‘Well, my dear, it is late, and you should get plenty of rest these next couple of weeks before the wedding. We wouldn’t want a bride with bags under her eyes now would we?’ my father asked jovially, giving me a gentle hug before aiming me up the stairs. I wanted to ask him more about the discussion the men had had, but he likely would tell me not to worry my pretty head about it, so I gave mother a kiss on the cheek and continued on to my room. I had never taken undo interest in the political discussions that my father and various men had when visiting our home. I listened enough to know that the newly emerging merchant class desired greater freedom to engage in business, and greater representation in government, but I hadn’t really listened to the reasons they desired reform. It struck me as surprising that my soon-to-be husband was politically opposed to my own father. But then, it made sense since Gerald came from a family of wealth and substance, while my father was the first in. Why he’d lived, and Anne didn’t, was a question that nagged at the back of his head, always. Ignoring the fury that boiled through his veins, he scooped up the bottles and carried them outside, offering them to the cowboys chattering up a storm out back. His eyes gazed on Lacey as he offered her the last beer in his hands other than his own. Their eyes met a long moment. It was an uncomfortable moment. One filled with indescribable confusion and heartache. Lacey sat perched on the top railing of the deck, close to the grill where she and Lance had been chatting and catching up until Wesley had appeared with the beers. Lance gave her a wink and a jerk of his head towards Wesley before taking a beer and moving towards the other hands chatting to give them a semi-private moment. She reached out to take the beer bottle from Wesley’s hand, her fingers gently grazing his before pulling the bottle close with a gentle smile. ‘Thanks.’ She could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t.
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