by Betty Brooks
"You could have said so," he chided, relaxing visibly. A smile twitched at his lips. "Are you still going to deprive me of some of that raisin pie?"
“No. You can have some. And you can stay and visit with Grandpa, too," she replied softly.
She shouldn't have hollered at him, she silently told herself. Thorne was only trying to help her. He was a dear friend, had been since she'd first met him. From the first moment they'd met, he'd made himself responsible for her, had been there for her whenever she needed someone to get her out of trouble. She couldn't really blame him for butting in when he was so concerned about her welfare.
Grandpa had done his best for her, but there were some things an old man his age couldn't do. He wasn't as spry as he'd once been, though he'd rather die than admit to it.
It had been more than forty years since George Watson had built the cabin for his bride. Back then, it had only contained one room. Another room had been added when their only son, Caleb, had married the delicate Lily Marsh, who'd come to the hill country to teach in the one-room schoolhouse. But Lily had died in childbirth, and Caleb had lost his will to live. Caleb had succumbed to pneumonia only a few months after his wife was laid to rest, leaving the raising of his child to his father.
"Come on up here, boy,” Grandpa George called from the porch. "It's been nigh onto a month now sinceI last laid eyes on you. What kinda excuse you gonna give me for stayin' away so long?"
Thorne laid his rifle aside and settled down on the porch rail to talk to the old man. "The farm is taking up most of my time these days," he said gruffly.
Rainey went into the cabin to prepare the evening meal. By the time she dropped spoon dumplings into the broth, which held a simmering squirrel, the storm that had threatened broke with a vengeance.
Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, ripping across the sky. Rain lashed the earth, darkening the world around them.
Reaching for the lamp they kept on a shelf above the table, Rainey lifted the globe and, after setting it aside, she struck a match to light the wick. The resulting flame chased away the nearest shadows and gave her enough light to work by.
When the meal was finally on the table, Rainey called the men to supper. After the last slice of pie had been eaten, and the men were on their third cup of coffee, old George tamped tobacco in his corncob pipe and settled back in his chair.
"Sadie Thompson came over today," he said casually. A smile twitched at Rainey's lips. The whole of Thunder Mountain was aware that Sadie was sweet on Grandpa. "Sadie told me the new schoolteacher would be comin' to the ridge the day after tomorrow."
"I imagine Miss Henderson was glad to hear that," Thorne said. "She's been holding up her wedding plans until a replacement could be found. I don't think Horace Freely has been very patient about the delay, either."
"Can't say as I really blame him," George said gruffly. "When a man commits his self to marryin' up with his woman, it's usually because he's needin' her mighty bad. And a man with a need like that wouldn't take kindly to delay." He puffed on his pipe. "I just hope the new teacher's not so pretty as Miss Henderson, though, 'cause a woman like that don't stay single very long. Too many men an' too few women to go around in these parts. Most of our womenfolk get wedded afore they turn fourteen." He favored Rainey with a hard glare. "But they's some of 'em that's a mite too choosy to find a husband whilst they can. One of these days those choosy ones is likely to wake up and find out they done got too old to marry."
"Too old to marry?" Rainey questioned with wideeyed innocence. "Why, Grandpa! Does a body ever get that old? Somebody sure oughtta tell Sadie Thompson that 'cause she must not know it. I reckon ever'body aroun' here knows why she hangs around our cabin . . . always casting them cat eyes of hers your way, like she might be sweet on you."
"No such thing!" George snapped, his complexion coloring suddenly. "Sadie just gets lonesome since her man was took away by that wild boar. An' she happens to like your raisin pies."
"She would bake her own self some if you wasn't so willin' to cut her a slice of mine ever' time she shows up here," Rainey said mildly. "I noticed they was a goodly sized wedge missin' from this'n tonight."
