Iâm your wife, Joel," you insist, pressing your hands flat against his chest, âand I am going to show every single person in Sawyer's Creek exactly who I am to you. We face this together."
He stares down at you and a slow, breathtakingly proud smile breaks across his face. âGod, I love you,â he says, through a watery, exhausted chuckle. âI love you so much.â
Then he leans down and captures your mouth in a deep, branding kiss that tastes of salt, dust, and absolute victory, kissing you until your knees buckle, his arms holding you up.
âThought I gave up believinâ in the Almighty a long time ago,â he finally murmurs against your hair. âBut I thank him every day for bringinâ you to me.â
You sigh gratefully into his chest, well aware that your own prayers have been lacking of late. âMake sure â next time â you thank him for the both of us.â
****
That night, Joelâs bed â your bed â feels like a sanctuary, completely insulated from the judgment of the town and the threats of the law.
The moonlight spills through the window, casting a soft, silver glow over the tangled quilts as you lie on your back, your head resting against the curve of Joelâs shoulder, the sheer, radiating heat of his body a soothing balm against your recovering muscles.
You can tell heâs awake by the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, and the gentle, absentminded tracing of his fingers up and down your bare arm. The adrenaline of the afternoon has faded, leaving behind a deep, aching vulnerability, and you shift slightly, turning your body toward his, your leg sliding over his thigh.
He lets out a low, vibrating hum and shifts his weight, turning onto his side to face you fully, his eyes dark and incredibly soft in the moonlight. He doesnât speak. Instead, he reaches out and gently cups your jaw, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.
Slowly, deliberately, his hand moves down, tracing the delicate line of your collarbone as though heâs worshipping at an altar, acutely aware of how close heâs come to losing you, completely devoted to cherishing the life beating beneath his palms.
His hand sweeps lower, tracing the curve of your waist and the swell of your hip, the sheer gentleness of his touch sending a slow, heavy wave of liquid heat pooling deep in your belly.
You let out a soft, trembling sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as his fingers find the hem of your nightgown. Slowly, he gathers the soft fabric, drawing it up your calves, past your knees and over the sensitive skin of your thighs. The cool night air brushes against your bare legs, instantly replaced by the scorching heat of his palm resting flat against your inner thigh.
"Joel," you whisper, the sound incredibly fragile in the quiet room.
"Shh," he murmurs, leaning forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Just let me love you, darlinâ. You don't have to do a damn thing."
His hand slides higher, fingers brushing against the damp curls at your centre, making his own breath hitch. He pauses, his thumb gently parting the slick, swollen folds of your sex to find you completely, overwhelmingly wet. The sheer emotional intensity of the day, combined with the intoxicating safety of his arms, has left you weeping for him, your body aching with a deep, needy throb despite your lingering weakness.
He groans softly and strokes his thumb slowly over your slick flesh, coating his skin in your arousal.
"So sweet," he murmurs, his voice a dark, velvet rumble against your cheek. "So damn responsive for me."
He moves down the mattress with a slow, deliberate grace, but he doesnât go straight for the aching, dripping centre heâs just uncovered. Instead, he leans over you, his bare shoulders blocking out the moonlight as he presses his hot, open mouth to the erratic pulse beating at the base of your throat.
You let out a soft, trembling sigh as he drags his lips slowly across your collarbone, then moves lower, to the hollow of your shoulder, his hot breath washing over your flesh before his tongue darts out to taste the salt on your skin.
You feel completely overwhelmed. For thirty-four years, your body has been a practical, ignored vessel. Youâve never been touched, never been cherished, never been the sole focus of a man's absolute, undivided devotion and the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of his reverence brings hot, silent tears prickling to the corners of your eyes.
You moan softly, your hands coming up to weakly tangle in his hair as his mouth moved lower.
"I'm right here," he murmurs against your skin as he pushes the bunched fabric of your nightgown completely out of the way, baring your chest to the air. His hands gently cup your breasts, thumbs brushing lightly over the tight, aching peaks and he leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss, his lips incredibly gentle, before taking one tight nipple into his mouth, laving it slowly with the flat of his tongue, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.
He worships you â thereâs no other descriptor for it. He kisses the soft curve of your ribs, hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing the delicate dip of your navel. Every press of his lips, every stroke of his skin against yours feels like a silent, physical vow.
You are beautiful. You are mine. You are safe.
You feel as though youâre floating on a warm, liquid ocean, the aching, throbbing need between your legs building into a frantic, heavy pulse. But you donât want him to stop. You want to drown in the feeling of being utterly adored.
His mouth trails lower, pressing hot, damp kisses over the soft curve of your lower belly, right above the curls at your centre. You shift your hips instinctively, a tiny, involuntary buck seeking the friction of his mouth, but he simply smiles against your skin, then gently guides your knees further apart, opening you up completely to his burning gaze.
You know what heâs about to do â at least you think you do. Youâve heard tales of such things and yet, part of you, has never quite believed that they could be true. It doesnât seem proper somehow for a man to put his mouthâŠthereâŠor for a woman to crave it.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your right thigh then moves to your left, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive flesh just inches away from your weeping core. The anticipation is intoxicating, a slow torture that leaves you completely unspooled.
"Please," you whimper, your fingers tightening in his hair, your body begging for the release only he can give.
He lets out a low, rough hum of pure masculine satisfaction, then shifts his weight again, settling his forearms on the mattress beside your thighs, and finally, gently, lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue makes you gasp, your spine arching off the sheets.
Itâs a completely different sensation than the desperate, feral way he touched you in the barn. This is excruciatingly slow and exquisitely tender. He traces your delicate, swollen folds with the flat, hot surface of his tongue, tasting your slickness with long, lazy laps that send warm, honeyed shivers radiating outward from your core.
"Oh, God," you breathe, your head tossing back against the pillows.
He hums against your wet flesh, his breath sending a fresh wave of arousal straight to your brain. Then he finds the ultra-sensitive nub of your clitoris and begins to lap at it with agonising care. He doesnât use suction nor his teeth. He simply strokes the aching bundle of nerves with the soft, wet tip of his tongue, a steady, rhythmic pressure that builds the pleasure in slow, beautiful layers.
You melt into the mattress, all the lingering tension, all the fear of the fever and the town, completely dissolving under the tender, devoted worship of his mouth.
He takes his time, learning the exact, delicate pressure that makes you whimper, the exact angle that makes your hips give a tiny, involuntary buck against his chin. He uses his hands to gently stroke the insides of your thighs, keeping you grounded, making sure you feel perfectly safe and entirely cherished.
The climax doesnât hit you like a violent lightning strike. It blossoms like a sunrise, a deep, radiant warmth that starts in your chest and spreads slowly downward, tightening the liquid pool in your stomach until it overflows â a sensation youâve never experienced before. You let out a soft, weeping cry, your inner muscles clenching in a series of long, rippling spasms that wash over you in beautiful, exhausting waves.
Joel swallows your soft cries, his tongue continuing its slow, soothing rhythm until the very last tremor fades from your limbs.
He slowly pulls back, his chest heaving softly, then crawls back up the mattress, shifting until heâs lying beside you once again. He gathers your limp, thoroughly sated body into his arms, hauling you flush against his chest and pulls the quilt over you both before kissing your forehead gently.
"Sleep," he whispers into the dark, his arms wrapping around you like an impenetrable fortress. "I've got you."
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: As Joel begs for your life, a visit from the Reverend only paves the way for more heartache.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
The darkness is not entirely silent. Itâs a heavy, suffocating ocean of heat that drags you under, but through the crushing pressure of the fever, fragmented sounds manage to pierce the surface.
You hear the violent, splintering crash of a chair being kicked aside and feel the jarring, rapid thud of heavy boots vibrating through the solid wall of muscle beneath your cheek. Youâre being carried, held so tightly against Joelâs chest that the frantic, terrifying hammering of his heart feels like itâs beating inside your own ribs.
Then, thereâs the agonising, dry heat baking your skin, and the feeling of being lowered onto the soft, cedar-scented mattress of the bedroom.
You hear Joel shouting â not the low, gravelly rumble of the man whoâs promised to ruin you in the dark, but rather a raw, blood-curdling sound of absolute panic.
"Get back! You did this! She spent days sittinâ in your infected air, wipinâ your damn sweat, givinâ you every ounce of her strength so you wouldn't die in my dirt! And you gave her this! You brought this into my house! You brought this sickness here!â
Time loses all meaning. It stretches and warps, marked only by the sensation of a rough hand frantically brushing the damp hair from your forehead, and the low, broken string of curses and prayers Joel mutters into the stifling air.
When you next drift near the surface of consciousness, the room smells sharply of alcohol and camphor.
"Looks like the same thing,â a new voice says, one you recognise as being that of Doc Cooper. âSheâs been breathing his air and wiping his sweat while running herself ragged. Her body had no defences left to fight it off."
"Fix it," Joel demands, the sound of his voice sending a weak, involuntary shiver through your burning limbs. Itâs dangerously low, vibrating with a lethal, cornered desperation. "Give her whatever you gave him."
"I didn't give him anything but time and water, Joel, you know that," the doctor sighs, the sound of his leather bag snapping shut echoing in the room. "Thereâs no medicine for this. It has to burn itself out. She needs constant care. Cold compresses to keep the core temperature down, fluids if you can get her to swallow them. But I won't lie to you... she's weaker than he was when it hit. Her pulse is entirely too fast."
âShe needsâŠcared for, she needsâŠâ
âIâd tell you to send for her sister, but sheâs got those three boys of hers and I just confirmed for her yesterday that sheâs expecting her fourth â so I doubt sheâd come even if she could.â
A heavy, suffocating silence falls over the room. You try to open your eyes, try to tell Joel youâre strong enough to fight this, but your eyelids feel like theyâre sewn shut.
"Send your girl away and keep vigil over her. The most important thing is to keep her cool," Doc Cooper murmurs, his footsteps retreating toward the door, âand letâs pray the fever breaks before long.â
The heavy door clicks shut, leaving the bedroom in a thick, agonising stillness and you finally succumb.
****
Outside in the hallway, just beyond the thick wood of the door, Joel stands completely paralysed, staring blindly at the floorboards, his hands trembling violently at his sides as the doctor shows himself out.
TomĂĄs stands a few feet away, holding his dusty hat in his hands, watching his boss completely unravel.
"Boss," he starts softly, "Iâll take Sarah back to Maria andâŠ"
"I can't do it," Joel whispers, slowly lifting his head and turning to look at his friend, his body gripped by a profound, agonising terror. Reaching up, he grips the back of his neck, fingers digging into his skin as he struggles to pull air into his lungs. "I can't watch it happen again.â
A dry tearing sob escapes his throat, and he backs away from the bedroom door as if the wood itself is burning him.
"I buried Tess. I sat in that room, and I watched the life drain right out of her, andâŠand I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. And nowâŠ." He squeezes his eyes shut, body shaking with the force of his grief. "God, I just found her. I just realised what she is and I canâtâŠI can't watch another woman I love die in that bed. Itâll kill me, TomĂĄs, I canât do it!"
Tomasâs face tightens as he steps forward, closing the distance between them. He doesnât offer a polite platitude, instead, he reaches out and clamps his hand firmly onto Joelâs broad shoulder, gripping the heavy muscle with surprising strength.
"Listen to me, mi amigo," he says, his voice dropping to a fierce, commanding rumble. "Donât put her in the ground before God calls her name. Sheâs not a fragile flower â sheâs strong.â
Joel opens his eyes, staring at the other man through a blur of terrified tears.
"She fought for the easterner," TomĂĄs reminds him fiercely, shaking Joelâs shoulder to force the panic out of his head. "She sat in that room and dragged a stranger back from the edge of the grave through sheer, stubborn will. Sheâs one of the strongest women I have ever met. But sheâs exhausted because she spent all her strength caring for everyone else in this house."
His dark eyes bore into Joelâs, demanding the feral, protective beast rises from the ashes of his fear.
"She fought for him," he repeats. "Now, you must fight for her. You donât get to run away to the barn this time. You donât get to hide from the fear. You go in there, you put your hands on her, and you anchor her to this world. You make sure she knows youâre waiting for her to wake up."
"Pa?"
Joel turns sharply to see Sarah standing at the far end of the hallway wearing her little white cotton nightgown, her dark braids sleep-tousled, clutching her worn rag doll tightly to her chest, her eyes wide with a profound, instinctive terror.
His breath hitches at the sight and he crosses the distance to her, dropping to both knees, his hands gently gripping her small, trembling shoulders.
"Hey, babygirl," he rasps, forcing his voice to soften, swallowing the jagged glass in his throat. "What are you doinâ out of bed?"
"Is she sick?" Sarah whimpers, her lower lip trembling violently as she looks past him toward the closed bedroom door. "I heard voices and yelling. I want to see her."
"No, babygirl, you can't," Joel says quickly, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over her fragile collarbones. "She's got a bad fever and it ainât safe for you to be in there."
"But I want to help!" she protests, the tears finally spilling over her dark lashes, cutting tracks down her flushed cheeks. She tries to push past him, her tiny hands pressing against his chest. "I can bring her water, and I can sing to her! Please, Pa, don't let her go away!"
The words hit Joel with the devastating force of a physical blow.
Don't let her go away.
He lets out a ragged, tearing breath and pulls her forward, wrapping his arms entirely around her tiny frame, crushing her to his chest. Then he buries his face in her hair, his tears soaking into the cotton of her nightgown.
"She ainât goinâ anywhere, Sarah," he swears, his voice vibrating against her ear. "I ainât lettinâ her leave us, I promise you. But I need you to go back to Mariaâs."
Sarah sobs, her little arms locking around his neck, burying her wet face in the crook of his shoulder. "I don't want to leave," she cries into his skin. "I want to stay here!â
"I know, babygirl. I know," Joel hushes her, his hand cupping the back of her head, holding her as if he can shield her from the brutal reality of the world. "But I need you to be brave for me. I need to be with her, and I can't do that if I'm worryinâ about you catchinâ this. I need you to go with TomĂĄs, just for a little while."
Raising his eyes, he meets Tomasâs gaze and the other man nods in understanding.
âBut I just came home!â
He pulls back just enough to look her in the eye and wipes her tears away.
"Youâre my brave girl," he tells her. âAnd I need you to keep beinâ brave. I need you to go Mariaâs and Iâm gonna stay right here, and look after her until sheâs better, okay?â
Sarah sniffs and slowly, she gives a tiny, trembling nod. âOkay Pa.â
Joel leans forward, pressing a long, desperate kiss to her forehead, then stands up and turns back to TomĂĄs.
