no time. abigail x john
charles buried arthur, but the marstons made the marker.
“Careful Jack! It’s not sanded yet and you could get a splinter.” Abigail rushed to her son, who was petting the soft oak with his bare hands. He looked up at her startled. Her own eyes stared back at her, and she offered a soft smile and a hand. “Want to help me with some of the painting?”
Jack nodded, taking her hand and letting her lead him to her paint station on the other side of the barn, where a ring of oak had been beautifully carved and stained earlier that day.
“Is this for Uncle Arthur? Or a different Arthur?”
She looked at him as he studied the name on the unfinished marker. His brow was furrowed, and it was clear he didn’t understand. She couldn’t blame him. Poor thing had seen so much change in the past couple months it was a wonder he could remember anything at all. “It’s for Uncle Arthur honey.”
Charles had buried him, so it seemed only right that the Marstons would make a marker for the site. A family business, if you will.
“Did Uncle Arthur die?” He looked up at her again, serious and focused. He knew so much. Too much.
Abigail sighed, fiddling with the tools in her hand. “Yes, Jack. Uncle Arthur passed because…he was very sick. Do you remember?” She hoped he remembered. Prayed. Arthur was all around them in this life, and she’d be damned if her son didn’t know it.
Jack nodded solemnly. “He coughed a lot and wouldn’t play with me.”
“That’s right. He did that so he wouldn’t get you sick.” She paused, adding, “He loved you very much.”
“I know. He told me.” Jack turned to focus on the stained wood again, tracing the leaves his mother had carved into the surface.
Abigail hid her face from him then, unable to hide the hot tears that slid from her eyes and down her nose.
“I don’t think anyone loves that boy like you do,” she said. Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, as she looked on Arthur with Jack.
The boy had fallen asleep hours ago, and Arthur had dutifully stayed put, slowly swaying back and forth, his thumb locked in a tiny fist.
“You’re his momma. You love him more than anything, and of that I am sure.” Arthur seemed sure, but as he looked at that little boy, Abigail doubted even her own encompassing love for her son in the face of that.
There was nobody like Arthur. Not even John.
She felt small hands on her shoulder, followed by a head in the crook of her neck.
“I love you, momma.” Jack had tucked herself into the crook of her shoulder, his little hands gripping her calico dress. “Are those happy tears or sad tears?
Abigail heaved a breath and tucked her face into her sleeve. “I love you too, sweetheart. They’re a little of both.”
His little brow wrinkled. “I didn’t know you could have both.”
She smiled at him. “Sometimes you have to have both.” She pointed at the haphazard project. “Do you want to help me with some of this?”
Jack threw his tiny body off hers and literally jumped for joy, grinning. “Can I paint?”
She laughed. “Yes you can, you smart boy. I’ll get you some brushes and we can use some of those pretty flowers all crushed up. Will you go into the kitchen and grab some of the oil I have above the stove?” She adjusted her stance, squatting ungracefully as she checked the stained wood for wet spots.
Eager to help, Jack turned and left the barn as quickly as he’d arrived.
She hated to admit it, but she missed Arthur more now that her family was settled and safe. There was an overwhelming feeling that she would have an easier time feeling safe if he was around, his very presence warding them against harm. She thought of all the times she found him guarding camp, his feet up and his hat pulled low over his brow, with his gun resting loosely across his chest. It brought a smile to her lips.
Footsteps, too heavy to be Jack’s, approached the back door of the barn. She looked up and found her husband approaching her, dropping to her side and kissing her temple.
Abigail hummed. “Hey, you.”
“Hey, yourself.” He stuck his chin out at the wood laid out all over the barn, half-finished in some places and drying in others. “How’s the project?”
“It’s alright. I think I’ve got myself a small helper.” She looked back at the house, where Jack had disappeared.
John laughed. “You gettin’ that boy to paint now?”
“He wanted to!” She shoved him, but he was a step ahead of her and leaned into her hands, throwing her off balance. She caught herself with her palms behind her, and John nearly pinning her to the ground. She stared up at him through her lashes, smirking. His hands braced him above her, inches from her shoulders on either side.
John stared right back, hungry. There was silence for a moment before he closed in on her, attacking her lips with his. She leaned into him, looping an arm around his neck and throwing her weight up into him. He braced himself on a knee between her thighs and brought a rough hand to her upper back, holding her flush to him.
“Momma!”
They yanked themselves apart, Abigail breathing heavy and scrambling to her feet, smoothing her skirts as Jack came around the corner. John replaced his hat, stood, and did his best to look somewhat stern.
“I found the oil!” He held the glass jar above his head, vibrating with his victory.
Abigail swallowed and chuckled. “Good boy! Can you find those flowers from the yard? The pink ones?” Anything to send him out.
He nodded, setting the jar on the ground before sprinting out of the barn once more.
John wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, kissing up her neck to her ears. “How much time do we have?” He whispered. She shivered, chills running down her back. She remembered heated afternoons at camp where he’d asked her the same, and blushed.
“Not enough,” she replied wryly.
John huffed a laugh down her neck and kissed the underside of her jaw. “I guess I’ll just have to wait.”
“Well,” she replied, breathless, “you know what they say about that.”
“What’s that?” His breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck, and she was just about a puddle on the floor.
“Good things.” Her voice was less than even, but she was doing her best. John squeezed her tight before letting her go. She turned toward him, planting a kiss on his lips and shoving him out the door. “You are trouble, John Marston!”
He laughed loudly and turned the corner.