He raised his eyebrows at her. "We ain't got enough vittles, that we can't share 'em with friends? Since when, Rainey?" He eyed his granddaughter sternly. "I been thinkin' real hard about that school lately. You never had no chance to get much schoolin'. And it's a cryin' shame, your ma being a teacher an' all. Reckon it ain't your fault, though. You been too busy tryin' to keep us in necessaries to think much about such goin' on." He drew on his pipe again, then continued. "Sadie's got them three boys of hers who don't do much of anything these days . . . since they got no man's hand to keep 'em busy. Maybe was the two of us to wed up, you wouldn't have to work so hard. And they's a mighty lot of things a girl needs to learn that a man can't hardly teach her."
"Don't you go marryin ' up with no widder woman an' blame the doin' of it on me!" Rainey snapped. "An' I got ways of learnin' the stuff I need to know without you gettin' a wife to teach me!" She felt embarrassed that her grandfather had brought up her lack of knowledge in front of Thorne.
"You shoulda gone to school longer," George said stubbornly. ''You coulda learned some of those things from a woman teacher."
"I know all I need to know," she said stubbornly. She felt Thorne's probing gaze on her, knew he was listening closely to the conversation, and it made her even more aware of him.
Thorne shifted suddenly, and his thigh brushed against her. A shockwave coursed through her, making her body react in the most curious way. She felt as though her belly had turned upside down, like a possum hanging from a tree. It was such an unusual feeling, so strange . . . and Rainey felt a sudden need to put some distance between herself and Thorne.
Shoving her chair away from the table, she averted her eyes from Thorne, looking at her grandfather instead. "Thorne come a long ways to make his howdys, Grandpa. Not to listen to you complain about my schoolin' So if you don't want him a leavin', you best talk on somethin' else. Leave me outta it, though. I got chores to tend."
Thorne rose quickly to his feet. "Let me help with the chores, Rainey."
"No!" she said abruptly. "You just set a spell and jaw with Grandpa." She looked anxiously at the window. The rain was still pouring down. "Looks like you might have to stay over tonight, unless you've a hankering to get soaked on the way home."
He followed her gaze outside. "The rain should let up before long if it follows its usual pattern."
"Might as well stay the night," George Watson said. "We'd be mighty pleasured by the visit. Wouldn't we, Rainey?"
"You're most welcome to stay," Rainey told Thorne. "We got quilts enough to make you a pallet by the fire."
"I appreciate the invitation," Thorne replied. "But I need to go home. I was planning on plowing that patch of ground bordering Angus Frye's place at early light."
"The ground ain't gonna be dry enough to plow, come morning," George predicted. He stretched his long arm to reach the deck of cards he kept on a shelf high on the wall behind him. "How about a game of poker?"
"That’s fine with me," Thorne said. "Maybe my losing streak is finally over."
"Wasn't a losin' streak you was on, son," George Watson said with a grin. "It was pure skill that set me to winnin ' the last time we played."
Their voices droned on as Rainey washed the dishes. And by the time she'd wiped the last pot and stacked it with the other cooking utensils, the rain had stopped falling. She pushed the door open and stared out at the rainwashed forest, barely illuminated by the soft moonlight. She heard a chair being pushed across the wooden floor and looked around to see Thorne approaching.
"Guess I'd better be going," he said gruffly.
"You're welcome to stay the night," she said, feeling obliged to extend the invitation again. "The ground ain't gonna dry anytime soon, an' you're bound to get wet on the way home since you're afoot. 'Course you could borrow the mule, if yo
u've a mind."
"I'll enjoy the walk home," Thorne said, dealing with both offers at once. He strode away then, leaving Rainey with a peculiar sense of loss as she watched him disappear into the night. She was puzzled by the feeling, wondered about it and about him, as she had so often done in the recent past.
He was so different from the hill folk, the people who had been born and bred in the Ozark Mountains. What made him different? she wondered. What kind of world had he left behind? Since he rarely spoke of his past, she had no idea what his family was like, knew only that he had a father and sister somewhere.
Realizing she would find no answers to her silent questions, Rainey pushed them aside as she had done so many times in the past. She knew that, even if she voiced the questions, they would not be answered. But then, she couldn't blame him. He had a right to his privacy. It was a fact that she cherished her own.