"Take her now,â he says. "Wrap her in a blanket against the night air and see her settled. Then come back here and get that man outta my house." His eyes move to your bedroom door, to where Samuel retreated after heâd returned from rousing TomĂĄs. âIf his stage is leavinâ tomorrow, he can spend the night in town.â
TomĂĄs nods, stepping forward to gently take Sarah's small hand. "Come, pequeña. Let me get you back to Maria. Sheâll have something nice waiting for you.â
Joel stands in the hallway, watching his oldest friend lead his daughter out into the dark, waiting until the heavy thud of the screen door echoes through the house before turning back to the heavy door separating you from him. Taking a long, shuddering breath, he pushes it open and steps back inside.
You havenât moved from where he left you in the centre of the bed, your hair fanned out against the pillows, your face flushed with a terrifying, unnatural heat.
He walks to the side of the bed, strips off his shirt and tosses it onto the floor, his chest heaving as he sits down on the edge of the mattress, plunges a clean cloth into the basin of cold water on the nightstand, wrings it out, and gently presses it to your burning forehead.
Then, he reaches down, his hand enveloping yours, intertwining his fingers with yours, his grip solid, warm, and entirely unbreakable.
"I'm right here, darlinâ," he whispers, leaning down until his lips brush against your burning ear, his voice a fiercely tender, absolute vow in the dark. "Sarah's safe, and I'm right here. I'm not lettinâ you go. You hear me? Youâre my wife, you belong to me and I swear I am not gonna let you leave me."
****
The second night of the fever is a suffocating, agonising eternity.
The bedroom feels like a tomb, the air thick with the smell of camphor and the terrifying, rapid sound of your shallow breathing. By three in the morning, the water in the basin has grown entirely too warm to cool your burning skin.
Joel canât stand the sound of your ragged breaths for another second without doing something, his body vibrating with a desperate, helpless energy thatâs slowly driving him mad. Rising, he grabs the basin, and quietly slips out of the room, leaving the door cracked open just enough to hear you should you call for him.
Walking through the dark, silent house, he pushes through the back screen door into the yard and walks to the pump, the handle squealing softly as he drives it down, letting the freezing water spill over his hands and into the basin. But as the water overflows, splashing into the dust at his boots, he feels his exhausted eyes drawn to Tessâs garden.
Even in the dark, he can see the vibrant stalks of blue larkspur reaching toward the sky and the bloom of the yellow roses against the trellis. He sets the heavy basin down by the pump, legs feeling like lead as he crosses the yard.
When he reaches the edge of the soil, he drops heavily to his knees and reaches out to gently brush his fingers against the soft, velvet petals, a raw, ragged sob tearing its way out of his throat, shattering the quiet of the night.
"Tess," he whispers, voice cracking, completely ruined by the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of his terror. âPleaseâŠsheâs fixed the house, fixed Sarah, fixed me...â
He squeezes his eyes shut, hot, exhausted tears cutting tracks down his face.
"She planted these for you. She didn't try to erase you. She honoured you and sheâs the best thing that couldâve happened to us after losinâ you. So pleaseâŠplease don't let Him take her, Tess," he begs, the words tearing out of his throat like jagged glass. "If you have any say up there, you tell God to leave her here. You tell Him I can't survive it. I'll give Him the ranch and the cattle, I'll even give Him my own damn life, but, please, he canât have her too.â
He kneels there in the dirt for a long time, weeping into the roots of the flowers youâve grown until the breeze rustles the larkspur, brushing them against his knuckles like a gentle, reassuring touch.
Then he lets out a long, shuddering breath and slowly lifts his head, wiping his wet face with the back of arm. He isnât going to lose you â he canât.
So he stands up and walks back to the pump, picks up the basin and strides back into the house.
****
The following morning, Joel jerks awake to sunlight streaming through the window and pain in his back from the awkward position in which heâd fallen asleep. His eyes immediately fly to you, his heart dropping slightly at the flush still blooming across your cheeks and the heat that continues to radiate from your body when he reaches out to touch you.
âIâm here, darlinâ,â he murmurs, placing a fresh cloth on your forehead. âIâm here.â
Through the open window, he can hear the familiar sounds of the ranch waking up â the lowing of the cattle and stamping of the horses â but beyond that, faint at first then growing louder, he hears the sounds of a wagon approaching.
When he moves to the window and looks out, his stomach clenches at the sight of Reverend Sawyer driving his buggy up towards the house, dressed all in black, as though paying a call on the recently bereaved.
Gently smoothing down the quilt, he drops a soft kiss on your burning forehead, then moves out of the room and through the kitchen to the porch just as the Reverend pulls the buggy to a halt and steps down into the dirt, a Bible in his hand, his face a mask of pious, judgemental solemnity.
He glances briefly around the yard before his gaze settles on the ruined, desperate state of his former son-in-law.
"I heard the news in town, Joel," he says. "A terrible tragedy to strike this house twice. I have come to offer a prayer for the new Mrs Miller's soul, should the Lord decide to call her home."
Joel goes still, his fists balling tightly at his sides. âGet off of my land.â
The Reverend stiffens, his chin lifting in righteous indignation. "I am a man of God, Joel. And the grandfather of your child. I have a right to be here, especially after you so hastily replaced my daughter with a woman who clearly lacks the constitution for this land."
"You don't have a right to a damn thing on my property," Joel growls, taking a slow, heavy step across the porch. "Not after you wanted to drag me in front of a judge and have me declared an unfit father just âcause I wouldn't hand Sarah over to you and not after you tried to push Belle into my bed before Tessâs grave was even cold."
The Reverendâs pale face flushes a dull, ugly red. "Tessâs grave was barely cold before you installed herâŠsuccessor,â he sneers. âBelle is a good, God-fearing woman. She would have raised Sarah right. She would have been a proper mother, instead of whatever practical arrangement you bought for yourself from the mercantile."
Joelâs jaw locks hard and he takes another step down from the steps, advancing slowly on the man in front of him. "I'm givinâ you three seconds to turn around, get back on your buggy and get the hell off my land âfore I throw you off it.â
But the Reverend doesnât move. Emboldened by his own twisted sense of righteousness, he draws himself up to his full height. "You can threaten me all you want, Joel. but the Lord's will cannot be fought with fists. Sheâs going to die in that bed, just like my Tess did. And when she is gone... Belle will still be unmarried. You will need comfort, and Sarah will still need a mother."
The world seems to completely stop spinning and something deep, dark, and entirely untamed snaps inside Joelâs chest.
He lunges forward, grabbing the lapels of the Reverendâs pristine black suit and with a guttural roar of rage, lifts him clean off his feet, slamming him backward into the side of the buggy. The Reverend gasps, the Bible dropping from his hands, his eyes bulging in absolute terror as Joelâs forearm presses brutally against his windpipe, forcing his head back.
"Say another word about my wife," Joel snarls, his face inches from the Reverendâs as he draws his fist back, fully prepared to cave the man's face in. "Say one more damn word about her dyinâ, and Iâll bury you right next to your daughter!"
"Joel!â
TomĂĄs suddenly appears from the barn like a phantom, his hands instantly wrapping around Joelâs raised, trembling forearm, throwing his entire weight backward to keep Joel from delivering the fatal blow.
"Let me go, TomĂĄs!" Joel roars, fighting the restraint, his gaze locked entirely on the choking Reverend. "I'm gonna kill him!"
"No, you are not!" TomĂĄs barks, stepping between Joelâs raised fist and the Reverend, forcing the other man to look at him. "Look at me, patrĂłn! He is a fool, but heâs not worth the rope they will hang you with! If you kill him, who is going to sit in that chair? Who is going to hold her hand when she wakes up?"
Joelâs chest heaves frantically, his breath tearing in and out of his lungs in ragged, tearing gasps. He looks at TomĂĄs, then slowly turns his head to look back towards the house, where your small, fragile form is still fighting the fire in his bed.
With a dark, disgusted snarl, he releases his grip causing the older man to stagger, coughing and gasping for air.
"If I ever see your face on this ranch again,â he growls, âif you ever come within a mile of my wife or my daughter... God himself won't be able to save you."
The Reverend quickly rights himself, grabs his Bible and scrambles back into the buggy. Once safe off the ground, he narrows his eyes at Joel. âYou just made a terrible mistake, Joel.â Then he snaps the reins and drives the horse forwards into a turn before speeding back out of the yard the way he came.
Joel closes his eyes, dragging his hands over his face then, without a word to TomĂĄs, turns on his heel and walks straight back into the house to where youâre waiting for him. He doesnât allow himself to think about the Reverend â his face, his words, his poison â instead he focuses entirely on you. On keeping you cool, keeping you alive.
****
Later that afternoon, just as Joelâs finishing telling you a tale about his childhood, one he dredged up from his memory simply to fill the deadening silence of the room, he once again hears the sound of approaching horses â more this time than before.
Minutes later, the bedroom door creaks open and TomĂĄs appears in the threshold, his face drawn tight with grim urgency. "Boss,â he murmurs. "Sheriff Hayes is in the yard. He's got a couple of deputies with him."
Joel lifts the cloth and gently smooths it down over your face and neck. âI donât got any business with him.â
"He says he has a warrant," TomĂĄs insists gently. "Sworn out by the Reverend for assault. He says he has to take you in."
Joel pauses, then carefully lays the cloth across your brow before standing up and following TomĂĄs out through the house to the yard. Sheriff Hayes is standing at the bottom of the porch steps, his hand resting uneasily on the butt of his revolver whilst two deputies wait by the horses.
"Joel," Hayes starts, holding up a placating hand. "Now, listen, I donât want any trouble, but Reverend Sawyer came into my office screaming that you nearly crushed his windpipe this morning. I don't want to do this, but I've got a piece of paper here that says I have to take you to the jailhouse."
Joel holds his gaze for a moment, then glances at the deputies. "No."
"Joel, be reasonable," Hayes sighs, his grip tightening slightly on his gun. "If you fight this, it's only going to make it worse. Come quietly, and we'll sort it out in front of the judge. I can send a wire as soon as we get back."
"I said no,â Joel growls, taking a slow, heavy step forward. "My wife is burninâ alive in my bed and I ainât leavinâ this ranch."
"I understand you're in a bad spotâŠ"
"You don't understand a damn thing!" he roars, the sudden, violent volume making both deputies reach for their rifles. "Sheâs dyinâ, Hayes! She spent three days fighting the sickness that eastern bastard brought here, and now it's eatinâ her alive! I have to put cold water on her skin just to keep her heart beatinâ and if I leave, she dies!"
Hayes swallows hard. âLookâŠ.â
"I ainât leavinâ her side. So if you wanna take me to that jailhouse today, youâre gonna have to pull your gun and put a bullet right between my eyes, âcause thatâs the only way Iâm walkinâ away from that bedroom."
The yard falls completely, suffocatingly silent as both deputies look at Hayes, waiting for the order, their hands trembling slightly on their rifles.
Hayes stares at Joel for a long moment, then slowly takes his hand off his revolver.
"Sawyerâs demanding justice, Joel.â
"He came here and told me to my face that my wife was gonna die so I could marry his other daughter," Joel snarls. "He's lucky I only pinned him to a goddamn buggy. If she dies... you won't need a warrant for assault, Hayes, youâll need one for murder."
Hayes lets out a long, heavy sigh, pulling his hat off to wipe his sweating brow. He looks past Joel, towards the quiet, solemn house, then looks back. "I'll tell him you weren't on the property," he mutters, putting his hat back on. "I'll tell him you rode out to the south ridge and we couldn't track you. But Joel... when that fever breaks, one way or the other... you ride into town and see me. If you donât, Iâll have to come back and Iâll have to take you in."
âFine.â
"Okay," Hayes says. âAnd, for whatâs it worth â Iâm sorry for your troubles. I hope she makes it.â He motions to the deputies and all three of them swing back up onto their horses and take off at speed out of the yard.
âBossâŠâ TomĂĄs says, stepping forwards, but Joel waves him away.
âCanât think âbout that now, TomĂĄs. She needs me.â
Then he steps back inside the house and slams the door.
****
For three more days and nights, you float in a dark, suffocating ocean of fire.
Youâre vaguely aware of the world above the surface â the agonisingly cool shock of water on your skin, the sharp scent of camphor, the low, steady rumble of a gravelly voice reciting prayers, curses, and desperate, broken promises into the quiet of the room. You feel the constant, bruising pressure of a hand anchored to yours, a physical lifeline dragging you back every time the dark current tries to pull you under.
And then, slowly, the suffocating heat begins to recede.
You donât open your eyes all at once. The transition from the fever-dream to reality is a slow, heavy climb. The first thing you register is the air in your lungs â no longer thick and scorching, but cool and crisp, carrying the familiar, intoxicating scent of cedar, sun-baked dust, and heavy male sweat.
Your skinâs damp, but the terrifying heat is gone.
You take a deep, shuddering breath, the movement pulling at the exhausted, hollowed-out muscles of your chest, and finally manage to pry your heavy eyelids open.
The bedroom is bathed in the soft, golden light of early morning, the curtains drawn back just enough to let the dawn spill across the floorboards. Slowly, you turn your head against the pillow, the cotton rustling loudly in the quiet room.
Joelâs there.
He isnât sitting in the chair, rather heâs sprawled across the mattress beside you, fully clothed in his trousers and a wrinkled, sweat-stained shirt. Heâs lying on his stomach, his upper body angled toward you, his face buried in the crook of his own arm, looking entirely, devastatingly ruined.
Even in sleep, the lines of his face are drawn tight, a thick, dark shadow of beard covering his jaw. Deep, bruised purple crescents hang beneath his closed eyes, but what makes your breath catch in your throat is the placement of his hands.
One of them rests flat against your chest, right over your heart, as if he needs to physically feel every single beat to ensure youâre still alive. The other hand is completely wrapped around yours, his fingers intertwined with your pale ones in a grip thatâs desperate even in unconsciousness.
A profound, overwhelming wave of absolute love swells in your chest, so massive it brings hot, immediate tears to your eyes.
"Joel," you whisper.
Your voice is nothing more than a dry, reedy rasp, completely wrecked by the fever, but in the suffocating silence of his vigil, it sounds like a gunshot.
Joel jerks awake instantly, pushing himself up onto his forearms, his chest heaving, his eyes wild and completely dilated as they snap to your face.
He freezes, staring down at you, his breath catching so sharply it sounds like a physical blow. Your name rasps from his throat, his voice trembling so violently it cracks down the middle.
"I'm here," you manage to whisper, offering him a weak, exhausted smile as you squeeze his hand, a tiny exertion of pressure that feels monumental. "I'm right here."
He lets out a sound thatâs half-sob, half-roar â a raw, guttural noise of absolute, completely unhinged relief that tears straight from the deepest depths of his soul, then he scrambles up the mattress, his arms sweeping under your shoulders and behind your back, hauling your weak body flush against his chest.
