Author's Note: The language is T, but some of the subject matter is M. If you find it offensive, PM me. I may need to change the rating.
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"Mr. Standish, I was just about to eat without you. I was beginning to think you decided to have dinner at the saloon."
"Do you mind explaining something to me?" he demanded angrily.
"What is it?" He was making her a little nervous. She couldn't think of anything she'd done to annoy him recently.
"Your purchases at Mailander's."
She tried to think. She'd bought so many things, furnishing the house. She couldn't remember what she had bought where.
"The Winchester."
"Oh, that."
"Yes, that. Why does my wife need a Winchester?"
To herself, she smiled just a little. If he was concerned about what was or wasn't proper for his wife, like living above the saloon or owning a rifle, then he did care, just a little. "Ezra - Mr. Standish - ever since we came here, people have been telling me about what you and your friends have done to protect the town. I've had a dozen strangers tell me they owe their lives to you and Mr. Larabee and the others. That means there will be nights when you won't be home, nights when you'll need to assist Chris Larabee. The rifle is for nights when I'm home alone. Now will you sit down and eat your dinner before it's completely overcooked?"
"Can you even fire a rifle?"
"It would be a waste of your money to buy one if I couldn't."
"Answer the question."
Marina pulled the roast chicken out of the oven. "I doubt that I'm as good a shot as you are, but," she remembered his description of her muffins, "adequate. I don't expect to go running into the face of danger like you do, sir. I just need to be able to frighten an intruder off and summon help from the neighbors."
"And are you expecting a plethora of intruders?"
"Mr. Standish, you have enemies. When you are in town, I have every confidence in your ability to protect me. However, if duty calls you away from home, one of your enemies may try to harm me to get revenge on you." Marina didn't mention her fears that the Henshaws might come after her. She pulled two baked potatoes from the ashes and placed one on his plate. "Please eat, sir."
The smell of the chicken forced him to obey her urgings. "If it's that dangerous to be married to me, you should have grabbed your freedom when the judge gave you the chance."
She ate for a moment without saying anything. "If you prefer, I'll take the rifle back to the store in the morning."
Ezra chewed for a moment as he thought. The chicken and potato gave him an excuse not to reply right away. "What's in the pot on top of the oven?"
"Green beans. Overcooked now - I expected you earlier." For a few moments both ate in awkward silence, before she said, "I owe you an apology, Ezra."
He raised a supercilious eyebrow. "For burning dinner or for buying the rifle?"
"For lying about what happened when you were drunk," she confessed shyly.
"That's more than a simple 'I'm sorry' will cover," he retorted.
"All's fair in love and war. And I wanted to avoid the annulment as much as you wanted to get it."
"So you lied."
"Yes, Ezra." She waited for him to say something - anything - but he was too angry to respond. "Gram Henshaw always claimed that men think with their trousers instead of their heads. I thought if I became your real wife, instead of just in name only, you'd give up the idea of an annulment."
"I gave up the idea of an annulment because we no longer have grounds, not because you're my 'real wife.' There is nothing real about this marriage," he told her.
"A woman needs a husband to protect her. A man needs a wife to tend to him. I cook your meals. I wash and iron your clothes. That looks pretty real to me."
"There's more to a marriage than that," Ezra informed her snidely.
"It's your decision that we're not - "
"That's not what I meant," he interrupted. "I was thinking of love, or at least affection and respect."
"Love wasn't something I saw much of with the Henshaws," Marina said.
Ezra said nothing. His mother had never provided him with much in the way of a proper example of love or a normal family life. Maybe that was why he'd always wanted a real marriage someday, instead of just marrying a wealthy widow, the way his mother had gone after rich husbands with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.
"Gram always encouraged her sons and grandsons to go out tomcatting. That way she could run the ranch the way she wanted to, without them interfering. I didn't stop to think that assuming you'd act like them was insulting your intelligence. You're nothing like the Henshaws. You never will be; you never could be."
"Thank you for that vote of confidence, at least," he replied sarcastically.
"I'm sorry, Ezra. I tried to tie you to me in bed, and all I did was push you farther away. But we are married now, for better or for worse."
"Yes, we are, Rina." Ezra sighed. "Yes, we are."
She decided not to say anything about his use of her nickname. After all, he'd let her address him by his first name without saying anything. "I'll not lie to you again, sir," she promised, crossing her fingers under the table.
/
Ezra was completely dressed when he stepped into the parlor the next morning. He stopped short when he saw Marina sewing white lace. He relaxed when he saw one window modestly draped with curtains, and the other still bare. For a moment he'd thought she was sewing a wedding gown. "Could I trouble you for some warm water for shaving?"
"It's no trouble, Mr. Standish." She hurried to the kitchen and returned with the teapot.
He wondered why he found her damned eagerness to please so annoying. Most men would be grateful for a woman who was willing to wait on them hand and foot. He stayed in hotels in New Orleans where the maids didn't give as attentive service - although the maids were much prettier, and much less clumsy in bed.
"I'm sorry, I didn't expect you for a bit, or I would have had it waiting in the bedroom," she apologized, handing him the teapot.
"I've never regarded early rising as a virtue," Ezra said.
"Not a virtue, Mr. Standish. Just a habit. Her arthritis had Gram in such pain that she never slept more than a few hours a night, and when she got up, I had to," she explained.
"Don't you think lace curtains for this place is rather like gilding a dandelion?"
Marina smiled. "I know if you'd had the time to build a place of our own, it would have been much larger and grander. And I don't doubt that someday there will be a bigger house, either here in town or out on a ranch." Her hazel eyes gazed up at him. "It wouldn't surprise me in the least if you won a ranch in a poker game. But for now, I want to make this the best possible home for you I can."
It was too early in the morning to deal with adoration. Ezra changed the subject. "Is that coffee I smell?"
