Page 96 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
Marigold’s promise to give the house 10 percent of her fee had also greased the way to their acceptance of her working here. Not that the forty cents she’d given them yesterday went very far, but she happened to know Mrs. Dudley liked china cups. She would give her the one with the floral design that she had just accepted in payment for a very morose tale about an infected leg and a dead horse.
Good thing she was equally morose, or this story would have made her cry.
Marigold shed plenty of tears as it was, all through the night. She kept dwelling on her conversation with Virgil three days ago. Should she have admitted she loved him? Should she have gone back with them and let him choose between her and Pearl? Maybe they could move to Utah and practice polygamy. Ira had said his mother was one of seven sister wives.
Of course, that would mean Marigold had to share Virgil, and she didn’t want to. That was the truth of it. She loved him and wanted to be his wife, and he had chosen to take her sister home without hardly any argument at all. Because he didn’t love her.
Rufus had been perplexed at the way they’d left so summarily without her.Mr. Gardner seemed so sweet on you. He was always easier to talk to when you two were getting along.
She had always felt sweet when they were getting along. He’d had a way of making her feel important and respected and needed. Not just for his children, but by him. He’d made her sexual feelings seem natural, too. He had never berated her for enjoying his attentions. He’d reveled in it. Her eyes still stung at how welcome and healing his attitude had been.
But that was another reason she’d had to send him home without her. Every time she thought of being there with him, she knew she would covet her sister’s husband. She might even lure him into adultery with her.
No. She had made the right choice.
“With love, from your son, Benson Hedley,” Marigold repeated as she finished up the letter with a final dot of ink.
She folded the letter and tucked the upper triangle into the pocket she had made at the bottom, then wrote the direction the miner gave her onto the front.
“Good luck,” she said as she handed it off to him. “Goodness,” she exclaimed as she noticed there were several men standing about, many with drinks in their hands. Word was getting out. “Who’s next? You, sir?”
She set out a clean sheet of paper and waved at the chair set far enough away she wasn’t asphyxiated by anyone who happened to have noxious breath, which was sadly most of them.
“Let me put this cup away.” She leaned down to tuck the cup and saucer safely into her bag.
When she straightened, there was a rock on her blank sheet of paper. It was about the size of a lemon drop, one that had been crunched and suckled until it was pocked and misshapen, yet also smooth. She recognized it exactly as her body recognized the belt and the wet, mud-caked trousers and filthy boots of the man who had come to stand beside her.
She couldn’t seem to make herself lift her eyes to him, though. He would see the instant wetness in hers. The despair and the longing and, if he looked hard enough, thehopethat was trying to flicker to life inside her.
“Hey! No cutting in line,” a voice called from further back.
“It’s Gardner,” someone else said with resigned disgust.
“From Quail’s Creek? Those fellas always think they can do that. What do you need a letter for, Virgil? Can’t you write your own?”
“I’m here to propose marriage,” he said, voice so strong and deep and clear it made Marigold’s heart lurch. Had she heard him correctly?
“You should definitely get in line, then,” someone muttered.
He didn’t. He flicked his hand at the man who’d taken the seat across from her. The man dove out of the way, and Virgil sat so he was eye to eye with her, making it impossible for her to look anywhere but at him.
There was a streak of mud on his cheek above his beard and his hair was wet when he removed his hat to set it on the table. Even his shirt was soaked, she saw, as he removed his dirty jacket and let it flop against the chair back. His brow was heavy and grave, his mouth tight, but he was still so handsome, her throat closed up with helplessness.
For a few seconds, they only sat with their gazes locked while she tried to absorb what he had said. Why? Why her and not Pearl?
“Wh—Where’s Pearl?” she asked, throat so dry she could only rasp out a whisper.
“Pearl’s at home, safe and sound. So are the children. But you’re not. That’s not sitting well with any of us. It’s killing me.” His scar was a bright white line in a face that was frowning with concern.
The line of men had shifted to crowd around them, so everyone could see and hear, but he wasn’t scowling at any of them for witnessing him in this state. He was looking on her as if she was the only person in the room and he was worried about her.
She bit her lip and looked to where she was nearly twisting her fingers off her hands in her lap.
“Is it really marriage you don’t want? Or marriage to a man who doesn’t love you?” he asked gravely. “Because I do love you, Marigold. I should have said it before I left.”
A fiery jolt shot through her, as though she’d been struck by lightning. Was that really true?
There was a murmur through the gathered crowd that made her cringe, reminding her she was making a spectacle of both of them. Her eyes were so hot and blurred she couldn’t see him when she looked up. But Virgil wasn’t letting the public nature of his declaration bother him. In fact, he stood up tall and repeated, loudly for all to hear, “I love you, Marigold. You’re theonlywoman I want to marry.”