"Oh, God," he chokes out, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Thank GodâŠ. thank God."
He crushes you to him, holding you so tightly you can feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart hammering against your own ribs as he trembles like a leaf in your arms.
Then he drags his hands frantically over your back, your shoulders and your arms, mapping the cool, damp texture of your skin, proving to his terrified brain that the fire is truly gone. He presses his lips to your pulse point, then your jaw, then your cheek, kissing away the hot tears that are spilling over your lashes.
"You're cool," he weeps against your skin. "The fever's gone. You're completely cool."
"You stayed," you whimper, your weak arms coming up to wrap around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"I told you I wasn't lettinâ you go," he swears fiercely, pulling back just enough to look down into your face, eyes bloodshot, shining with tears he doesnât even try to hide.
The vulnerability in his gaze is breathtaking, every single layer of his armour stripped away, leaving nothing but the raw, beating heart of a man whoâs entirely consumed by you.
"I thought I lost you," he confesses, his voice dropping to a ragged whisper that scrapes straight across your soul. His thumbs frame your jaw, holding your face as if youâre the most precious, fragile thing in the entire world. "I sat here and I thought the world was endinâ. I love you. I love you so damn much."
"I love you too," you breathe, âI love you, Joel."
He lets out a deep, broken groan and seals his mouth over yours. It isnât a starving, desperate claiming or a heavy, lustful bite of the barn, but rather a kiss of absolute, profound worship. He tastes of salt, exhaustion, and pure, concentrated devotion and he sweeps his hot tongue past your lips, a deep, slow, tender exploration that pours every ounce of his soul straight into yours.
You kiss him back with whatever weak strength you possess, your body melting completely into his solid, unyielding heat.
He finally pulls back, panting, his forehead resting heavily against yours. But he doesnât let you go, instead he keeps his arms wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you to the bed, anchoring you to him.
"You're never doinâ that to me again, you hear me?" he growls softly, a watery, exhausted chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Next time someone turns up sick on my land, Iâm leavinâ âem for the coyotes. No more sickrooms on this ranch, darlinâ.â
"Just you and me," you murmur, closing your eyes and resting your head against the heavy, steady beat of his heart.
âThatâs right darlinâ,â he says gently. âJust you and me. Nobodyâs cominâ between us â nobody.â
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: With your feelings out in the open, you continue to care for your guest whilst eagerly awaiting his departure.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
The next three days pass in a strange, sun-drenched haze of domestic routine and a secret, fluttering euphoria that you canât seem to shake.
Samuel improves rapidly under your care. By the second afternoon, heâs able to sit up in the rocking chair by the window, the colour slowly returning to his pale cheeks. Heâs exactly the kind of man youâve always imagined enjoying â articulate, well-read, and eager to discuss the progressive educational theories he plans to implement in Austin.
But as you sit with him, mending a torn hem or folding linens, you find your attention constantly drifting.
You nod along as he speaks of classical literature, but in your mind, youâre entirely consumed by the memory of a dark, gravelly voice tearing itself apart in the yard.
I love you so damn much I can't even breathe around you.
Every time Samuel smiles politely at you, you feel a sudden, phantom scorch of Joelâs hand grazing your jaw. Youâre mindful, keeping a respectful, deliberate distance from the schoolteacher, the practical spinster who had craved intellectual conversation has been completely incinerated, replaced by a woman whoâs dizzy, giddy, and hopelessly in love with the feral, magnificent man working out in the dirt.
Itâs as if a massive, suffocating dam has finally broken, releasing a flood of desperate, starving affection that neither you nor Joel can control.
You canât stop touching each other. If youâre kneading dough at the kitchen counter, Joel finds an excuse to come inside, his chest brushing against your spine as he reaches for a cup, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the nape of your neck before he pulls away. If you pass each other in the hallway, his hand inevitably snakes out to grip your waist, hauling you flush against his heavy groin for a bruising, breathless kiss that leaves your knees weak and your lips swollen.
His dark, brooding anger has vanished completely, replaced by a terrifyingly confident, predatory swagger. He knows he owns your heart, and the absolute certainty of your love has turned him into a deeply satisfied, wildly dangerous man.
Even his attitude toward Samuel completely shifts.
Heâs polite â a rugged, clipped sort of politeness, but the underlying hostility is gone, replaced by a smug, possessive patience. He knows exactly whose bed youâre aching to be dragged into, even though youâre completely convinced that the thought of being any sort of love rival has never crossed poor Samuelâs mind.
And heâs using that knowledge to drive you absolutely insane.
One evening, the three of you are sitting around the kitchen table, Samuel discussing the stagecoach schedules, completely oblivious to the thick, suffocating blanket of sexual tension wrapping around the room.
You stand up to clear the empty stew bowls, your hands trembling slightly, hyper-aware of Joelâs eyes tracking your every movement. He leans back in his chair, legs stretched out beneath the table, one of his boots deliberately pressing against the hem of your skirts.
"I must say, Mr Miller," Samuel smiles politely, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "Your wife is an extraordinary cook. I haven't eaten this well since I left Philadelphia. Youâre a very fortunate man to have such a woman tending to your needs."
Joelâs eyes slide to your flushed face, and a slow smirk curves the corner of his mouth.
"I am," he agrees. "Sheâs incredibly thoroughly devoted to her work. But Iâm worried Iâve been workinâ her too hard lately âcause she looks a little flushed."
You gasp softly, nearly dropping the bowls as his boot slides forward beneath the table, the thick leather toe hooking subtly around your ankle, dragging slowly up your calf beneath the layers of your petticoats.
"Oh, the heat is quite oppressive," Samuel nods sympathetically, completely missing the dark, filthy double meaning in Joelâs tone. "You should make sure she rests."
"I plan on it," Joel purrs, eyes snapping back to yours, pinning you to the floorboards, the feral, starving heat in his gaze so explicit itâs a miracle the other man canât see it. "Startinâ this week, Iâm gonna make sure she spends a lot of time in bed. Iâm gonna personally see to it that every single one of her... aches... is taken care of."
Your breath hitches violently in your throat and a rush of liquid fire floods your centre, pooling heavy and slick between your thighs. You press them together under your skirts, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, unapologetic filth heâs feeding you right in front of a guest.
"Joel," you manage to whisper, your voice a breathless, reedy warning.
But he doesnât stop. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, the movement pulling his shirt taut across his chest.
"Sheâs the best damn cook for miles around,â he continues smoothly, eyes tracking the frantic flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat. âAnd Iâve got a huge appetite. Been starvinâ for a long time. But later this week Iâm gonna feast until I can't move. Iâm gonna consume absolutely everythinâ she puts in front of me. Over, and over, and over again."
"A healthy appetite is the sign of a hard-working man," Samuel chuckles, completely oblivious to the fact that the man sitting across from him is actively undressing you with his eyes and verbally promising to completely ruin you.
"Exactly," Joel murmurs, his gaze dropping deliberately to your breasts, watching the way your rapid, shallow breaths strain against the buttons of your bodice. "And I plan on workinâ very, very hard."
You canât stand it another second. Your bloodâs singing, a violent, deafening roar of pure desire rushing through your ears and you know if you stay in that kitchen one more minute, youâre going to hike your skirts up and climb onto his lap right in front of your guest.
"I'll... I'll fetch the coffee," you stammer, turning sharply and practically fleeing toward the stove.
You grip the edge of the counter, squeezing your eyes shut as you fight to pull air into your lungs. Your entire body vibrates, aching with a heavy, throbbing need thatâs becoming impossible to ignore.
You hear the heavy scrape of a chair being pushed back from the table and before you can even turn your head, Joelâs standing right behind you, completely boxing you in against the counter, shielding you from Samuelâs view. He doesnât reach for the coffeepot, instead his hands sweep around your waist, his fingers digging possessively into your soft hips.
You let out a soft, weeping whimper, your head falling back against his shoulder as the thick, rigid length of his erection presses explicitly into the cleft of your bottom through your skirts, completely unyielding and violently hard.
"Joel," you breathe, terrified Samuel will hear, but completely unable to pull away from his scorching heat.
Joel buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath washing over your skin as his teeth lightly scrape against your pulse point.
"The second that stagecoach pulls away," he says, his voice a ragged, breathless scrape directly into your ear, completely devoid of the polite teasing he had used at the table, " Iâm gonna throw you down on our bed, spread your legs, and make you mine."
You squeeze your eyes shut, a helpless, wet sob of pure lust catching in your throat as his hands tighten on your hips and he grinds his blunt heat against you one final agonising time before stepping back.
Then he grabs the tin coffeepot and walks casually back to the table, leaving you clinging to the counter, your knees trembling, entirely consumed by the man whoâs counting down the seconds until he finally claims his wife.
****
By the fourth morning, Smauelâs well enough to walk out to the porch and sit in the shade. Seeing that he no longer requires constant supervision, you decide itâs time to check on the piece of your heart currently residing in the house up the rise. You ensure your patient has access to water and then make your way to TomĂĄs and Mariaâs house.
The sun beats down on the brim of your bonnet, but for the first time in a long time, it doesnât feel oppressive. Instead, you feel incredibly light, the heavy, suffocating mantle of being a marriage of convenience has been lifted off your shoulders, leaving you practically glowing with a secret, radiant joy.
Sarah spots you as you close the distance to the porch and she abandons the pile of wooden blocks on sheâs been playing with and sprints toward you, her dark braids flying behind her. You crouch just in time to catch her, scooping her small, solid weight up into your arms and burying your face in her neck, breathing in the scent of sunshine and sweet grass, your heart swelling with fierce affection.
"Look at you," you laugh, kissing her sun-warmed cheek. "You've grown an inch, I swear it."
"Papa said I have to stay with Maria and TomĂĄs until the sick man goes away," Sarah babbles happily, her little arms locked around your neck. "Did he go away yet?"
"Not yet, sweetheart, but soon," you promise, setting her gently back on her feet.
Maria steps out onto the porch, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. She smiles broadly at the sight of you, but as you walk up the steps, her smile shifts into an expression of profound, knowing curiosity.
"Go play around back, mija," she tells Sarah gently, shooing the girl toward the stables. She turns back to you, her hands resting on her generous hips. "Come inside, the coffee is fresh."
You follow her into the cool, shaded kitchen, taking a seat at the scarred wooden table and waiting as she pours two steaming cups and sets one in front of you. But she doesnât sit down immediately. Instead, she stands on the opposite side of the table, studying your face with an intense, maternal scrutiny.
"What is it?" you ask, suddenly self-conscious, reaching up to check if your hair has escaped its pins during the walk. "Do I have dust on my face?"
"No," Maria murmurs, a slow, beautiful smile spreading across her lips. Pulling out a chair she sits down and leans forward on her elbows. "You have life on your face."
You blink, wrapping your hands around the warm tin cup. "I... I don't know what you mean."
"Your eyes are bright and your cheeks are pink. You are practically vibrating, chica. You look like a woman whoâs just discovered she owns the world."
The giddy, fluttering euphoria in your chest swells until you think your ribs might crack. You try to suppress the smile, to maintain the dignified composure that being Mrs Joel Miller requires, but itâs entirely impossible. The corners of your mouth tip upward, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips.
"The feverâs broken at the house," you offer weakly, trying to deflect. "Mr Thorne is recovering nicely and it's just such a relief to have the worst of it over."
Maria lets out a rich, knowing laugh, taking a sip of her coffee. "A recovering schoolteacher doesn't put that kind of light in a woman's eyes. That is the look of a woman who is thoroughly, deeply loved by her husband."
Your breath hitches. Hearing the word spoken aloud by someone else makes it suddenly, terrifyingly real.
"He told you, didn't he?" Maria asks softly, her eyes softening with profound affection. "That stubborn, beautiful, broken-hearted brute finally opened his mouth and told you."
You look down at the dark surface of your coffee, the tears of absolute joy pricking your eyes once again, and you nod slowly, your thumb tracing the rim of the cup.
"He did," you whisper, the words trembling with awe. "I... I didn't think it was possible, Maria. I knew he desired me butâŠI thought he was still holding onto Tess. After everything you saidâŠ"
Maria reaches across the table to cover your hand with hers. âJoel needs a woman who can stand in the dirt with him, face the storm, and not blow away. And you are that woman."
She squeezes your fingers, her smile turning decidedly wicked.
"Now," she says, her eyes dancing with mischief. "I give your visitor two more days before Joel physically throws him onto a passing stagecoach. And when he does...â
âMariaâŠâ you feel your cheeks flush scarlet, your gaze dropping into your cup.
âEnjoy it,â she says. âIt is no more than you deserve.â
****
The next few days settle into a strange, suspended rhythm, caught somewhere between the lingering echoes of a sickroom and the breathless, secret anticipation of a newly forged marriage.
Samuelâs recovery is nothing short of miraculous. He seems focused on making arrangements, having sent TomĂĄs into Sawyerâs Creek with a fistful of drafted telegrams meant for the town council in Austin. The stagecoach routes have been checked, his onward journey finally taking a concrete shape.
"I cannot impose upon your and Mr Millerâs hospitality a moment longer than necessary," he tells you that morning, his eyes bright with renewed purpose as he seals an envelope. "The council has secured a temporary boarding house for me. If the telegrams clear, I should be on the noon stage by Wednesday."
Wednesday. Two days away.
The thought sends a wild, giddy flutter straight through your chest. Two days until the house belongs entirely to you and Joel again. Two days until the heavy, terrifyingly beautiful promise Joelâs made will finally be fulfilled.
You spend the better part of the morning scrubbing the floors and baking bread, fuelled by a nervous, radiant energy that makes you feel as though youâre floating an inch above the floorboards.
But as the afternoon sun reaches its brutal, suffocating peak, that floating sensation begins to change.
It starts as a subtle, creeping heaviness in your limbs. Youâre standing at the washboard, wringing out the last of Samuelâs linens, when a sudden, dull ache blossoms at the base of your skull. You pause, your wet hands resting on the ridged metal of the board and close your eyes. The heat in August is always oppressive, a thick, physical weight that presses down on the roof of the house, but the sudden wave of exhaustion that washes over you feels entirely different.
You wipe your brow with the back of your forearm, surprised to find your skin slick with a cold, clammy sweat despite the stifling temperature of the kitchen.
Youâre just tired, you tell yourself firmly, shaking off the strange lethargy. You've spent your nights sitting up with a sick man, and youâve been running on nerves ever since Joel kissed you. Itâs just exhaustion.
You force yourself to finish the laundry, hanging the damp sheets on the line, but every time you lift your arms to pin the fabric, the muscles in your shoulders scream in protest, a deep, radiating soreness that makes your breath hitch. By the time you return to the house, your legs feel like theyâre made of lead.
