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“And he doesn’t mind?” She wondered about that in the light of what the prostitute had told her.
“No.”
“Does it bother you that you don’t have the closeness anymore?” Lorna chose her words carefully, not wanting to be offensive.
“Naturally not,” her mother replied with a quick smile of assurance. “After all, its purpose is the conception of children, not for the sake of itself.”
“Yes, I know,” she murmured.
“Don’t let it be a source of concern,” her mother advised. “You’ll come to know all this yourself. One day, you’ll be telling your daughter the same things.”
“Yes, one day,” Lorna agreed with a faint smile, but she was still troubled by some of the sensations she felt in Benteen’s arms. It was becoming apparent that wasn’t normal, especially when the only one who indicated it was, was herself a fallen woman.
7
The wagon turned out to be in better condition than Benteen had hoped to find it. He struck a deal with the farmer named Davies and hitched a team of horses to it. Late that afternoon, he drove it to the Pearce home so Lorna could load her possessions in it. She knew nothing about packing it to evenly distribute the weight through the box, so he stayed to help.
There were so many nonessential things she wanted to take. Benteen disliked the role of forcing her to choose, but it had to be done.
“What’s this?” He frowned when he picked up two thorny twigs partially wrapped in damp cloths.
“I’m not going to believe you if you claim those are too heavy and bulky to take,” she retorted, placing her hands on her hips to silently dare him.
“But what are they?” Benteen asked.
“They’re cuttings from my mother’s rosebush,” Lorna explained. “I want to plant them beside our new home.”
“Lorna, they’ll die.” He tried to be patient. “You’re just wasting your time to take them.”
“You wouldn’t let me bring my grandmother’s chiffonier or the oak table my uncle made for us,” she reminded him. “I’m going to have something to remind me of home. Those rose cuttings are going with us. I don’t care what you say, they will live.”
Benteen sighed heavily. “Take them if you’re so determined.”
“I am.”
“Where shall I put them?” he asked. “Under the seat?”
“Yes, I can get to them easily there,” Lorna agreed.
He slipped them under the wagon’s seat, where they would be in the shade and less likely to be crushed by shifting baggage in the canvas-covered wagon box.
“I hope that’s all,” Benteen said.
“All except a few things I’ll have with me,” she replied. “My wedding dress and such. And don’t tell me I can’t take that with me.”
“I’m sorry. I know it seems that you’re leaving a lot behind.” Benteen smiled grimly. “But there’s only so much the horses can pull.”
“I know.” She lowered her chin and turned away.
Benteen saw the shimmer of a tear in her eye and caught her chin in his hand. “What’s the tears for?”
“It’s so easy for you to pack up and go,” she murmured. “You’re not leaving anyone behind.”
“You can’t be getting homesick,” Benteen chided. “We haven’t even left yet.”
“Don’t make a joke of it,” Lorna protested.
Exercising control, he put an arm around her and brushed his mouth against her forehead. “I promise that you’ll grow to love our new home in Montana as much as you do here.”
