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John took in the ribbons, then shook his head. "Nope."
Then he lifted his arm with the bucket of golf balls. "What about this? Did you leave these on my doorstep?"
"No."
"Well… damn. Who did?"
Both were quiet a long moment. Then together "I think I know—" They broke off and laughed, nervously.
"Isabel." The way he said her name had her shivering with wanting. "I need to talk to you."
She raised her eyes to his. "Me, too." Before she lost her courage, she went on, "It's about the birds. I don't think it's fair for just me to have them. And I don't think it's fair for only you. We won them together… so I think we should stay… that is…" He looked at her so intently she could barely breathe, much less think. All the things she planned on saying tripped over her tongue and she grew flustered and near speechless. "Oh… help me," she said more to Bellamy than to herself. It came out naturally… as if he knew she needed him.
John took a step toward her. "You mean, keep the lovebirds together because we're together?"
Slowly, she nodded. "Yes… that's what I want."
To her surprise, John dropped the iron sticks and bucket with a thud and took her into his arms. He lifted her off the ground and gave her several twirls in the dawn light that fanned across the yard in rays of honey and brass.
"I love you, Isabel Burche," John confessed.
Through her laughter she returned the avowal. "I love you, John Wolcott."
Setting her back on her feet, John gave her a hard kiss on the mouth; then he cupped her cheeks within his strong hands.
"I should have told you last night how I felt."
"I should have, too. I'm sorry about the way I acted. I don't care about the money. Only you."
"Me, too."
He kissed her once more, this time with a lingering caress over her lips. "So what if we don't have Nicklaus's stale money? Who cares? I've got my job at Calco."
"And I've got my lemon sauce and syrup to sell. We'll make do."
"Damn right"
Through a light rain of kisses, he asked, "Isabel, will you marry me?"
"Yes," she said back through feathery kisses of her own. "I’ll marry you."
Then he picked her up once more and swung her around in his strong arms to her delighted laughter.
* * *
Epilogue
Two weeks had passed since John made Isabel his wife.
Dressed in the clothes they'd worn in Ventura, their private ceremony had taken place in front of her lemon trees all decked out with ribbons. The reverend hadn't been too keen on preforming the nuptials outdoors, but he made an exception on account of the fact that it was Christmas day—though it was more likely due to Isabel's promise to deliver him a case of her syrup at no charge.
Sunday sprung forth bright and cloudless, the air dry but not dusty. John looked forward to the one day a week that he could spend entirely with Isabel. Workdays were long on Ferndale No. 8, and from there he headed to the livery to muck the stalls and pay for that piebald mare. Sundays he dug the well. He didn't mind the exhausting labor because he was working toward something.
Making a home for Isabel.
John had changed—for the better. He'd even sent Tom five dollars with a letter and a promise to pay him back every last cent he'd borrowed.
Although he'd given up liquor, John hadn't given up his dream to drill for his own oil. So this morning, he'd had Duster come out and assess the place to give him his opinion on the possibilities.