No one notices. Youâre someone who has never complained and never faltered. Youâve spent your entire life making your own discomfort invisible, and youâre exceptionally good at it.
That evening, Joel rides into the yard with the wagon, Sarah sitting on the bench seat beside her, her face breaking into a wide grin when she sees you on the porch.
You push through the heavy, throbbing ache in your temples and hurry down to greet them. The moment Joel lifts her down from the wagon, Sarah hits the dirt running, her boots kicking up clouds of red dust as she throws herself at your skirts and wraps her arms tightly around your knees.
"Welcome home, my sweet girl," you laugh, bending down to scoop her up.
But the moment her solid weight settles against your chest, a sharp wave of dizziness tilts the horizon, and you stagger back a half-step, your boots scraping against the porch boards. You manage to lock your knees, clutching her tightly, but the sudden rush of black spots at the edge of your vision is terrifying.
Joelâs there instantly, closing the distance between the wagon and the porch in three strides, his hands coming up to grip your elbows, steadying you.
"Careful," he murmurs, eyes scanning your face, brows drawing together in a sharp frown. "She's gettinâ too heavy for you to haul around like that, darlinâ."
"I'm fine," you lie quickly, forcing a bright smile as you lift and shift Sarah onto your hip. The dizziness recedes, leaving behind a dull, throbbing nausea. "She just caught me off guard.â
Joel doesnât look entirely convinced. His eyes linger on your face, his thumb lightly brushing the inside of your elbow before he reluctantly lets go to tend to the horses. "Go inside out of the sun, both of you."
âPerhaps thatâs a good idea,â you agree, coaxing Sarah inside with promises of sweet lemonade and strawberry tart, casting Joel a final look through the door as you close it behind you.
****
The next day, the strange, creeping malaise settles deeper into your bones.
You wake up with a mouth as dry as cotton and a throat that feels like itâs been scoured with sand. The giddy, radiant joy of Joelâs confession is still there, a warm, glowing ember in your chest, but your physical body is rapidly failing to keep up with it.
After breakfast, Joel takes Sarah out to the stables, leaving you alone in the parlour with Samuel. Heâs sitting in the armchair by the window, a book resting open on his lap. He found the crates of Tessâs books you had unpacked, and his intellectual curiosity has been thoroughly delighted.
You sit in the chair opposite him with a basket of mending in your lap trying to focus on a torn seam in one of your dresses, but your hands feel clumsy, your fingers thick and uncoordinated. The needle keeps slipping, the stitches ragged and uneven.
"It is fascinating, truly," Samuel says, his eyes animated as he gestures with his free hand. "The author argues that the moral development of a child is entirely dependent upon their exposure to classical philosophy before the age of ten. I must say, I find the premise compelling, though perhaps slightly impractical for a frontier setting. What are your thoughts?"
You blink, pulling your gaze away from the blurry stitches in your lap. The parlour feels stiflingly hot, the air thick and difficult to pull into your lungs and you can feel a fresh bead of sweat tracking slowly down your spine, soaking into the heavy cotton of your undergarments.
"I..." you start, your voice sounding thin and raspy to your own ears. You clear your throat, forcing your spine to straighten. "I think the frontier demands a different kind of philosophy. Classical literature is beautiful, but it doesn't teach a child how to survive a drought or mend a fence. I believe education here must balance the mind with... with the reality of the land."
Itâs a good answer, a thoughtful answer, but the effort it takes to string the words together leaves you feeling completely depleted.
Samuel smiles, nodding in agreement. "A very pragmatic perspective. Exactly the sort of grounded wisdom I would expect from you."
He pauses, his smile fading as his gaze sharpens and he leans forward slightly in his chair, the book nearly slipping from his lap, the observant, careful nature that makes him a good teacher suddenly focused entirely on you.
"Forgive me," he murmurs, his brow furrowing in genuine concern. "But are you feeling quite alright? You look exceptionally pale today."
You freeze, the needle slipping from your fingers to land in the basket and you reach up, your trembling fingers brushing against your own cheek. Your skin feels hot, a dry, papery heat that contrasts violently with the cold, clammy sweat pooling at the nape of your neck.
"Iâm perfectly fine, Samuel," you insist, forcing a polite, dismissive smile. You pick the needle back up, gripping it tightly. "Itâs simply the heat. It always takes a toll this time of year. And I admit, I haven't been sleeping as deeply as usual."
That much, at least, is true. Every time you close your eyes, you feel the phantom weight of Joelâs body pressing against yours and hear the dark, ragged promise in his voice.
Samuel doesnât look entirely convinced, but he doesnât push. "If youâre certain. Please, do not exert yourself on my account. You have already done more than enough to ensure my recovery. I would hate to think I have drained your constitution."
"You haven't," you assure him, though the room gives a faint, sickening tilt as you speak. "Iâm just tired, thatâs all."
You manage to endure the rest of the afternoon through sheer, stubborn willpower, keeping your movements slow and deliberate, avoiding sudden turns that make the black spots dance at the edges of your vision. You cook supper, serve it, and clean the kitchen, functioning entirely on the deeply ingrained, mechanical routine of a housewife.
By the time the sun finally sets, casting the house in deep, bruised shadows, youâre running on nothing but fumes.
Samuel retires early, claiming he needs to rest before the long stagecoach journey the following day whilst Sarah is fast asleep down the hall, exhausted from an afternoon of caring for the barn kittens.
The house is completely, blessedly quiet and you stand at the kitchen counter, a damp rag in your hand, wiping down the wood for the third time simply because you canât find the energy to walk all the way to Joelâs bedroom. The lantern on the table casts a warm, flickering yellow glow over the room, but the light seems to hurt your eyes, sending sharp, stabbing pains straight through your temples.
The familiar sound of boots on the back porch makes your heart give a weak, fluttering leap as the door opens and Joel steps inside. Without saying a word, he walks straight across the kitchen, closing the distance between you, and wraps his arms around your waist from behind.
You let out a soft, shuddering breath, dropping the rag onto the counter and leaning your back flush against his chest. The sheer, radiating heat of his body envelops you and whilst, usually, his touch grounds you, tonight, it feels overwhelming, like standing too close to a blazing furnace.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck and breathes you in, a deep, heavy sigh expanding his chest against your spine.
"He's leavinâ tomorrow," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sends a violent shiver down your arms.
"On the noon stage," you confirm, your voice sounding incredibly distant, as if youâre speaking from underwater. You rest your hands over his forearms, trying to draw strength from his unbreakable grip. "It's all arranged."
Joelâs arms tighten around you in a fierce, possessive squeeze. He turns his head and presses a kiss just beneath your ear. "Good, âcause if I have to spend one more night sleepinâ in that damn hayloft while he's in this house, I'm gonna lose my mind."
You manage a weak, breathless laugh, though it feels like it tears at the lining of your throat. "Thatâs been your own doing.â
âI know. Been regrettinâ it ever since," he growls playfully, hands sliding up your ribcage to rest just beneath your breasts. His thumbs brush against the soft cotton of your dress, a deliberate, agonisingly slow caress that makes your heavy limbs feel even weaker. "Tomorrow night, once Sarahâs asleep, Iâm carryinâ you into our room and Iâm not lettinâ you out until Iâve loved you properly."
The dark, filthy promise should send a rush of liquid heat straight to your core. It should make you turn in his arms and kiss him with the starving, desperate passion you previously shared. But instead, a sudden, violent wave of nausea rolls through your stomach.
The kitchen seems to physically tilt on its axis. The yellow light of the lantern flares brilliantly bright, then dims to a sickly, greyish hue. The heavy, cedar-and-sweat scent of Joelâs skin, usually so intoxicating, suddenly feels suffocating, clogging your lungs and making it impossible to draw a full breath.
A cold, terrifying sweat breaks out across your entire body.
"Joel," you gasp, your fingers digging frantically into his forearms.
"I mean it," he continues, completely unaware of the catastrophic failure happening inside your body. His lips drag a hot path down your neck, his voice dropping to a ragged, breathless purr. "I'm gonna give you everythinâ you need, darlinâ. I'm gonnaâŠ"
"Joel, stop," you whimper, your voice cracking completely.
The desperate, panicked tone of your voice finally pierces through his lust, and you feel him freeze. The heavy, seductive weight of his body instantly shifts, the feral lover vanishing as the fiercely protective husband slams back into control. He lets go of your waist, grabs your shoulders and spins you around to face him.
The moment you turn, the room spins violently out of control. The edges of your vision go completely black, closing in like the darkest of nights. You look up at him, trying to focus on his face, but his features are blurring, swimming in a sea of grey static.
"Hey," Joel barks, his voice sharp with sudden, absolute terror, his hands gripping your upper arms, holding you up as your knees begin to buckle. "Darlinâ, look at me. What's wrong? Are you alright?"
"I..." you try to speak, but your tongue feels like itâs made of lead.
The roaring in your ears is deafening, drowning out the sound of his voice, drowning out the crickets outside, drowning out everything except the frantic, failing rhythm of your own heart.
"I feel... dizzy," you manage to whisper, the words slurring together.
You feel the heat radiating off him, feel the bruising, desperate strength of his hands holding you, but you canât feel your own legs anymore as the floorboards simply cease to exist beneath your feet.
You hear Joel shouting your name, the sound echoing as if from a great distance and the last thing you see before the blackness swallows you completely, is the sheer, unadulterated panic shattering the pitch-black depths of his eyes.
Your eyes roll back, your entire body goes terrifyingly, completely limp and collapses forward, a dead weight dropping straight toward the hard wooden floor of the kitchen.
You donât feel the impact.
****
The moment your eyes roll back, Joel catches you. His arms sweep under your knees and around your back, snatching you out of the air before your knees can even graze the floorboards. Then he hauls your unconscious body flush against his chest, staggering back a half-step under the sudden, terrifying dead weight.
"No, no, no," he swears, a raw, broken rasp that tears through the quiet house.
He drops to one knee, cradling you against his thighs. Your head lolls back against his bicep, your hair spilling over his arm, your face as white as a sheet. Youâre completely unresponsive, your breathing shallow and ragged.
He presses his hand flat against your cheek, and a jolt of pure, icy terror stops his heart at how hot you are. The dry, papery heat radiating off your skin is identical to Samuelâs fever. Youâve spent days sitting in a stifling, infected room, breathing in the sick man's air, wiping his brow, completely ignoring your own exhaustion to save a stranger's life.
And now that heâs flourishing once more, the sickness has claimed you.
"Wake up," Joel begs, fingers gently, frantically tapping your pale cheek. "Darlinâ, open your eyes. Please, God, open your eyes."
But you donât move. You lie perfectly still in his arms, trapped in the dark, suffocating depths of the fever.
He doesnât hesitate another second. He stands up, lifting your limp body effortlessly into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if he can force his own vitality straight into your bones. Then he turns and kicks the kitchen chair out of his way with a violent crash, carrying you out of the room and down the dark hallway, his heavy boots pounding a desperate, terrifying rhythm toward the bedroom heâs promised to make yours.
âMr Miller?â
The door to your room creaks open and Samuel steps out into the hallway, his eyes widening at the sight before him. He hurries down the hallway in pursuit of Joel, freezing at the threshold as your husband lays you down carefully in the bed.
âOh, my LordâŠâ Samuel breathes. âIs sheâŠ? Whatâs happened?â
"Get back!" Joel roars, the sheer, concussive force of his voice hitting the schoolteacher like a physical blow.
Samuel flinches, stumbling backward against the doorframe,
"You did this," Joel snarls, his voice dropping to a dark, vibrating rumble of absolute, unhinged hatred. "She spent days sittinâ in your infected air, wipinâ your damn sweat, givinâ you every ounce of her strength so you wouldn't die in my dirt! And you gave her this!"
"I... I didn't..." Samuel stammers. "I am so sorry. I didn't knowâŠ"
"You brought this into my house!" Joel takes a heavy, threatening step forwards, the murderous intent rolling off him in waves. "You brought this sickness here!â
âMr Miller, pleaseâŠ!â
Joel grabs hold of the other manâs nightshirt and curls it tightly in his fingers. âYou get dressed and you run to my manâs house, up the rise. You run and tell him to ride to town for Doc Cooper.â
âIâŠâ
âNow!â Joelâs grip loosens and he pushes the other man back out into the darkened hallway. âAnd you better hope sheâs still breathinâ by the time he gets here or so help me God, Iâll kill you with my bare hands!"
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: As you care for the stranger, something inside Joel shifts.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Another day, another chapter. What can I say, this pair have me in a chokehold! I did have a slightly different direction in mind but when I read it back, the way Iâd written the jealousy was almost parody and a little too âpornyâ for this particular moment, if such a thing exists! Iâve gone with this because this is how I see Joelâs character but itâs definitely going to ramp up from hereâŠ
The grandfather clock in the parlour chimes two, its low, hollow notes echoing through the suffocatingly still night.
You wake in the centre of Joelâs bed, the feather ticking wrapped around you so tight that for a disorienting second, it feels as though heavy arms are holding you. But when you turn your head, the bed beside you is familiarly empty.
Unsure the reason for the disturbance to your sleep, you slip out from under the quilt, bare feet touching the cool floorboards and pull a thin cotton wrapper tightly over your nightgown before padding silently down the dark hallway to check on the stranger.
The door to your room is cracked open and when you peek inside you can see his pale, unmoving form beneath the sheets, his breathing shallow but steady. The fever still has him but, for the moment, heâs deeply, mercifully unconscious.
Satisfied, you turn away and walk into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water from the pump. The room is bathed in the pale, silver glow of a full moon spilling through the glass panes and, as you reach for a tin cup, you glance out the window toward the dark silhouette of the barn, your hand freezing in mid-air.
Joel isnât in the hayloft â heâs in the yard.
The moonlight washes over him, illuminating him in stark, silver relief against the darkness. Heâs stripped down to his trousers and boots and his back gleams with a light sheen of sweat as he paces.
It isnât the aimless wandering of an insomniac, but rather the relentless, heavy, measured tread of a caged beast patrolling its territory. You watch transfixed as he walks from the edge of the corral to the base of the back porch, pivots on his heel, and stalks back again, head bowed, shoulders tense, his hands resting on his hips. Every few minutes, he stops and stares at the dark windows of the house, his chest heaving with slow, ragged breaths.
You stand perfectly still in the shadows of the kitchen, your breath catching sharply in your throat, your hand pressed flat against the cool glass of the windowpane.
He lied to you. He didnât intend to sleep a single wink.
The realisation hits you with the force of a physical blow. Heâs been breaking his back in the sun since dawn and now, heâs out there burning away his desperately needed rest, standing guard in the dirt, completely unable to close his eyes while a strange man sleeps under the same roof as his wife.
