Three Weddings and a Kiss

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Her chin started to quiver, and her beautiful eyes filled with sparkling tears. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Mind what?”

  “My wear—” Her voice broke. “The spectacles? How ugly they make me look? You wouldn’t care?”

  It hit Clint then, like a fist in his guts. This girl that he was coming to love so much had been badly hurt, and he had a nasty feeling it had been by a man. He caught her small chin in his hand. “Rachel, you couldn’t look ugly if you tried.”

  “Yes,” she squeaked.

  That single word imparted a wealth of pain. Clint bent to kiss the tears from her cheeks. “Not in spectacles a half inch thick or even an inch thick. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, Rachel, and I’d like to kill the bastard who told you otherwise. Who was he?”

  “Nobody. Nobody important, anyhow. He left town after I told him about my eyes. He sort of eloped without me.”

  Word by word, Clint dragged the story out of her and then pieced it all together. It sounded to him as though Rachel had come perilously close to being seduced by an opportunistic scoundrel. She’d been fifteen, only a year older than her sister Molly. The man, a Bible salesman who peddled tonics on the side, had reneged on his promise to marry her when he realized she had poor eyesight. The way Clint saw it, that had probably been Rachel’s lucky night. A man like that would have used her, then abandoned her along the wayside somewhere.

  “No wonder you went after Matt with such vengeance when you thought he’d deliberately hurt Molly.” Clint drew her into his arms. “You were getting revenge for yourself as well.” He ran a hand up her back. “Ah, Rachel. So many wasted tears. Don’t cry any more, sweetheart. I’ll think you gorgeous in spectacles, I promise.”

  “You will?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She sniffed. “I won’t wear them except for when I have to. Like when I’m cooking and stuff.” She drew back slightly. “I’m really not a bungler that often when I can see what I’m doing.”

  Clint smiled slightly. “You can wear your eyeglasses all you want. I’ll be so busy thinking about other things when I look at you, I probably won’t notice.”

  “What other things?”

  “Let me show you.” It was all the opening Clint needed. Bending his head, he settled his mouth over hers. “Oh, yes, Rachel, girl,” he whispered against her lips. “Let me show you.”

  Rachel…As their kiss deepened, her name was like a song in Clint’s mind. He peeled off his shirt and spread it over the hay to protect her from the scratchiness. Then, so sweetly he could scarcely credit it, she surrendered to him. Over the years, Clint had heard lovemaking described in every possible way, but this was the first time he had ever thought of it as sacred.

  That was how it seemed with Rachel, sacred. She was like an angel in his arms. A silken, wonderfully warm little angel who made all his dreams come true. Never had he seen anyone so beautiful. Ivory skin. Full, perfectly shaped breasts with rosy tips that tasted like nectar. A slender waist, just perfect for his hands. Gently flared hips. Long, shapely legs. Clint went over every inch of her and decided there wasn’t a single thing about her he would change. Including her eyes…

  He made love to her carefully, taking his time, lingering over her body to make certain she was as aroused as he was before he took her. It was the most incredible joining he had ever experienced, and judging by Rachel’s cries of elation, she felt the same way.

  Contentment…Utter fulfillment. Afterward, Clint held her in his arms, wishing they could stay right where they were and make love again and again. Instead he would have to pluck the hay from her hair and take her back to the house for his birthday party. Wasn’t that a fine kettle of fish? The only present he really wanted was to make love to his wife again, which he probably wouldn’t be able to do until everyone in the family went to bed that night.

  Ah, but then, what a birthday celebration he would have. Clint sighed and pressed his lips against Rachel’s temple, promising himself he would make love to her all night, that dawn would find her still whimpering with pleasure in his arms.

  The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Rachel opened her eyes the next morning. As usual, Clint’s side of the bed was empty. Running her hand caressingly over the sheet, she found it still warm from the heat of his long, lean body. Even as the memory of last night’s coupling ran through her, the familiar sound of the rustling husks under her fingers made her smile. While making love to her, Clint had cursed the husks for the noise they made and suggested they get a feather-tick mattress as soon as possible. When she had pointed out how many chickens would have to die to fill a mattress with feathers, he’d nearly laughed until he cried. Then he’d settled back down to making love to her again. Sweet, wonderful love.

