Page 25 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
“Here?” he scoffed. “Jesus, that tells you where they’ve been, doesn’t it?” He squeezed the back of his neck, trying not to contemplate too deeply why they were so fearful of him. They spoke fondly enough of their aunt and cousins. As far as he could tell, Archie hadn’t struck them or been outright cruel, but he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of his sister’s children. They’d sensed Archie’s resentment.
“Don’t tell them about Leyohna’s baby,” Virgil decided. “It’s liable to raise questions I don’t want to answer just yet.”
She nodded. “I understand. And I realize now why you don’t trust me. Especially after…” Her voice thinned. “…this morning.”
He had dredged his sordid history from the depths of his gut to avoid making accusations that would hurt her, but he’d hurt her anyway. He could hear the ache of it in her voice.
“Marigold—”
Her head came up, but he didn’t know what to say. His brain was trying to hang onto his doubts, but his gut told him to believe her. She’d been the victim of infidelity, same as he was. Hell, she adjusted her shoulders every time the subject came up, as though she was trying to carry all the lingering humiliation still sitting on her like a yoke.
Same as he did.
“I’m tired,” she said when he failed to speak. “I’ll turn in. Good night.”
She was almost at the door before he managed to say, “Sleep well.”
Chapter Eight
Marigold slept surprisingly well, considering her mind was in turmoil when she lay down. No wonder Virgil was so suspicious of her. She had been found guilty of infidelity, while his wife had committed the same crime and left him with the consequence of it.
You’ll find me to be a fair, respectful man to all but liars, cheats, and thieves.
She wasn’t guilty of adultery, though. It got under her skin that he refused to take her word for it.
It was hard to feel scorned and resentful of injustices, however, with two little bodies snuggled up close in the night. She settled her arm across them and didn’t hear Virgil come to bed. Or rise.
In fact, she slept so hard she was completely disoriented when Harley sat up and said a sleepy, “Peas?”
“Shh.” Virgil loomed over the bed before Marigold had properly remembered where she was. He plucked Harley from the blankets and carried him away.
Marigold rolled and resettled, peering through the pre-dawn light creeping through the cracks in the walls. Virgil set Harley on the pot and fetched a can from the shelf. He gave two jabs into the lid with his pocketknife, then poured milk into a cup, adding water from the pitcher.
When Harley sleepily toddled over to him in his nightshirt, Virgil lowered to the bench and gathered the baby onto his lap. They took turns drinking from the cup, Harley sitting limp and trusting in the curve of Virgil’s arm, head resting on Virgil’s chest.
Yes, Nettie, if your father can be that tender with a child who was thrust upon him by an estranged and wandering wife, he loves all of you very deeply.
She saw Virgil’s head turn as though he sensed she was awake and watching. She closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep.
When the cup was empty, Virgil rose and started to bring the boy back to Marigold, but Harley pointed at Levi and gave a questioning grunt.
“Levi.” Virgil gave the older boy’s shoulder a squeeze, speaking softly. “He wants to sleep with you.”
Levi lifted his blanket, and Virgil tucked the baby in beside him.
“Tell Marigold to get more milk today.”
“I will.”
Virgil left, and Marigold strained to hear his footsteps.
After a few minutes, Harley sat up and began to crawl around, eager to explore Levi’s new bed.
“No, it’s too early. Lay down and I’ll rub your back.” Levi wrangled his little brother back under the blankets.
A few minutes later, everyone was fast asleep again, but Marigold was wide awake. She was still pondering Virgil’s feelings about his wife and her own reasons for coming here. She needed a home as badly as the children did, but could she make this shack into one?
She must have a little of Pearl’s ability to conjure rose-colored fantasies, because a fresh start had struck her as easier than trying to make something of the broken life she’d been mired in. She hadn’t expected to havequitesuch a blank slate to write on, but she rose to get a jump on the day.
