The Ballad of Hattie Taylor

by Susan Andersen

  She pried his fingers up until she could jerk her hand free. “The entire town will be counting on their fingers after the unseemly haste in which we wed—I don’t need to be shackled to your side on top of it. If you want to create a spectacle, go do it by yourself.” She turned and walked away.

  Jake watched her go, curbing his first impulse, which was to snatch her back and force her to stand by his side, where she belonged. He rubbed the tense muscles at the back of his neck. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d been angry for three solid weeks. Normally an easygoing man, he wasn’t accustomed to these bitter emotions eating at him.

  Well, hell, he thought, trying to justify his less-than-heroic behavior, I got a right to be angry. He was a grown man being ordered to marry like the callowest of youths. Naturally he resented it.

  Then why, that same voice whispered, were you angrier still when Hattie argued against the marriage? Shit. He was all messed up.

  He could not get the knowledge that she’d been raped out of his mind. His gut held a constant, leaden weight at the thought of some faceless man brutalizing her. Augusta’s words kept coming back to haunt him and he’d developed an unfortunate penchant for conjuring vivid pictures of Hattie struggling and scared to death. She was violated over and over again in his mind’s eye.

  Why wouldn’t she tell him who had done this to her? Had it happened here in Mattawa or had some city-bred rat slunk out of a Seattle alley one night? And what the hell had she meant when she said she was handed over on a silver platter? He’d been so absorbed in his own emotions, he hadn’t stopped to consider hers. Until now.

  The unvarnished truth was he’d spent the past weeks sulking about being forced to do exactly what he most wanted. He might rebel at being commanded to wed like an errant kid, and his timetable sure enough had been blown to hell. But this was what he’d planned ever since going to see Aurelia Donaldson about getting Hattie back in town. How many hours had he spent while Hattie was in Seattle, thinking about her, debating the pros and cons of a relationship between them? God knew he’d drummed up damn few cons. Shit, it hadn’t even been a question of maybe; it had been more a matter of how, given her anger at him, and when. As for her most recent accusation, he doubted the good people of Mattawa would waste time counting on their fingers. Hattie appeared to be the only one in town who was unaware that he had been courting her for a good eleven months.

  Thinking about the look on her face a moment ago, he wished he could go back and change his behavior these past weeks. He’d gone about this all wrong. Ceremonies of this sort were important to women, and his anger and possessiveness had ruined it for her. He was sorry, and he’d like to tell Hattie that. Yet how could he explain his behavior to her when he didn’t really understand it himself? He desperately wanted their marriage to work. If they could just get past these bollixed-up misunderstandings, he knew it would be something special.

  Watching the doorway to the women’s powder room, where Hattie had disappeared, he decided the most important step he could take toward rectifying the mess he’d made was to quit demanding her rapist’s identity. He’d been reacting to the knowledge of her attack in terms of how it affected him—and giving pretty short shrift to what was best for her. Every time he badgered Hattie for a name, he most likely forced her to relive a nightmare. His mother had tried to tell him something of the sort, but he hadn’t been ready to listen. Now he got it. He had reopened Hattie’s wounds, and by poking at them, he was refusing to let them reheal.

  Forcing himself to turn away from the ladies’ room entrance, Jake threw himself into the festivities. He would give his new wife room to maneuver. Hattie had a fierce independent streak and he couldn’t chain her to his side just to satisfy some misguided notion that it was the only way to both stake his claim and keep her safe.

  Hattie nursed her confusion and indignation in the powder room as long as she dared, but eventually she had to come out. She expected Jake to be haunting the entrance as she emerged, ready to take possession of her hand again. Instead, he was dancing with Aurelia Donaldson. When the song ended, he escorted the fierce old woman to the chairs against the walls and invited another woman to dance. He didn’t so much as glance in the powder room’s direction, and much to Hattie’s chagrin, she discovered that instead of relieved, she felt rather nettled. Not that she wanted to be chained to his side again; she didn’t. But he sure as heck lacked consistency.

