Ezekiel swallowed.
When it came time for him, his voice caught, like his own throat was trying to protect him from what he was about to become.
“I do,” he managed, the words dragging behind him like chains.
The ring Ezekiel had borrowed was too small for Adelaide’s finger. Everyone saw it. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the humiliation to bloom.
But Adelaide simply forced it on anyway, jaw set, as if pain were a language she’d been speaking all her life.
When the preacher declared them husband and wife, Adelaide looked directly at Ezekiel for the first time all day.
The strange look in her eyes was still there.
Not sadness. Not gratitude.
Something else. Something knowing.
The reception was a small, awkward affair in the church yard, with lemonade that tasted of warm tin and a cake that seemed to sag under the heat. Slade’s hired hands ate quickly and left like they were fleeing a bad omen. A few neighbors lingered out of politeness, then drifted away in clusters, whispering.
