She looked at him then, really looked, seeing past the mask to the grieving man inside him. “Thank you for your honesty, Jacob,” she managed. “At least now I know where we stand.”
With that, Poppy turned away from him, her steps measured and deliberate as she retreated to the sanctuary of the kitchen, not caring where he was or what he was doing. He didn’t love her. What else did she need to know?
Poppy slipped through the door, the latch clicking softly behind her. It was windy with a chill that seeped through her shawl, every gust of wind a welcome companion. If she focused on the cold, she wouldn’t focus on what an idiot she’d been to marry Jacob. She had envisioned love, companionship, children playing in the yard—but these were fantasies.
With each step along the dirt path that wound its way through Clover Creek, Poppy’s thoughts wandered to the marriage she wanted. One filled with love and tender moments. Not just with duty and growing a family. How could she have been so stupid?
She stopped by the brook that meandered past their homestead, its waters gurgling over rocks and roots, indifferent to human sorrow. She’d once thought they would have picnics by the stream while their children played. But her illusions were gone as sure as her heart was broken.
“Love,” she murmured to the uncaring stream, “where art thou?”
The whisper of her voice seemed to mock her. Now, the future loomed before her, bleak and barren.
Yet even as despair clutched at her skirts, a defiant spark kindled within her. Was it not better to know the truth? To face the world with eyes wide open, no matter how hard it was?
“Perhaps,” Poppy conceded, “but oh, to be cherished.”
Of course, what she wanted mattered little. Jacob didn’t love her, and she couldn’t force him to try.
“Jacob!” There was no response.
“Jacob,” she whispered to herself this time.
With each passing day, Jacob seemed to delve deeper into his work, the farm becoming both his sanctuary and prison. He would return late after Poppy had taken her solitary supper.
And so, the days stretched into weeks, marked by the relentless cycle of dawn to dusk. Poppy busied herself with the small tasks that made up life on the frontier but found little solace in them. The farm, once a shared dream, now felt like a barren landscape mirroring her empty heart.
Finally, she’d had enough of his nonsense. If he didn’t come when she called him for supper, then he didn’t need to eat. She wasn’t going to keep his food warm for him or go out to try to find him anymore. He would treat her with the respect his wife deserved—whether he loved her or not—or he could go hungry.
“Poppy?” The sound of her name startled her, and she turned to see Jacob standing at the edge of the field, his expression unreadable.
“Supper’s ready,” she said.
“Thank you,” he replied and turned back toward the barn without another glance.
Without even looking at him again, she dumped his supper into the yard and ate her supper. She wasn’t going to play his game any longer.
*****
Poppy walked into town and bought some wheat the following day, not letting Jacob know because she was certain he didn’t care. When she reached the homestead, she paused, her hand hovering over the doorknob. A part of her wished to findJacob inside, ready to greet her with an embrace. But there was no one home. No one but Poppy.
Poppy walked into the kitchen to make supper. She knew she would probably throw Jacob’s half out, but she still cooked for him. It didn’t seem to matter how he felt about her. She still loved him.
“Is there any hope for us?” she whispered to the empty room.
Jacob’s chair across from hers remained unoccupied, the indentation on its cushion slowly fading.
Poppy pressed her hand against the cool glass of the window, watching for a sign of Jacob returning from the fields or the barn.
*****
Poppy heard the familiar creak of the homestead’s gate. She glanced up from her lonely vigil at the window to see Sarah, her sister, making her way up the path, a basket of fresh bread and preserves swinging in her hand.
“Sarah,” Poppy greeted. The comfort of family was a balm even on the raw edges of her heartache.
“Poppy,” Sarah said with a concerned furrow between her brows, stepping into the dimming kitchen. “I brought some apricot preserves; I remember they’re your favorite.”
“Thank you,” Poppy murmured. She knew she was losing weight that she couldn’t afford to lose while she carried the baby, but she didn’t know how to stop it. The preserves reminded her of brighter days, of laughter shared over breakfast that now seemed an age away.