  Crossing the room to where Moses was standing, she invited him to dance with the bride. Generally observant where her friends were concerned, she barely even noticed the unusually friendly conversation she interrupted between him and Nell.

  The reception began to wind down. Finally, the orchestra announced the last dance. For the first time since she had pried his fingers away and retreated to the powder room, Jake materialized at Hattie’s side. He extended his hand. “This is my dance, I believe.”

  She placed her hand in his and let him lead her to the dance floor, where he pulled her into his arms and held her much too closely as the band struck up a waltz. They circled the floor in silence, gazing at distant points over each other’s shoulders.

  Their refusal to talk or look at each other should have been uncomfortable. But for the first time in three weeks, tensions eased, coiled knots unwound, and resentments faded. Jake’s arms tightened around her; Hattie rested her head for a moment where his chest met his collarbone before recollecting the impropriety of such a posture. As they moved across the dance floor, they both silently absorbed the heat and scent of their partner and felt comforted.

  Silently, Mr. and Mrs. Jake Murdock separately arrived at the same conclusion. This was where they were meant to be.

  35

  Hattie sat at the dressing table in the Buchannan suite, brushing her hair with long, hard strokes and pretending she wasn’t nervous.

  A short while ago, Jake had carried her over the threshold, kissed her like a sister, poured her a glass of champagne, and drew her a bath. She’d tried to relax in the hot water but finally decided she’d just as soon face the music as hide in the bathroom worrying herself half-sick over the ways this night could go. When she’d emerged from the bathroom, Jake went in, sparing her a single swift glance—but one that traveled from her not-yet-brushed-to-a-fare-thee-well hair to the tips of her bare toes. She heard his movements now behind the closed bathroom door.

  Hattie met her reflection as her brushstrokes slowed. She hated being a coward. Once she hadn’t been afraid to meet challenges head-on. Not that she believed, had Jake not sent her to Roger Lord’s house that night, she wouldn’t still be a bit apprehensive tonight. But she might not be frightened so fiercely of what was going to happen any moment now.

  People said ignorance was bliss, and she didn’t disagree. She wished to heaven she was ignorant of the terror that could be unleashed upon a woman by a body part Hattie had yet to even see.

  The bathroom door opened and Jake stepped out, wrapped in a black dressing gown that ended just below his knees. Clearly it was all he wore, and the atmosphere between them suddenly seemed thicker than molasses. Wondering if he’d order her summarily to bed, she kept a wary eye on her new husband’s reflection in the mirror.

  Barely glancing in her direction, Jake crossed the sitting room. He stopped at the ornate ice bucket containing the champagne he’d ordered and reached for two clean long-stemmed flutes. Seconds later, tiny cheerful bubbles from the fizzy beverage he poured popped and disappeared above the flutes’ crystal rims.

  Hattie continued working the bristles through a tangle at her nape as she watched Jake in the mirror, the stemmed glasses incongruously fragile in his work-roughened hands. But even seeing his approach, she started nervously when his hand, offering the flute, appeared over her shoulder. She reached to accept it with the hairbrush still in her hand. “Oh,” she murmured in consternation, feeling like a dolt, and set the silver-backed brush on t
he dressing table.

  “Wait,” Jake said and pressed the champagne flute into her right hand. When he reached around her left shoulder to place his own glass on the dressing table, his arms momentarily surrounded her. Heat pumped off him, and Hattie was aware of his clean, soapy scent.

  Picking up the brush she’d abandoned, Jake knelt behind her. She watched his reflection, noticing the way his newly shaved jaw gleamed beneath the room’s soft lighting. The creases alongside his mouth when his reflection smiled at her were particularly shiny and soft-looking. “Let me,” he said in a low, husky voice.

  Hattie cast him a wary glance over her shoulder. He pressed a gentle kiss into the wing of her eyebrow. “Drink your wine,” he ordered. “Close those big eyes and relax. I just want to brush your hair.”