A profound, overwhelming wave of love swells in your chest, so massive and sudden it brings hot tears to your eyes.
You want to push the screen door open, want to run out into the dirt, wrap your arms around him and drag him inside. You want to soothe the dark, protective madness out of his eyes and force him to rest his heavy head against your chest.
But you donât move, because you know him â know him better than you thought you ever could. If you go out there, heâll instantly mask his exhaustion, put his walls up, order you back to bed, and pretend heâs just out for some air. The honourable man within him, pacing in the moonlight, needs to do this. He needs to stand between you and the world, even if the world is half dead in another room.
You watch him for a long time, watch the flex of his muscles, the heavy, protective slump of his shoulders and marvel at the sheer, undeniable reality of a man who is quietly, fiercely laying his life down on the line for yours.
"I love you," you whisper to the empty kitchen. âI love you so much, Joel.â
You finally turn away from the window, leaving the tin cup on the counter, walk back down the dark hallway and slip back into his bed, burying your face deep into his pillow. In your moments of self-doubt, you still wonder what he truly feels for you, whether the care and consideration he shows you feels to him anything like love but, right now, youâre happy to pretend that it does.
****
The kitchen is already warm with the heat of the stove by the time the sun crests the horizon and youâre standing at the counter, cooking bacon in the skillet when the screen door whines open behind you and Joel steps inside.
You turn to look and immediately see the stark, undeniable evidence of the night heâs spent pacing the yard. Deep, bruised shadows linger beneath his eyes, and the rugged lines of his face are drawn tight with an exhaustion you know heâs trying desperately to hide.
He looks the way he used to look, when he punished himself with work to keep from thinking about Tess or the place you now occupy in his home.
Your heart gives a soft, painful squeeze, but you keep your face perfectly smooth. You donât say a word about the moonlight, or the pacing, or the fact that you know he hasn't slept a single wink in the hayloft.
"Morning," you murmur, offering him a soft, welcoming smile as you crack eggs into the sizzling bacon grease.
"Morninâ," he replies, his voice thicker than normal.
He doesnât go to his chair at the head of the table, rather he moves across the kitchen until heâs standing right behind you, the sheer, radiating heat of his body enveloping you instantly. Reaching around your waist, he rests his hands gently on your stomach over your apron â not grabbing you with the desperate, territorial hunger of the previous day, but simply holding you, resting his chin on the top of your head and letting out a long, slow sigh that ruffles your hair.
"How is he?" he asks quietly, the question lacking bite, replaced instead by a heavy, protective vigilance.
"Still sleeping," you answer, leaning back just a fraction into his solid warmth. "The fever hasn't broken, but it hasn't gotten worse in the night. If he wakes today, I'll give him some willow bark tea.â
Joelâs arms tighten around you and he turns his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Are you alright?" he murmurs against your pulse point, fingers lightly tracing the curve of your hip. "Did he wake you in the night?"
"No," you lie softly, turning your head to press your cheek against his hair. "I slept perfectly, Joel. The bed was wonderful."
He lets out a soft hum of approval, his lips pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. The touch is so exquisitely tender, so completely overflowing with a quiet, devotion, that it makes your knees feel weak. Heâs a man who wrestles steers and breaks wild horses, yet he holds you as if youâre made of spun glass.
He doesnât want to let you go, you can feel it in the heavy, reluctant drag of his body against yours, even though you know heâs supposed to be out in the pastures, but the thought of leaving you alone in the house with the stranger is an anchor keeping him pinned to the kitchen floor.
You reach down, covering his hand with yours and give his fingers a reassuring squeeze.
"Breakfast is almost ready," you tell him gently, turning in his arms so you could look up into his face. "And then you need to go. You have a ranch to run, Joel Miller."
He looks down at you, eyes searching your face for any sign of fear or hesitation, and when he finds only absolute, unwavering trust, the tight lines of tension around his mouth finally soften.
"I'll stay close to the house today," he says, his hands sliding up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheekbones. "If you need me, Iâll be here.â
"I know you will," you smile, "but I'll be fine. I promise. Like I said, heâs no threat to me in the condition heâs in right now."
Joel stares at your mouth for a long, agonising second, then leans down and kisses you â a slow, deep, incredibly sweet meeting of lips that tastes of coffee and absolute surrender. He doesnât push for more â doesnât take hold of you with the heat of yesterdayâs encounter â just pours his quiet, fierce protection straight into your soul.
When he finally pulls back, he looks at you with a heavy, lingering reluctance, before forcing himself to step away and take his seat at the table.
âI ainât forgotten what I said yesterday,â he says, eyes tracking you as you plate his food and carry it to him.
âI havenât either,â you reply, a smile twisting your lips as you turn away, feeling the heat of his gaze follow you all the way back to the stove.
And as you plate your own share, you tell yourself that thereâs been enough progress made to leave you content. He wants you, he cares about you.
You donât need him to tell you he loves you if he doesnât.
****
As the day progresses, the stranger drifts in and out of a restless, feverish sleep. You sit in the chair drawn close to the bed, a basin of cool water resting on the floor beside your feet and, every few minutes, you pause, dip the cloth into the water, wring it out, and gently press it to his burning forehead.
Between those moments of care, you read.
When you left Sawyerâs Creek you brought a few books with you that had been constant companions throughout your life, but which your daily chores meant you ordinarily have little time to indulge in. One of them is Jane Eyre and you find yourself reading aloud softly. Youâre unsure if he can hear you, or if he even understands the words through the haze of his fever, but the cadence of the story seems to soothe his restless thrashing.
"âI am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will...â"
"Sounds like a stubborn woman."
You gasp, your hand jerking slightly, the book nearly slipping from your lap, and look up to see Joel leaning against the doorframe, watching you with a quiet, intense focus, completely ignoring the sick man in the bed.
"Joel," you breathe, pressing a hand to your chest to calm your racing heart. "You startled me. I thought you were mending the fence."
"Came back for a hammer," he grunts, though he makes no move to leave. Uncrossing his arms, he hooks his thumbs hooking into his belt and nods towards the book in your lap. "What is it?"
"It's a novel," you explain softly, tracing your finger over the embossed cover, "by Charlotte Brontë. It's about a governess who falls in love with the master of the house, though he has a... complicated past."
Joel lets out a low, rough hum, pushing himself off the doorframe and taking a slow, heavy step into the room. He looks at the book, his eyes tracking the worn edges of the pages, before lifting his gaze back to your face.
"Never had much time for books," he admits. "By the time I learned my letters, I was already workinâ from sunup to sundown. At the end of the day, my eyes are usually too tired to focus on ink, other than what I can stomach from the newspapers."
"Thereâs no shame in that," you say quickly, fiercely protective of him. "This place alone is evidence of how hard you work. Sometimes, after a long day at my fatherâs store, I could hardly bear to lift a book. The last thing I wanted to do was focus on something so small. But I do enjoy it, when I get the chance.â
He offers a small, self-deprecating smirk, but the dark intensity in his eyes softens and he steps closer, stopping just beside your chair, staring down at the book in your lap for a long moment, a heavy, complicated emotion passing over his features.
"Tess used to read," he murmurs. "She had a whole trunk full of books. Poetry, mostly. Some history. She used to sit on the porch in the eveninâs and read 'em until the light was completely gone."
âI didnât know that,â you reply softly.
He blinks, pulling himself back to the present, eyes locking onto yours. "I packed âem up after she died and put âem in a couple of wooden crates out in the back of the barn, up in the loft. Didn't have the heart to throw âem out but couldn't stand to look at âem in the house."
He reaches out, fingers gently brushing against the cover of the book in your lap, his knuckles grazing your dress.
"If you want âem, they're yours. I can bring the boxes down for you tonight. Dust 'em off. Might be somethinâ in there you'd like."
Tears prickle hot and sharp at the corners of your eyes. First his bed and now Tessâs possessions, given to you, telling you that your mind, your interests, and your presence matter to him.
"I would love that," you whisper, reaching up and covering his hand with your own, pressing his palm flat against the book on your lap. "Thank you."
He stares down at your joined hands for a long moment and a slow, beautiful breath shudders through his chest. Then he turns his hand over, intertwining his fingers with yours, his grip warm, solid, and entirely unbreakable.
"I'll bring âem down after supper," he promises, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss to your temple, his lips lingering against your skin, before pulling back and walking out of the room.
****
True to his word, Joel hauls two heavy, dust-caked wooden crates down from the hayloft that night and sets them carefully in the corner of the parlour before he retreats back outside to keep his dark, self-imposed vigil.
The next morning, while the house is quiet and the sun still a manageable, golden warmth, you kneel on the braided rug and prise the lid off the first crate.
The scent of old paper, dried leather, and a faint, lingering hint of lavender wafts up to greet you and you reach inside with careful, reverent hands, pulling out the volumes one by one. You expected simple parlour poetry or ladies' magazines, but as you wipe the dust from the embossed covers, a genuine, delighted surprise blooms in your chest.
Tess hadn't just read poetry. Nestled among the volumes of Keats and Tennyson were heavy, dog-eared books on natural philosophy, a beautiful, hand-painted atlas of the world, and a surprisingly progressive collection of essays on modern architecture.
Itâs a treasure trove for a mind thatâs been starved of intellectual stimulation.
You spend hours sitting on the floor, surrounded by the physical remnants of Joelâs past, but you donât feel like an intruder. You feel a profound, aching gratitude. He claims not to understand these books, but heâs kept them safe, and now heâs given them to you, building a bridge over the ghosts heâs guarded so fiercely.
âWho would have thought it of you, Tess Miller,â you murmur to yourself as you catalogue them carefully. âThereâs so much about you I wish Iâd known.â
By mid-afternoon, the heat has reached its suffocating peak, and you pack the books away and return to your room, carrying a fresh basin of cool water.
Youâve barely crossed the threshold when you notice the shift. The frantic, restless thrashing has stopped, and the harsh, ragged rasp of breathing has smoothed out into a quiet, steady rhythm. Setting the basin down on the nightstand you lean over the bed.
The strangerâs skin is no longer flushed with that terrifying, unnatural heat. Heâs pale, slick with the heavy, cooling sweat that signals the end of a battle, but the dangerous fire is completely gone.
As you reach out to press a clean cloth to his brow, his eyelids flutter and you freeze, hand hovering in the air.
Slowly, heavily, his eyes open and you see theyâre a striking clear blue, blinking against the harsh afternoon light filtering through the curtains. He looks at the ceiling, then at the quilt, and finally, his gaze shifts to find you standing beside the bed.
He doesnât panic or thrash, a slow, incredibly weary but completely lucid awareness settling over his refined features.
"Are you an angel?" he croaks, his voice a dry, raspy whisper that sounds like crushed dry leaves.
The sheer absurdity of the question, after the gruelling, sweat-soaked reality of the last few days, pulls a soft, genuine laugh from your lips.
"Hardly," you say gently, leaning forward to pour a cup of fresh water from the pitcher. You slip your hand behind his neck, lifting his head slightly so he can drink. "You're at the Miller ranch, just outside of Sawyer's Creek. You were found collapsed on the prairie."
He drinks greedily, his throat working, before falling back against the pillows with an exhausted groan. "I must look a fright," he says his voice weak and reedy, yet carrying an undeniable, cultured smoothness that instantly sets him apart from the rough-hewn men of Sawyerâs Creek.
"You look like a man whoâs just survived trail fever. I wouldn't worry about your vanity just yet."
He manages a weak, breathless chuckle, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at his exhausted muscles. "I suppose I have you to thank for that. I remember... fragments. A wagon, a large man carrying meâŠ.and cool water."
"My husband brought you in," you explain softly, taking your seat in the wooden chair next to the bed. "One of the ranch hands found you unconscious on the trail. You've been burning up for goodness only knows how long, but youâve been here for the last two days.â
"Two days," he murmurs, his eyes widening slightly in shock. He lets his head loll back against the pillows, staring at you with a profound, gentle gratitude. "Then I owe you my life, Mrs...?"
"Miller," you supply.
"Mrs Miller," he repeats, the name sounding elegant on his tongue. He tries to shift his weight, his hands weakly gripping the edge of the quilt. "Iâm Samuel Thorne, from Philadelphia."
"It is a pleasure to formally meet you, Mr Thorne. Philadelphia is a long way from the Texas brush. "What brings a man like you out to the frontier?"
"Education, Mrs Miller," he answers, a faint spark of true passion lighting up his tired eyes. "Iâm a schoolteacher. I was contracted to help establish a new academy in Austin. There is such a hunger for learning out here in the West, a desperate need for schools that can offer more than just the absolute basics. I was on my way to meet the town council when the fever took hold. I thought... I thought I was simply fatigued from the heat."
You look at him, truly seeing him for the first time without the veil of sickness. He seems kind and gentle. His hands have clearly never held a branding iron or swung an axe, but his mind is expansive, driven by a noble pursuit that you deeply respect, and you understand his mission instantly.
Heâs the exact opposite of the man currently driving fence posts into the baked earth outside.
"Well, Mr Thorne," you smile, picking up the damp cloth to gently wipe the cooling sweat from his face. "Youâre safe now. The Miller ranch may not be an academy, but weâll make sure youâre well enough to travel before you leave."
"You are too kind," Samuel whispers, his eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion drags him back under. "Thank you, Mrs Miller." He falls asleep almost instantly, his breathing deep and restorative.
You sit in the quiet room, the tension of the past few days finally bleeding out of your shoulders. The stranger is no longer a faceless burden â heâs Samuel, a gentle schoolteacher from the East. Heâs entirely unthreatening, perfectly polite, and completely safe.
****
By the time you step out onto the back porch, the sun is beginning to finally surrender to the horizon.
Joelâs at the pump, washing the dayâs labour from his skin, the cold water sluicing over his bare shoulders and tracking through the hair on his chest. You stand by the railing, a dish towel clutched in your hands, watching the heavy, hypnotic flex of his muscles.
"His fever broke," you announce softly into the evening air.
Joel freezes and slowly lifts his head, water dripping from his lashes and stubble. He doesnât look relieved â if anything, his eyes instantly harden.
"He's awake?"
"Yes. He was lucid enough to tell me his name â Samuel Thorne." You take a step closer, your voice dropping to a conversational murmur. "He's a schoolteacher from Philadelphia. He was on his way to Austin to help build a new academy when he fell ill. Weâve been having a very pleasant discussion about Jane Eyre."
Joel reaches for a towel hanging on the pump handle, dragging it roughly over his face and chest. "A schoolteacher," he repeats, the muscle in his jaw leaping. He looks at you, his eyes tracking the soft, thoughtful smile that has inadvertently touched your lips.