She nodded. "Would you like a cup now, or after you shave?"
"After. I shan't be a minute." He started back to the bedroom.
"Mr. Standish, are you feeling particularly brave this morning?"
"Brave?"
"I was going to try to make crepes Suzette. But I've never made them before," the redhead confessed. "If you'd rather not risk it, I can practice on Sheriff Dunne first, and make you something I know how to make instead. Bacon and eggs, or oatmeal."
"I doubt that JD's palate is sophisticated enough to appreciate crepes Suzette,"Ezra announced scornfully. "I'll eat them."
"In about an hour, Mr. Standish?"
"No, go ahead and start them now." An early breakfast wouldn't kill him, he decided. It seemed a small enough concession after last night.
/
"Good morning, Mrs. Travis."
"Mrs. Standish. Good morning." Mary was surprised to see Marina. Since coming to town, Ezra's wife had barely left the house.
"Billy's not around, is he?" the redhead asked.
"No, he's out playing. How may I help you?"
"This is a trifle embarrassing, but I don't know whom else to ask." Marina Standish lowered her voice. "I have some questions - about marriage."
"Didn't your mother -" the blonde began.
"She died when I was twelve. I don't have anyone else to ask. You're my only female friend in town," Marina explained. "I can't very well ask Josiah or Buck."
Mary nodded. Some things could only be discussed woman to woman.
"I'm a little confused about ... the marriage bed," Marina confessed. "When I overheard my cousins and stepbrothers talk about tomcatting, when they didn't realize I was in earshot, it was something fun for them, like playing baseball or riding a fast horse, only better, but not something fun for the woman. When Parson Jenkins talked about fornication, he made it sound like it was something foul and terrible. And when I read romantic dime novels to Gram, they made it sound like it was touching heaven. But it isn't anything like that." Marina sighed. "Maybe I'm not doing it right?"
"Has Ezra hurt you?"
"Not on purpose," Marina assured her quickly - almost too quickly. "But the first time, well, it was very uncomfortable. Last night wasn't as bad, but it wasn't as special as everyone claims, either. Or as horrible as Rev. Jenkins said."
"With the right man, it can be ... very special." Mary wondered how much was the fact that Ezra wasn't the right man, and how much was Ezra not being gentle enough with an inexperienced bride. Perhaps she could discreetly ask Chris to have a quiet word with Ezra; he had been married. She tried to remember back to the early days of her marriage, when she and Steven had first come to know each other's bodies, the clumsy fumblings, as their passion outstripped their knowledge. The first time had hurt, and it wasn't until they'd joined together three or four times that it really became enjoyable. But she and Steven loved each other, desired each other ... despite both their inexperience, the first few weeks of their marriage they'd coupled furiously, eagerly, like rabid weasels.
"Do you love Ezra?"
"I like him very much," Marina hedged, side-stepping the question.
"Why? What about him attracts you?" Mary asked.
"Have you ever looked at him?" Marina asked rhetorically. "I can't remember when I've seen a man half so handsome. And the way he talks, like he swallowed a dictionary, and that accent. I'd pay money just to hear him recite poetry."
"But that's not love," Mary said. "That's not enough to base a marriage on."
"Maybe it's not love yet, but it's a start. Love will come, as we get to know each other better."
Mary persisted, "And if it doesn't?"
"He puts a roof over my head, and food on the table. He treats me courteously, and he's never laid a hand on me. That's more than a lot of wives have. It would be nice if he came to care for me - and it wouldn't take much effort for me to fall in love with him - but I don't want to be greedy, or ungrateful for what I do have." She took a deep breath. "He's a good provider. I do my best to tend to him. For now, that's enough."
Remembering what she'd had with Steven, Mary felt sorry for Marina and her low expectations of what made a good marriage.
/
Ezra Standish walked home for lunch. One of the few things he could say in his wife's favor was that she provided a better meal than the saloon did. He stopped in front of the house, startled by an unexpected noise. Curious, he walked around to the back. He took one look, then hurried into the house.
"Mrs. Standish, were you aware that there are animals in the back yard?"
"Yes, Mr. Standish." She ladled out a bowl of vegetable soup for him.
"Were you under a misapprehension that you married a farmer, madam?"
"No, Mr. Standish." She put on a pair of thick gloves and removed the cornbread from the oven. "Don't burn your mouth; it's hot."
"Why are there chickens in my back yard?" he demanded.
"You enjoy omelettes, Mr. Standish, and omelettes require eggs," she replied matter-of-factly, refusing to let his dismay faze her.
"And the cow?"
"You take cream in your coffee, Mr. Standish."
Her logic dumbfounded him. "I said you could get a cat, not Noah's blasted ark."
"And I thanked you for permission to get Shadow."
"Would you explain to me, madam, why you felt it necessary to obtain my permission to get a mouser, which cost us not a penny, but bought livestock without so much as a by-your-leave? Do you know how much a cow costs?"
"Probably better than you do, sir. I kept the books at the Circle H for the past four years," she retorted. She took a deep breath before continuing, forcing herself to remain calm. "The chickens and cow are an investment. They'll be cheaper in the long run than buying milk and eggs every day, and the milk and eggs will be fresher. It's your responsibility to earn enough money to put food on the table, mine to provide that food as economically as possible. Surely you don't fault me for doing my duty?"
Ezra didn't feel like arguing with her, and he couldn't think of a decent counter-argument, anyway. "Then why didn't you simply get the cat on your own authority?"
"Can't eat a cat - unless you're very hungry. And some people don't like cats." Her hazel eyes took on a faraway look for a minute. "Carl shot my cat for target practice."
The gambler's anger seeped away. "I'm not Carl."
"For which I go down on my knees and thank the Almighty daily, sir. Drink your soup. It's getting cold."
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