But Thorne had interfered in her life today in a way that nobody had ever dared before, and she wasn't happy about his interference. Her life was her own, and she cherished the freedom to do as she pleased.
He'd just darned well better keep his nose out of her affairs, she thought huffily, or she'd give him what-for.
Even as that thought occurred to her, Rainey knew it was only an unspoken threat. She realized that she could never intentionally do Thorne any real hurt. Just as she was certain that he could never do anything to harm her.
But she wasn't about to tell him that.
Two
It was more than five miles from the Watson cabin to Thorne's farm, but the moonlit night held no surprises for him as his long strides carried him home. It was just as well because his thoughts were not on his surroundings. Instead they were occupied by Rainey, as they so often were these days.
What was it about her that disturbed him so much lately? he wondered. And it was a fact that she did disturb him. But try as he would, he couldn't pinpoint the reason. He remembered the day he'd met her as though it were only yesterday. It was late afternoon and, as was so often the case on Thunder Mountain, a storm was brewing. He'd been filling a bucket from the spring located near his house when a young girl had burst from the sheltering woods and, with her eyes focused on a spot near the treetops, had rammed straight into him. The resulting blow would have knocked her off her feet if he hadn't steadied her. And, although he'd expected she'd be grateful for his efforts, when she recovered her breath enough to speak, she'd yelled at him for being in her way.
As long as he lived, Thorne would never forget the way she'd looked that day, with her black hair tumbling around her waist and shoulders, her intense blue eyes glittering furiously while she lambasted him for making her lose her bee line.
He smiled at the memory. That meeting, stormy though it was, had begun a friendship that was destined to become stronger with each passing day.
From the beginning they had gravitated toward each other. He knew they had been a sight, both man and child. She had taught him to laugh and made him feel important. He longed for that again, because something new had been added to his feelings. He now wanted more from her than friendship, something that she could not give. No longer did he find solace in her company. Instead, there was a sense of excitement that kept his nerves alive, his muscles tense, his heart racing, his body hungering, wanting . . . needing . . . Rainey.
God, she tormented him.
Rainey! With her sky-blue eyes and her ebony hair flowing down to her waist. Hair so fine and silky that he longed to run his fingers through it, to feel its softness against his bare chest.
"Rainey, Rainey, Rainey, " his heart cried. 'Will you ever see me as a Lover?" How could he stand being near her, and not being able to touch her? Rainey, so womanly, yet still so childlike in her innocence. If he wasn't careful she was going to cause trouble for him in the future. He was certain of it, and yet he felt just as certain that he could do nothing to prevent it from happening.
Why hadn't he recognized his feelings sooner? They most certainly hadn't developed overnight, had probably been developing for years, just as her body had been changing. Yet, he had kept those feelings carefully subdued, had even denied their existence. Until he'd come up on her wrestling with Zeke and Willis. That had been the catalyst to bring his feelings to the surface, the reason he was now forced to acknowledge them.
Damnation! It had taken every ounce of control that he possessed to keep from beating Willis into a bloody pulp for daring to lay hands on her, for daring to spread himself over her rounded curves.
Thorne's lower body stirred at the memory. The way her breasts had heaved beneath her homespun shirt while she lay beneath Willis, her face flushed, trying to buck him off. His hands clenched into fists, and his strong fingernails cut into his calloused flesh as he remembered the slumberous passion he'd seen in Willis Johnson's eyes as he whispered in her ear.
Thorne swore at the memory, promising he'd mop the ground with Willis Johnson's clothes-with Johnson still inside them-if that young man ever laid a hand on Rainey again. Thorne ground his teeth together. Both Willis and Zeke had better think twice before they indulged themselves in that manner again.
Thorne realized his jealousy was eating away at him, making him react in anger, and he realized, as well, that he must never allow Rainey to realize how he felt, lest he lose what they had together. Just the mere thought of that was more than he could bear.
