Vows (56 page)

 
Undoubtedly Tarsy had run her fingers through it more than once.

 
Remember her rubbing against his pant leg while they played Poor Pussy? Remember them kissing during a forfeit and how his hands caressed her back? How long were they lovers? How often? If I'm not as good as she—and how can I be?—will he be disappointed and seek her out again?

 
Emily rode with her head hanging until her abstraction was interrupted by the sound of wind chimes.

 
Wind chimes?

 
She lifted her head at the same moment Buck stopped moving, and found herself at the edge of an upcountry meadow, and there before her grazed the straggling remnants of a buffalo herd. Few of the great beasts remained, and those that did were considered precious relics of the past. She'd never seen any this close and sat motionless, afraid of scaring them off. Pawing the snow, foraging beneath it, they presented their rumps until one old bull raised his head and assessed her with a wary black eye, warning the others. As one, they poised to run, ugly beasts, humped and hairy, their faces unlovable, their coats matted and tangled. But suddenly they moved in concert, trotting away, setting into motion hundreds of sparkling icicles that hung from their shaggy undersides and tinkled like an orchestra of wind chimes. The sun glanced off them, creating prisms while the sound drifted across the snowy meadow in a sweet glissando.

 
Emily heard it and her cares seemed momentarily lifted by finding the unexpected beauty in such an unlikely place.

 
She sat watching the buffalo until the chiming grew distant, then faded into silence.

 
Sighing heavily, unsure of what she faced the next time she saw Tom, Emily touched her heels to the warm flank beneath her and said, "Come on, Buck, let's go home."

Chapter 19

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T
om waited all that day to hear from Emily, but he heard nothing. At three in the afternoon he rolled from his bed with all the speed and agility of an iceberg. Ohhh, sweet Savior, did it hurt. He sat on the edge of the mattress, eyes closed, breathing shallowly, trying to work up the courage to rise to his feet.

 
Next time you fight a man, make it someone punier than Charles Bliss.

 
Cautiously he creaked to his feet, standing with knees crooked, clutching the footrail of the bed while waiting for the meatgrinder to stop tenderizing his pectorals.

 
Damn you, Bliss, I hope you hurt as much as I do.

 
A shirt. Reach slow…one arm…second arm—Lord Almighty, something's tearing apart in there!

 
Eventually he got the shirt over his shoulders to find that, buttoning it, his hands ached. He glanced down: what pitiful knuckles—black and blue and swollen as dumplings. Donning his trousers and boots, he swore off fighting forever, but by the time he was halfway to his livery stable he'd begun to move easier.

 
Emily's note hung on the door:
Closed for the day.
He glanced back at Edwin's to find Charles standing out front, motionless, staring at him. Yesterday Tom would have raised a hand in greeting; today he forcibly tempered the urge. Seconds ticked past while the two men assessed one another, then Tom turned and went inside.

 
"Emily?" he called.

 
Only silence answered.

 
Was she at Edwin's stable? Had Charles been there with her only minutes ago? So what if he was? It was bound to happen if they all expected to live in this town together.

 
He glanced at the turntable, the stall whose door had been knocked open during the fight, the spot where Charles had sat, propped against the wall. A wave of regret struck Tom. Friends were precious commodities; it hurt like hell to lose one.

 
He did what paltry work he could, passing time until evening, but Emily remained strangely absent. He fed the horses their supper—slow as he was, it took twice as long as usual—and puttered around until well after nightfall, but still she hadn't shown her face. He considered the inevitable questions that would be raised by his bruised, swollen face. Finally, he went home, ate some bread and sausage, and went to bed.

 
He expected her to show up all the next day, but once again he was disappointed. In the evening on his way home from work he detoured by her house, stared at the lighted windows, and cursed under his breath for no reason he could name. Upon second thought, the reasons became very clear: he'd lost his best friend; the girl he loved was showing signs of withdrawal; and her father was openly displeased about their announced plans to marry.

 
Well, Edwin, you'd better get used to it, Tom thought defiantly, mounting the porch steps and knocking on the door.

 
Frankie answered, his mouth smeared with grease.

 
"Is Emily here?"

 
"She's eatin' supper."

 
"Would you call her, please?"

 
"
E
mileeeeee! Tom's here!
" the boy bellowed, then inquired, "Are you really gonna marry her instead of Charles?"

 
"That's right."

 
"Then who's Charles gonna marry?"

 
Tom forced back a smile at the boy's simplistic inquiry: as if that were the full depth of the problem.

 
"I don't know, Frankie. I hope he finds somebody just as nice as your sister."

 
"You think she's nice?" The boy turned up his nose.

 
"Give yourself about three or four years and you'll discover she's not the only nice girl around here. You'll probably discover a dozen that'll turn your head."

 
"Hello, Tom," Emily greeted quietly, appearing silently and standing with her hands crossed upon her spine. She wore a simple, high-necked dress of unadorned black that emphasized the wan color of her face and the contrasting blackness of her lashes and eyebrows. Her hair was prettier than he ever recalled seeing it, caught back with combs—like curled midnight falling to her simple round collar. She appeared the quintessential woman in mourning, for she neither smiled nor fidgeted, but stood studying Tom with polite reticence.

