Josh

Unlike Brent and Melissa, Josh had a treasure trove of crystal-clear memories of their mother tucked away inside his head. He could conjure her voice and a picture of her face just by closing his eyes. He could remember the taste of her pork ribs and mashed potatoes, and when his mind glazed, skating over some mundane chore, he often found himself humming her favorite song. For all that his father had made the better part of his life a living hell, the poignance of his mother's memory had always been bolstering-- a gentle hand on his chin, tipping it up every time he felt his shoulders begin to slump.

"You're my sweet, brilliant boy," she had said every night as she tucked him in. "Never let anyone tell you you're worth less than your dreams."

And he hadn't, even when she died and everything went to hell in a tattered, moldy hand-basket. When his father had stopped sending him to school with Brent and Lisa, he'd stolen books and read them by candlelight. When he was banned from the dinner table for slew of ever-pettier offenses, he'd fed on his righteous anger. When he was written out of the will and relegated to menial labor on the ranch, he'd made it his life's goal to be the best goddamn ranch hand around so the drunken fool would have no choice but to promote him. When he was beaten, he never cowed. When he was told God loathed him, he rested comfortable in the knowledge that the Lord may have forsaken him, but he had plenty of earthly friends.

Josh Tucker had no shortage of confidence, no shortage of strengths, and no shortage of friends.

So why the hell was he standing in the corner of the crowded hall, nervous and unsure, sweating like a boy before his first kiss?

Beside him, Amelia leaned against the wall, her gloved fingers curled around her upper arms as she studied the mill of dancing bodies. The room stank of smoke, sweat, and perfume. It was making him nauseous, and he wasn't the one growing a human inside him.

"Do you want to go outside?" he asked, and she shook her head, smiling shyly at him.

"I'm having fun," she said, hooking a tentative hand through the crook of his elbow. "Watching is fun."

"Would you like to dance?" It physically pained him to ask again. He'd already asked, when they first arrived, and she'd made up some excuse about not knowing the steps. He knew she was lying. Everyone knew how to waltz, and he'd seen her body swaying with the music as they stood by the wall. She was a natural dancer, and he was damn sure she knew how to waltz, but what good would it do to press?

"Sure," she said, her voice tight with nerves. What did she think he was going to do? He sighed and offered her his hand, ignoring the juvenile tingle of awkward anxiety that twisted his stomach when his fingers closed around hers. He led her to the center of the room, and a bizarre mess of emotions wound up his gut. Pride, at being the man to escort this woman onto the dance floor. Shame, at only having secured her hand through his brother's idiocity. Anger, at the men who leered at her shapely form. Love, at...

Oh...

When the hell had that happened? Love. Sometime between her sweet, clumsy curtsy in the dining room that first day and this moment, when he pulled her into his arms to the melody of fiddles and guitar, he'd fallen in love.

Fool. She tolerated him at best. Was a friend at most. What the hell was he thinking, falling in love with the woman?

"Sorry," he mumbled as he stepped on her toes. He was a good dancer, dammit. What the hell was happening to him?

She giggled, gently squeezing his shoulder, where her hand rested. "Barely felt it," she promised, peering up at him. Her eyes were an impossible, cottony shade of blue, and a tinge of pink colored her cheeks. Her lips were painted an unnatural red, but he knew beneath the waxy veneer, they were a perfect rosy pink. Delicate beads of sweat decorated her hairline, and he wondered what it tasted like.

What?!

"Ouch," she murmured when he stepped on her toes again, this time because he was splitting his attention between admiring her, dancing with her, and keeping a healthy few inches between them where the aforementioned admiration was creating something of a situation.

"Sorry," he said again, forcing his attention away from her face and trying to find his sister in the crowd. There she was, laughing as she danced with some kid who worked at the bank. His arousal dissipated as he distracted himself, thinking about the visit he'd have to pay to that young man. He was young-- maybe five years Melissa's junior-- and she could probably lay him flat with a neatly placed punch. But still, it was his duty to make casual threats to the men who fancied his little sister. Wasn't it?

"Josh," Amelia said, biting back a giggle. "I was willing to let one or two go by, but that's the fifth time you've stepped on me. Shall we move off to the side and I'll give you a tutorial?"

Heat burned the back of his neck and he glared down at her. "Sorry," he said for the thousandth time. "I'm just distracted is all. I know how to dance."

"Well..." she said, her fingers drumming against his waist. He felt it just as keenly as he felt the gentle curve of her spine where it rested beneath his palm. "I must admit, I'm unconvinced."