He had no wish to make her uncomfortable around him, because she might try to avoid his company. And the thought of not seeing her would be painful.
Rainey was the epitome of budding womanhood, yet her mind had not yet accepted that fact. But it was a fact. And one day soon she would realize it and wreak havoc on the hopeless males who populated the ridge. That thought disturbed Thorne. When she fell in love he would lose her. He was almost certain of it. The relationship they had-innocent though it was-would most certainly not be allowed by the man she chose for a husband. Not if he loved her as Thorne did. And, dammit, if he were deprived of her companionship, he would sorely miss it.
Thorne knew his own limitations, knew he was a man who found it hard to make friends. Perhaps his raising had been responsible for that. His mother had died soon after he was born, and his father had blamed him for her death. Although he'd married again, and his second wife had borne him a daughter, Eugene Lassiter had continued to mourn his first wife, continuing to blame his son for his loss. Perhaps that was the reason Charity Lassiter had given up on the marriage. She'd run away, leaving behind her infant daughter. But she hadn't enjoyed her freedom, had succumbed to smallpox barely a year after leaving.
Any kindness Eugene Lassiter had ever had, disappeared completely then. He was a cold, hard man, capable of spreading misery over anyone who chanced to venture close, be it family or the unfortunate beings who found employment at the Lassiter Shipping Lines. And even though Thorne was aware at an early age of his father's disposition, he nevertheless took it personally. He had grown to a man feeling like an extra person in the world, unwanted by everyone except his sister. The lack of love and security in his young life had turned Thorne hard.
There had been a time, though, when Thorne thought he'd found his place in the world. He had been a young man then, a student at Harvard. It was there he'd met Pearl Brewster, and her memory still caused a bitter taste in his mouth.
He'd been so young then, so foolish, so damned ignorant. How could he have been so blind? He had been convinced she loved him, but had soon realized it was his wealth that attracted her. And that attraction quickly faded when she learned Thorne was the black sheep of the family and could expect no inheritance from his father.
It hadn't taken her long to find herself another man, one with richer prospects. But that wasn't the end of it. When the elder Lassiter learned his son had been planning a future with a woman of questionable family, Eugene Lassiter ordered his son to leave the house. His fury had been a sight to behold. Eugene had shouted out his anger for anyone to hear, telling his son that he had
bad blood, given to him by his Irish mother.
Stunned at the insult to his mother, Thorne had wasted no time leaving. Without hesitation he had taken the inheritance his mother left him and wandered through the Ozarks until he had found Thunder Mountain. He had bought the farm and made a new life for himself. And he'd found a new family. Rainey's family.
Thorne couldn't bear to lose another family, one that was so dear to him. No, he would proceed carefully, would not allow these new feelings to surface, lest he lose her.
…
The sun was barely topping the eastern horizon when Rainey looped the handle of a sorghum-syrup bucket over her arm and set off down the trail. There was no syrup in the bucket, however. Instead, it contained honey that she would burn if she couldn't find the bee line she'd been running the day before. The sweet, strong scent of burning honey would attract bees to her when nothing else would.
The trail she followed led down into a deep gorge, dense with trees both large and small, and along a wild boulder-strewn streambed, where the water roared unseen through its channel.
It was there the lofty silver spruces towered, each so delicate of hue and graceful in outline.
Sunlight filtered through the foliage, and everywhere Rainey gazed was evidence of this forest's wilderness, in timber and rocks and windfalls, in the huge masses of driftwood, in the precipitous banks of the stream, showing how the flood torrents tore and dug at their confines.
Rainey saw nothing of birds or squirrels, nor did she hear the sound of another living thing. But that was not surprising; the roar of rushing water would have drowned any ordinary sound.
Gradually the trail left the vicinity of the stream and began a slight ascent, winding among beds of giant boulders covered with trailing vines.
She'd always felt a sense of peace there, where the scent of the woodland was almost overpowering. It appeared to be dominated by the fragrance of pine, but there were other scents besides the spicy tang that were not as easily identifiable.