"I'm taking him some broth," you say, turning back toward the screen door. "He needs to rebuild his strength."
"I'm cominâ with you," Joel states, hurriedly following you inside.
âThereâs plenty,â you say, moving over to the stove. âYou can have someâŠâ
âI said, Iâm cominâ with you.â
Pausing, you turn to look at him, at the way his eyes are fixed on you, and you make the decision that itâs not worth arguing over. âAlright.â
A few minutes later, you walk into the room carrying a steaming tin bowl on a wooden tray. Samuel is propped up slightly against the pillows, looking pale and exhausted, but his eyes brighten with genuine gratitude when he sees you.
"Mrs Miller," he smiles weakly. "That smells heavenly."
Before you can reply, Joel steps into the room behind you. Heâs put a clean shirt on, but hasnât buttoned it all the way, and he stands at the foot of the bed, hands resting on his hips, glaring down at the man in your sheets with a dark, brooding hostility.
Samuel swallows hard, his polite smile faltering slightly under the crushing weight of Joelâs stare.
"Mr Thorne," you say quickly, trying to cut through the suffocating tension. "This is my husband, Joel Miller."
"Mr Miller," Samuel manages, his voice reedy but perfectly articulate. He offers a weak nod. "I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality. I owe you my life."
Joel doesnât nod back or offer a polite platitude. "My man found you. I just hauled you inside so you wouldn't die in my yard."
The blunt, brutal honesty hangs in the air like a physical weight. Samuel blinks, his pale cheeks flushing slightly. "Well, Iâm grateful, nonetheless. Iâm a teacher by trade, sir. Not quite suited for the rigors of the Texas sun, I'm afraid."
"Clearly," Joel grunts, eyes sweeping over Samuelâs uncallused hands resting on the quilt. "My wife says you're headed to Austin to build a school."
"Yes," Samuel nods, finding his footing on familiar ground. "Education is the foundation of a civilised society, Mr Miller. Even out here on the frontier, the mind must be cultivated just as rigorously as the land."
Joelâs jaw locks as he looks at Samuel, then looks at you. "Right," he says his voice entirely dead. "Well, eat your broth, Mr Thorne. If my wife made it, I can guarantee that itâs good and the sooner you get your strength back, the sooner you can get back toâŠuhâŠcultivatinâ." Then he turns on his heel and strides out of the room, his heavy boots echoing down the hall.
You quickly set the tray on Samuelâs lap, offering a tight, apologetic smile. "Eat, Mr Thorne, I'll be right back."
You hurry out of the room and find Joel in the kitchen, standing by the stove, his back to you, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.
"Joel," you whisper, stepping up behind him. "That was incredibly rude. He was just trying to be polite."
"He was talkinâ down to me in my own house," Joel growls, turning his head to glare at you over his shoulder. "Education is the foundation of society. What the hell does he think built the roof over his head? A damn poem?"
"He didn't mean it like that," you argue softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "He's a scholar, Joel. It's just how he speaks. Why are you acting like a wounded bear over a few words about a school?"
"Because of the way you were lookinâ at him!" Joel snaps, slamming his hand down on the counter and turning fully to face you. "I saw you lookinâ at him with that soft little smile, soakinâ up every word like they were the best goddamn words youâd ever heard!"
You stare up at him, completely and utterly bewildered.
The concept of male jealousy over you is so entirely foreign, so completely outside the realm of your thirty-four years of sensible, invisible spinsterhood, that it simply doesnât compute.
Men donât fight over you.
"He was talking to me about his profession,â you breathe, your hands coming up to rest flat against his chest. "I enjoyed the conversation because my mind was being used, thatâs all. Why on earth would you care if I smile at him?"
"Why would I care?" Joel repeats, his voice dropping, hands flying to grip your waist, fingers digging into your sides, hauling you a half-step closer. "You're my wife. You're my wife, and you're sittinâ in there looking at another man likeâŠ"
âBut you didnât marry me for love,â you say, the words tripping out before you can stop them. âWe both know that. You married me for convenience and IâŠâ
He freezes, but the violent, territorial fire in his eyes doesnât extinguish. It hardens into something cold, brittle, and infinitely more dangerous. He looks down at his hands around your waist then slowly lifts his gaze back to your face.
"Right," he says, his voice dropping to a dead, gravelly monotone that chills you to the bone. "Convenience.â
He steps back, deliberately breaking the physical contact, leaving your hands hovering in the empty air.
"Joel, waitâŠ" you start, a sudden, sharp ache of regret piercing your chest, though you donât fully understand what youâve said wrong.
"I've got a lame calf in the barn," he interrupts, his jaw locked so tight the muscle twitches violently. He doesnât look at you as he grabs his hat and pulls it low over his eyes. "I'll be out there the rest of the night. You and the schoolteacher enjoy your conversation."
Then he turns on his heel and walks out, the screen door slamming shut behind him with a sharp, final crack, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen, arms wrapped around your waist, wondering why your words have make him look as though youâve just driven a knife straight through his ribs.
****
The next morning, the suffocating tension in the house is thick enough to choke on.
When Joel comes in for breakfast, heâs a completely different man from the one who gave you Tessâs books, or who held you yesterday. He sits at the head of the table, shoulders hunched defensively, eating his eggs and bacon in absolute, brooding silence.
He doesnât offer you a greeting or take you in his arms or even so much as let his fingers brush against yours when you refill his coffee cup.
"Are you going to be out by the south ridge today?" you try softly, setting the tin coffeepot back on the stove. âI could pack you a lunch."
"No need," he grunts, eyes fixed stubbornly on his plate. "I'll be choppinâ wood out back. Won't have time to stop."
He stands up, the chair scraping loudly against the floorboards, and walks out without another word.
By mid-afternoon, the sun is a brutal, punishing weight. Samuelâs sitting up in bed, his colour returning, eager for conversation. But your mind is entirely outside, anchored to the rhythmic, violent sound of an axe biting into timber.
You stand at the kitchen window, watching Joel as he swings the axe with a terrifying, relentless aggression, splitting massive logs of oak as if theyâve personally offended him. Every so often, he pauses, leaning his forearms against the handle of the axe, his chest heaving as he glares at the house and, more specifically, at the window of your room.
After an hour, maybe more, you decide you canât take the distance anymore. You fill a tin canteen with cool water from the pump, grab a clean towel, and push through the screen door, walking out into the baking heat of the yard.
Joel sees you coming, but he doesnât stop swinging. The wood splinters with a sharp crack, the two halves hitting the dirt and he raises the axe again, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunching violently under his sweat-slicked skin.
"Joel," you call out, stopping a few feet away, mindful of the swinging blade.
He drives the axe head deep into the chopping block, leaving it embedded in the wood, then turns to face you, wiping his brow with the back of his forearm. His chest rises and falls with heavy, ragged breaths, and his eyes are shielded by the brim of his hat, offering absolutely nothing.
"I brought you water," you murmur, holding out the canteen.
He steps forward and takes the canteen, his fingers deliberately avoiding yours. Then he uncorks it and drinks deeply, his throat working as the cool water spills over his jaw and tracks down his chest, leaving you mesmerised.
"Thank you," he rasps, tossing the canteen onto the grass and picking up the axe again.
"Joel, please," you plead, stepping closer. "Talk to me. You've been acting like a stranger since last night. What did I do?"
Joel pauses as he grips the axe in his hands. "You didn't do anythinâ. You're doinâ your job. Tendinâ the house. Tendinâ the sick."
"Then why are you so angry?" you demand, your voice trembling with a sudden, desperate frustration. "You were so rude to Samuel, and now you won't even look at me! Why does it matter if I speak to him?"
âSo, itâs Samuel now, is it? That didn't take long.â
âJoelâŠâ
"Go back inside," he says, voice thick. Then he turns his back to you, grips the axe handle and yanks it free from the block. "Samuel probably needs more tea brewinâ âfore you start your chat âbout novels and the like."
Anger flares inside before you can stop it at his casual dismissal and you step forwards, fists bunched at your sides.
âYou donât get to speak to me like that, Joel Miller! You donât get to dismiss me like some sort of employee or make sport out of my interests! Don't you dare stand out here and try to make me feel guilty for engaging in polite conversation!"
You close the distance between you until youâre practically toe-to-toe with him and jab a trembling finger directly at his breastbone.
"This was always about convenience! You needed someone to help you fight off the Reverend who â I have to say â has been nowhere to be seen since I got here! You needed a mother for Sarah! You told me you didnât want a wife to replace Tess and I have done everything I can to make this a home for you both again and toâŠto honour her memory!â
Joel says your name, his voice a rough, stunned rasp, but you cut him off, the dam completely broken.
"I know you desire me!" you say, your voice cracking with the sheer, overwhelming force of your frustration. "Iâm not an idiot, Joel! I feel it every time you look at me, every time you touch me! And God help me, I desire you too! I want you so badly itâs all I can think about! But wanting a woman's body isn't the same as giving her your heart!â
The axe slips entirely from his grip, hitting the dirt with a dull thud.
âYouâve made space for me here and Iâm grateful for it and I know youâre grateful in return,â you continue, hot, angry tears finally spilling over your lashes that you donât wipe away. "But that is all you have ever given me! Lust and gratitude! You make overtures to claim me, you sleep in the barn, you brood, you glare at a sick man because I smile at him, but you have never once explicitly told me how you actually feel!"
His chest heaves violently, the muscles in his jaw leaping as he stares down at your flushed, furious face.
"Iâm your wife, for better for worse, until death do us part! But Iâve always known that Tess holds you heart and yet you stand there and ask me how youâre supposed to bear your wife talking to another man! Tell me, how am I supposed to know what that even means!â you demand. "How am I supposed to know if this is more than convenience, more than you wanting a warm body in your bed and a hot meal on your table and a role model for your daughter if you refuse to open your mouth andâŠâ
A deep, broken groan rips its way out of Joelâs chest, halting you in your tracks.
"Convenience," he says, the words sounding like gravel in his throat as he steps forward and wraps his arms around your back, hauling you flush against his body, his mouth finding yours.
He doesnât kiss you gently, he kisses you like a starving, desperate man and you gasp into his mouth as he sweeps his hot tongue past your parted lips, tangling with yours in a wet, filthy rhythm that instantly sends a blinding shockwave of liquid heat straight through you. Then he groans, a deep, animal sound vibrating in his chest, his hands sweeping down to grip your hips and pull your soft belly flush against the arousal straining hard against his trousers.
"Does this feel like convenience to you?" he growls against your lips, his hips bucking upward in a slow, grinding thrust that draws a sharp, weeping cry from your throat.
You whimper his name, your knees buckling slightly, and you cling to his shoulders, your body betraying your confusion, melting into a puddle of aching, desperate need under his hands.
"You're just proving my point... this is just lust..."
"It ainât just lust," he swears fiercely, his lips dragging a wet, burning path down your jawline to your neck. "Remember the barn? Remember how badly you wanted me? Remember how you begged me to hike your skirts up and take you right there against the stall? You wanted me to ruin you, and all I could think about was how I wanted to give you the world."
You moan softly, completely overwhelmed. You feel his affection, his fierce protection, the undeniable, scorching heat of his desire, but the terrifying vulnerability of believing itâs true love keeps your heart locked in a cage.
"He can give you pretty words," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look down into your flushed, tear-streaked face. "But he can never make you feel like this. He can never handle the fire inside you, darlinâ. âCause thereâs fire there, hidinâ behind your respectability and knowledge âbout books. I see it. I see you. You think this is just my body wantinâ yours? You think my heart and soul ainât tied up in this?"
He kisses you again â a deep, bruising, agonisingly tender promise that leaves your lips swollen and your lungs completely empty.
When he finally pulls back, his chest is heaving against yours and he looks down at the thoroughly aroused state heâs left you in, his eyes blazing with a terrifying, absolute vow that goes far deeper than the flesh.
"Then tell me," you whisper. "Tell me how you feel."
Joel stills, his hands tightening on your waist, his fingers biting into the soft cotton of your dress as he stares down at you. He swallows hard, the muscle in his jaw leaping frantically as he strips away the last remaining armour he possesses. Then his hands slide up upwards to your jaw, holding your face so you canât look away from the absolute, naked truth in his eyes.
"I love you so damn much I can't even breathe when you're near me. I donât know when â donât ask me when â but I know Iâve loved you for a long time now.â
A ragged exhale leaves your lips.
"I loved Tess, well and true, and my eyes and hands never wandered once from her whilst she was here. But sheâs in the ground now," he says. âAnd you... you are my life. You have every goddamn part of me. I donât want you givinâ your smiles to Samuel, or any other man âcause I donât want you realisinâ that you got the worst end of the deal here. That youâre too smart, too beautiful and too damn good for a man like me who only knows how to work this land.â
âThatâŠJoel, that would never happen, IâŠâ you stumble, the words stuck in your throat.
âWhy?â he coaxes, âwhy would it never happen?â
âBecause IâŠâ
âSay it,â he says softly. âTell me you love me.â
âI love you,â you whisper. âI loveâŠâ
The rest of your declaration is lost in the heat of his mouth pressing against yours again, softer, but no less passionate than before. And you wrap your arms around him joyfully, a ragged laugh tearing from your throat as he buries his face in your neck and squeezes you before pulling back and pressing his forehead to yours.
âThe second good old Samuel's gone, darlinâ, Iâm gonna take you to bed and prove to you exactly what kinda love this is â thatâs a goddamn promise. Iâm gonna love you in a way no other man ever could or will again. I told you before - Joel Miller doesn't share his women."
You smile up at him, your fingers tangling in his hair, your lips reaching up to brush his gently with ever-promise, feeling secure for perhaps the first time since you set foot on his land. âI demand you honour that promise, Mr Miller.â
He laughs, mouth moving to find yours again. "Whatever you say, Mrs Miller."
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: The tension between you and Joel reaches breaking point but an unexpected visitor throws a spanner in the works.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Would I keep you waiting??? Some people want a bit of jealousy. Iâd love to know if you want feral, sexually possessive jealousy or quiet, brooding jealousy. My fingers are twitching đ
The days that follow the night in the hallway are an exquisite, agonising torture.
Tessâs ghost lingers, but not in an oppressive, painful way, rather as more of a comfortable entity. She lives in the bright, blooming patch of the memorial garden, spoken of and cared about, but in her place, a new, entirely different kind of tension takes root in the house. Itâs a living, breathing, blood-heating tension which hums in the air between you and Joel, thick and heavy as the summer.
He doesnât rush to your bed. You thought he would. You thought the very next night he would come to claim you, but he doesnât.
