Heartland Wedding

As if to prove his point, Rebecca took a noticeable step away from him.

Was she afraid of him? The thought was like a punch to his gut. Determined not to scare her, he broke eye contact. He had to remember that although she was no fragile miss, he was still much larger than she.

“We have a problem,” he said in a more contrite tone. “We…” Think before you speak, he reminded himself. “There’s gossip going around about our time together during the storm. And I’m afraid the things being said are not…nice.”

“So you’ve spoken with Mrs. Johnson,” she said, her tone resigned and more than a little cautious.

“Yes, I spoke with her just now.”

Guilt spread across her face, followed closely by shame. “I had no idea she’d take your effort to save my life and turn it into something depraved.”

Pete heard the apology in her tone, as though the situation was her fault. Knowing how Matilda Johnson worked, how she liked to twist the facts to suit her nasty mind, Pete wanted to reach out and soothe away Rebecca’s distress. He clasped his hands behind his back. “This isn’t your fault.”

“But it is.” She braided her fingers together and sighed. “I let it slip that we were alone in your storm cellar during the tornado.”

“It doesn’t matter how she found out. What matters is—” he banged his fist against his thigh “—that I made things worse.”

A confused look crossed her face. “You did?”

“We must marry at once.” He spoke more forcefully than he’d planned. Powerful feelings were cracking through his usually calm exterior, making him want to give this woman a stack of assurances.

There were none to give.

“You want us to marry?” She said the last word as if she had yet to learn its full meaning. She’d spoken calmly enough, but her eyes were wide with shock. And something else. Sorrow, perhaps? Disappointment?

“To stop the gossip from spreading any further,” he clarified. He started to explain the role he’d played in fueling the gossip, but she spoke over him.

“Oh, Pete.” She let out a slow, careful breath, but then squared her shoulders. “You don’t have to marry me.” Her eyes took on the color of quenched steel. She would not be swayed to his way of thinking easily.

He should have been better prepared for her response. Instead, he felt his jaw tighten in an unexpected mixture of anger and frustration. All directed at himself, of course. He didn’t need Will Logan by his side to tell him he was handling the situation poorly.

Think before you speak.

“Yes, I do.” He forced his teeth to unclench. Let out an irritated hiss. Cleared his throat. Breathed out again. “Matilda Johnson should never have begun talking about you, no matter the circumstances. You—we—did nothing wrong that day. And now her poisonous tongue must be stopped.”

The force of his words could have melted iron.

Rebecca blinked at him. Her mouth started working, but no words came out.

“You don’t deserve to be treated with disrespect by anyone, especially not by Mrs. Johnson,” he added.

At that, everything about her softened. Her shoulders, her eyes, her lips. She looked as though she might smile at him, but then she folded her hands in front of her and took a bracing breath. “You truly believe that?”

“I do.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, then lowered her head and sighed. Her hair cascaded forward in a waterfall of golden waves, curtaining her face from his inspection. “But I fear it’s too late. The damage is already done.”

Pete frowned. Something in him threatened to snap at her quiet acceptance of the situation. He might not have presented the issue of marriage with any sort of style, but she was being ridiculously stubborn.

“The destruction is not irrevocable,” he said through a tight jaw. “Our marriage will stop the gossip before it goes any further.”

He would see to it.

Shaking her head, she walked calmly to the oven. A pleasant scent of baked apples wafted through the room as she cracked open the door to peer inside.

“Don’t you understand?” Her words were enunciated perfectly as she closed the oven door and spun back around. “I’m an immigrant. Whether or not you marry me, whether or not the gossip continues, I will never be fully accepted in this community.”

“So you’re new to this country. That has nothing to do with this.”

“It has everything to do with this. If we marry, if you took me as your wife, my reputation wouldn’t be restored, yours would be destroyed.”

Pete felt his mouth thin at the absurd notion. Praying for patience, he rubbed a hand down his face. There was no denying that her words lifted just a little of the shadows from his bitter soul. Rebecca Gundersen actually cared what their marriage would do to him. To him. He hadn’t expected that, nor had he expected to be captivated by her unselfish heart.

Something deep within him shifted toward her, something so small, so slight, he nearly missed it. He wanted to make promises to this remarkable woman. The thought felt like the ultimate betrayal to Sarah.

He took a deep breath. “Rebecca.”

He moved a step closer, close enough to smell her pleasant scent—much like the pies she was baking, a sweet combination of vanilla and sugar and summer fruit. Aware of his own rank odor of coal and melted iron and sweat, he shifted a few steps back.

“Marry me,” he demanded, realizing his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. He hadn’t asked her. He’d told her.

He tried to rectify his insensitive act, but she was already speaking over him. “Why are you willing to spend the rest of your life married to me, a woman you hardly know, simply to save my reputation?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he said with a confidence that spoke of his life-long convictions. He wasn’t just speaking pretty words. He truly believed the Lord honored a man’s obedience of His commands.

Angling her head, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth and then did something utterly remarkable. She smoothed her fingertips across his forehead. “As sweet as I think your gesture is, you don’t have to save me.”

A pleasant warmth settled over him at her touch. The sensation left him oddly disoriented. “Yes, I do.”

She dropped her hand to her side. “I don’t mind what others say about me. You and I, we, know the truth about that day. But more important, so does the Lord. Our Heavenly Father’s opinion is all that matters.”

Pete caught her hand in his, and turned it over in his palm. Wrapped inside his fingers, her hand looked small and pale. Not soft, but work-roughened, a perfect, miniature version of his own.

He touched the callous under her ring finger. “I told Matilda Johnson we were getting married.”

She snatched her hand free. “You…you…what?”

He spoke slower this time. “I told her we were getting married.”

She did not like his answer. That much was clear by her scowl. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

He didn’t argue. How could he? He’d allowed his anger to speak in place of his common sense. The inevitability of what he’d done weighed like an anvil on his chest.

Worse, he hadn’t thought of Sarah since he’d run into Rebecca this morning, not really, and he certainly hadn’t thought of her since he’d walked into the boardinghouse today. Not with anything other than a sense of betrayal.

Regret. Guilt. Was he to spend the rest of his life feeling both?

“Mrs. Johnson was blaming you for luring me into my own storm cellar. We both know how absurd that is.”