"Well, don't you look dapper as a preacher man," Eliza said when Arthur came to the supper table that evening bathed and clean-shaven.
He scoffed and shot her a sardonic look.
"Whistle-clean!" Isaac said. "That's what mama always calls me after a bath."
Arthur smiled as he took a seat beside Isaac at the table.
After supper, Isaac sat on the floor listening to Arthur finish his buried-treasure story, just as he said he would. Every now and again Eliza would look up from her sewing and smile at Arthur's extravagant embellishments and the reactions they elicited from her young imaginer.
Before long, Isaac was beginning to drift off. When Eliza noticed it, she set down her needle work.
Arthur waved her off. "I'll put him to bed."
She watched him gently lift and carry their son to his room and into his bed, where she heard Isaac wake and require a retelling of the final scene of the story. She smiled at the sound of his bandit father begrudgingly obliging. She got up and took the kerosene lamp with her, turning the knob to put it out when she reached her room.
She'd changed into her nightgown and was standing at her bedside brushing her hair when Arthur appeared at her door a few minutes later.
"Kid's asleep," he said. He stood with his back against the open door—not blocking the doorway, but present. It was a silent question she knew well.
Her eyes landed on the chest in the open top button of his shirt. She looked back up into his face and knew she was ready for him. She nodded.
He entered and latched the door closed behind him. Her eyes followed him as he walked to her small vanity and slowly began undressing. She watched him remove his suspenders and pull his shirt up over his head, and she heard him unbuckle his belt and breeches.
He looked up at her, his posture hesitant, but his gaze full of hunger and longing. Stepping towards her, he gently stroked the side of her hand. He pushed the collar of her nightgown aside and let it slip from her shoulders to the floor. When he saw her bare skin, he leaned down and kissed her shoulder.
She felt the warmth of his mouth on her throat and closed her eyes. He brought his temple to rest beside hers, and she felt his breath beneath her ear. In the next instant, his mouth hovered near hers in the dim moonlight that flooded the room, and she tried not to lose herself in him.
He brought his hand up to her breast, and she gasped, jumping and recoiling rather than falling into a kiss, which he'd so obviously wanted.
"What?" he said, concern showing in his furrowed brows.
She smiled and whispered, "Your hands are cold."
After a moment's realization, he stepped back. He cupped his hands and breathed into them, frantically rubbing them together. She tried not to let herself think on how attentive a gesture it was. But when his eye caught hers as he stepped back towards her and brushed her hair from her forehead, all she could think on was that she wasn't just ready, she was hungry for him.
"Better?" he said.
She nodded.
He slowly kissed the corner of her mouth, allowing his bottom lip to slip between hers as she closed her eyes, letting out a long breath and breathing him in with a quiet one. He slid his arm around her waist, bringing her closer. He lowered her onto the bed and kissed her softly, tenderly, gently.
More gently than she ever could've imagined possible for a man like him.
And she wondered how many times she could take this man into herself and be forced to let him go again. Wondered how many times she could take it. Before she fell apart.
After, when she and Arthur were just between awake and asleep, she heard a name rise gently from his lips like misty breath on a cold morning:
"Mary."