True to his word, he seems determined to do this right. He knows youâre untouched, knows that for your entire life, youâve been the sensible, practical spinster, overlooked and ignored, and heâs fiercely, stubbornly determined not to treat your first time as a frantic, fumbling necessity in the dark. He wants to court you, wants to woo the wife he already has.
But heaven help you, his restraint is driving you slowly, quietly mad.
Every interaction becomes a masterclass in suppressed desire. When he hands you the milk pail in the morning, his fingers deliberately drag across your knuckles, a slow, rough friction that sends a jolt of heat straight to your belly. When he sits across from you at the table, his eyes drop to your mouth, tracking the movement of your lips with a heavy, starving intensity that makes it entirely impossible to swallow your food.
Heâs touching you more too, in small, casual ways that feel anything but casual. A heavy hand resting on the small of your back as he guides you through the kitchen door or a thumb brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear when he comes in from the fields. Every touch feels like a brand, a promise of the massive, overwhelming strength heâs holding in check.
Youâre vibrating with it. You lie awake in your solitary bed, the quilt kicked off your flushed, overheated body, your hands restless and aching, replaying the memory of his hard, bare chest against your palms and the heavy, rigid length of his arousal pressing into your stomach.
While the physical spark threatens to consume the house, the emotional foundation of your marriage grows deeper, rooted in the rich soil of the memorial garden.
By July, itâs awash with colour and has become a sanctuary, not just for Sarah, but for Joel. He joins you there in the evenings while Sarah waters the base of the plants and talks.
He tells you things about Tess that youâve never known. Little things such as how frustrated she used to get with her beautiful hair and how she threatened on one occasion to cut it all off. How she tried to help him break a colt once and ended up flat on her back in the dirt, laughing like a mountain dog. How she used to sing to the horses to calm them during a thunderstorm but couldnât hold a note and only succeeded in making them worse.
In turn, you tell him things about her from the time before he knew her, when she was a skinny girl who wore her hair in pigtails and ran the fields surrounding the town with reckless abandon. You tell him some of the things she shared with you in the burgeoning days of their relationship and feel heâs grateful, almost embarrassed, to hear how she cared for him.
You share her with each other, piece by piece, and as you do, you see the last lingering shadows of his grief evaporate. You can tell he isnât comparing you to her, rather simply acknowledging the woman who built the first half of his life, while looking with growing, undeniable reverence at the woman whoâs building the second.
âI thinkâŠâ he says hesitatingly one evening, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you prune a rosebush, ââŠthat if she had to pick anyone for me, other than herself, she wouldâve picked you.â
You pause at that, the shears stilling in your hand. âIâm not so sure.â
âWe talked âbout it once, long time ago âfore we knew it would ever come to pass. She told me that none of her friends would do â they were all too young or frivolous â that I would need someone strong and capable. She never said your name butâŠâ he fixes his eyes on the roses. âI sâpose I figured it out for myself. Guess thatâs why I went to your daddy that day.â
You continue pruning, allowing yourself a small smile, your heart swelling with a profound, unbreakable love for him. "And did you opine on who youâd recommend she replace you with, if the need arose?â
âHell no,â he swears softly. âJoel Miller doesnât share his women â mind and remember that now.â
You snort a laugh and toss a deadheaded bloom at him which he catches and crumbles gently between his fingers.
Itâs a beautiful, healing peace, but by the second week of July, the physical waiting has stretched your nerves to the absolute breaking point.
On a Tuesday afternoon, the Texas heat a physical weight, pressing down on the Brazos flatlands in shimmering, suffocating waves, Sarah succumbs to fatigue after lunch, falling deeply asleep on the rug in the coolest corner of the parlour.
Youâre in the kitchen, trying to bake, to give your hands something to do, but they wonât stop trembling. You wander from one side of the room to the other, lifting things up and putting them down again with no use for anything.
You canât sit still. The house feels entirely too quiet, too empty, so you wipe your damp forehead with the back of your wrist, smooth your sweat-dampened calico dress over your hips, and walk out the back door.
The glare of the sun is blinding. Shading your eyes, you look out across the dusty yard toward the massive, weathered structure of the barn where the wide double doors are propped open to catch whatever meagre breeze manages to crawl across the plains. You know Joelâs in there, having mentioned something at breakfast about repairing the leather traces on the main harness.
You walk across the yard, your boots kicking up small clouds of red dust. You donât have a reason to seek him out â no message to deliver or chore to complete â you just need to see him, need to be near him.
You step into the deep, cavernous shade of the barn where it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dim light. The air inside is thick, smelling intoxicatingly of sweet hay, oiled leather, horse musk, and the deep, masculine scent of your husband's sweat. Dust motes dance lazily in the shafts of sunlight piercing through the cracks in the wooden roof.
"Joel?" you call out softly, your voice echoing slightly in the large space.
"Back here."
You follow the low, rough rumble of his voice, walking past the empty stalls until you reach the back of the barn, near the tack room.
Joelâs standing at the heavy wooden workbench and you see straight away that heâs naked from the waist up, wearing nothing but his trousers and scuffed boots. Heâs facing away from you, the heavy, iron-hard musculature of his shoulders and back gleaming with a slick layer of sweat, and when he turns, your eyes trace the faint dark hair that dusts his chest tapering down into a line that disappears beneath his waistband.
Heâs holding a thick leather strap, working a heavy awl through the tough hide with a sheer, effortless display of physical strength that makes your mouth go completely dry.
He pauses, setting the awl down on the bench, and straightens up, his chest heaving slightly, the sweat shining on his collarbones. Reaching up, he wipes his brow with the back of his hand and his eyes lock onto yours, the casual, welcoming expression vanishing immediately, replaced by a sudden, intense sharpening of his features.
He can see it, can see the restless, aching hunger radiating off you in waves.
"Is Sarah asleep?" he asks, his voice sending a shiver straight down your spine despite the stifling heat.
"Yes," you breathe, taking a slow step toward him. "She's in the parlour."
The tension in his frame skyrockets, the muscles in his chest and arms locking rigid, and he watches you approach like a starving wolf watching a doe step into a clearing.
"You shouldn't be out here,â he warns softly, his hands gripping the edge of the wooden workbench until his knuckles turn white. "It's too hot. You'll make yourself sick."
"I don't care about the heat.â
You stop just two feet away, the sheer size of him, half-naked and practically vibrating with suppressed desire, overwhelming. Youâve spent thirty-four years averting your eyes from men, keeping your thoughts pure and your actions sensible, but looking at your husband now â your husband â all you want to do is press your open mouth against the sweat-slicked skin of his chest and taste him.
"Joel," you murmur, your voice trembling with a raw, naked plea as you close the final distance between you and, reaching out, place your trembling hands flat against his bare stomach.
He lets out a harsh, ragged hiss, his head falling back, his eyes squeezing shut. The heat of his skin is scorching, burning straight through your palms. You slide your hands slowly upward, feeling the hard, ridged muscles of his abdomen, over the hair of his chest, until your fingers curl over the heavy curve of his shoulders.
He groans your name. âDonât. I'm tryinâ to be a gentleman. I'm tryinâ to wait."
"I don't want a gentleman, and I donât want you to wait," you whisper fiercely, stepping into his space until your breasts brush against the hard wall of his chest. "I want my husband. Iâm so tired of waiting. I need you, Joel. I need you to touch me, need you to show meâŠ"
He licks his lips. âYou deserveâŠâ
âI deserve you â here and now.â
Maybe itâs the heat, or maybe itâs just unquenchable lust, but the last frayed thread of Joelâs iron control snaps with an almost audible crack.
He moves so fast you donât even have time to gasp, his hands coming off the workbench and grabbing your waist with a possessive, bruising strength. Effortlessly, he lifts you entirely off your feet, turning and slamming your back against the solid wooden wall of the nearest empty stall.
The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, but before you can recover, his mouth crushes down onto yours in a feral, starving, devastating assault, hot, wet, and demanding. His lips part yours with a rough urgency, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to taste you deeply, thoroughly, claiming every inch of you.
You let out a muffled, desperate whimper, your hands tangling into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, holding his head down, kissing him back with an answering, uninhibited fury as you taste the salt of his sweat mingled with pure, intoxicating male heat.
He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating straight down your throat, and presses his body flush against yours, pinning you to the wall. The sheer, crushing weight of him is glorious and you feel him hard and determined against your stomach through the layers of your dress and petticoats.
He tears his mouth from yours, his lips dragging a wet, burning path down your jaw, the scruff of his beard scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. Then he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone.
"You're makinâ me lose my damn mind," he rasps roughly against your throat, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants. "Every single day, darlinâ. Watchinâ youâŠsmellinâ you. I wanna tear that dress off you and bury myself inside you until Iâve got you screaminâ and pantinâ and begginâ."
The filthy, raw honesty of his words sends a violent jolt of both shock and pure lust straight down to your core. Youâve never heard him speak like this before and if any other man had said this to you at any other time you would have been affronted. You would have called him every name under the sun and fled from his sight as quickly as possible in fear of your virtue.
But now your body flushes with a heavy, pooling heat, your inner thighs trembling.
"Do it," you choke out, your head falling back against the wooden wall, offering him more access to your neck. "JoelâŠplease."
His hands move from your waist, sliding upward over your ribs to the front of your dress. His fingers curl around the fabric and with a sudden, impatient tug, the top three buttons pop off, pinging against the dirt floor of the barn.
The hot air hits your bare skin followed instantly by the scorching heat of his mouth. He kisses the exposed swell of your breasts above the lace edge of your chemise, his tongue circling then dipping beneath it, skating over one hardened nipple, making you arch your back and cry out his name.
"You're so beautiful," he mutters, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. "So goddamn beautiful. How no manâs ever claimed you âfore now is a goddamn mystery to me."
Suddenly, he drops to his knees in the dust, and you gasp, hands flying down to grip his bare shoulders to keep your balance. He buries his face against your stomach, his arms wrapping around the backs of your thighs as he kisses the fabric of your dress, right over your navel, his hot breath penetrating the cotton.
Then he grabs the hem of your skirts, pushing the heavy layers of calico and petticoats up, exposing your calves, your knees and then your thighs to the dim light of the barn. He doesnât stop until the bunched fabric is gathered around your waist and he sees youâre wearing nothing underneath but your plain cotton drawers, the fabric already damp with the slick, shameful heat of your own arousal.
He looks up at you from his knees, dark eyes blown wide, completely black with lust, the pupils swallowing the irises. The sight of this massive, powerful man kneeling between your parted thighs, staring at you with such absolute, ravenous devotion, makes your heart hammer so hard and the blood rush through your ears so fiercely that all other sounds seem to fall away.
"Joel," you whimper, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
He doesnât speak. He simply looks at you for one long, heat-filled moment, before leaning forward and pressing his open mouth right against the cotton of your drawers, directly over your aching centre.
You let out a sharp, ragged sound that echoes off the high rafters, the heat of his breath and the wet pressure of his mouth through the thin fabric sending a blinding shockwave of pleasure straight up your spine. Your knees buckle, but his hands grip your thighs, holding you up, holding you open for him.
He drags his teeth gently over the seam, a low, animal growl vibrating in his throat and you sob, your head thrashing against the wooden wall, your hips bucking involuntarily toward his face. Youâve never felt anything like this. The sheer, overwhelming intensity of the sensation is pulling you under, drowning you in a dark, spiralling coil of heat.
He pulls back just enough to reach his hands up, fingers finding the ribbon tying your drawers at your waist and pulling it loose with a swift, single motion. Then he hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags the cotton down over your hips.
You step out of them blindly, kicking them away into the dust thinking, this isnât what ladies do â married or not. Ladies donât allow themselves to be taken against the wall of a barn yet knowing you donât want to call a halt to whatever is about to happen.
Youâre completely bare to him now from the waist down. The vulnerability of it, the absolute exposure in the dim light of the barn as he looks at you, makes you tremble violently, but he doesnât give you time to feel shame.
He places his hands on the insides of your bare thighs and pushes your legs wider apart, stepping into the space between them, rising slowly back to his feet, towering over you, chest heaving, eyes burning with a dark, territorial fire. Then he reaches down, his hand sliding between your legs, fingers brushing through your curls, finding the slick, wet heat of your entrance.
You gasp, your hips jerking forward, chasing the pressure of his hand.
"Feel thatâŠyou're so wet," he groans, his thumb finding the swollen, hypersensitive peak of your sex and dragging roughly across it. âI wanna put my mouth on you, darlinâ. I wanna fall back down on my knees for you, butâŠâ he rolls his thumb around you, âI think you wanna feel me, donât you? Feel how much I need you.â
A choked cry tears from your throat and you cling to his shoulders, your fingernails scoring red half-moons into his skin as he begins to stroke you. He knows exactly what heâs doing. Heâs a man who works with his hands, who knows how to coax and command, and he plays your body with a devastating, ruthless expertise, his thumb circling and pressing, drawing a long, continuous whimper from your lips as the pleasure builds into a terrifying, brilliant pressure.
"Joel," you beg, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips, pulling his thighs flush against your bare sex. "Please, I want you. Put it inside me."
He kisses you again, a wet, bruising, open-mouthed kiss, swallowing your cries, his hand leaving your centre and dropping to his own trousers, fingers frantic as he fights with his belt buckle and begins to unbutton his fly.
The heaviness of his arousal springs free, brushing against your bare thigh, enormous, thick and pulsing with heat. He grips your hips, lifting you slightly against the wall, positioning himself at your entrance.
"I'm gonna hurt you," he rasps against your mouth, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back his thrust. "I'm gonna tear you, darlinâ cause itâs your first time, and Iâm sorry, but there ainât no other way."
"I don't care," you weep fiercely, arching your hips, trying to force him inside. "I don't care, just do it. Claim me."
He lets out a ragged, guttural moan, his hips pulling back to deliver the heavy, driving thrust that will finally, irrevocably make you his wife in every sense of the word.
âBoss!â
The shout echoes through the quiet afternoon air, accompanied by the frantic, thunderous sound of galloping hooves tearing into the ranch yard.
Joel freezes, his hips stopping a fraction of an inch from your entrance, his entire body locking rigid, chest heaving against yours, his breath catching in his throat.
"Boss! Don Joel, are you here?!" the voice yells again, closer now, the sound of a horse rearing and stamping just outside the barn doors. "Don Joel!â
The real world crashes down upon you both like a bucket of ice water as you recognise TomĂĄsâs voice.
Joel swears â a dark, filthy, vicious curse â and tears his mouth from yours, his forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder, his chest rising and falling in violent, ragged gasps as he fights to drag himself back from the absolute edge of feral instinct.
Youâre entirely dazed, your body still humming with a violent, unfulfilled heat that makes your knees buckle the moment his hands leave your hips.
