The Shepherd's Voice (19 page)

Marriage, Gabe soon decided, suited him.

He especially liked the first few moments in the morning,
before he was quite awake, when he became aware of his wife lying close beside him. Invariably, he drew her into his embrace, her head on his shoulder. She always released a sleepy groan, then sighed—a sound of contentment that made him smile—and nestled closer still.

On this particular morning, more than a week after their wedding, with predawn painting the bedroom ceiling with soft shades of gold and peach, Gabe braced his head against the heel of his hand and raised up on his elbow in order to watch her sleep. The corners of her mouth were slightly curved, as if her dreams were pleasant. She lay on her back, one arm above her head, the other draped over her abdomen. Her breathing was slow and steady. Her hair flowed over the white sheets and pillowcase like a dark red stain. He knew she left it loose to please him.

She did much to please him.

How did this happen
,
Lord? Why have You blessed me so?

He hadn’t expected theirs to be a real marriage. He’d had no right to expect it. And yet, that was what had happened. Akira had welcomed him into her home, into her bed, into her arms, and into her heart.

As he’d said to her on their wedding day, she did nothing halfway.

Sometimes it frightened him, the love she gave so willingly, so completely. She’d never said the actual words, but she didn’t have to. She showed her love for him in hundreds of ways every single day.

She had come to mean the world to him … and that frightened him even more.

An unwelcome memory surfaced in his thoughts. He saw again the three-by-eight-foot cell in “Siberia,” the cellhouse used for solitary confinement, punishment for convicts who broke prison rules.

He heard again the steel door slamming behind him, felt the terror of not knowing when he might be let out of that torture hole, a place of limbo where there was nothing to sort one day from the next, one week from the next. In Siberia, he’d slept on the concrete floor with a couple of cotton blankets for his bed. No metal frame. No mattress. Just cold hard concrete. A three-inch-wide opening overhead had provided ventilation and sunlight, and a small hole in the floor had served as the toilet. Bread and water, served twice a day, had been his only sustenance.

Even an animal deserved better treatment than what men in Siberia had received. But then, they’d been considered lower than animals by the prison guards.

How had he come from that place of dark despair to this state of bliss? What had he done to deserve it?

Nothing.

He didn’t deserve it. He never would.

Akira opened her eyes and revealed a languorous smile. “Why aren’t you asleep?” Her voice was husky. She snuggled closer.

He buried his face in her hair, breathing deeply.

You deserve so much more than me, my sweet Akira. So much better than what you got. I’m sorry for that. I’ll always be sorry for that.

Marriage, Akira was learning, was about hearing one’s husband, even when he wasn’t speaking. At the moment, she heard Gabe’s secret hurt.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her cheek against his bare chest.

“Nothing.”

She knew that was a lie, of course. He held so many things inside himself. She wanted to be his helpmeet, if only he would allow it. If only she knew how to break through that invisible wall.

He shifted slightly. “I’d better take care of the milking.”

“Not yet.” She tightened her arms around him. “It can wait awhile longer.”

“Nothing I’d like better than to stay in bed with you all day.” He kissed the top of her head.

The pleasures of physical love had taken Akira by surprise, pleasures heightened by the knowledge that Gabe desired her. She hadn’t known he would. After all, he’d been willing for this to be a marriage in name only.

“But,” he continued, “the chores won’t wait.”

She released a heavy sigh as she let him slip from her embrace. “All right. You win.”

She watched as he rose from the bed, already familiar with his morning routine. He would put on his trousers, leaving the suspenders dangling against his thighs, then he would shave the dark stubble from his jaw. He usually hummed to himself as he shaved, a tune of his own creation, made up as he went along. Sometimes he would catch her watching him in the mirror’s reflection. Then he would wink at her.

It made her feel special. It made her feel as if he loved her. Really loved her. The way she loved him. With all her heart.

I want him to love me that way
,
Lord. Is it possible he ever will?

THIRTEEN

Pauline stood at the front door of the Talmadge mansion and watched Hudson drive away in his Duesenberg. The moment the automobile disappeared from view she felt an immense sense of relief.

Four weeks with the house completely to herself. Four weeks to do whatever she pleased. Of course, she knew Hudson’s little spy, Rupert Carruthers, would keep an eye on her and report back to his boss. That was part of his job. Still, it was far better than having her husband around. His mood had been foul for weeks.

Shivering—either from the nip in the morning air or from her thoughts about Hudson—she stepped back inside and closed the door.

“Would you like your breakfast served now, ma’am?” Opal Young, the housekeeper, asked.

