I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

VIII

Edward's POV

The boys awoke before the sun, already talking a mile a minute before I had even forced my eyelids open. I had not spent a restful night. I had been exquisitely and painfully aware of Isabella's every sigh, every twitch, and every breath. My body had ached and my mind had raced all night long, but an hour or so before the boys woke, I finally fell into a fitful doze. I was not ready for Aaron's and Alex's ceaseless barrage of questions and observations by far. That Isabella managed to sleep through it was both amazing and frustrating. I realized that she must have been more exhausted than I suspected.

I decided to give her a few more moments of peace and told the boys to go rinse off in the stream, to take care of their personal needs and to make sure the horses had plenty of water. They rushed off to do my bidding without any protest, still enamored by the change in their routines. If I had bade them to water the horses at home, I would have been faced with whines and dragging footsteps.

I started a pot of coffee after I replenished the fire and it was that aroma which finally nudged Isabella from her slumber. I watched her as she woke, first stretching lazily like a kitten in the sun, and then blinking dazedly at the weak morning light. At last, her delicate nose twitched and her eyes went to the fire...and the coffee. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes.

"That smells...heavenly, Mr. – Edward," she said almost shyly.

I poured her a mug and brought it to her, entranced by her sleep tousled hair and pinkened cheeks. She took a sip and then blushed more deeply. "I need..." She looked down at the coffee and bit her lip.

"The boys went that way," I said and pointed to my left. Then I pointed to the right. "You should have some privacy if you go that way."

Her face flamed but she nodded and handed me her mug. She returned a few minutes later and just moments later, the boys came racing into the camp site. Isabella smiled at their freshly scrubbed faces and thoroughly soaked hair. It was apparent that the boys had indulged in a bit more water play than I had had in mind.

"Mr. Masen told us to wash our faces," Alex volunteered.

"It looks as if you tried to drown each other," Isabella observed.

The boys exchanged glances, clearly committed to keeping each others' confidences. She laughed and ruffled their hair and then placed a kiss on each cheek, which they both protested out of habit.

"Today we shall reach Denver," I reminded them. "Provided we get an early start." That set the boys to racing around the camp, picking up their belongings and shoving them into their packs. Then they rolled up their blankets, doing better than I would have expected, and buckling the straps that held them together. Of course, since they were ready to go, they got rather impatient when I reminded them we had to eat something for our morning meal.

Isabella unpacked some biscuits she had made for the journey, as well as some cheese. Though it was not nearly as good as the bacon and eggs that Mrs. Kendall would be serving at the moment, it filled our bellies. We ate our somewhat stale biscuits and cheese and then started loading up the wagon.

Within an hour of waking, we were on our way once more, the boys chattering commentary making the miles pass swiftly.

Isabella sat at my side and the boys seemed happy to scamper about the back of the wagon, hollering and jumping around until I had to scold them and order them to settle down. Isabella stifled her laughter when they both immediately sat down without a word of protest.

"Why can't I get them to behave that quickly?" she questioned me softly.

"It requires a man's touch," I teased and then I winked at her, and appreciated the way her blush looked against her pale cheeks and dark eyes. I also savored the way her hair was pulled back more loosely now, soft curls clinging to her cheeks and neck, and then lovingly falling to her bosom. I wanted very badly to follow their path, but I allowed only my eyes to do so.

As we rode, Isabella and I began to discuss more personal issues than we had in the past. It was as if both of us recognized the fact that there was something more than the employer/employee relationship between us now. Somehow, in that moment when our eyes had met across a campfire, things had changed and we both knew it. It was as obvious as if I had asked her permission to court her.

Once our journey was over, once she had put her parents' affairs to rest and we had returned home, I would court her in the most formal sense. There would be no doubt in anyone's mind that I had honorable intentions. We lived on the frontier, and the rules of society were more relaxed, but no lady wanted to be dishonored. And Isabella had been gently reared, a life I knew much about even it was from a man's perspective.

I realized that at some point, we would also have to discuss with the boys what our intentions were. I never doubted that Isabella would have a formal, legal union in mind. She was not the type of woman to lower herself with some demeaning, tawdry affair. Isabella was someone to whom a man gave his vow and his name. I could not – and would not – do anything less.

I was able to control the horses with one hand, they were old and well trained. I put one hand on my leg and was shocked when I felt Isabella brush her fingers against mine, lightly, tentatively, as if I might protest. Silently, I twined my smallest finger with hers, and after a few moments, I linked our fingers. She did not move her hand, nor did she give any other sign that we were touching.

Behind us the boys were growing rambunctious again, but I did not scold them. They did not notice our intertwined hands, but I was aware of nothing else.

~~~AYW~~~~

We stopped for our midday meal and when I assisted Isabella down from the wagon, I let my hands linger for just a moment on her waist. She did not wear a corset and for that I was grateful. I did not think that her shape required any enhancements or changes; it was perfect just as it was. She blushed a bit, but did not protest. The experience of touching her, however innocent it appeared on the surface, was a heady one.

The boys yelling and running around was the only thing which removed our attentions from each other. Isabella put together a simple repast which did not require a fire and we ate quickly and efficiently, quickly getting back into the wagon though I suspected that portions of her anatomy were beginning to protest almost as loudly as mine were. The seat was hard and unforgiving and neither of us was accustomed to such long hours in a wagon.

About an hour outside of Denver, I began asking her questions again, mostly just because I loved the sound of her voice as she answered. The boys had finally fallen asleep in the back and it felt as if we were alone in the world.

"What were you like as a little girl?" I asked.

She sighed. "I fear I was a trial to my parents," she confessed as if it was a shameful secret, but I only laughed. I would be very grateful to have a daughter like Isabella, with her great dark eyes and mischievous laughter. And I was glad to see her speak of her parents without tears.

"In what way?"

"I wanted to climb trees like the boys. I wanted to learn to ride astride instead of sidesaddle. I would catch frogs and toads and fireflies instead of attending to my sewing lessons," Isabella said. "I had no brothers or sisters, so I played with the children of the servants and they had mostly boys. It seemed only fair to me that I be allowed to do as they did. I ruined more petticoats than I care to remember."

I laughed again. "I ruined a few skirts myself," I admitted.

She sent me a sideways glance from beneath long lashes. "Are you confessing to being a rogue, Mr. Masen?"

"Absolutely not, Mrs. Black," I assured her. "It was just that my brothers and I were often in mischief. That mischief often involved dirt and mud and other nasty things. And when my mother would start to yell at me, I would fling myself upon her mercy and hug her closely, inadvertently sullying her skirts in the process. She always fussed at me for it, but my sin was soon forgotten." I did not often speak of my family, but I wanted her to see that things were most definitely different now. Eventually, she would have a right to know everything about me. I would start small, with innocent observations and stories about my childhood.

"She must love you very much," Isabella mused.

I smiled and shrugged. "I suppose she does," I admitted. "And I love her."

There was a pause and then Isabella asked softly, "May I ask why you never get letters from her then?"

I answered with a pause of my own and then looked at her. "Because she doesn't know where I am," I said honestly. Then I brushed my knuckles over her cheek. "But that is a story for another day."