“I was frightened I would touch you and find myself wanting to keep you so badly that I would forget how to let you choose.”
She looked at him.
“You must let me choose, Jonah. But you must also let me know you want me.”
His eyes darkened with emotion.
“I do want you.”
The words were simple. Their effect was not.
Ruth’s breath caught, and her fingers curled around his.
Jonah rose slowly, still holding her hand. He did not pull her toward him. He waited until she stood, her nightdress whispering against the floor.
They faced one another in the lamplight.
Ruth could see the fine lines beside his eyes, the small scar at his temple, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. He looked older than he had at the wedding, not because of his years but because she could now see the grief he carried.
She also saw the desire he had tried so hard to conceal.
“May I kiss you?” he asked.
Ruth’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
He lifted his free hand to her cheek, pausing just long enough for her to draw back if she wished. When she leaned toward him, he bent and kissed her.
It was a gentle kiss, almost tentative, but it carried the weight of everything they had left unsaid. His hand rested against her cheek, and hers moved to the front of his vest, gripping the fabric lightly.
When he drew away, he did not retreat.
Ruth’s eyes remained closed for a moment.
“That,” she whispered, “is what I thought a wedding night might begin with.”
Jonah’s expression softened.
“I’m sorry I made you wait.”
“You cannot repair everything with one kiss.”
“I know.”
“But it is a beginning.”
He nodded.
“Then I would like to begin again.”
She studied him.
“Not as if nothing happened.”
“No. As if we both understand what happened.”
Ruth took a breath and glanced toward the bed.
“Will you stay tonight?”
Jonah’s face changed, and she saw the fear return, though this time he did not turn away.
“If you want me to.”
“I do.”
He held her gaze.
“Then I’ll stay.”
The following morning, Ruth awoke to the sound of a rooster crowing and the faint clatter of pans from downstairs.
For several seconds she lay still, disoriented by the unfamiliar room. Then she remembered the wedding, the argument, the confession, and the quiet hours that had followed.
Jonah had stayed.
They had not hurried to make the night into something it did not yet need to be. They had talked beside the lamp until the wick burned low. He had told her more about Anne, about Clara’s first years, and about the ranch. Ruth had told him about her father’s illness, her mother’s garden, and the fear she had felt boarding the train west.
They had kissed again, more slowly this time, and Jonah had held her while she rested her head against his shoulder.
At some point, she had fallen asleep.
Now she turned and found the other side of the bed empty.