Jake.
She shook her head to clear it. Where had that thought come from? Willa, probably. She had been watching her ride beside her strong and handsome Jake, noting how the girl’s shy smiles were an innocent form of flirting.
Maybe the baby affected her mind as well as her stomach. She had no interest in Jake except as a friend. She decided she couldn’t trust herself to be alone with her thoughts. That bit of illogical whimsy made her want to laugh aloud. That would convince her companions that she had gone crazy. She imagined them looking at her pityingly and wanted to laugh even more.
She kicked her mount to ride closer behind the other two, hoping to get in on their conversation. Before she really did drive herself crazy.
After the ride, Willa ran to tell her mother that she was going to spend the night with Emily. She was restless all through supper, wanting to get started with what she was calling her party. She insisted that her mother help her wash and get ready for bed as soon as the meal was over.
Emily went to her room to prepare for bed herself and get the pen and paper ready. She was starting to look forward to hearing Willa’s idea of a love letter. An invitation to help her look for frogs, maybe. Or a promise to make him a special heart-shaped cookie.
It wasn’t long before she heard a knock on the door and the little girl bounded in, her hair flying around her shoulders.
“Don’t you want your daddy to braid your hair before bed?” Emily asked, smiling at the eager face.
“I want you to do it,” she said, climbing up on the bed to sit cross-legged in the center.
Emily grabbed a brush and a ribbon and crawled up behind her. “Did you know your daddy used to braid my hair every night?”
Willa shook her head. “Why didn’t your own daddy?”
Emily laughed. She pulled the brush through the fine blond hair. “Most daddies don’t braid little girl’s hair. Usually it’s mama’s job. But when I was little and came to stay on the ranch, my mama wasn’t here, so your daddy braided my hair.”
“But at sleep-over parties, we do each other’s. And yours is already done.”
“Sorry, I should have waited,” she said, making short work of the girl’s shoulder-length hair and tying it with the ribbon.
“That’s all right. I don’t know how anyway. When do we write our letters?” Willa asked.
“Let’s do it right away,” Emily said eagerly. “You want to write yours first, or shall I?”
“Me, me!” she cried bouncing on the bed. “You write just what I say.”
“All right.” Emily slid off the bed and took a seat at the desk. Willa crawled around on the bed, a childish version of pacing. “Shall I start with ‘Dear Jake’?”
“No,” Willa responded, stopping to stand on her knees and press her hands over her heart. “‘My darling Jake.’ No wait, ‘My own darling Jake.’ Write that.”
Emily dipped the pen in ink and bent over the page. “Does your mother read her stories to you?”
“No,” responded Willa, missing Emily’s grin. “Tell him I think he’s the most handsome man in the world.”
Emily smiled. “‘Most handsome man in the world.’ What else?”
“‘The bravest and the strongest.’” Willa said the words slowly, allowing Emily time to write. “And I want him to kiss me.” The instant she said it, she threw both hands over her mouth, gulping back a giggle.
“Do you really?” Emily teased.
She shook her head vigorously. “Don’t write that What if he really did?” She grimaced.
“Are we going to send this letter?”
Willa thought for a moment. “No. That way I can tell him everything.” She took a deep breath. “‘Your eyes are like the sky.’”
“His eyes are green,” Emily corrected.
“They are? All right. ‘Your eyes are like the…grass. Your smile is like sunshine. Your kiss is like honey.’”
“Now, how would you know?”
Willa giggled. “Put it down. ‘Your strong arms could carry me away.’” She threw herself backward onto the bed.
“Where did you get this stuff?” Emily quickly scratched down what the little girl had said.
“I spent a week with Aunt Rose. She writes poetry out loud when she thinks she’s alone.”
“Writes it out loud, huh?”
“Yeah. Some of it’s real romantic.”
“And she’s married to Arlen.”
Both girls giggled at that.
Emily drew Willa’s attention back to the letter. “How do you want to end it?”
Willa thought for a moment. “How about, ‘Your only love, Willa.’”
“Great,” Emily said. When she was finished, she closed the ink bottle and wiped the pen.
“Aren’t you going to write one now?” Willa sounded disappointed.
“I don’t think so. How about I tell you a story, instead.”
“I wanted to know what you would write to a boyfriend.” She stuck her lower lip out and squinted her eyes.
Emily rose from the chair and put out the lamp. “How about we curl up in bed, and I’ll tell you what I would write.”
“Pretend like you’re writing to Jake,” Willa said, crawling under the quilt.
“Jake?”
“Yeah. Tell me what you would write about Jake.”
Emily climbed into bed beside Willa. She tried to go along with the child’s game, but the images of Jake that it conjured up made her somehow more lonely. She worked to turn the discussion to other things.
When she finally succeeded, the little girl fell asleep. Emily lay awake, unable to get the images out of her mind. Jake’s eyes, voice, lips, height and muscles had all been discussed. Though they had left out his gentleness, kindness, and sense of humor.
She groaned and rolled to her side. Typical, she thought. Now would be the perfect time for the little girl to chatter endlessly about nothing in particular. But now she was asleep.
The next day Emily noticed a repeat of what she came to think of as her predicament. Always when she sought solitude, Jake or Willa or even Trevor intruded. When she needed company to dispel her somber thoughts, everyone else was occupied. She began to wonder if she really knew which she wanted or if she simply longed for one whenever she had the other. The paradox, she decided, completely described the confused state of her mind.
And the silly letter sat on her desk. She kept forgetting to ask Willa what she wanted her to do with it. And she couldn’t quite bring herself to throw it away.
Jake leaned against the barn door, waiting for Emily to make her appearance. The past two days she had gone for a walk as soon as the sun was high in the sky, and he had joined her, though it was beginning to feel like torture. He had watched her grow more and more melancholy, pining for her love. Every time she got that faraway look in her eyes, he felt a pain acute enough that it nearly buckled his knees.
She left the shelter of the house, her cloak so securely wrapped around her she might have been hard for someone else to recognize. But he knew that step, that particular sway of her body as she closed the door, the tilt of her head, even under the hood, as she set off toward the path.
As