  Finally, after a month of tension and nervous, sidelong glances, he’d decided to make love to her. And make love he had, taking her higher and higher until she was drenched in the purest bliss.

  Even though her experience was admittedly limited, she was sure now that no wanton could have responded more totally. And, oh, how glorious it had felt to surrender to the man she loved.

  She was well and truly a woman now. A woman desperately, totally, and forever in love with her husband. Her smile took on soft edges, and she let her eyes drift closed. Deep inside, where the sweetest of sensations still throbbed ever so gently, she felt different. Changed. And yes, beautiful.

  All because Clint had touched her where she’d never been touched before. And kissed her. And fused his hard, strong body with hers until she’d nearly exploded with the pleasure and joy of it.

  She’d expected pain, and he’d given her ecstasy. She’d be prepared for disappointment and found herself soaring. She’d feared a maidenly embarrassment, and instead had found herself entranced. Desire rose in her again like a river of warm honey, and, suddenly restless, she stretched out her legs. Beneath the faded quilt, her skin tingled, eager to feel again the slow stroking touch of Clint’s big hand.

  Lifting drowsy lids, she looked toward the window where a blur of pink and gold promised a glorious sunrise and an even more glorious day. A good day for outside chores, she thought, pleased that she was beginning to think like a rancher’s wife.

  After all, a rancher’s wife was just as involved with the successful functioning of the place as any hired hand. More so, she thought, thinking of the mountains of clean clothing required by eight men, not to mention the victuals they needed to fuel those active Rafferty bodies. Clint and Jeremiah had more fence wire to string today, and Zach needed to finish patching the roof on the chicken house. She herself had a mound of ironing to tackle right after breakfast, and she really should get to the mending today. And then there was bread to make, and while Cody was busy helping Daniel muck out the stable, she would try once more to bake him that mess of cookies he wanted so desperately.

  An annulment? Not on her life. She threw off the quilt with a newfound confidence. So what if she wasn’t the greatest cook in the county and the kitchen floor always seemed to need sweeping? Clint smiled a lot more often than he frowned these days, and Cody was thriving. She’d even heard Josh whistling in the bathtub Saturday night, and Matt hadn’t spent a Sunday nursing a hangover for more than three weeks running. As for Daniel, that boy was going to break hearts someday.

  All because there was a woman in the house. A married woman, she thought, reaching for her bloomers. A wife and mother.

  A mother? Dear God, it was possible now. More than possible. Holding her breath, she reverently placed a hand over the slight swell of her belly. Oh, it would be so wonderful to know that a baby was already growing inside her. Clint’s baby.

  Tears came to her eyes at the thought of giving him a child of his own, perhaps a dark-haired little girl with the lopsided Rafferty grin she adored. A sweet-smelling, pink-cheeked daughter, maybe even a whole passel of pigtailed little girls to spoil him rotten. After all he’d sacrificed for his brothers, all the backbreakin
g hours of labor he’d put in to keep them fed and clothed and safe, he deserved to be pampered a little.

  As she dressed hurriedly, she envisioned this same house with cheery wallpaper covering the rough-hewn logs and the happy laughter of children mingling with the deeper chuckles of adoring uncles. At Christmastime, Clint would play Santa Claus. And on Easter Sunday, after they’d all trooped home from church, Cody and Daniel would hide the colored eggs while she prepared perfectly brewed coffee and featherlight biscuits. And then, they would watch as the little ones searched for the eggs, one huge, happy family of Raffertys. Later, when everyone was bedded down, she and Clint would come together in this same bed. Their marriage bed.

  Still smiling, she tied her hair away from her face with a plaid taffeta ribbon as bright as her mood and headed for the kitchen. Her family needed her.

  10

  “Oh, no!”

