He had, she was beginning to notice, the art of looking surprised by her words down to a science. Or was it just because he wasn’t used to having a woman, determined upon her own agenda, in his life?
“Well, I can certainly take you down and show you around,” her husband hemmed and hawed, clearly uncomfortable with the whole idea. “You’d oughta know what’s there, and what’s goin’ on anyway, I guess.”
“Shouldn’t I know about where and when to order items, and what to order?” Camellia persisted. “And the cost of each, and how long delivery might take?”
Ben shifted on his seat and pulled the hat lower on his forehead. Which was showing signs of dampness. “I got people to do that.”
Ah. The light was dawning. It all came down to a matter of control. Ben was used to controlling his little empire in its entirety, and he wasn’t about to relinquish any authority to anyone, not even a newly acquired wife.
Very well, she would not demand more information or knowledge now. A good wife knows when to push forward, and when to draw back; and certainly she was determined to be a good wife.
Instead, she spoke of the past, and the recent past, following his shuttered gaze to the horizon and beyond. “I miss my mother dreadfully. And I miss the man my father used to be. It’s a difficult thing to be an orphan, and have no one to look out for you.”
“You do. You got me.” Ben turned his head suddenly to look at her, his hazel eyes colored blue with intensity, his voice sounding gruff for absolutely no reason.
The moment became fraught with an indescribable emotion neither was prepared to deal with. So, for safety’s sake, both pulled away from the brink.
“Thank you,” she said primly. “That means a lot, and I appreciate it.”
“Ain’t that what marriage is all about? It’s what I was hopin’ to find, anyway.”
Camellia carefully cleared her throat. “And do you—do you think—you have—?”
A pause, filled with the quiet clop-clop of the horse’s hooves on the dirt road, and a rustle of pecan leaves overhead, and distant birdsong. An errant breeze lifted the scarf loosely knotted around his throat, and tugged playfully upon a curl twining at her cheek. The cloudless sky couldn’t have been a more perfect azure.
“Dunno yet. Reckon I’ll find out soon enough. And maybe you will, too.”
I think I may have, she thought, in a flash of perspective. At least I’m not alone any more.
Another few moments passed by, while he tended to managing the horse (who, intelligent as Balaam was, needed very little tending) and she took in the scenery. Now that Ben was taking her home again, it was through very pretty country. Quiet, peaceful, serene. After the fuss and noise of St. Louis streets, she could get used to such a sense of harmony, very quickly.
“I heard you cryin’ last night,” he abruptly confessed, in a low tone that implied something secretive.
Her fingers clutched more tightly around her reticule, in surprise. “Oh.”
“Yeah. After the first time I—after I had—I’m sorry, Camellia.” This from a proud man who, she was discovering, did not easily apologize. “I didn’t mean to do you harm.”
“It’s—it’s all right.” She didn’t dare look at him; her cheeks were stained scarlet, and the weak tears were already forming, beyond her control. Remembrance could be a painful thing, and her—might she call it unusual?—experience at his hands was of but a few hours’ duration.
“No. For a little bit, there, I forgot you’re a gentlewoman, and I shouldn’t be treatin’ you like a dox—like someone who ain’t. Mayhap you’ll be able to forgive me someday.”
Balaam’s magnificently muscled rump, with its silky black tail flashing back and forth, had seemingly become quite interesting, for all that Ben was staring straight ahead. Camellia stole a glance at him from under her lashes and saw that he must have been ashamed of something—either his words, or his enthusiastic reception of her, or his conscience that would not let the matter lie—for a dull red had colored what was visible of his face.
“Oh—no,” she protested faintly. “No, you shouldn’t—I can’t be—”
Beyond that neither could go. They returned home in silence, both sitting on the padded seat like two miserable lumps of suet. Despite the mere few physical inches between them, in truth, husband and wife could not have been farther apart than the Poles.
I
t wasn’t until they had nearly reached their street, all shady and quiet and blessedly cool in the heat of the day, that Ben mumbled something about leaving early tomorrow morning.
“What?” Shocked, Camellia turned sideways. “You’re what?”
“Leavin’. As I said.”
“But—why? What’s going on?”
Under attack—and rightfully so—Ben had stiffened like a bullock suffering from colic. “I’ve been wantin’ to set up a second store at Manifest, about forty miles from here. A partic’lar place I’m interested in. Just got word that the owner is willin’ to talk with me, so I need to go see him.”