"Give me another song and I'll prove it to you," he said as the music slowed to a brief lull before taking off again.

They danced three more songs and he didn't step on her toes even once more. She was laughing by the time she begged a break, and he was too. It was hard not to laugh-- not to swell with joy-- with her leaning against him, breathless and flushed, the delicate loose hairs around her face curling with sweat. She felt natural against his side as he led her to the refreshments table and ladled her a glass of iced lemonade before making one for himself.

This kept happening to them-- these moments where they both seemed to forget the circumstances of their union. These must have been the moments where he had begun to fall in love. These moments of ease and laughter and quiet. Moments where he sank, so foolishly, back into the confidence his mother had worked so hard to weld into his very spine.

"I told you I knew what I was doing," he said, smirking down at her as she gulped lemonade, holding out her empty glass for him to refresh. He scooped another ladleful into the glass, grinning as she rolled her eyes. "What if--"

"Josh!" He jerked around at the harried voice that called out from behind him. Paul pushed through the throng of sweaty bodies, his face slightly flushed from exertion and booze but his eyes clear. "Boss, we need your help."

His heart sank. Paul was smart and responsible. Hell, the man was damn near two decades his senior. There was little to do with the ranch, the men, and life in general with which Josh didn't trust his friend. What was more, there was little for which Paul would dare come between him and Amelia. The man was bizarrely invested in his relationship, always going on about how he "deserved to be happy" and "really ought to romance that lady" and other nonsense like that.

"What's he doing?"

Paul's eyes flicked to Amelia before returning to Josh. He sighed and brushed a hand over his sweat-glossy bald patch. "He's tried to cheat a game of cards again."

Josh felt his shoulders slump. In these moments, he tried to remember how much his mother had loved her husband. They had been one of those rare couples whose love was fated by the stars. They weren't just friends, they were inextricably bound. They felt each other's pain and joy, bliss and sadness in equal measure. Her death had carved out some critical portion of his father's soul, and Josh knew that, wherever she was, his mother wouldn't want him to turn his back on the man. She'd want her children to care for their father the way she no longer could.

He looked down at where his hand rested on Amelia's waist. He didn't remember putting it there, but it didn't feel wrong, and she wasn't moving away. She reached up and took the glass from his hand.

"Go ahead," she said. "I'll wait here."

"It's not safe. I'll have--"

"Don't frown at me like that," she scolded, scowling. "It's perfectly safe. I'm surrounded by people we know. The room is well-lit. Melissa's right over there, and there's a gaggle of church ladies in the corner who've been trying to talk to me all night. I'll be fine."

"But--"

"Go."

She was glaring, a half-full glass in each hand, her face still ruddy from the dance floor. Her beautiful blue eyes were aflame with annoyance, and her foot stamped once on the hardwood floor, the noise drowned out by the crowd. But he heard it all the same. Right in his heart, where it pierced like a needle and burrowed into him.

I love you, he wanted to say, but that would be ridiculous. Even if it was something she wanted to hear, which it certainly wasn't, now was hardly the time.

"Stay here," he ordered, and she raised her nose into the air. God, he hoped she'd listen. "I'll be back in five minutes."

Glancing over his shoulder at her, he followed Paul away from heaven and back into hell.

Amelia

Amelia gave her husband the five minutes he requested to deal with his father and return. Then she gave him ten. Then fifteen. Then she grew weary of the gossipy old church ladies and the stifled mugginess of the room, and decided to get a breath of fresh air. She caught Melissa's eye across the room and nodded to the door, indicating that she was going to step out. Her friend nodded and smiled before turning back to her dance partner.

Retrieving her coat from the anteroom, she stepped outside into the frigid night. Her nose stung with the cold and she coughed as she pulled a deep breath into her lungs. The area outside the town hall was well-lit by one of the town's three gas lights. The other two stood, one each, outside the bank and the hotel. She thought of St. Louis and the lights that illuminated the walkways every block. Beyond the sphere of light, all was cast in darkness.

Suddenly, she longed for summer.

Careful to stay within the circle of illumination-- the confines of false security-- she stepped a few feet away from the door and inhaled a deep breath of fresh air, fighting her clinching lungs and forcing the raw, refreshing cold deep into her lungs. Behind her, the cacophony of music, voices, and warmth carried on. In front of her, dark stillness prevailed.

"Hey, beautiful."

