The most contented feeling settled over her as they sat there, the stars twinkling in the sky above. There was something wonderfully comfortable and secure about sitting on the step, next to Max, their hands intertwined and the only witness being the dark mountains far off in the distance.
It was almost as if nothing else in the world mattered except the two of them in that very moment.
Chapter Eight
THE DAYS TURNED INTOweeks, and Max, Delia—and even Anna—settled into a routine of sorts. Anna was hardly perfect, but there was a noticeable difference in her with Delia around, although she still rarely spoke to Max unless she had to.
And Delia . . . He smiled at the thought of her as he accepted the wrapped bundle of pastries from the baker. They were slowly getting to know one another. Sometimes he wished it would move faster, that he could simply throw his arms around her and kiss her the way he’d wanted to since their wedding.
But there was something about her that made him slow down. He reminded himself that she was from a good family back East, and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. Slower was better. Every time he took her hand, she smiled at him, and that was enough to keep him hopeful.
With a bounce in his step, he approached the door to the house. The fellow who took his job at the front desk during the evening hours had arrived two hours early with a story about his wife being angry with him for such a number of reasons that Max could hardly believe half of them. Liam had shaken his head and sent Max on home. With mild weather and the sun shining brightly overhead, he figured it would be a nice afternoon to take a stroll out of town with his family.
Family. He mused over the word as he pressed the door open.
“Oh! You’re home!” Delia jumped up from her seat at the table, the pen in her hand clattering against the wood where it had fallen. She swept up the papers in front of her, casting him a broad smile as she tapped them against the table.
“Henry arrived early,” Max said, watching her curiously. “What are you writing?”
“Oh, I . . .” She glanced down at the sheets in her hands. “A story.”
“A story?” he repeated. “Like Anna’s circus book?”
She laughed a little as her cheeks grew pink. “Not a book. Just . . . my thoughts on traveling here and the town and . . .”
Of all the things he’d expected to come home to, his wife writing a story about her life wouldn’t have ever crossed his mind.
She tilted her head. “What did you bring home?”
He was still holding the pastries wrapped in their brown paper. “I stopped by the bakery for a few things. I thought we could take a little walk out of town. You, me, and Anna. Is Anna here?”
Delia shook her head, the papers clutched to her chest. “She’s gone to spend time with her friends.”
Max couldn’t be angry with that. He was glad Anna had made friends in town, and ever since the evening she’d come home late and Delia told her she wouldn’t get supper until she washed up, Anna had been good about arriving home when she said she would.
“Well, would you like to come with me?” He held up the package, hoping that if his company didn’t tempt her, perhaps the blueberry crumble and sugar cookies might.
She smiled at him. “Of course. Just let me put this away.” She took the pen and inkwell and disappeared up the stairs. Max busied himself with filling a canteen while he waited, and soon enough, they were strolling arm-in-arm down the road towardthe south. Before long, they’d passed the last building, and it was just them, the worn road, and the railroad tracks.
“Do you have a destination in mind?” Delia asked.
“Not particularly. It’s such a nice day, and I thought you might like to get out of town and see the countryside.”
She looked up at him, her smile more dazzling than the sun that sat in the western sky over top of the mountains.
