Chapter Eight

Will

She thought he was domineering.

He’d carried her back to his bed, like some sort of brute, and in the days that followed she liked to drop words like domineering and overbearing and impossible. That evening she ventured out to the barn to share a few more words after he’d left a note at lunch instructing her to make herself a few nightgowns not inspired by Catholic nuns.

“I’m very comfortable in those gowns, I’ll have you know. I sleep like a baby in my flannel gowns.”

She followed him around the barn, fussing like a wet hen. He smiled and nodded but gave her no indication he would change his mind. He rolled his barrow down the aisle, stopping at each stall to deposit grain in the troughs.

“You have a husband to keep you warm, sweetheart. I don’t think you’ll be needing a gown at all in a few days.”

She paled. “No gown at all?”

“None, Charlotte. And if you’re chilled in the night you just need to tap me on the shoulder.”

He moved from stall to stall, checking the mares as he went. The broodmares pinned their ears and kicked the walls as he drew near. They were ravenous and uncomfortable with heavy, fat bellies, and they seemed to think that the other mares would steal their grain. The instant he filled the trough, they quieted. At the end of the aisle, he paused, his scoop of grain poised over the trough. The mare stood on the far side of the stall, a sheen of sweat glistening across her flanks.

“What’s the matter?” Charlotte asked.

Will set the grain back in the barrow. “Mandy’s getting ready to foal.”

Charlotte came to his side and peered over the wall.

“I might not be home for dinner,” Will said quietly. “This is her first and I want to stay with her.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

He glanced at her and noted her dress. “It might be a while, sweetheart. You’re not exactly dressed for helping deliver a foal.”

“I don’t mind. If you’re staying to help her, I’d like to stay and help you.”

“It’s usually a pretty long and dull ordeal. Ninety-nine percent boredom and one percent panic. That’s what my daddy used to say about birthing foals.”

She gazed at the mare. Her features were taut, her attention riveted, and her shoulders hitched a bit higher than usual. “I don’t mind boredom. Besides, if I’m with you, I won’t be bored.”

He took her hand and drew her inside the stall. Mandy’s ears flicked back as she noted their presence, but she remained still, laboring with her first foal. He sat quietly in the corner with Charlotte beside him, seated in the straw. Every so often she smiled at him, her eyes brimming with girlish excitement.

The mare grew restless and pawed the ground. When she lay down in the straw, Will brought a rolled bandage and wrapped her tail. He spoke soothingly and stroked the mare’s flank. Slowly he moved to the side of the stall and lowered to the straw. He tugged Charlotte into his arms. Sitting against the wall, he coaxed her back against him and together they watched Mandy labor with her foal.

Her body tightened with contractions. After some time, with little to show for her efforts, a small hoof finally appeared. When the other hoof and the foal’s head appeared, Charlotte gripped Will’s arm. They sat quietly as the foal eased into the world. The mare lifted her head and looked behind her to where her foal lay in the straw.

Will waited to see if the animal would free itself from the afterbirth. If it didn’t he would help. With a jerk, it kicked and flailed. The bag tore. Mandy nickered and rose from the hay. The foal’s bag ripped more as the mare stood. She turned to nose her baby, sniffing its head. After several improbable attempts the foal staggered to its feet.

Charlotte’s eyes glistened and she wiped tears from her cheek. Will kissed her head and got to his feet. He patted the mare’s nose. “Good girl. You’ve got a beauty there. A pretty bay, just like you, but with the daddy’s markings.”

He crouched. “A filly.”

Charlotte said nothing, only nodding, her face filled with wonder.

The foal staggered to her mother’s side and a moment later, nursed vigorously.

Will got a bucket of water and a few rags and gently cleaned the mare. He tidied the stall and gave the mare fresh bedding. When he’d given her an extra ration of grain and hay, he took Charlotte’s hand and they returned to the house.

They ate dinner but not in the usual quiet. Instead, they debated names for the filly.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with Cinnamon,” Charlotte insisted.

“I always name the foal with the same letter as the mother’s name.”

Charlotte’s eyes lit with delight. “Maple?”

“That doesn’t sound very feminine.”

The debate continued into the evening. Charlotte emerged from her dressing room, clad in one of the gowns he disliked. He gave her a frown, mocking his chagrin, but said nothing.

“You were so sweet with Mandy, tending to her.” She tugged the blankets up and smiled at him with a look of admiration and pleasure. She’d never given him that before, and while he didn’t think he’d done anything special, her response made him absurdly happy. He grinned and shook his head as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside.

“One day, I’ll carry our little one, Will.” She set her hand over her stomach and gazed at him with a warmth burning in her eyes. “God willing. And then imagine the arguments we’ll have about names.”

He felt the blood drain from his face. Of course, he’d thought about children. He’d imagined them with the first letter he wrote Charlotte, but the possibility took on a different light somehow. She was slender. Delicate. She had lovely curves, but she was narrow, too. How could she possibly manage to bring a little one into the world?

“Most husbands don’t stay with their wives when they give birth.” She spoke softly.

He stepped closer, stopping at the foot of the bed and grasped the top of the footboard. “I’ll do whatever you want, Charlotte.”

“I think I would want you near. Holding my hand, perhaps.”

He nodded. His throat felt tight and dry. “Of course.”

She sat up and frowned. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he replied gruffly. He turned away and finished undressing. When he returned to the bed, he reached for the lantern and caught Charlotte smiling at him.

“You’re very pale, Will. You can’t attend the birth if you’re going to faint.”

“I won’t faint,” he snapped. He rubbed his brow, wiping the sheen of sweat away, and turned down the wick. The room plunged into darkness and he moved to her side. He gave her gown a quick tug. “Enjoy your gowns while you can. I’m going to confiscate them when the thirty days are up.”

Charlotte laughed softly. She turned in his arms and rested her head on his chest. Her breathing grew deep. She sank against him and sighed as she drifted off to sleep. Will lay awake in the dark, listening to her measured breaths and feeling her heartbeat against his side. Her hand rested over his heart, laying claim to the one thing he never intended to offer.