  She took a sip of her champagne. Then, cradling the glass against her breast, Hattie did as requested and closed her eyes. As Jake pulled the brush through her hair from scalp to waist, some of her anxiety faded. The only sound in the room was the static crackle of her curls being tamed into loose waves in the brush’s wake. His fingers occasionally skimmed her neck or cheek, and their rough texture against the softness of her skin spread slow warmth through Hattie’s veins. Without opening her eyes, she raised the wineglass and took another sip.

  “Your hair is beautiful,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve thought so since the first day you came to live with us.” He buried his nose in it and inhaled.

  The rhythm of Hattie’s heart picked up an extra beat and her eyes opened. “Jacob?”

  Draping coppery waves over a shoulder, he kissed the skin he’d exposed. His gaze met hers in the mirror. “I’ll never hurt you, Hattie,” he whispered with husky-voiced sincerity. He pressed his parted lips as well to the curve where her neck flowed into her shoulder. His gaze remained steady on hers in the mirror’s reflection. “Never, Big-eyes. I swear it.”

  Hattie trembled as another emotion replaced her fear. Cautiously, she tipped her head to one side, exposing a wider expanse of bared skin. And closed her eyes.

  Jake couldn’t prevent the sound rumbling up his throat, and he gathered up Hattie’s hair in both fists, tugging it to tip her head back as he kissed his way up the side of her neck. He stretched out his torso and twisted her head to one side, guiding it against his shoulder. Torqueing his own around, he rocked his mouth over Hattie’s soft, full lips. Sucking lightly at them, he groaned when they parted. It was the opening Jake sought, but the position was too awkward for follow-through. Reluctantly, he raised his head, then moved so swiftly, Hattie’s eyes had barely begun to flutter open before he pulled her chair away from the dresser and circled to crouch in front of her. Removing the flute from her lax fingers, Jake set it on the dressing table. Then he framed her face in his hands. “Come to bed, Hattie-girl.”

  To his amazement, she let him lead her to it. He pulled back the spread and she climbed in, but averted her eyes when he dropped his robe to the floor. An instant later, he slid in next to her. She stared up at him as he eased her onto her back.

  He braced himself on one elbow, perched over her. Finding a stray curl escaping the mass to tumble over her forehead, Jake wrapped it around his finger and studied her in silence for a moment. Her big golden eyes stared back at him. They were wide and wary but contained a spark of curiosity in their amber depths.

  That trace of interest shot delight through Jake. Hattie was all his, sanctioned by church and state. Under the law, he could do anything he wanted to her, but what he wanted was to show her she had nothing to fear from him. And that meant he needed to be exceptionally careful in his handling of her tonight. To facilitate that, he’d taken care of himself in the bathroom to prevent his own needs from outstripping his caution.

  His long abstinence—Jake having sworn off Mamie’s girls as soon as he learned Hattie was coming home—was partially responsible for his shameful seconds-long hesitation before stopping that night in the stable. But he would, by God, see to it he stayed in control on their wedding night. For once, he’d woo his woman the way she deserved. He took it as a good sign when Hattie didn’t ask to have the lights doused.

  Tugging on the curl still wrapped around his finger, he lowered his head. Her mouth was warm and incredibly soft beneath his, and he parted her lips. His tongue traced the slick inner lining and he stiffened slightly at her responsive, shuddery inhalation.

  He teased her with light kisses, never allowing his tongue to trespass farther than her lips. Hattie began to shift restlessly beneath him. Lifting her chin, she offered her mouth for a more complete kiss, then licked her lips in frustration every time he raised his head to change angles. Her arms wrapped around his bare neck and finally, upon feeling his mouth once again leave hers, she gripped the back of his head in both hands and forcibly held him to her while her own tongue slid into his mouth, seeking the satisfaction he’d denied her.

  Approval rumbled up Jake’s throat and he gave her what she wanted: deep, drugging kisses with nothing held back. Sliding a hand between their bodies, he began to slip the tiny buttons running down the front of her night rail through their loops. Reaching the end of the row, he pushed up on his elbow.

