“Mercy, I never knew two left feet could be such good company,” Elaina teased.
“Seems to me we’re both guilty of that,” Steven replied. “But I reckon it’s more about who you’re stepping on than how well you move.”
The needle on the phonograph crackled and popped. They spun, tripped, and laughed again, the melody forgiving their missteps as if this dance was crafted just for them—their imperfect ballet.
As the hour wore on and their laughter subsided, their movements became less about the dance and more about the closeness it brought. Breathless, Elaina rested her head against Steven’s broad chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart mingling with the fading waltz.
“Steven,” she began, “when our child comes into this world, I want them to know every day just how cherished they are.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his voice low and resonant. “We’ll raise them to know they’re loved unconditionally. I’ll dance with all the girls, and you dance with all the boys.”
“Just how many children do you think we’re having?” she asked in mock dismay.
“Three or four dozen. No more than that.”
She laughed. “I don’t know...that sounds like an awful lot to me. Remember, I was an only child.”
“And you missed knowing that having siblings is one of the best things in the world. Think of all the mischief you and your imaginary siblings could have gotten into!”
She shook her head. “I don’t know about that. I don’t want to be the mother of a group of hellions.”
“That’s where raising them with strict rules comes into play. I’ll teach them to only prank each other and not throw apples at all the townspeople.”
“Just promise me you’ll love them, and I think we’ll be good.”
“Exactly,” Steven murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Our little ones will never doubt their place in this world or in our hearts.”
Elaina moved back to her rocking chair, picking up the afghan she was crocheting for the baby. “I almost wish the baby would be here before Christmas,” she said softly. “I want to make presents for him or her.”
“Christmas,” Steven said, leaning back in his chair. “It always smelled of gingerbread at my ma’s house. She had a knack for baking them just right—crisp edges with chewy centers.”
A smile tugged at Elaina’s lips, imagining a kitchen filled with the sweet, spicy scent of festive treats. “Gingerbread, huh?” she asked. She’d never equated gingerbread with Christmas, but if he did, she would make the most of it.
“Yep. Never was Christmas without them. Ma said it was like bringing warmth into the home—something about how the molasses and spices mixed to create something almost magical.”
She nodded, picturing the scene—a bustling kitchen, laughter hanging in the air, the rich aroma enveloping the family. “I think I could give it a try,” Elaina said, more to herself than to him. “Cynthia’s got a hand for baking. She could show me how.”
“Would you do that?” He looked genuinely touched, and it stirred something within her—the desire to bring that piece of his past into their present.
“Of course.” Determination settled in her chest. “I want our child to have those kinds of memories, too. To know the warmth of traditions.”
“Elaina, that’d mean the world to me,” he replied, his voice thick with an emotion he seldom showed. He shook his head. “At times the girls would work together and build a house from gingerbread while we were out working on fences. We’d get in at the end of a day in the snow, and there would be hot chocolate and a gingerbread house, along with all the men and women they’d decorated. I was always the first to steal a piece of the roof...usually the chimney. My youngest sister, Ida Mae, would get so mad at me. The sister between us, Joy, would have to quiet her down. Of course, Joy could make anyone happy. Ma gave her the name that suited her perfectly.”
“Steven,” she said, unable to meet his gaze as she spoke her fears, “I’m not like other women...I’ve spent so much time being strong, being...mannish. Am I enough?” When he spoke of his sisters, he always talked about them as if they grew up with a mixing spoon in their hands and covered in flour as they learned to cook and do all the wifely tasks. She felt inept.
“Elaina,” he said firmly, lifting her chin gently so their eyes met. “You’re exactly who I need. You’re fierce, brave, and caring. And I don’t want anyone else by my side. I vowed to protect you, and I meant every word.”
His touch was tender, a stark contrast to the calloused hands of a man who worked the land. She covered his hands with hers, thankful that he was willing to say all the right things, even if he didn’t mean them.