  Rachel raced across the kitchen, waving away smoke as she went. Using her apron as a pot holder, she jerked open the oven door and snatched the cookie sheet from the rack. She’d failed again. In place of the deliriously browned gingerbread men she’d envisioned as she’d mixed and rolled and formed the batter, she had contorted lumps of burned, foul-smelling dough.

  After starting the day so positively, Rachel could scarcely believe things had gone sour so quickly. A ranch wife, was she? Sick with disappointment, she carried the ruined cookies to the open window and tossed them onto the dirt. At the same time, she saw Clint heading with long, impatient strides toward the porch. “Dammit, Rachel, are you trying to burn the house down?” he called teasingly when he caught sight of her at the window.

  “It isn’t funny, Clint Rafferty!” she shouted back. “I swear I did everything right this time, and they just up and burned. I even had Cody read the recipe to me three times so I’d be sure not to make a mistake. I think it’s the dad-blamed stove, that’s what I think. I hate the darned old thing!”

  “Now, darlin’,” Clint began as he entered the kitchen, only to stop dead when she whirled toward him, her eyes huge and wisps of soft brown hair curling against her neck where it had escaped the ribbon.

  “It is the stove,” she declared, waving her hand toward the smoke that billowed from the oven. “Not even God himself could produce a decent meal on that…monster.”

  Clint only just managed to keep from grinning. “Guess it is a mite old at that, but Sam Butts at the mercantile swore it was in good working order when he sold it to me.”

  “Old,” she insisted, her slightly narrowed eyes darting blue daggers, first toward the stove and then toward him. “That contraption was old when Methuselah was still a boy.”

  “Did you test the temperature by sprinkling flour on the bottom of the oven?”

  “Of course I did! It’s the stove, I tell you.”

  “And when you checked the flour to see how brown it was, could you see it clearly?”

  She gestured vaguely with a hand. “Sort of.”

  The smoke had cleared enough now that Clint could see her cheeks, and he couldn’t help but admire the lovely pink they were suddenly turning. And with each agitated breath she took, her breasts pushed against the thin material of her pretty blue shirtwaist.

  He advanced slowly, careful to keep his expression sober. But Lord save his sorry hide, she was pretty when she got upset. And almost as pretty when she wasn’t, come to think of it. He could have done a lot worse for himself. Hell, he still couldn’t believe his luck.

  “Well, if you’re right, I guess we’ll just have to add a new stove to our list,” he offered in as sincere a tone as he could manage. “Right after I buy a new pair of spectacles for my nearsighted little wife.” When she shot him another glare, he held up a staying hand. “Just on the off chance it’s your eyes that’s the problem and not the stove. If you can’t see to do a proper sprinkle test, honey, it’s a little hard to get the oven temperature just right. Not saying that’s the case.”

  Her soft mouth firmed, and her chin hiked a little higher. “But I was so careful!”

  Clint’s heart caught at the pain in her eyes. To him it was just a sheet of burned gingerbread, but to Rachel it obviously meant a lot more. “It isn’t your fault. Once we go to town and get your spare spectacles, stuff like this won’t happen anymore.”

  “I promised Cody gingerbread and milk when he finished his chores.”

  Her lips quivered ever so slightly before she turned away. In the past, Clint had had a busy man’s impatience with displays of emotion. Not only were they nonproductive and time-consuming, but he’d always considered them to be a surefire sign of weakness. With Rachel, however, he couldn’t quite manage to feel impatient. He guessed he should thank the good Lord he’d never had sisters. They would have all been spoiled rotten.

  “Cody’ll understand,” he said, turning her toward him again. His breath caught when he saw tears dulling the vibrance of those out-of-focus blue eyes.

  “No, he won’t, and I don’t blame him,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to the level of his chest. “A promise is a promise.”

  Unable to resist, Clint slid his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, remembering as he did how soft and warm her skin felt against his palms. And how eagerly she’d welcomed him into the moist cradle of her thighs.

  “Then we’ll make more,” he found himself promising, and in a voice so husky it sounded alien. “I’ll help you.”

  She smiled a little at that before shaking her head. “There’s no more flour,” she murmured, I bringing one hand up to rest against his midriff. “At least none I’d want to use.”

