Page 55 of The Frozen River

He noted the pleasure in my eyes and ducked his head with a bashful smile. “Say that again. I like the sound of it.”

Our vows. He had grinned his way through them, beaming as if we were the only two people in my parents’ kitchen earlier that evening. As if the room weren’t crackling with tension.

I didn’t realize I was shivering until Ephraim bent to light a fire in the hearth. Once it was crackling merrily and the bitter chill had been chased from the room, he went into the bedroom to light another fire in the hearth there.

He returned. Clasped my hand in both of his. “Come. I have something for you.”

I dared a glance at the bedroom door. My hope chest still sat at home, filled with lace and linen and needlework. Filled with the things that I had been making since I was a child. The things that women use to create a home. But that was not the gift that men expected from their wives on the day they wed.

Ephraim stooped a little so he could look me in the eye. “Not that. You don’t have to be afraid of me, Martha. I won’t hurt you.” He tugged me to his chest and slid his hands into the hair at the base of my head, into the wild curls I could never tame. “I would never hurt you. Not ever.”

I pulled back to look at his face. “What is it, then?”

“There.” He pointed to the long table in the kitchen, and I saw the wooden box in its center for the first time.

It was made of pine, and there were no nails or dowels. He had pieced it together in tongue-and-groove fashion. Only Ephraim. I placed my palm on the lid.

I gestured toward the rest of the house, finished perfectly and sealed against the weather. “You had extra time on your hands, I suppose?”

He liked the teasing note in my voice. Responded to it physically. Ephraim eased closer to me and set one gentle hand on my shoulder. I felt the weight of it, heavy and strong.

“The house was finished months ago. Then the furniture a few weeks past. A man needs something to occupy him at night.”

Indeed.

I cleared my throat.

“Open it,” he said. “It’s all for you.”

He nudged me with his forearm, and I lifted the lid on his gift. Inside was a book bound in leather, filled with blank pages. Ink cakes. A feather quill. And a King James Bible. I pulled them from the box and set them on the table one by one.

“What is this?”

“The beginning of your education, Mrs. Ballard.”

I laughed. “You know I can’t read.”

“That, love, is exactly the point.”

“I don’t understand.”

His face was unreadable, and I was about to ask for an explanation when his mouth covered mine. His hands were gentle as feathers on my cheeks, thumbs stroking my jaw. His tongue brushed my lips, begged them to part, to soften. After a moment they did. He tasted of salt and bread and apple cider. His hands never wandered from my face, but I felt the restraint it took him to keep them there. I felt the passion and the frustration in his lips. I felt the longing in every inch of his body. Ephraim Ballard kissed me for long, endless moments. He was breathing hard when he finally pulled away.

“I will not take your body tonight, Martha. I will not do it until you ask me to. No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not until you beg me to. I will take nothing from you that is not freely given. Do you understand?”

My answer was but a ghost of speech. “Yes.”

“There is only one thing I will ask of you. As your husband.” He brought his face so close that I was certain he would kiss me again. But Ephraim only rubbed his nose against mine, brushed it back and forth until I closed my eyes. “Let me kiss you. Please. Whenever I want. Just like that. Will you trust me with that one thing?”

I was incapable of words. But I nodded and tilted my chin upwards. He took the offer. His hands did not drift beneath my collarbone. But they explored the base of my skull and the thick curls of my hair. He made himself acquainted with my earlobes. Cheekbone. Jaw. The cowlick at my temple. And his tongue went to work as well, tangling with mine and tracing the shape of my lips.

“You liked that,” he said when he pulled away.

It wasn’t a question. He knew I did. Ephraim could read my face the way he read his ledgers and his books. I was open before him. “Yes.”

“Good then.” He nodded toward the bench beside the table. “Sit.”

He straightened the Bible on the table. Always the carpenter, he squared it with his own body, then opened it. It was new. I could tell that much. The leather binding was clean and hard, with no cracks or scuffs. The first page was blank, and I, of course, could not read the second.