The Unexpected Wife(55)

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “I’ve been married before, remember? I know what women go through each month.”

She laid her forehead on her hand. She wanted to die. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Get in bed with the boys. That bed is more comfortable than that pallet.”

“No, I won’t put you out of your bed.”

“Get into the bed.”

Too humiliated to quarrel, she crossed the room to the bed. Gingerly, she sat down, wincing as the mattress ropes creaked. She glanced over at the boys who both were in a deep sleep. Quinn was snoring. Tommy’s mouth hung open.

Mr. Barrington dampened the tip of his finger and touched the horseshoe. Satisfied, he wrapped the horseshoe in a cloth as he moved to the side of the bed. “Go on, put your feet under the covers and then roll on your side with your back facing me.”

Abby complied, grateful not to have to look him in the eye. The only person she’d ever discussed her monthly cycle with had been her mother and now to have Mr. Barrington ministering to her was almost too much to bear.

Gently, he laid the warm horseshoe against her back. And immediately, her muscles relaxed. “Oh my.”

“Better?”

“Yes, much.” She wasn’t used to receiving help, only giving it. “You should get some sleep. I’m feeling much better.”

He didn’t move. “I’ll give it a few more minutes.”

“No really, I can manage.” She started to turn to face him.

“Is it always bad like this for you?”

The personal question stopped her dead in her tracks and she rolled back to where she was. Finally, she said, “No. It’s usually not a problem.”

“Well, if it ever is, get me up. I’ll help you.”

The heat seeped into her skin. Her cramps eased a fraction. “I’m not very good at taking help.”

“I don’t like it much, either, but I’ve learned it’s a fact of life. Sometimes you need it.”

Silence settled between them as he continued to press the horseshoe to her lower back.

Abby was grateful for the dim light. “You realize there won’t be a baby now,” he said softly.

“Yes.”

A baby was the last thing she needed in her life now, but logic did little to soften her disappointment. Deep in her heart she’d hoped there would be a child to bind her and Mr. Barrington. Tears filled her eyes. She rolled toward him and took the horseshoe from him. “I wanted a baby.”

He stared down at her, his face an unreadable mask. Finally, he brushed the hair from her face and rose. “Get some sleep.”

He picked up his guns, boots, shirt and lantern and started for the loft ladder.

“There’s nothing binding you to me now,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

In the darkness, he paused. “Don’t be so sure about that.”





A week later the four of them were headed into town for the picnic. Abby sat next to Mr. Barrington on the buckboard seat while the boys sat on a blanket in the back.

Work, which had initially bound them, had kept Abby and Mr. Barrington apart while Mr. Barrington spent his days on the range doing his best to make up for the days he’d lose while in town. Whereas Abby, who was keenly aware that her time here was limited, worked twice as hard, as if somehow she could cram a life’s worth of living into one week.

She had started a small vegetable garden by the house. She’d fretted over what she was going to bake for the picnic. She’d even found a pile of lumber in the barn that brought to mind her own dreams of staying and having an extra room added. The finely milled lumber had darkened with age—clearly it had been in the barn for at least a year. Quinn had told her his pa had planned to build an extra room, but when their mother had died, he had put the project aside. Abby had shoved aside her thoughts of a new room and instead took extra care cleaning the boys’ clothes and pressing a shirt for Mr. Barrington.

In the evenings both she and Mr. Barrington were so tired neither had the energy to speak, let alone be tempted by lovemaking.

Now as she sat next to him on the wagon, he was all she could think about. By rights, she should have been exhausted and grateful for the time to simply sit. But her muscles bunched each time his thigh grazed hers or he shifted in his seat. They’d hardly spoken since they’d started out this morning, but she was very aware of him—his strong hands clenched on the reins, his scent, and the way her breath quickened when his shoulder brushed hers. As the day had begun to heat up, he’d opened his work shirt. Sweat glistened from the thick mat of hair on his chest.