Something Borrowed

Chapter 11

***Hello, all! I just want to apologize for the delay on this chapter. I had a very intense few weeks at work that kept me out of range of technology and far too distracted to even think about writing. To that end, I'd also like to apologize for the quality of this chapter. I think writing is a bit like any form of exercise. You need to warm up to do it right, and I was a bit stiff and out of practice when I wrote this. I promise future chapters will be (a) quicker in coming and (b) less shitty. As always, thank you for reading!!!***

Josh

She had her luggage.

It was a flaw in his plan that he hadn't foreseen. He'd meant to put her at ease-- give her the option to turn him down without endangering her access to an escape fund. He felt like a complete imbecile when he realized the logistics didn't really support his plan. He'd left her no choice but to bellow her intentions at him the second he saw her.

She sat on the porch stairs, cheeks pink with the cold as pale yellow sunlight gleamed in her hair. She was shivering slightly, a thin shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a pitiful, faded carpet bag at her feet.

He shrugged away the pang that shot through his chest at the sight. It was ridiculous to mourn her loss. He'd known her for days, and had never had any claim to her affection. Maybe, he thought, it just hurt his pride a little. Yes, that must be it. It hurt his pride to know she'd rather brave life as a grass widow than accept his offer.

"I'm still thinking," she said timidly as he hopped off the wagon and retrieved her bag, placing it in the back. "I don't want you to think I've decided. I just wanted to be prepared."

She was lying. They both knew it, but he nodded as if he believed her and offered her a hand up onto the front bench. She took the blanket he offered and wrapped it around her shoulders, hunched slightly against the cold, her rear parked as far from his on the worn wood as she could get. He supposed he should have helped her into the back of the wagon so she could sit with her bag, but he'd had an inane notion that if he did that she'd feel like luggage.

Stupid.

The wagon trundled along the packed dirt road, small rocks casting long shadows in the low sunlight. Frost glistened silver on the grass, and the air burned his nose and brought a chill to his fingers. Even beneath the blanket, Amelia shivered. He'd take her to the general store after the bank, he decided. If she was going to go off on her own, pregnant, at the cusp of winter, she'd at least need some good clothes. He shivered, imagining her wandering some city street dressed in rags while snow dusted her hair and frost nipped at her eyelashes.

"Mr. Tucker?"

He jerked out of his reverie and glanced at her, absently flicking the reins at the lone horse hitched to the wagon. It was just two people and a carpet bag on the way out, and one man on the way back. No reason to hook up Thistle and Thorn.

"I was just curious," she said thoughtfully. "You're being awfully good to me, and it's not that I'm not appreciative, but I don't quite understand why. You don't know me. All I've done is upset your life and cause you trouble. It doesn't make sense to me that you're so willing to help."

He thought about the question for a long while, watching the shadows get shorter and silver frost fade as green pierced through, greeting the warming sunlight. The fact she was leaving was worth consideration. What harm would there be in telling the truth?

"You probably noticed my father isn't all that fond of me," he said slowly, keeping his eyes on the road in front of them, even though the horse was plodding along, bored but steadfast, without any direction from him. He saw her nod in his periphery and went on with a shrug. "It's not without cause. I was born around a year before my parents were married. The old man met my mother much like you met Brent, I imagine, 'cept he left before she learned she was pregnant. They met again a couple years later."