of Max involved knife-edged creases in his trousers and gleaming leather shoes and boots, plus a tendency to always appear well-groomed, even when he rose from her bed.
She, on the other hand, had usually felt like a well-used dishcloth, limp and still warm from his kisses and the profusion of caresses he was wont to include in their sessions in the darkest hours of the night. Quiet in his retreat, he’d left her yearning for his arms on those nights when he slept in his own room, and she’d never been able to bring herself to join him there.
Max called the shots. And she’d allowed it. Prim and uneasy with the marriage relationship, unwilling to approach him with any degree of eagerness, she’d been what her mother-in-law had been prone to speak of as “an ideal wife, who knows her place in her husband’s life and in society.”
And wasn’t that the saddest excuse for marriage she’d ever heard. Yet it had been, for a while, an experience she’d cherished.
She shivered, forking hay from the loft, where the temperature hovered above sizzling and pretty close to sweltering. The man was a piece of work, trying to fit himself into her life, as if he had a right.
But after all, hadn’t the lawyer in town told him as much? Faith leaned on the pitchfork for a moment, wondering what else the lawyer had had to say during that early morning chat. Surely Max had not mentioned his inclination to claim his marital rights. If he had, and if she were to ever face Mr. Handle in town, it would be a most humiliating experience. Probably the discussion had concerned Max’s right to drag her back to Boston with him.
It could be done, of that she was certain. Women were at the bottom of the heap when it came to surviving conflict in the relationship between husband and wife.
“You going to stay up there all day?” Max called from the bottom of the ladder.
She jerked, almost dropping the pitchfork on top of him, and then lost her balance. Tossing the sharp-tined weapon aside, she fell back, lying flat, looking upward toward the barn ceiling. Truly not one of her better moments, she decided, rolling to her knees and rising to stand on the uneven bed of hay.
“Are you all right?” Max’s head appeared through the hole in the floor, followed by his shoulders as he lifted himself from the ladder to stand before her. “Here, let me give you a hand.” He reached to steady her, and laughed outright.
“Your hair is a mess,” he said, plucking wisps of hay from her braid and brushing bits and pieces from her sweaty brow. The movement of his hand slowed, then ceased altogether, and in a hushed moment, he touched her lips with his index finger.
“Faith.” It was a whisper of sound, and she glared up at him, unwilling to be so readily coaxed by his gentle approach.
“I’m fine. Go on down. I’ll toss enough hay down for the next couple of weeks and then pile it in the corner. It saves me climbing into the loft more than twice a month.”
“It’s nice up here,” he said, looking off into the shadows, where a bird had built a nest and was busily fluttering on the edge, feeding her young. “If it wasn’t so blasted hot, I’d enjoy lying back in the hay and talking for a while.”
“You’d be talking to yourself,” Faith said, lifting her pitchfork from the hay and stabbing it into the pile she’d so recently occupied. Hay fell through the opening, scattering on the barn floor beneath, and she lifted another layer, sending it after the first.
A large, lean hand took the fork from her, ignoring her tightened grip on the handle. “Let me do that,” Max said. “How much do you want below?”
She stepped back, giving him the necessary room, and drew in a deep breath. He was pushing her, and she didn’t like it. Edging ever closer in a game she had no intention of joining. “Enough to fill the far corner of the aisle, next to the last stall,” she said.
“All right.” Obligingly, he tossed hay through the opening and then halted, stepping back to allow her passage to the ladder. “After you,” he said cheerfully.
She climbed down swiftly, pleased that he hadn’t preceded her, aware that her legs were exposed as she held her skirt high enough to keep it from tangling around her feet on the ladder rungs. Gaining the floor, she looked up and reached for the pitchfork.
“Let me,” she said. “I’ll move it out of the aisle.”
“I’ll take care of it.” His voice was gruff, as if he was scolding her for her spark of independence, she decided. “You work too hard, Faith.” He made his way down and then stood beside her. “This isn’t a job for a woman, tending livestock and grubbing in the dirt for a living.”
“And what’s wrong with it?” she asked. “It’s honest work, and I’m not going to apologize for earning my own way. I’m happier here than I ever was in the city, Max. I know you have a hard time believing that, but it’s true.”
He hung the pitchfork on the wall and turned to her, grasping her hands and holding them up to the light. “Look at the calluses,” he muttered. “Your hands should be soft and smooth. Instead, you work at one thing or another from morning till night. I hate it that you’ve been forced to live this way.”
“Aren’t you listening to me?” she asked, snatching her fingers from his. “I love it here. I enjoy what I do, and I’m happy to grub in the dirt. I raise my food, and then I cook it and eat it. Whatever is surplus is set aside for the winter months. It’s called making a living, Max.”
He had the grace to look shamefaced. “I didn’t mean to make it sound…the way I did,” he said quietly. “There’s no shame in working hard. It’s just that I hate to see you so tired. You’ve lost weight, Faith.”
“I was too plump, anyway,” she said quickly. “I’m strong and healthy, and you might as well forget whatever you’re trying to accomplish here. I’m not going back with you, Max. No matter what, I’m staying here.”
“The sheriff would like that, wouldn’t he?”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” She felt a flush climb her cheeks, only too aware of his gibe being more the truth than she would like to admit.
“You know exactly what I’m referring to,” Max shot back. “He’s sweet on you.”
“Well, I’m not sweet on him. I’m not sweet on anybody.” She stalked out the barn door and headed for the house, then turned to face Max, walking backward several paces until she reached the porch steps. “I wish you’d just leave me alone. Go back to Boston and find yourself someone who wants you for a husband. I’ll sign anything you like. You’ll be free as a bird.”
He halted halfway across the yard, and his expression was unreadable. “I told you there were papers for you to sign, Faith. In all the fussing we’ve done, I haven’t told you what they are. I brought them with me in my pouch today, and I think we need to go inside so you can look them over.”
She felt a dull ache begin in her breast. If he had indeed given in on the idea of getting a bill of divorcement, this would perhaps be the final time she was forced to see him. Surely a judge could handle the whole thing, so long as she signed her rights away.
Climbing the porch steps, she opened the kitchen door and waited for Max to enter. He hesitated, his manners dictating that he let her precede him, but she cast him an impatient look and he did as she wished.
In a few minutes she’d washed her hands, smoothed her hair back and settled across the table from him. His pouch open, he sorted through it for the documents he’d mentioned, then placed them on the table before her.
“Your father left you his estate when he died fourteen years ago,” he began. “It was held by the court until you reached the age of twenty-five. I don’t know why he thought you’d be all grown up by then, but for some reason, that was the milestone he chose.”
She looked down at the papers Max had brought to her, and focused on the names and the collection of “therefores” and