Her heart sprang to life in her chest, sprinting like a jackrabbit as she spun around, stumbling back a few feet. A man stood, silhouetted in the orange-yellow light of the doorway. She recognized him vaguely, from church. He was young and tall, broad and dark-haired, with a thick mustache that drooped over the corners of his mouth. He might have been handsome, if not for the coldness of his eyes and the cruel sneer that twisted his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled inanely, darting forward in an effort to circumvent him and dive back into the security of the crowd.

"Don't apologize, sweet thing," he laughed, catching her by the bicep. His grip didn't hurt, but it bruised her heart. She swallowed hard, fighting for calm.

My name is Amelia Tucker. I am strong, smart, and brave. I made it to this morning and I will make it to tonight.

"Please let me go, sir," she demanded, forcing steadiness into her voice. She knew this man's kind. He wanted her fear, and she'd be damned if she gave it to him. "I need to get back inside. My husband is waiting for me."

To her consternation, the man did not leave her alone as she had so politely requested. Instead, he yanked on her arm, pulling her against his chest and walking forward, backing her out into the darkness, beyond the safety of the light.

Amelia's pulse raced in her throat. She was no stranger to drunken, insistent men. She knew how to deal with them, generally. A knee in the most sensitive spot would put a pause to their endeavors long enough for her to sound an alarm. Then again, she had always worked in a place where the alarm would be heard and answered. She'd always been surrounded by friends and coworkers, by young men hired specifically to respond to such alarms.

Here, she was alone. Panic overtook her, and she yanked against his grip, fighting to free herself.

"Hey, listen!" the man growled, snapping her against him. "Listen, you bitch, I'm trying to talk to you."

She stared up into his glazed eyes, refusing to display the fear that raced like acid in her veins. She remembered his name. He'd read the verses more than once in church. Oh, irony.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Mulligan?" she asked, forcing every hint of a quaver from her voice.

"I just want what's owed to me," he said, pulling her closer, his breath stale and fetid in her face.

"Mr. Mulligan, please let me go," she said, giving her arm another jerk to pull it free. Instead, he tightened his grip and his free hand clamped down on her other shoulder, anchoring her to the spot. Slowly, he lowered his face to hers, exhaling a heavy, lust-filled sigh. Every sense was filled with him. His breath in her nose, his gravelly voice in her ears, his stained shirt inches from her face.

All pretense of calm left her as instinct took over. Her knee came up, catching him in the soft spot between his legs, and the air left his lungs in a pained whoosh. His hands loosened on her arms and she tore herself away, her feet flying over the cobblestones as she stumbled around him toward the door.

She made it all of three steps before she ran full-bore into a wall of stubborn, unyielding muscle. For a moment she panicked, thinking it was one of Mr. Mulligan's friends. Then gentle hands steadied her and she looked up, faint with relief when she saw her husband's concerned eyes looking down at her. In the darkness, they looked pure black-- deep and fathomless and...warm. Like the sweet coziness of her bed when she pulled the thick, down comforter up over her head to ward off the chill. 

"You okay, Ames?" His voice was dangerously low. She nodded shakily.

"I'm fine."

She twisted to follow his gaze as he looked over her shoulder at Mr. Mulligan, who was still bent over, hands cradling the spot she had abused. The man's face was beet red as he lifted his head, his eyes full of fury.

"Did he touch you?" Josh asked. 

Amelia looked up at her husband and back at Mr. Mulligan. She didn't want to cause a scene.

"I'm fine."

To her surprise, an amused smile turned up one side of his mouth. "I can see you're fine, Amelia. That's not what I asked."

She eyed the ground and Josh sighed and raised his voice, speaking past her.

"Mr. Mulligan, you wanna tell me what happened?"

The man straightened partially, his face still splotched and twisted in pain.

"That bitch--" he started, but Josh cut him off, nudging her behind him as he took a step forward. 

"Try again, Robert. Her name is Mrs. Tucker and if I hear you calling her anything but that, a well-deserved jab in the sack is going to be the least of your concerns."

The other man glowered and pushed himself to his full height. He had inches on her husband. Strong, heavy inches, too, if his breadth and the strength of his grip were any indication. Her throat went dry.

"Mrs. Tucker," Mr. Mulligan snarled, "and I were just having a chat, that's all."

"That's odd. I chat with her all the time and she hasn't kneed me in the jewels, yet. Suppose you tell me what you were chatting about so I can avoid the subject?"

Mulligan's eyes darkened and met Amelia's before rising to her husband.

"This ain't none of your concern, Josh," he said through gritted teeth, surprisingly civil. "It's always been between me and your brother. You're a good man, and I got no problem with you, so long as you keep out of it."