“No thank you, Mrs. Young. I’m going back to bed for a while. See that my coffee and breakfast tray are brought up to me in an hour.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Pauline started up the stairs.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Talmadge.”

She stopped.

“Eugene asked if you’ll want the car in the morning.”

“In the morning?”

“For church, ma’am.”

“Oh yes. Tomorrow’s Sunday. Yes, I’ll want the car.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll tell Eugene.”

With a nod, Pauline continued up the stairs, pondering her response.

For six Sundays in a row, she had attended services at the Methodist church in Ransom. She’d gone because Hudson commanded it. He’d wanted her there to check on his son. But Hudson was on his way to Washington, D.C., and would be away for at least four weeks. She wouldn’t be able to tell him if Gabe was in church or who Gabe talked to after services or how well he seemed to get along with others in the community. She wouldn’t be able to report any gossip she overheard.

So why was she bothering to go?

In her room, she removed her dressing gown, dropping it on the floor. Then she got into bed and drew the covers over her shoulders. She stared at the canopy overhead, her desire for more sleep forgotten.

Why
was
she going to church now that Hudson was away? She’d never cared a fig about religion. She’d given scant thought to matters of eternity. She was a woman who cared about the here and now and the pleasures to be found in it. She wasn’t an avowed atheist like her husband, but neither was she particularly concerned about the condition of her soul … if she had one.

Yet Pauline knew she would go to church in the morning. She would go, and she would listen to the reverend’s gentle voice and earnest words. She would stand with others in the small congregation and hold the hymnal in her hands and join in the singing.

And when she returned to this huge house on the hill—a
beautiful but lonely and loveless many-roomed mansion—she would feel better for some unknown reason.

“You look tired, Mrs. Wickham,” Akira said. “Why don’t you sit a spell? I can finish this last batch myself.”

Nora nodded. “Maybe it would be good for me to rest a bit. And you ought to do the same. You’ve been at it since sunup. You may be near half my age, but even the young get wore out after a day like this.”

It was true. Akira was tired. But it was a good kind of tired. When she looked at the rows of mason jars—filled with fruits and vegetables—lining the shelves in the cellar after two weeks of harvesting and canning, she felt a sense of accomplishment, along with a gratefulness for the bounty God had provided.

“Why don’t you go see how your husband and the other men are coming along with the butchering?” Nora settled onto a straight-backed chair near the open front door where the September breeze could reach her.

My husband.
Akira smiled, taking pleasure in the simple words.

“Go on. There isn’t anything here that a delay will harm.”

“Maybe I will.” She dried her hands on a towel, then removed her apron and laid it over the back of a chair. “I won’t be long.”

“Take all the time you want. I’m gonna rest my eyes until you get back.”

Storm clouds had moved in while the two women were busy with the preserving, and the air smelled like rain. Rain would be welcome on any other day, but Akira hoped it would hold off until the butchering was done.

Zachary Sebastian and George Edwards had arrived that morning with their own hogs in the back of Zachary’s truck. They’d
slaughtered all three animals, then scalded the carcasses in a vat of hot water over an outdoor fire. The scalding loosened the bristles so they could be scraped off with knives. By tonight, big sides of pork would be hanging in the smokehouse.

And next week would find Akira frying and stirring the ground fat and storing the resulting lard in buckets in the cellar. Then would come more grinding of sausage, mixing in the seasoning spices and salt, frying it and packing the patties in quart jars. Hams and shoulders and bacon would be packed in a wooden barrel and covered with a briny solution. Pigs feet would be pickled in vinegar. The head would be boiled and used to make a big pan of head cheese.

By Friday Akira would swear off eating pork for as long as she lived. She knew she would swear it because she did it every time they slaughtered a hog.

She heard Gabe’s laughter, mingled with that of the other men, before she could see them. It was a sound of masculine camaraderie. She didn’t have to be told to know it was something he’d known little of during his adult life.

Reaching the barn, she paused, unnoticed, and observed her husband.

My husband
, she thought again.

She and Gabe had been married a month. She wondered if he was aware of the special significance of this day. Or did such things matter to men?

He worked with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His head was bare, his hair damp. Sweat made his forehead glisten. He looked tired, but more importantly, he looked strong and healthy. No sign remained of the hungry hobo she’d found on the road last July.

I told You
,
Lord
,
I’d rather have a man who knew sheep. But You know what I really need
,
and I’m grateful You answer for my best.
She leaned her shoulder against the barn.
Sometimes I think I’m too
happy with Gabe
,
that I love him too much
,
that I think on him when I ought to be thinking on You. Is that a horrible thing
,
Lord? Loving him that much?