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She glanced out the window at the blush of morning, the shimmer of the sun promising to crest the horizon in minutes. Smiling, Hannah placed the last pin in her hair. She should have been down long before now. But sleep had lulled her so temptingly, and her dreams had been so real she’d been loathe to open her eyes.
A noise from downstairs flicked her pulse.
Joseph.
Her chest fluttered as she rehearsed the beautiful words over again, pulling them as close as he had held her when they’d kissed. Marry me.
Hope was not a fragile candle’s flame, easily snuffed out with the smallest breath. It burned sometimes forever. Mayhap this time she had little to worry over. He appeared so sincere, as if he truly wished it. Then again, he had before…
Hair in place, she slid open the drawer and brushed her fingers over the booties, but they cried for cradling, so she picked them up, stroking the soft yarn. And suddenly that hope dimmed as the memories fleshed to life. Though she would never repeat her actions, never again be with him till they married—if they married—that wouldn’t stop her spirit from dying should Joseph repeat what he’d done before.
Whatever has kept us apart matters little when our hearts still beat as one.
She must hold on to his words—to his sincerity that she knew could not be feigned—despite the way the past hurts threatened to strangle. The booties grew heavy with their accompanying memories, and she replaced them, but not before the ring next called out to her like the bells of a chapel. When had she last slipped it on her finger? Years, at least. She glanced to the window, the light growing. The men must eat, and she must prepare the vittles. Morning would not wait for her daydreams to find a happy end.
But she could not resist. Gripping the primitive trinket between her finger and thumb, she slipped it on, wondering if Joseph even remembered making it for her. What would he think if he knew she still had it?
Another sound clanked from below, and she hurriedly removed the ring and rested it beside the booties. Pressing the drawer closed, she did the same with her eyes, praying God would grant her strength to move forward with her future. Strength to endure whatever He would give her.
A third time a sound echoed through the floorboards. Oh dear…perhaps ’twas not Joseph. Had Stockton refused to wait for her and cooked his own food? He hadn’t done that before.
Rushing downstairs to the kitchen, Hannah’s skirts swished around her as she stopped hard in the doorway. The grin she felt over her face spread like sunshine. “Are you making turnovers?”
Joseph twisted toward her from his crouched position by the fire, the half smile on his face leaping to her across the room. “You are always cooking for others. I thought I should return the favor.”
Hannah bit her lip at the endearing sight, reining back the need that made her want to rush forward and hug him from behind, kiss his cheek and ear. But that would have to wait until they were…
She started forward, leaving the thought behind, focusing instead on what sizzled over the fire. “Not turnovers, but eggs, I see.”
He moved the pan to the cool stone and pushed up, brushing his hands against his thighs. “The chickens were good enough to lay a few. Surprising, but perhaps ’tis a good omen.”
“Perhaps.”
When he was slow to act at all familiar, her stomach churned. ’Tis your fault. She’d set herself up for disappointment. Did she expect he would grab her and kiss her again? Stupid, childish wish. Of course he would not. Stockton was about and could enter any moment.
“Is Stockton here?”
Joseph glanced behind through the kitchen window. “He’s in the foundry speaking to the men. ’Twould seem he and Higley have some business to discuss.”
In a flash he spun around and grabbed her at the waist, tugging her firm against him, pressing his mouth brusque and then tender against hers.
Delight sprayed over her, and she returned his hunger before dread forced her to push away.
“Joseph, we cannot. We shall be seen.” She tried to wriggle free, but his stone-hard muscles held her close.
Dusting light, warm kisses over her jaw, he nudged his nose into the curls at her ear, his voice a deep, tempting pool. “You never answered me.”
“Answered you?”
He rested his forehead against hers and brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “Be my wife, that I may be your husband.”
Hannah closed her eyes, savoring the moment, attaching to it all the little things—the scent of the breakfast he’d cooked, the quiet sound of his breath. The way the pink sunrise filtered through the window, the crack of the morning fire.
“Say it,” he spoke, his lips above hers.
She whispered in kind. “I will.”
He moved back, disbelief painting his face. His masculine smile burst wide, and he picked her up until her feet were fully off the ground. Suddenly, he stilled. “Why not today?” He set her down, solemn earnestness in the lines around his mouth. “Why must we wait? We’ve time.”