"Mmm," Josh hummed thoughtfully. "See, the problem is that you went and put your hands on my wife, not Brent's. So as I see it you've gone ahead and made it my problem." Amelia could see his shoulders tighten beneath his shirt. It was the slightest change in posture. Not an invitation to confrontation so much as a fortifying against it. Her anxiety began to fade.

"I just want what's owed to me." Mr. Mulligan sounded less like an angry drunk now, and more like a man bartering for an extra can of goods at the general store. "You all ain't foolin' anybody with this..." he trailed off, waving a hand clumsily between Amelia and her husband. "I know who that woman belongs to, Josh, and you and I both know I'm owed at least one go."

Amelia frowned in confusion even as Josh drew himself up to his full height. His arms were loose at his sides, but she could see his fingers curl to just this side of a fist.

"To be clear, Robert," he said, his voice like a bowstring, pulled taut. "Mrs. Tucker and I were married before the law, a minister, and a room full of witnesses. She belongs to herself and to God, but she is indisputably my wife. I'm not interested in a brawl tonight so I'd prefer you apologize to my wife and head on home to yours. If it's a fight you want, though, don't think I won't oblige."

Amelia took a step back as Mr. Mulligan glowered, his face near to purple now from anger. One punch was all it would take. One punch and Josh would be unconscious and she alone once more. She ought to start running now, to give herself and her baby a head start, but she had an irrational and irrepressible urge to stay by his side.

Suddenly, with a low growl and a glare in her direction, Mr. Mulligan shoved by them and disappeared back into the hall. Stunned, Amelia twisted and watched his retreating back as Josh shifted around to face her once more.

"You okay?" he asked, all trace of challenge gone. The tension had fled her body, too, leaving her weak and trembling.

"I'm fine," she said shakily, and he frowned, stepping closer. Cautiously, he reached out and pulled her to him and she sank gratefully into his embrace. His arms went around her and she pressed her face to the fabric of his shirt. He wasn't wearing a coat, but he radiated warmth that warded off the chill as effectively as a roaring fire. "I'm fine," she said again, her voice muffled, and his arms tightened around her. 

"I know you are," he said evenly. She ought to pull away, before she melted entirely into him. Reluctantly, she extricated herself, straightening her dress as she did.

"What was that all about?" she asked, wanting to turn the subject away from herself.

Josh's eyes went to the spot where Mr. Mulligan had disappeared, his gaze far away and troubled. When he finally spoke, it was reluctantly. Whichever side had won his internal debate had only done so by a narrow margin.

"Mr. Mulligan has a wife from back east," he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "One of those... catalog kind of deals. They'd never met, she just showed up one day, a few years back, and they were married the within the week. Pretty girl. I guess Brent met her in town."

He didn't bother to elaborate, and Amelia knew her expression told him she understood how the story ended. She felt unsettled, but it wasn't the thought of Brent's interest in another woman that bothered her. It was Mr. Mulligan's certainty that she was the best way to revenge on her child's erstwhile father. 

"You think everyone knows this marriage is a sham?" she asked, slumping into a rough-hewn bench by the door. When Josh didn't immediately answer, she looked up to see him chase the tail end of a cloud of darkness from his expression. He settled down beside her on the bench, silent for a long time before he answered.

"I think folks have their suspicions," he said, reasonably. "But I also think these people are as fickle as the weather in spring. Once they find something new to talk about they'll forget us. The old folks'll always whisper, but eventually that's all it'll be is whispers. We just gotta keep showing them there's nothing to see and they'll get bored."

Amelia thought about that. It would take a long time to convince them, wouldn't it? Years. For all that she understood this arrangement was permanent, she couldn't help but think of it as a temporary concession. It was only in moments like this that she got a glimpse of how long it might last.

A lifetime.

She swallowed and cast about for a change of subject.

"I thought you were gonna try to fight him," she said lamely.

"Try?"

"Well he's huge..." she trailed off, realizing she'd probably just offended him. She expected indignation but he just huffed out a laugh, leaning back and draping his arms over the back of the bench. His hand hung at her shoulder and she wanted him to pull her against his side. The chill was becoming intrusive.

"He's big, I'll give him that," he said, sounding amused. Then, thoughtfully, "Did you want me to fight him?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, then..."

Amelia sighed, taking the onus and shifting closer, nestling against his side. He let out a breath, tugging her tight to him, his warmth bleeding into her, and she knew that this marriage wasn't a shame. Not at all.

Not to him.