  Hattie murmured in protest at the loss of Jake’s kiss and slowly opened her eyes. She felt the front of her gown separate, then begin sliding off her shoulders. “Jake?”

  “I want to look at you, Big-eyes.”

  Embarrassed modesty sent scalding heat coursing through her entire body. Instinctively, Hattie covered her bared breasts with her hands, spreading her fingers wide to conceal as much as possible. Jake tossed back the covers and rolled onto his knees to straddle her. His hands reached out to grasp her wrists and she tightened her grip, expecting him to remove her protective fingers any moment now.

  Instead, he guided her hands in circular motions against the fullness of her breasts. “Don’t be shy with me,” he whispered and hunched over, lowering his head to lick . . . everywhere. His mouth was in constant motion, pressing kisses against anything her hands failed to conceal. His tongue probed along the perimeter of her wrist, licked upward to the tip of her thumb, slid between her fingers.

  He smiled up at her and said, “Married people are allowed to see each other naked.” Then he pried up a finger to run his tongue between it and her breast. He angled his head to suck her finger into his mouth, rubbing his smooth cheek against the full swell of her bosom.

  Hattie’s fingers went lax and she didn’t resist when he brushed them aside, replacing them with his hands. Her skin had always been almost milk white, but now she noticed that not even the generous sprinkling of freckles across her chest and breasts lent much color against the weathered darkness of Jake’s wide-palmed hands.

  “They’re so pretty, Hattie,” he whispered hoarsely. “So perfect. Look.”

  She followed his gaze, and a soft sound escaped her throat, knowing Jake was also looking at and comparing the textures and colors of his skin against hers.

  “Someday,” he said, and something in his voice pulled her eyes away from his hands to meet his gaze, “I want to see our babies nursing here.” Maintaining eye contact, he lowered his head and opened his mouth around a ruddy nipple.

  Hattie’s womb clenched at Jake’s reference to future babies. But his dark eyes staring up at her, his lean cheeks hollowing as he drew as strongly on her nipple as might the babes he mentioned, and the tug sending heat lightning straight to that private place deep between her legs drove rational thought from her head. Crying out, she squeezed her thighs together and fought free of the nightgown sleeves still tangled around her elbows. Reaching for him, she dug her fingers into the smooth skin of his shoulders.

  Jake released her nipple with a soft, suctioning pop and rolled onto his side. Pillowing his head on his arm, he breathed heavily as he stared at her. Christ. So much for easing himself earlier. He wanted to gobble her up.

  Hattie rolled
to face him as well. “Why did you stop?”

  “You’ve let me look at most of you. I thought maybe you’d like to look at me.” His free hand reached out to stroke her from the sharp dip of her waist to the rounded curve of her hip. His palm rasped to a halt at the top of her thigh, where her nightgown still bunched at an angle across her lower abdomen.

  Hattie was thoroughly intimidated but tried to act as though seeing a completely naked man for the first time was an everyday event. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she made herself look. And ho-ly cow.

  Jake’s shoulders were wide and muscular. She already knew this, but somehow, seeing her new husband without his usual shirt felt new. With a fingertip, she traced the curve from his neck to his shoulder, to the point where the shoulder curved again into his upper arm. The hard muscles there were rounded, unlike those in his chest and stomach, which were longer and—not flat, exactly, but they weren’t as bulgy, either.

  Jake didn’t have an abundance of body hair, but what he had was surprisingly dark. His chest was smooth, but black hair feathered his forearms and lightly dusted his lower legs. It grew in tangled tufts under his arms and feathered around his navel before arrowing straight down his hard belly to explode lush and thick around his— “Oh . . . my . . . God.”

  She’d been following the visual path with one hand, lightly skimming his biceps and forearms, her fingertips gliding across his chest and stomach—but she jerked back her hand as if burned. She could not, however, tear her eyes away from that thing jutting at her from a pelt of hair more wiry-looking than the rest. She was both horrified and unwillingly fascinated by the appendage’s thrust. It looked . . . savage . . . unlike anything she’d ever clapped eyes on.