They'll be here in an hour, he thought. And then they'll take and destroy what I am. And I'll lose Amelia forever.
That was the thing he could not bear. Worse than torment it seemed, worse than destruction itself.
In agony he turned. The cool comfort of his house made fantastic the knowledge within him. There in the corner stood the fine cherrywood desk he had made. Every bit of the polished dark furniture, every section had been sanded and grained and carved by his hands. And all the fabricing—rugs and pillows, delicate covers and hangings—all Amelia's handiwork.
They two, starting from bare black earth had built this home, foundations and beams, studs and floorboards, shingles and shutters, outside and in, their work, their love.
He thrust out his hands, and moved in blind panic to the arch of the kitchen.
Amelia looked up from the work table. The soft tan of sun was deep on her cheeks, and her clear green eyes kindled at sight of him.
"I'm up to the last bouquet," she smiled and indicated the straw basket that was full of neatly tied herbs ready for Jim to take to the market.
His long-drawn breath was a silent prayer: "Let me never forget the spice of this room, the morning light on her dark curled hair."
Then he groaned. With a stride he caught her warm curved body to him. In her hands the last bouquet was crushed between them, filling his nostrils with fragrance of thyme and mint and coriander leaves.
At last he held her away, his hands tight on her shoulders, bare and brown in the brief sundress.