 
"Hello, Emily." They stared at each other, Tom with the gut feeling that something was terribly amiss, not knowing what. "Sorry to interrupt your supper."

 
"That's all right." She glanced down at her brother. "Frankie, tell Papa and Fannie I won't be a minute."

 
"You're really gonna marry him instead of Charles?"

 
"Frankie, you're excused!"

 
The boy disappeared and Emily invited, "Come in," but her voice and eyes held cordiality in reserve.

 
Tom stepped inside and closed the door more carefully than necessary, taking the extra seconds to gather his own emotional equilibrium. He'd realized the moment she'd come around the corner that her displeasure with him was real. When he turned to face her again he knew that whatever was wrong went deep and strong in her. He felt a flash of apprehension that heated quickly into outright foreboding as she stood prim and withdrawn and somber, with her hands folded demurely behind her back.

 
"How are you?" she inquired politely.

 
"Why didn't you come over after you talked to Tarsy?"

 
"I've been busy."

 
"All day yesterday and all day today?"

 
"I've been studying. I have to take a test on diseases of the nervous system in horses and it's hard to remember all the terms."

 
His troubled eyes sought and held hers. "Emily, what's wrong?"

 
"Nothing's wrong." But her glance fell and her lips drooped.

 
"What did Tarsy say?"

 
Emily brushed the top of the wainscot on the stub wall beside the door, studying her fingertips as she spoke. "What you'd expect. She was angry."

 
Tom reached out and took Emily's hand. "What did she say?"

 
"She showed me the door."

 
"I'm sorry."

 
Emily retrieved her hand, still with eyes averted. "I guess I should have expected it. She's not exactly the most tactful girl in the world, or the most mannerly."

 
"Emily, you haven't answered me. I want to know what she said. When you left me yesterday morning you were reasonably happy, and you said I'd see you after you talked to her. Now, two days later, I come to your door and you ask me 'how are you,' as politely as you'd ask Reverend Vasseler. And you won't look at me or let me hold your hand. Tarsy said something, I know she did. Now what was it?"

 
Emily's eyes, when they lifted to Tom, were filled with grave disappointment. "What would you think she'd say, Tom?"

 
He stared at her, frowning and puzzling for several seconds until he realized that whatever had passed between the two women would not be divulged by Emily. He straightened and announced stubbornly, "All right, I'll ask her myself."

 
"As you wish," Emily replied coolly.

 
Dread seized him. What had he done? What could have changed Emily so drastically in less than forty-eight hours? Relenting, he took her hand and stepped close, but she refused to raise her eyes. "Emily, don't be this way. Talk to me, tell me what's bothering you."

 
"I'd better get back to supper." Again she freed her hand and put distance between them.

 
"Will I see you tomorrow?"

 
"Probably."

 
"When? Where?"

 
"Well, I don't know, I—"

 
"Can I come here after supper? We could maybe go for a walk, or a ride."

 
"Fine," she agreed unenthusiastically.

 
"Emily…" But he was lost, forlorn, without a clue as to his wrongdoing. He approached her once more and took her shoulders as if to lean down and kiss her, but at that moment Edwin spoke from the far end of the parlor. "Your supper is getting cold, Emily."

 
Tom sighed, put-upon, and dropped his hands from Emily. He set the edges of his teeth together and studied his fiancée with growing dissatisfaction, then stepped forward where Edwin could see him.

 
"Good evening, sir," he said, formally.

 
"Tom."

 
"I just stopped by to say hello to Emily."

 
"Yes—well, it's suppertime." Edwin flapped a white napkin toward the dining room behind him and admonished his daughter, "Emily, don't be long."

 
When he had returned to his meal Emily whispered, "You'd better go, Tom."

 
His patience suddenly snapped and he made little effort to hide the fact. Stepping back, he gave his hat brim an irritated jerk and said, "All right, goddammit, I'm going!" The porch door opened with enough force to suck dustballs outside, then slammed behind him with equal force. His footsteps pounded across the porch floor as he clunked away, unkissed, unwelcomed, royally pissed off and scared to boot.

 
What had happened? What the hell had happened? Stalking down the snow-packed path Tom felt his irritation mount. Women! Emily was the last one he'd expect to act like a sulky brat without explaining why. Two days ago he'd fought for her and he thought he'd won her, but she had grown as tepid as second-round bathwater. Something had happened to change her, and if not Tarsy, what else?

 
Goddamn that Tarsy! Tom took a decisive right-face at the street. She'd said something and he aimed to find out what!

 
Several minutes later, when he knocked on Tarsy's door, the reverberations shook the entire wall. Tarsy herself answered, but she hadn't opened the door two feet before she saw who stood on the porch and tried to slam it again. Tom wedged his foot inside and grabbed Tarsy's wrist.

 
"I want to talk to you," he informed her in a voice harsh and flat with warning. "Get your coat and get out here."

 
"You can go straight to hell on a saw blade!"

 
"Get your coat, I said!"

 
"Let go of my wrist, you're hurting me!"

 
"So help me God, I'll break it if you don't get out here!"

 
"Let go!"

 
He yanked her so hard her head snapped. "All right, you can freeze!" Effortlessly he whirled her out onto the dark porch and slammed the door, planting himself before it.