The Thunder Rolls

by Bethany Campbell

  She should have drawn her hand away, but she did not. She should have taken her eyes from his, but she did not. All the other spectators had their gazes raised skyward, except for Nora and Ken. They saw only each other.

  No, Nora thought in rising panic, I can’t do this. She bit her lip and tried to pull back from his touch.

  Something like unhappy understanding crossed his face. He gave her hand a squeeze, as if assuring her that everything was all right, it was fine. Then he let her draw away.

  She gazed down at the ground and bit her lip harder. She put her hands behind her back, and squeezed her bruise, where Gordon had hurt her. Think of that, she ordered herself fiercely. Think of that.

  But the intensity of the pain was not enough to distract her. It was as if her other hand, the one Ken had touched, was enchanted, full of strange, dazzling feelings that wouldn’t go away, that even pain couldn’t wipe out.

  No, she thought again. No.

  And she kept thinking it until the end of the show, when the two big standing displays were lit, one a replica of the flag of the United States, the other the Lone Star flag of Texas. Their colored pinwheels spun and sparkled in fiery red, white and blue.

  “There ain’t nothin’ finer than a good firework show,” Jack Delaney said afterward, shaking his head in appreciation. “I could watch it all night.”

  “Me, too,” Dottie said, and Emily and Rory agreed.

  “How about you?” Ken asked Nora, his voice low. He’d leaned so close to ask the question that his breath made her ear prickle. She realized, with a start, it was the first time he’d spoken to her since they reached the park.

  “No,” she said, not looking at him. “I’ve had enough fireworks for one night. More than enough.” Then she began walking faster, so that she would no longer be at his side.

  “I’D LIKETO talk to you,” Ken said to Nora at the door. He’d gotten Jack and Emily back home and now had walked Nora and Dottie and Rory to their front porch.

  “Why don’t you come in, Ken?” Dottie invited. “I experimented with a peach and raspberry pie. I’d like a man’s opinion.”

  Rory yawned, but tried to stifle it. “I could show you my video games. Can you play Alien Space Demons?”

  Ken shook his head amiably enough in Dottie’s direction, but he kept a sidelong glance fixed on Nora.

  “Thanks, Dottie. But I need to go. I just want a word with Nora, is all.”

  Dottie gave both Ken and Nora a short but calculating look. I see, her expression seemed to say. The hot night wind stirred the hollyhocks around the porch and from somewhere a hoot owl called.

  “But we could play Space Demons,” Rory said, looking up at Ken and trying not to yawn again.

  “You need to get to bed,” Dottie said with sudden firmness. She gripped Rory’s shoulder and propelled him through the door. As the screen swung shut behind her, she glanced over her shoulder at Ken and Nora. Her smile was falsely bright. “Take your time,” she said. “I’ll put this sprout to bed. Then I think it’s time for bed myself. But you—you two just take your time.”

  She closed the oaken front door, leaving them alone. She did not turn on the porch light. Only the moon and stars shed their soft glow. Oh, Dottie, Nora thought in despair, what have you done to me now?

  Among all the shadows and moonshine, only the tall man beside Nora seemed solid and real, uncomfortably real. His height, his nearness, made the elvish tickles once more swarm over her skin.

  “I have to go in, too,” she said hastily and started toward the door.

  But smoothly he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. If another man had made such a move, it might have been rude, yet it did not seem rude from him. Still, his gentle determination frightened her.

  “Nora—” he said. He reached out and his fingers closed around her upper arm. His touch flared through her like a wave of electricity.

  She stepped backward slightly, but she didn’t shake off his hand. It was as if she was caught in some magnetic field that did not allow her to separate from him completely.

  “No.” She shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t intend to get involved with anybody—”

  “Things don’t always happen the way we intend.”

  She looked up at his face, but all she could see were shadows and the white of his Stetson, turned a dim silver-blue in the moonlight. She squared her shoulders, still all too conscious of his hand upon her arm.

  “I told you—so you might as well quit—” she said, her voice tight.

