Something Borrowed

Chapter 39

***Hallo! As always, I'm sorry for spamming, especially with such long chapters :/ 
I am in a desperate struggle to finish this thing before I have to go back to working in an office, as that environment is decidedly not conducive to creative thought. I hope it's okay, in spite of the rush!!!***

Josh

"How are you feeling?" Amelia asked for the thousandth time as he pulled the wagon up in front of the porch.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," he replied for the thousandth time, setting the brake and wrapping the reins around the handle. In truth, he wasn't fine. Far from it. A whole cauldron of ugly feelings was brewing in his gut. Anger, shame, fear, humiliation, petty jealousy... not to mention his damned face hurt. He'd forgotten how much strength that old geezer hid beneath fancy wool suits and a whiskey glaze.

"Do you want me to take care of the wagon?"

"No," he snapped. Too harshly. Dammit. Her expression twisted with hurt before she turned the frown into a scowl.

"Don't be a jerk to me, Josh Tucker," she said, gathering up her skirt and hopping down from the wagon even though she damn well knew he liked to help her. Turning around she pulled Reb into her arms and fixed him with a pointed glare. "I'm not your enemy."

Before he could apologize, she'd wheeled around and marched up the steps. Feeling like an ass-- a bruised, pitiful ass who was one misplaced outburst away from being a bachelor-- he unwound the reins from the brake handle and guided the wagon back toward the barn.

He and Amelia hadn't talked much on the ride home, since Rebecca was there. She'd want to talk soon, though, and he wouldn't have a choice but to tell her the whole thing. It was hard to keep things from her, mostly because he never found he wanted to. He'd never revealed a worry that she wasn't able to immediately assuage. He just wondered if maybe they had finally found the limit of her ability to make things better.

He hadn't been terribly distressed when Brent had drawn her away to talk. She'd made it clear who she was choosing, and if her assurance didn't comfort him his brother's buffoonery certainly had. He was still uncovering all the facets of his wife's person, but he knew without doubt that she wasn't one to be drawn in by theatrics. She favored honesty over sweet poetry and independence over comfort. Brent's imaginary tour hadn't impressed her even a lick, and if it had Josh still wouldn't have worried. If she really wanted a house with balconies and paintings then he'd find a way to give it to her.

No, his brother's quiet communion with his wife didn't bother him. What dug beneath his skin was the conversation with his father. The man was always foul to him, but whatever conversation he'd had with Reverend Peters after the service had stirred him into a special kind of temper. The second Reb was out of earshot the old man had rounded on him.

"I've had enough of your arrogance," he had spat, jamming a finger in Josh's chest hard enough to bruise. "Your brother has returned to claim his due. It's God's will that those two be together, and I won't see you dirty the family name any more than you already have."

The God and damnation stuff was an old song, so Josh just lowered his gaze and let the old man drone on. As always, he revisited the day his wife died, as if Josh might have somehow forgotten what had happened. As if he didn't dream about it every other godforsaken night. Then he droned for a while about God's will and the evils of base pleasure and, in an ironic twist, the importance of fidelity.

"She belonged to your brother first, Joshua," he had said, and at that he couldn't help a comment.

"She doesn't belong to anyone, pa," he had muttered, feeling like a child being chastised for breaking something when it wasn't even him who knocked it off the shelf. "She's a free woman."