Page 68 of Crying Wolfe
“Rosaline. My little wife. My greatest treasure.” He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair, cupping her head gently as she rested her cheek on his shoulder and finally allowed her tears to flow.
“Forgive me, honey, for being like them. Like every person who was supposed to love you, and instead made you feel small and afraid. It was their job to protect you, not turn your sanctuary into a place where you had no safe space to be yourself. No control over who you were or what happened to you. Nothing but censure and perverse expectations.” He pulled back enough to gaze down at her, and what she read in his eyes made the tears fall even harder.
He thumbed away her tears, only to have the river overflow his efforts. “Don’t cry, honey. I’ve got you.”
“That’s why I’m weeping,” she explained through hiccupping sobs. “I want this so much, but how can you ever trust me? I am still so…broken.”
“We’re all broken, Rosaline,” he said, his rough features softened with compassion. “I’ve always been a harsh bastard who tends to come out swinging rather than talking. And that kind of thing is sometimes necessary with bullheaded miners.” He lifted her chin as was his habit and kissed away the salt of her tears. “But you’re my wife. I took a vow to honor and protect you. To cherish you…and that means I got to try to listen. To understand you. And if I don’t understand, to do my best to help you in any way I can.”
She sniffed, as some of her despair was washed away by his words. Her fingers lifted to his dear face, tracing the brackets next to his hard mouth, scraping on his beloved shadow beard.
“I’m sorry for running off like I did,” he said, turning his cheek to nuzzle into her palm. “I think I knew deep down somewhere that if I stayed, I’d forgive you. That I’d hand you this hard heart and let you crush it if you wanted to. And, like a coward, I fled. From the fact that not only could you betray me like Beau had done, but I was becoming such a fool for you, I’d lie down and let you stomp all over my pride, my honor, my fucking dignity, such as it is in this country.” The crooked grin he offered her melted away the last of her tears, and she flung her arms around him, driving him to the ground.
“Easy there, honey, I’m an old man. I don’t know if I’m ready for another round just yet.”
She kissed him with all the love she could hold, which was more than most people twice her size. “I promise to be better,” she whispered against his mouth. “I will always be honest with you, Eli. Starting with this first confession.”
He tensed a bit beneath her, but his gaze was steady as he looked up at her.
“I love you, Elijah Wolfe.”
“Oh, honey.” He lifted his hand to extract the last of the pins from her ruined hair, so it could cascade over them both in cool waves of silk. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“Then here,” she whispered. “Have them back again.” Her lips sealed over his, and that seal didn’t break even when he sat up, lifted her against him, and stood.
“Come to bed, little wife,” he ordered with a smile, nuzzling her nose with his own. “It’s your job to keep my toes warm in this ridiculous, eternally chilly country.”
“It’s a wifely duty I take very seriously,” she whispered against his neck.
He almost dropped her a second time when she nibbled the tip of his ear.
“Dammit, woman, you’ll be the death of me,” he muttered.
“I hope not,” she murmured against his warm, fragrant skin. “I intend to be married to you for averylong time.”
EPILOGUE
A YEAR LATER
Rosaline knew she needed to give up the precious sleeping child in her arms. After fourteen hours of labor, she felt exhaustion’s pull threatening her consciousness.
But how could she miss a single moment, when they were so perfect?
All her fingers. All her toes. The wealth of hair as dark as the man who’d gathered them both in his arms, upsetting the very British midwife, who wanted fathers to have exactly nothing to do with the birth.
“What should we name her?” she queried around a yawn.
“Honeysuckle?” he offered.
“Be serious.”
“I was being serious,” he muttered, portending effrontery.
“What about Charity?” she offered. “It would fit in with so many of the Goode names.”
“Nu-uh,” he declined vehemently. “No virtues, and no names ending in ‘line’ or starting with ‘Emm.’ I already have a hell of a time with Caroline, Rosaline, Emmaline, Emmett. No. Just no.”
“And why not a virtue?” she asked.