  “And I’m tellin’ you—I don’t quit easy.” He paused. His fingers moved beneath the short sleeve of her blouse, lightly caressing her skin. He paused. “I don’t quit easily,” he amended.

  Oh, he was doing it again, Nora thought in despair. If he’d brought her roses by the dozens, he couldn’t have touched her more deeply. Worse, the feel of his work-hardened hand against the softness of her inner arm confused her even more than his words.

  She broke away from his touch and retreated farther from him, sitting on the porch railing. She made a helpless gesture. “What am I going to do with you?” she asked in frustration. “Won’t you take no for an answer?”

  “I reckon not.” He shifted his weight to one booted foot and hooked his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans.

  Nora didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of her situation, so she did neither. She tried to think clearly, but it was difficult with the moonlight’s inconstant play and the fragrance of garden flowers trying to bewitch her.

  Ken, too, was making her head spin, and it frightened her. She’d made herself safe from Gordon, safe from all men. Now Ken was trying to wrest her safety away. She felt desperate. If her cruel words had driven him from her once, perhaps they would do so again.

  “I don’t understand you,” she said, her voice growing bitter. “We don’t even know each other. We have nothing in common—nothing.”

  There, she thought. That should stop him in his tracks. The thought gave her both a cynical satisfaction and a sense of emptiness so deep that it hurt.

  But he didn’t leave. He stood there in the shadows, and she knew, by the prickling of her skin, that he was staring at her again. “If we don’t know each other, how can you tell we’ve got nothin’ in common?”

  The quiet logic of his statement unsettled her. She shrugged. “I mean, we’ve been slightly—acquainted—for—what?—twelve years—but—”

  “Thirteen. Thirteen years.”

  Obstinately, Nora tried to persist in her course. She settled her hands into her lap and found that she was clenching her fists. “All right. We’ve been—acquainted—thirteen years. But we don’t know each other. And why should we? We’re not interested in the same things. Look at us now. We can’t even have a decent conversation.”

  He was silent a moment. His shoulders shifted and squared, and when he spoke, his voice was sardonic. “Well, whose fault is that? Lord knows, I’m tryin’.”

  “Lord knows you’re very trying,” Nora said. Impatiently, she ran her hand through her hair. “What could we possibly talk about? The last thing I did in school was write a paper about Lord Byron. Do you have anything to say about Lord Byron? I can’t imagine that you would.”

  Now, she thought, crossing her arms. Now, that should do it. I’ve been out-and-out mean and snobbish. The thought filled her with more shame than satisfaction, but she was determined to drive him away.

  He seemed just as determined to stay, and his voice stayed calm. “All I know about Lord Byron is they named a cigar after him. That’s everything I know about Lord Byron. So why don’t you tell me about him? What should I know?”

  Again his logic disquieted her. Nora folded her arms even more tightly against her chest, as if protecting herself.

  “You don’t need to know anything about Lord Byron,” she said. “You can spend your whole life perfectly well not knowing one thing about him. Not one.”

  Ken appeared to ponder this.
“Well, if he’s not important, why are you gonna teach about him? Why you even botherin’ to learn about him?”

  “Oh!” she said in agitation. “It’s not that he’s not important. He’s not important to you.”

  “Why not?” Ken persisted. “Maybe I been waitin’ my whole life to find out about him. I just didn’t know it. How can you tell?”

  Nora gave a hopeless shrug and stared up at the bright crescent moon. How could she tell? she wondered. It wasn’t as if Ken Slattery was stupid. The longer she talked to him, the more she realized he was an intelligent man, even highly intelligent. He was smart in a different way from her, that was all.

  “Look,” she said, “I just don’t think you’d want to talk about Lord Byron. And I know I don’t want to talk about cows. So there’s nothing for us to talk about, all right? You should just go home.”

  To her alarm, he came to the porch railing and settled down beside her. “There’s things to talk about,” he said. “There’s things aplenty.”

  She gave him a suspicious glance. “What, for instance?”

