Free Resurrection by Linda Lael Miller Page B

birch trees, and small children sprawled under wagon beds, slumbering in the soft, sweet grass. Men smoked and spat and talked, Emmeline suspected, of matters unrelated to the Lord.
    For all that, people took note that Gil Hartwell was sitting on Emmeline’s blanket, sharing her picnic lunch, but she didn’t care. Though he was apparently set on barring her from his bed, Gil was Emmeline’s husband, by decree of the very God they were there to worship. It was right and good that they were together, even if Emmeline thought with sadness, it was only temporary.
    When the food was gone—except for what had been put aside for supper, of course—a few of the most devout returned to the tent, jealous of their seats at the foot of the platform. Gil lay back on the blanket with a contented sigh, a piece of grass between his teeth, his hands cupped behind his head.
    “I’ve been working real hard out at the ranch,” he said presently, without looking at Emmeline. “There’s a good roof on the house again, and I mean to start shoring up the barn on Monday morning.”
    Emmeline wondered what she was supposed to think. Was he telling her he wanted her to come and live with him as hiswife, or just making idle conversation? “That’s nice,” she said.
    Gil propped himself up on one elbow and tossed aside the piece of grass. “About last Sunday afternoon—”
    Emmeline stiffened. The hat didn’t hide the color in her face, and she was too indignant to give a damn. “I hardly think this is the place to discuss last Sunday afternoon!” she hissed.
    “Damn it, Emmeline, we have to discuss it somewhere, sometime, and you haven’t come near me since!”
    Several heads turned, and Emmeline considered standing up, striding into the middle of the stream, and trying to drown herself. Unfortunately, she realized, some sincere soul would probably haul her ashore while she was still breathing.
    “In case you’ve forgotten, Mr. Hartwell,” she replied in an acid whisper, “a gentleman calls on a lady. The reverse is not acceptable!”
    “Then why did you come out to my place last week and let me rub your feet?”
    Emmeline distinctly heard a giggle from the next blanket, and shot the miscreant a look fit to curdle sweet cream. “I have had enough of this conversation,” she told her husband.
    Gil reached out and grasped Emmeline’s wrist when she would have gotten to her feet and stormed away. His hold, while not painful, was too firm to resist without stirring a ruckus. “I apologize,” he said quietly. His blue eyes flashed with an unholy fire and there was a tense edge to his jawline, giving Emmeline to believe that he wasn’t actually sorry about anything.
    “You are not forgiven,” Emmeline said, in a voice that was barely more than a breath.
    “That,” replied Gil, “is the problem.”
    That afternoon, Emmeline’s heart wasn’t in the preaching. If it hadn’t meant spoiling Izannah’s fun, she would havepacked up her blanket and basket, unhobbled Lysandra, and driven home. Instead, she sat numbly on the bench, beside Gil, considering what he’d said.
    He really and truly had been kidnapped that night in San Francisco, seven years before, and there could be no doubt that he had suffered the agonies of the damned aboard a ship—the Nellie May, he’d called it. Such an ordinary, innocent-sounding name for a vessel maintained by the blood and sweat of slaves.
    Gil had felt the bite of the captain’s whip, not once but several times, and had worked his way back from Australia after his escape.
    Emmeline knew all those things, and believed them with her whole heart, and yet Gil was right. She had yet to forgive him for leaving her, for putting her through years of grief, for robbing her of the babies that might have been born of their love. It was insane to resent a man for something he couldn’t help, and yet she did. Her fury was as powerful as her passion; she wanted to mate with Gil with all the ferocity