“Why? What is that?” Dove stumbles over her words with laughter.
“Mistletoe.” He reveals his bounty and dangles it above his pregnant wife’s head. So damn proud of himself. “And now you owe me a kiss.” Dove’s protest is too weak to mean much of anything, and she finds herself swept up in his embrace. Apparently my brother needs both arms to properly kiss his wife, because he mindlessly tosses the small bunch of greenery to free both hands.
“Oh!” Mara catches it out of instinct, the apple of her cheeks stained a delightful shade of red as her panicked eyes dart between the kissing couple and me. Flustered, she holds the branch out as if it had the plague, but I’m already crossing the room. “I…here!” She awkwardly shoves it against my chest and nervously laughs. “Please take it. I don’t know what to do with it.”
Throwing it to Dalton—who protests the unfairness of not having anyone to kiss—I take pity on her and pull her into a hug so she has a place to hide her flaming face for as long as she needs. “It’s okay,” I murmur into the softness of her hair. A devilish idea hits me, and I press my lips to herear so no one else can hear. “Maybe we’ll just take it home with us so you can hold it when you use my face like a saddle.”
CHAPTER 18
MARA
I regret a lot of things,but right now, I most regret my bold insistence that I’d be fine coming to the Christmas festival instead of celebrating quietly at the elder Shays’ house. Even though Warren is at my right and his parents at my left, it’s not their nearness that almost suffocates me. Nor is it the heat of the fire that keeps the winter chill at bay.
It’s the swell of the crowd. The screeching fiddle some soul zealously plays—without having bothered to tune it very well—that wears upon my nerves as couples dance in circles about the square. Not since the brush arbor revivals the Overstreets would hold for weeks at a time have I been around this many people.
I’d much prefer the comforting weight of my baby, but she’s all too content in her Papa’s arms as he sways with her in time to the music. It’s adorable how much they look alike. Eleanor finished her outfit two days ago, and the red velvet over a tiny white and green petticoat is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I pause when my hand brushes over my own dress. She made mine, too, a deep green dress with a white wrap, and the green matches Warren’s shirt.
He hitches Emmaline to one shoulder and leans down. “See anybody here that needs to die?” A serious question so at odds with his pleasant tone.
“How very morbid.” All the same, I scan the faces of the men with dreadful curiosity, hoping none of them seems familiar. Slightly relaxing when no one strikes recognition but tensing back up when I realize several stares are directed my way in return. I don’t like the way their eyes linger on me, scanning me from head to toe. For a moment, it almost feels like I’m in that cramped back room again and wearing a dirty buckskin dress as I wait for a man.
But I’m not. I’m fully covered in a respectable dress, and I’m here with my baby, my husband, and his family.
My family which apparently includes his friend Dalton. Even though he was very polite and made it a point not to get too close to me at dinner the other night, I can’t deny my mixed relief at hearing he was sick and unable to make the festival tonight. I don’t think I could handle so many men hovering around me, even in protection.
“No,” I answer faintly. “I don’t recognize anyone.” I cross my arms to shield myself from view, and a few people turn away in disinterest. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Besides some curious looks, no one’s cast any unkind words my way. Until I’m proven so very wrong when barely hushed feminine tones filter through a lull in the music.
“Why an Indian woman? It’s not as if there were a shortage of more proper women suited for marriage with him. I know my Violet would have made a fine addition to their family.”
I stiffen and struggle to hear the rest as my heartbeat pounds in my ears. Proper women. White ones, she means.
“So would my Laurie. But maybe she isn’t full Indian. Her eyes are a most interesting shade of blue.”
Warren’s entire body turns rigid as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing, but it can’t be much of a surprise. I knew this would happen if we came.
“Surely that isn’t his baby.”
“I don’t know…the child does seem to favor him even with its darker skin.”
Hurt and anger sting my insides as a sour tang coats my tongue. I can take them talking about me, but Emmaline is off limits. She’s just an innocent baby. But before I can gather a response, Warren cuts in, curt and hard. “That’s about enough out of the both of you.”
“You oughtta be ashamed of yourselves,” Cornelius booms.
A collective gasp ensues, drawing the attention of people nearby. I want the floor to swallow me whole, but I square my shoulders and stand proud as Cornelius and Eleanor press closer to me. “Of course she favors him.” My words might be pleasant enough, but I skewer the older women with my tone. “She’s our daughter. Who else would the child of my husband favor if not her father?
Warren’s mother practically vibrates with rage as she glares at the offending women. “How dare you speak ill of my daughter-in-law.”
“My wife has a name,” Warren says with rough emphasis, shifting Emmaline to one shoulder before laying claim to my waist with a protective hand. “Mara Shay. I’d advise you to use respect when you speak of my wife and child. Better yet, don’t speak of them at all.”
“Why, I never…” The ladies’ mouths gape in outrage, but he’s not done.
“That’s right. You never will speak of them in this manner again. And don’t assume I’d have married either one of your daughters if I hadn’t married Mara. Lonelydoesn’t mean desperate.” His eyebrows draw together until the women make embarrassed excuses and disappear into the crowd behind them. His attention goes first to our daughter then to me, and the hardness melts away from his frame as he tenderly cups Emmaline’s tiny head in his much larger hand. “Hey now…just some old biddies with nothing to do but gossip. Don’t listen to anything they say, you hear me?”
“Are you telling me or her?”
“Both of you.” Warren focuses on me like a hawk. “You all right?”
More than I expected to be now that any perceived threat to Emmaline is gone. But now part of me wonders just how many of these mothers had their hopes set on my husband for a son-in-law. “I am. Thank you for doing that.”