He steps back, his chest heaving, his face a mask of pure, agonising frustration. He looks down at you â at your flushed skin, your swollen lips, the bare expanse of your thighs where your skirts are still bunched around your waist â and for a split second, the territorial possessiveness flares so bright in his eyes that you think he might ignore his friend entirely and finish what heâs started.
"Boss!â TomĂĄs is closer now, right outside the wide double doors, his voice cracking with urgency.
Joel squeezes his eyes shut, a muscle leaping frantically in his jaw then lets out a harsh, ragged breath He moves with terrifying, protective speed, his hands reaching down to grab the bunched fabric of your skirts and petticoats, pulling them down over your bare legs, hiding your nakedness, his knuckles brushing against your trembling thighs. Then he grabs the torn edges of your bodice, pulling them together over your exposed breasts.
"Stay here," he says, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating rumble, eyes flicking to yours, burning with a mix of absolute frustration and fierce, unwavering protection. "Don't come out until you're put together."
He doesnât wait to see if you obey. He shoves himself back into his trousers and quickly fastens the fly. Then he grabs his discarded shirt from the workbench and pulls it over his sweat-slicked shoulders, not bothering with the buttons.
You lean heavily against the wooden wall of the stall, your hands trembling violently as you look frantically around the dust for your discarded drawers. Finding them near the workbench, you snatch them up, stuffing them quickly into the deep pocket of your apron then fumble with the torn bodice of your dress, trying to pull the edges together where the buttons have popped off, your fingers clumsy and weak.
Joel strides out of the shadows and into the blinding sunlight of the open barn doors whilst you stay hidden in the dim light, pressing your back against the rough wood, trying to force your breathing to slow down. You can hear the muffled stamp of hooves, the snort of an over-ridden horse, and then the sharp, urgent cadence of a conversation.
"What is it, TomĂĄs?" Joelâs voice booms through the barn, the deep resonance echoing off the roof, the raw, feral edge still there, barely contained beneath a veneer of absolute authority.
"Found him out near the eastern fence line, Boss. Lying face-down in the scrub brush. He's burning up. Looks like trail fever."
The haze of your lust vanishes instantly, incinerated by the sudden, urgent reality of the frontier. You are the woman of this house, the one who knows how to brew willow bark, how to manage a fever, how to keep a crisis from turning into a tragedy â and someone clearly needs you.
You take one last, shuddering breath, smooth your hair back from your face and step out of the shadows.
When you reach the open barn doors, the white glare of the sun makes you squint. TomĂĄsâs roan gelding is lathered in sweat, its chest heaving, and slung over the saddle, entirely limp and unconscious, is a man.
He looks young, dressed in the ruined, dust-caked remnants of what had once been a very fine, eastern-tailored suit. His fair hair is matted with sweat and dirt, his face flushed a terrifying, unnatural red. One of his arms dangles loosely toward the dirt, his pale, uncallused hand swaying with the movement of the horse.
Joelâs standing beside the horse, his hands resting on his hips, his chest still heaving slightly beneath his unbuttoned shirt and he looks at the unconscious man with a dark, unreadable expression. "Is he breathinâ?"
"Barely," TomĂĄs mutters, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his leather glove. "He's cooked, Boss. Needs water and shade, or he ain't gonna make it to sundown."
Joelâs jaw locks and he looks up, his eyes finding you as you step out into the light, taking in the sight of you. You know, even without seeing, what you must look like as you clutch your dress tightly in one hand at your chest. Your lips feel swollen and bruised, your skin flushed, your hair wild and untamed. You imagine you look exactly like a woman who has just been on the brink of being thoroughly, ruthlessly ravaged in the hay, and the sight of you makes a fresh, dark wave of possessive hunger flare in your husbandâs eyes.
"Bring him into the house," you say, your voice completely steady, practicality and capability taking over. You donât look at Joel because you know, if you do, youâll fall apart with disappointment. "Put him in my room, then ride into Sawyerâs Creek and fetch Doc Cooper. Tell him to bring quinine and camphor."
Joelâs brow furrows. "We can put him in the hayloft.â
"Itâs an oven in there and full of dust,â you counter instantly. "He'll die out there. Bring him inside.â
Joel stares at you for a long, suspended moment, the air between you crackling with heavy, unresolved tension. You know he wants to argue, wants to throw the stranger into the barn, lock the doors of the main house, and drag you straight to the nearest available place to finish what heâs started.
And the very thought of that lights your whole body on fire.
But you know he also sees the fierce, unyielding compassion in your eyes. The same compassion that has saved him and Sarah.
"Fine," he grunts and, stepping forwards, his arms reach up to pull the unconscious man down from the saddle, hauling him over his shoulder as easily as a sack of grain, making the burden look entirely weightless.
You turn and hurry toward the main house, your boots kicking up the dust. You need to boil water, you need clean linens and you need to prepare the room before Joel brings the man inside.
By the time he crosses the threshold of the back door, his heavy boots thudding against the kitchen floorboards, youâve already thrown the windows open to catch the cross-breeze and are tearing the quilt off the bed.
Joel walks into the room and unceremoniously dumps the young man onto the mattress, a low delirious moan tearing from his throat, his head rolling limply against the pillow.
Then he stands at the foot of the bed watching you move around the room with frantic, purposeful efficiency. You pour cool water from the pitcher into a basin, grab a clean cloth, and immediately step up to the bedside to wipe the thick layer of dirt and sweat from the stranger's flushed face.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Joelâs eyes narrow as he watches your hands â the same hands that had been tangled in his hair, begging him to take you apart just minutes ago â now gently tending to another man.
"I'll strip his boots and coat," he mumbles, stepping forward and physically crowding the space beside the bed, grabbing the ruined leather boots, yanking them off the stranger's feet and tossing them into the corner. Then he pulls the dusty, tailored coat from the man's shoulders, making quick, rough work of the task.
Underneath the dirt, the young man is handsome in a soft, un-weathered sort of way with the pale, refined features of an easterner, entirely unsuited for the brutal reality of the Texas frontier.
"He's burning up," you murmur, dipping the cloth back into the basin and wringing it out before placing the cool compress against the man's forehead.
"He's a fool who got himself lost," Joel corrects flatly.
You pause, looking up at your husband. The anger and the heavy, suffocating frustration radiating off him is palpable and heâs standing so close to you that you can feel the heat of his body, the intoxicating smell of him wrapping around you like a heavy blanket.
"He's someone's son, Joel," you say softly.
He looks down at you, at your torn dress, your bruised lips, and the lingering, heavy flush of arousal that still paints your cheeks and the anger in his eyes slowly shifts, melting into a raw, bleeding intensity that makes your breath catch.
He reaches out and cups the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse point fluttering frantically just beneath your jaw.
"I know," he rasps, stroking the skin he marked with his teeth in the barn. "But he picked a helluva time to die on my land."
A violent shudder racks your body, the physical ache of his touch agonising. You lean into his palm, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief, blinding second as the memory of his heavy arousal pressing against your bare thighs crashes back over you.
"Heâs not going to die. We'll save him," you whisper, opening your eyes to meet his burning gaze. "And then he'll leave."
"He better," Joel vows, his grip tightening slightly on your neck. "Cause the second Doc Cooper says he's stable, I'm finishinâ what I started.â
He doesnât wait for your response, rather he presses a hard, bruising kiss to your forehead, his thumb stroking your jaw one last time before he releases you. Turning his back on the room he strides down the hallway, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots echoing through the house until the back door opens and slams shut.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening.
You stand beside the bed, the cool, damp cloth clutched in your trembling fingers, your heart still hammering a frantic, erratic beat. The air in the room feels suddenly thin, entirely drained of the overwhelming, intoxicating gravity of your husbandâs presence.
You look down at your torn bodice. Beneath the fabric, your skin still burns where his beard scraped your collarbone, your breasts still ache from the heavy, wet heat of his mouth and between your thighs, the slick, heavy evidence of your unconsummated desire weeps into the layers of your petticoats, a constant, throbbing reminder of exactly what youâve been denied.
You close your eyes, dragging a harsh, ragged breath into your lungs.
Iâm finishinâ what I started.
The feral, territorial promise echoes in your mind, sending a fresh wave of liquid fire straight to your core. You have to force yourself to breathe, to push the blinding haze of lust away and lock it back inside the iron box of the sensible spinster, because you have a job to do.
Taking a shuddering breath, you turn back to the man on the bed.
****
Doc Cooper arrives from Sawyer's Creek by late afternoon, confirming TomĂĄsâs diagnosis as a brutal case of trail fever, compounded by severe dehydration and sunstroke. He leaves behind a jar of bitter quinine powder, a bottle of camphor oil, and grim instructions to keep the manâs temperature down at all costs.
âWe could try moving him into town, but he might not survive the journey,â he says, âand Iâve got two patients at my clinic already.â
âItâs fine,â you reassure him. âI can minister to him here.â
âAlright then,â he nods, patting your arm gently. âSend for me if things worsen.â
âI will,â you nod, then stand at the window watching him ride away, leaving the house suffocatingly quiet.
Joelâs first action, once he realises the stranger isnât going anywhere, is to move Sarah to TomĂĄs and Mariaâs â keeping her away from any risk â and now the house is stripped down to just the three of you.
You stand at the kitchen sink, blindly washing the same tin coffee cup for the third time, your mind completely consumed by memories of the dim, dust-moted heat of the tack room. You can still feel every moment of it, and youâre only jolted back to reality when you hear the sound of Joelâs boots on the floorboards behind you.
Turning, you see him fill the doorway, his hair damp and curling slightly at the edges from having washed at the pump, shirt unbuttoned.
"He asleep?" he asks.
"Yes," you manage to say, reaching for a towel to dry your hands. "His feverâs still high, but the camphor seems to be helping him rest."
He gives a short nod, then crosses the kitchen, closing the distance between you until heâs standing just a breath away. The sheer, overwhelming heat radiating from his body makes the air in the room feel instantly ten degrees hotter and you feel your pulse leaping frantically at the base of your throat.
"You're takinâ my room tonight," he says softly, eyes dropping to track the nervous flutter of your pulse.
You blink, your breath catching. "Your room? But... where will you sleep?"
"I threw a bedroll up in the hayloft," he answers, his gaze lifting back to yours. "Canât sleep under the same roof as you tonight.â
The unspoken reason hangs heavily between you. If he stays in the house, if he has to lie awake in the dark listening to you breathe, knowing youâre just down the hall, the iron-clad control heâs fighting so desperately to maintain would snap.
"Joel," you whisper. âWeâre married, Sarah isnât here and that manâŠâ
He shakes his head. âI donât care how out of it he is. Itâs different with Sarah âcause this is her home and itâs what folks do butâŠI canât do what I wanna do knowinâ some strangerâs down the hall.â
Your heart aches at the sheer, noble sacrifice of it, at him giving up his own bed, banishing himself to the hayloft, just to keep you safe from his own feral hunger. But thereâs a heavier, more delicate weight attached to his offer.
You reach out, your fingers lightly grazing his shirt. "Are you sure?" you ask, your voice incredibly soft, treading carefully onto sacred ground. "That room... it was Tessâs space. Itâs your space. I don't want to intrude where I don't belong."
Joel stares down at you, the muscle in his jaw leaping frantically, then reaches up, his hand covering yours where it rests against his heart. He doesnât push you away, rather he presses your palm firmer against the heavy, thudding rhythm in his chest. "It ainât a shrine," he rasps, his voice thick with a sudden, raw emotion that strips away the rugged exterior. "And it ainât been Tess's space for a long time."
He takes a half-step closer, forcing you to tip your head back further.
"You ainât a ghost in this house, darlinâ. I want you in that room. I want my bed to smell like you. I wanna walk in there tomorrow morninâ and know that my wife slept in my sheets."
The possessive, deeply territorial claim in his words makes you shiver. He isnât just giving you a place to sleep â heâs deliberately, consciously making room for you in the most intimate corner of his life.
"Alright," you breathe, a trembling smile touching your lips.
He lets out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. âIf you need me durinâ the nightâŠif he wakes and does anythinââŠâ
âHe wonât,â you reply. âHeâs in no fit state to do anything right now except sleep.â
âYou scream,â he says, looking at you squarely. âYou scream and holler and Iâll be there.â
He pulls back abruptly, the sudden loss of his heat leaving you gasping in the warm kitchen air. Then he turns on his heel and strides out the back door, his boots thudding against the porch before he disappears into the dark, heading for the barn.
You stand frozen against the sink, your body trembling. Then, taking a deep, stabilising breath, you pick up the small oil lamp from the table and walk slowly down the hall, stopping in front of the door at the very end of the corridor.
The door swings inwardly and you step over the threshold, your breath catching in your throat. It isnât a mausoleum or a dusty, untouched shrine to a dead woman. There are no lace doilies, no lingering scents of floral perfume, no forgotten dresses hanging in the corners. The room is vast, masculine, and spotlessly clean.
A massive, heavy oak bed dominates the centre, its thick posts carved with simple, sturdy lines. To the right sits a wide, scarred wooden washstand holding his straight razor, a leather strop, and a tin of cedar shaving soap. In the corner rests a worn, overstuffed leather armchair, the seat deeply indented from the heavy weight of his body.
But itâs the bed that draws your eye and makes your heart ache with a profound, overwhelming tenderness.
He hasn't just offered you his room, heâs prepared it for you.
The heavy quilt has been folded back meticulously, the sheets stark, crisp, and blindingly white and you realise that whilst youâve been caring for the stranger, Joel has stripped his own bed and remade it with fresh, clean sheets just for you.
Setting the lamp on the bedside table, you reach out, running your hand over the smooth cotton. It smells like lye soap, the hot sun, and the deep, underlying cedar of the heavy oak frame. But beneath the cleanliness, the entire room is saturated with the dark, intoxicating musk of your husband â leather, dust, and pure, concentrated male heat.
You feel entirely surrounded by him and the sheer intimacy of being in his private sanctuary, touching the things he touches, breathing the air he breathes, is a different kind of seduction. Itâs a quiet, domestic claiming that wraps around your soul and pulls the knot tight.
You undress slowly in the golden lamplight, your skin flushing hot as you imagine his eyes watching you from the shadows. Then you slip into your plain cotton nightgown, blow out the lamp, and climb into the bed.
The feather ticking swallows you, soft and incredibly deep. You pull the fresh sheets up to your chin, turn onto your side and bury your face in the pillow where he usually lays his head. Closing your eyes, your body aches with the memory of his hands in the barn, your heart overflowing with the knowledge that the man sleeping out in the hayloft has spent his evening making sure you have clean sheets.
Youâre in his room, surrounded by his scent, counting down the hours until dawn, and youâve never felt more completely, utterly possessed.
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