  He stared across the porch. “For a minute up there on that hill, with all the fireworks goin’ off, you let me hold your hand. Then you took it away. Why?”

  “Why? Because nothing’s possible between us, that’s why. Haven’t I made that clear?”

  He shook his head. “I know why you took it away. I want to know why you let me hold it at all, for just that one minute?”

  Oh, heavens, Nora thought, looking up at the moon again, he asked her the most impossible questions. He was right. She had stood on that hill, looking into his eyes, and she had let her hand rest in his. It had fit his as easily and naturally as if it had been formed for that very purpose. Why? Why had she let it happen?

  She shook her head sadly. “I don’t know.”

  He was silent for the space of two heartbeats. “I see.”

  “So there’s nothing to talk about,” she said. “I should go inside, and you should go home—”

  “And I said there’s a heap of things to talk about,” he repeated. “Gordon, for instance.”

  She looked back at him, surprised and slightly alarmed. “I don’t talk about Gordon,” she said, her voice tightening.

  “Are you afraid of him?”

  “I said, I don’t talk about him.”

  “Because you’re afraid of him?”

  “No.” She said it with all the conviction she could. She no longer feared Gordon, she tried to tell herself. She had escaped him. She was free of him at last.

  Ken bent nearer. “Is that why you won’t have anything to do with me? Because you think he’ll hurt you?”

  “No.” But there was a treacherous quiver in her voice.

  “I would never let him do that—hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”

  Oh, Lord, he’s doing it again, Nora thought, closing her eyes and throwing her head back. The intensity in his voice made her fight to keep from trembling. Why doesn’t he just go away? Why can’t I send him away?

  Even though her eyes were closed, she sensed he brought his face closer still to hers. She felt the brim of his Stetson brush her bangs. She felt the faint caress of his breath against her lips.

  “I mean it.” His voice sounded taut with self-control. “I would never let him hurt you.”

  She could only squeeze her eyes shut more tightly. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “We have to. You don’t think—you don’t worry that he’d hurt me, do you? My God, Nora, I can take care of myself. I have since I was fourteen. You’re not worried about me—are you?”

  She let her eyes flutter open and felt tears stinging them. Even in the dim light, she could see the emotions crossing his handsome, serious face.

  “Yes,” she found herself whispering. “I am. A little afraid of that, I mean. That he’d hurt you. You don’t know how he can hurt people.”

  He brought his hand toward her face, but it hovered there, not quite touching her. His voice was low, strained. “Then those tears in your eyes are for me—a little bit?”

  Nora wanted to turn away but couldn’t. She felt one tear spill over onto her cheek and make a hot, crooked path down her cheek. “I think they’re for us all. Even Gordon. He’s a very unhappy person.”

  “But—?” he said, his hand still poised near her face, his own face lowering itself nearer to hers.

  “But—” she managed to say, torn as always by his gentleness, his restraint. “Yes, I guess they’re for you, too. A little. I didn’t want that, either. But—yes. For you, too.”

  And now he’s going to kiss me. And I’ll let him. Because I want him to.

  She raised her lips to his. His mouth closed over hers with more hunger than she had expected. His hand framed her jaw, guiding her face more intimately against his, so that he could taste her more completely.

  His other arm had coiled around her with marvelous strength, drawing her against him. Nora leaned against him, almost dizzied by his touch, wanting to be dizzied even more.

  She had the vague impression that his Stetson was gone, that it had been either knocked or somehow thrown into the hollyhocks. His hair felt like silk against her forehead.

  He had a wonderful, wonderful mouth for kissing. She never would have guessed, for it was usually set so sternly. But his lips were supple and firm and warm, frankly taking pleasure, frankly bestowing it.

  I want you, his silent mouth told her. This is how much. Then his lips moved against hers with even greater boldness and yearning, as if to say, No. No. More even than that. Like this. And this. And this.

  I want you as you’ve never been wanted in your life.

  My body will cherish yours as much as you’ve ever been cherished in your life.

