Heartland Wedding

The color leeched out of Rebecca’s cheeks as she sank into a nearby chair. “She actually said that to you?”

“Yes.”

She looked to her left then to her right, and back to her left. “I…I simply don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes. Mrs. Johnson is a bully. She finds power in others’ weaknesses. Our marriage will silence her.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.” There was such sorrow in her eyes that he wanted to slay a dragon for her, as though he were a hero in a child’s fairy tale. But he remembered what Jesus had taught in his Sermon on the Mount. Love thy enemies.

It was an impossible command when his “enemy” had hurt this compassionate woman. Ah, but he knew how to thwart Matilda Johnson. “We’ll marry as soon as I can make the arrangements. I’ll speak with the pastor today and—”

“No.”

“—schedule the ceremony at once.” His words came to a halt. “What did you say?”

“I said, no.” She rose, cautiously, her palms flat on her thighs as though to brace herself. “I won’t marry you.”

“You’re turning me down? After everything that’s happened today?”

“No. I mean, yes. I’m turning you down.”

Tears spiraled in her eyes, but Pete pushed them out of his mind. He knew all about that particular female weapon, and its various uses against a man.

“Rebecca.” He growled past his impatience. “You have no choice in the matter.”

“There’s always a choice.” She blinked rapidly, controlling her emotions with a fierce determination that was admirable.

Nevertheless, Pete refused to be moved by her valiant efforts. “Your reputation—”

“Is my concern, not yours.”

She sniffed, rather loudly, but the tears remained in her eyes, shimmering just along the edge of her lashes.

Pete stood transfixed in the face of her internal battle. Even then, even sensing she was honestly trying not to cry, he waited for Rebecca’s inevitable breakdown with a cynical heart.

Remarkably, she didn’t give into her emotions. Oh, she blinked. And blinked. And blinked. And blinked. But no tears spilled from her eyes. Not one.

Pete pulled in a hard breath. If she’d give into her emotions, he would know what to do and how to feel.

Her lips pressed together into a tight line. Taking several deep breaths, she pressed the bridge of her nose between two fingers. Yet still, no tears.

He’d never been more baffled by a woman.

“We were both in my storm cellar,” he reminded her through a painfully tight jaw. “That means we share the burden of the consequences, equally.”

Blink, blink, blink. “My decision is final.” Blink, blink, blink.

“So is mine. We’ll be married by the end of the day.”

Her breathing quickened to short, hard pants. And then…at last…it happened. One lone tear slipped from her eye.

She might as well have slapped him.

Pete reached to her.

A look of horror crossed her face and she stepped out of his reach.

“Rebecca, please,” he whispered, knowing his soft manner came too late.

“No.” She wrapped her dignity around her like a coat of iron-clad armor. “We have nothing more to say to each other.”

Just as another tear plopped onto the toe of her shoe, she turned and rushed out of the kitchen.

Stunned, Pete stared at the empty space she’d occupied. “That,” he said to himself, “could have gone better.”

With a gentle hand on her arm, Emmeline stopped Rebecca before she could run up the stairs. “Rebecca, wait.”

Rebecca swiped at her eyes. The onslaught of tears was close at hand, and she didn’t want an audience when she gave into her emotions. She looked frantically around the parlor. “Are we alone?”

“Completely.”

She blew out a relieved sigh. “Good.”

“What happened?” Emmeline’s gaze narrowed. “Did Pete hurt you?”

“No.” Not in the way Emmeline meant.

“Well, he must have done something. You look like you’re about to cry.”

“He—he—” Words backed up in her throat. Her emotions were too raw to push them out in English, but she threw her shoulders back and tried once more. “He asked me to marry him to stop Matilda Johnson’s gossip.”

Emmeline drew her deeper into the room, then applied pressure on her shoulders until Rebecca was forced to sit in one of the wing chairs facing the brocade divan.

“Is that such a bad thing?” Emmeline asked.

Unable to explain why Pete’s proposal had hurt so badly, Rebecca leaned her head against the chair and shut her eyes.

It wasn’t that she expected him to love her, or forsake his feelings for his dead wife, but she wanted him to…to…know something about her. Her favorite color, her favorite recipe. Something. Anything. She didn’t want her marriage to be only about duty and honor.

She wanted…more. Affection, at the very least.

“Rebecca? Was he cruel with his words?”

“No.” She shook her head fiercely. “He was honorable. Noble, even. And…and…” She sighed. Heroic. Very heroic. He hadn’t cared what marriage to a Norwegian immigrant would mean to his own standing in the community.

“And?”

“And, nothing. He was very respectful, if a bit blunt.”