  Cupping her face, he nudged her chin higher, waiting until her gaze found his before he gently asked, “What happened?”

  She shook her head, and he found himself wanting to kiss her so badly he was all knotted up inside. All morning long he’d been looking for an excuse to ride back to the house. And her. Not so much to kiss her again, though that was on his mind, but more to make sure he hadn’t imagined the look of pure happiness he’d seen in her eyes over breakfast. It wasn’t every day a man found himself in danger of busting his buttons out of sheer male pride, but damn, he felt good. Just knowing he’d been the first to see that creamy skin in lamplight put a lump the size of an egg in his throat.

  Damn, he loved her. Not that he was anywheres near ready to say that out loud. Last night he’d gone so far as to tell her he thought he was falling in love with her, but that was a far cry from admitting he was already a goner. A man had to consider the consequences before he gave up that much of himself, especially to a woman who’d been so reluctant to share his name—and so nervous about sharing his bed.

  “Tell me what happened to the flour,” he urged, more to hear the music of her voice than from any burning curiosity.

  “You’ll think I’m hopeless.”

  Using his thumb, he brushed away a smudge of flour from her chin and felt her tremble. Her skin was supple and warm, her milk-white flesh rose-petal soft. Beneath the plain blue skirt that hid all but the toes of her shoes, her thighs were sleek and delectably plump, her calves perfectly formed, her ankles trim. Tonight, when the lamp was turned low and the door locked, he would lap every inch of her with his tongue, and she would make that little growling sound in her throat again.

  His body swelled against the fly of his jeans. “I think you’re adorable.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m clumsy and nearsighted and I can’t sew a straight seam.”

  “You just need your glasses and a little practice, that’s all.”

  Rachel felt a little flutter in the vicinity of her heart. Though it hurt to admit it, even to herself, she craved Clint’s approval. Almost as much as she craved his love.

  Even so, she forced herself to be honest. Despite the fact that their marriage had been precipitated by trickery, or perhaps because it had, she desperately wanted their life together to be based on mutual trust. Still, it took her three gulping deep breaths before she was able to blurt out, “
I tripped over the train you carved for Cody and, uh…dropped the flour crock.”

  “It broke?”

  She nodded and said, “It took me an hour to get the flour swept out of the floor cracks. And while I was busy doing that, Useless stole the chicken Daniel plucked for tonight’s dinner.”

  “You let Daniel kill a chicken?”

  “Oh, no. The poor thing died of old age. That’s why it’s so awful that Useless stole it. I mean, it’s probably not very often that a chicken just up and dies like that.”

  “Probably more often than you think. Every spring we buy batches of chicks, all at the same time, so when they get old and start keelin’ over, they tend to go one right after another. I wouldn’t be surprised if another one isn’t breathin’ its last right this minute. We might have chicken for supper yet.”

  “Only if I don’t let Useless steal the meat!”

  “Heaven help us,” Clint drawled, his eyes taking on a sudden twinkle within the frame of his sin-black lashes.

  “That’s just it, Clint. I’m beginning to think that not even Gabriel and all his archangels can make me into the kind of wife you deserve.”

  His firm mouth twitched at the corners. Then it curved slowly into a lopsided, boyish grin. The look in his eyes, however, was hot enough to heat her blood.

  “Far as I’m concerned you can burn gingerbread from now till doomsday, Rachel, and I’ll not offer one word of complaint,” he said in that gravelly voice she had come to love. “Not so long as you keep snugglin’ that nice little fanny of yours up against me of a night.”

  He skimmed a hand up her side to her breast. His fingers were hard, his touch gentle as he cupped her flesh. “As for the damned flour, it isn’t your fault Cody left his train layin’ out.”

  Though two layers of clothing prevented skin from caressing skin, she began to burn where his hand pressed. “Mmm,” was all she could manage as a response.

  “As for the stolen chicken, I guess I could shoot Useless,” he offered.

  Unable to restrain herself, Rachel arched toward him and at the same time encircled his strong brown neck with her arms. “Just kiss me,” she whispered, drawing him down to her.