Jack looked up and smiled.
Candice didn’t notice the rare smile, she was running her hands over the smooth, silky wood, exclaiming, “Where did you ever find this? Oh, Jack, we can’t afford this!”
“You like it?”
“I love it,” she said enthusiastically, finally looking at him.
Nothing had changed in the past few days. He was reserved and withdrawn—except when he turned to her in the night with desperation and urgency. His smile was devastating. Not just because of the physical change it wrought on his features, but because she did love him—and it was a smile that reached into his soul. Reflexively Candice reached out and cupped the side of his cheek. He stopped smiling. She felt him fighting her, felt his confusion, and maybe—fear. He pulled away. Candice dropped her hand.
Their bed now stood on a frame with four legs—Jack had made it. Her cranberry satin gown had been made into a spread that covered it. A tablecloth covered the table, and Jack was adding shelves and a work space to the right of the hearth. He’d bartered for a chair. Soon they would get a thick Indian rug for the floor. He’d already obtained four chickens and a rooster. Candice was anticipating roast chicken with delight.
“I’ll be back later,” Jack said, his gaze moving over her flushed face.
She gave him a bright smile. “Okay.”
“What are you washing, anyway? All my things are buckskins. You look tired.”
“Just a bit achy,” she said, biting her lip and averting her glance. It wasn’t that she was hiding what she was doing from Jack, but she knew he was proud, and she didn’t think he’d approve. He wasn’t even supposed to be back until later.
“Why don’t you lie down for a few minutes,” Jack said.
“All right.” She flashed a smile, relieved he’d forgotten his question.
Her image lingered with him, long after he’d gone. Even dressed like a washerwoman, she was beautiful—it made him ache right to his soul. He hated seeing her in homespun and rags, hated seeing her hair hidden beneath that gray kerchief. He hated the feel of her work-roughened hands. Candice was a lady. There was no doubt in his mind, as, in truth, there had never been. She didn’t deserve this kind of life. She deserved a rancher like Judge Reinhart who could afford maids and cooks and laundrywomen. She deserved the finest silks and lace-edged underwear. But just what in hell was he supposed to do?
She was carrying his child. The doctor had confirmed she was about six weeks along. That ended any and all doubt as to the child’s paternity—only he could be the father. He was thrilled. He couldn’t wait for the birth of their child, and he was doing what he had to do—taking care of his wife the best way he knew how.
After the baby was born, things would be different. They would set out for California—he’d already decided. But he needed a stake, and the next year was going to see him accumulate enough for the move and a few head of cattle. The first few years wouldn’t be easy, of course. But one day he would build her a fine home, with huge white pillars and a verandah that went all the way around the house. And a garden full of roses. His children would be sent away to school once they were old enough, to get the education he’d never gotten. His wife would have whatever she desired.
His dreams did not ease the guilt he felt about their current situation.
Because, despite the baby, he knew his motivations were more selfish than pure. No matter how hard he fought her web, he had already lost the war—and he just couldn’t ever let her go.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Ten days later Jack saw the preacher and couldn’t believe his luck.
This was what he had been waiting for. Like most towns, El Paso didn’t have a preacher, and the townspeople waited for one to travel through to hold services and weddings. If too much time elapsed between visits, couples would often forgo the legality and move in together, then make things right when the preacher did appear. Jack had never forgotten Candice’s threat that she wasn’t the first unmarried mother-to-be—with its implication that she could and would leave him if she felt like it. He had been intending to tie her to him with a Christian wedding from the moment he’d found out she was pregnant, although he hadn’t mentioned it because he was afraid she would balk. Now he would make her say her vows at gunpoint, if necessary. Nothing was going to stop this ceremony from taking place.
It didn’t matter that the preacher hadn’t shaved in weeks, or, from the looks of him, washed either. It didn’t matter that he was standing outside the saloon, swaying slightly, obviously drunk. Jack approached with rapid strides, his heart pounding, calling out. The man didn’t even turn his head, not until Jack called out again and laid a hand on his arm.
The man jumped.
“Sorry, Padre, Jack said. He could smell the whiskey on his breath. “I’ve been waiting for a preacher to ride into town.”
The man nodded. “An’ whut—whut ken I do fo’ you—my son?” He slurred.
“I need to get married. We’ve been living in sin.”
The preacher hung on to the doorpost. “S’fine. My pleasure, an’ God’s. Yuh got five dollars—son?”
“Yes. You think you can perform the ceremony now, Padre?”
“Yeah,” the man said, and smiled.
Jack took him by the arm and led him to their house. Candice was in the yard doing laundry again, and this was the second time he’d seen her doing so much—looking so flushed and fatigued, the strain etching lines on her forehead. His gut was tight. He had one set of clothes other than buckskins. Just what in hell was she washing?
“Candice.”
