He reached for the dark blue shirt that went with his trousers and plunged his arms through the sleeves. “What gave it away? Surely not clothes the color of night.”
She bit the side of her lip and took a hesitant step closer. “I was hoping you wouldn’t have to go tonight.”
“Were you now?” His hand stilled on the top button of his shirt. “And why is that?”
She swallowed but kept her gaze pinned to his in the dim lantern light. “I… I don’t know. I’m being foolish, I suppose.”
“I don’t think it’s foolish,” he rasped through a throat that had grown suddenly tight. Did she truly want him to stay? Just him, Thomas Dowrick, her husband? Not someone taller than her who could clean the top of the cupboards or stronger than her who could carry a crate up the stairs? Him alone? “I’d rather stay too.”
“You would?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
She looked down, then back up at him. She’d been awfully quiet this evening. She’d handed him a telegram from Deadwood but had barely spoken to either him or the girls, and he hadn’t had a chance to ask if something was wrong.
“Why?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Why what? Stay and spend time with you? Maybe because you’re my wife. Because I…”Love you.He’d already told her after the fire, yet at times she was still so hesitant, so uncertain of him. Would saying the three words burning in his heart for a second time send her scurrying away again?
His hand fumbled with the button at the top of his shirt once more. Whose idea was it to give a shirt as big as this such small buttons anyway?
“Here, let me.” She closed the space between them and reached for the button. “Are you late again?”
Her hands brushed his chest, and an ache filled him. Did she feel it too, the energy that hummed between them when they touched? Probably not, if the brisk, efficient way she slipped the buttons into the small holes was any indication.
“It was that second game of checkers with Olivia,” he croaked. “I shouldn’t have played it.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. She was pretty happy when she beat you.” Her nimble fingers continued down the row of buttons.
“Which was precisely why I shouldn’t have played it. Between Olivia’s smiles and my large hands, I’m out the door late every night.”
Jessalyn’s fingers slipped on the last button, and she looked up at him. “I don’t think your hands are too large.”
He held them up. “Come on, Jess. They’re the size of bear paws.”
She tilted her head to the side and giggled. Actually giggled. As though she were as carefree and full of life as Claire or Megan.“I always liked how big they were. You can fit my whole face between them.” She reached for one of his hands, then brought it up to cup her face.
“And that’s a good thing?” He swallowed, her skin soft beneath his work-roughened palm, then brought his other hand up to hold her face in both hands.
The air grew still around them while the breath from her lips brushed his face. A simple dip of his head, and their lips would touch.
His own breathing grew shallow. Should he kiss her? He’d not attempted to since she’d agreed to their truce, and she’d hardly been eager for his kisses then.
God, how do I know when to kiss her? When to tell her I love her? When to show her I love her with nothing separating us?
Standing in their bedroom with only lamplight surrounding them, most men would lean down and kiss their wives without thought, then carry them to the bed. Yet he couldn’t, and he had no one to blame but himself. He’d been the one to gamble away their savings. He’d been the one to leave and assume she was fine for five years.
He didn’t deserve another chance, yet she’d given him one anyway—or was trying to. But she was still so fragile, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon to open its wings for the first time. If he pushed too hard or too fast, she might fly off without him.
“Your hands always made me feel small, but in a good way.” Her voice broke through the stillness surrounding them, then she reached up and laid one of her own hands atop his, and turned her face slightly into that palm. “Delicate, like I was one of those pretty china dolls in Henry’s warehouse, and you were my protector.”
Protector. Right. Except he hadn’t been her protector for five long years.
He dropped his hands and took a step back, the guilt nearly choking him. “Well, I suppose the best way to protect you now is by finding the arsonist who burned down your shop.”
“That wasn’t what I?—”
“I have to go.” He took another step back, then left without so much as a glance over his shoulder.