  He kissed away her tears. He kissed her hair, her temples, her eyelids, the soft curve of her jaw, the subtler curves of her throat. Both his arms wrapped her now, pulling her against the hardness of his chest until she was not sure whose heart it was that she felt beating so thunderously, her own or his.

  She had her arms around his waist, clinging to him tightly, as if she’d been waiting for him for years, and he’d finally arrived. Her hands moved over his back, loving how his muscles played beneath her fingers, loving the live, solid strength of him.

  Abruptly he drew back, looking down at her with concern. The moonlight silvered his hair, his high cheekbones. His brow furrowed. “I’ve done this ten thousand times in my mind,” he said. “Maybe more. Does that scare you?”

  She stared up at him, his face at once so familiar and yet so new to her. He reached and smoothed a strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Her heart knocked crazily in her breast. She was happy, but frightened, too.

  “Yes,” she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. “It scares me.”

  Then she thought of Gordon and the happiness in her fell away, dying into fear.

  Ken must have seen the change in her face. His frown deepened. “What’s the matter?”

  She shook her head and tried to pull away. He held her fast. She looked away, out at the moon-silvered lawn, and wondered if she really wanted him to let her go.

  “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she said, still not meeting his gaze. “I didn’t want for this to happen.”

  “I know.”

  “You should let go of me now.”

  “I know,” he said, but still he held her tight against his chest. He stroked her cheek lightly, again and again, as if amazed by the feel of it.

  “You should go home.”

  “I know that, too. Better than you, maybe.”

  “We shouldn’t have done this, and you should go home and forget about it.”

  “My God, Nora. How could I forget?” Slowly, caressingly, he continued to stroke her cheek.

  “Oh,” Nora said miserably. She felt overwhelmed, buffeted by too many emotions at once. She had fought Gordon for years, never giving up once she started. But she was exhausted
from fighting this man for a mere few days. Defeated, she laid her face against his shoulder. She would not forget what had happened tonight, either. How could she? But even as she rested in his arms, she was frightened of him and angry at herself.

  “You made this happen too fast,” she said against his shoulder. Through his shirt, his chest was hard and warm against her cheek. “I need time.”

  He ran his hand over her hair, smoothing the tumbled waves. He kept doing it, a hypnotic motion. “I figured you would.”

  “And I mean it,” she said, hating the tears that began to sting her eyes again. “We don’t really know each other. So this is crazy. This doesn’t fit my plans. This can’t fit into my life.”

  “Shh,” he said, sensing her agitation. “It’s all right. There’s a lot to talk about, is all. Startin’ with Gordon.”

  She shook her head and shuddered. “I can’t talk about him.”

  He soothed her again, still stroking her hair. “Then start with Lord Byron, sugar. I reckon we gotta start somewhere.”

  As distraught as she was, she gave a weary laugh. “You’re crazy.”

  “Be that as it may. Come on, sugar. Here. Just lie back and let me hold you. Look up at the moon and talk to me.”

  He made her turn around so that she could lean back against his chest and look up at the sky. He held her, his jaw resting against her hair. “Now,” he said, kissing her ear. “Tell me about Lord Byron. What was he—besides a cigar?”

  “You really are crazy,” Nora said, almost smiling, “and your hat’s in the hollyhocks.”

  But she stayed, nestled against his chest, safe in his arms, gazing up at the stars, and they talked and talked that way, until nearly morning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  GORDON HAD AWAKENED so early that when he’d looked out his window, the sky was still black. Nightmares had hounded his sleep, tormenting him. His heart beat so fast that it scared him.

  Gordon had dreamed that Brock Munroe and Ken Slattery held him, arms pinned back, while fat Bubba Gibson hit him in the face again and again.

  The worst part was that all the time Gordon was being beaten, Nora, his mother, and Rory looked on, almost impassively. But then Nora broke into tears; she threw her arms around Bubba and begged him to stop. Bubba turned from Gordon and kissed Nora possessively. He began to undo the buttons of her uniform, and Nora, whimpering, let him.