by Deeanne Gist
‘‘Close your eyes,’’ he whispered before covering her lips with his.
This was nothing like the kiss Hamilton had given her. It was all movement and coaxing and lushness. She rested her hands against his shoulders to keep from falling.
He grasped her waist and slid her close. It happened so quickly, she had no time to protest.
Wrapping his arms fully around her, he released her lips only as long as it took for him to angle his head in the opposite direction and swoop in to kiss her again.
She completely gave herself over to the experience, relishing the warmth and pleasure it induced.
‘‘Open your mouth,’’ he murmured.
‘‘Wha—?’’ She never finished the question, shocked into stillness.
He gave her no quarter, no time to assimilate, no time to react. Only took and gave. Gave and took. And, oh my, but it was heady.
Breaking the bond between their lips, he buried his face in her neck. He smelled of salt and sweat and man. She hugged his head against her, registering the texture of his thick, beautiful hair, the feel of his day-old beard scratching her skin.
‘‘I’ll be hanged, but you’re sweet,’’ he said, finally releasing her.
And when he did, her sanity returned. She scurried back like a crab, plopped down, then touched her hair, appalled to find it tumbling about her shoulders.
‘‘It’s all right, darlin’,’’ he said, scooting himself next to her again. ‘‘Easy, easy. I’m not going to hurt you.’’
He reached for her.
She grabbed his wrist. ‘‘No,’’ she breathed. ‘‘We must stop.’’
He froze, his arm caught between the two of them by her hand. ‘‘Nothin’ will happen, Essie. I just wanna kiss you a little longer.’’
‘‘Nothing will happen?’’ She released him and pressed a hand to her chest. ‘‘Something is already happening.’’
Groaning, he pulled her back within his embrace. ‘‘Don’t say no, girl, please.’’ He showered quick kisses along her hairline and tugged on her ear with his lips.
She slid her eyes closed, longing to give in. He latched on to her neck with his mouth. The delicious reaction that provoked was frightening and unexpected.
She shoved him away and jumped to her feet, stumbling backwards.
He stayed on the ground watching her, propping himself up with one hand, his eyes simmering with sensual promises. She turned and raced up the hill, leaving him, the bicycle, and a temptation so strong that surely she’d burn in hell for even contemplating surrender.
————
Essie had to force herself not to run down the deserted dirt road on the outskirts of town. She slipped behind a tree to straighten her loose hair—but it was her loose behavior that made her hands shake.
Her mother would expire on the spot if she were to ever find out. Essie could not even imagine what kind of retribution such a tawdry deed would provoke.
Once, when she was a girl, she had overheard one of the men in town say Widow Edmundson had an itch, and all his friends had laughed in response.
Later that week, she’d seen their parrot, Joe, scratching himself with his beak. So she’d taught it to say, ‘‘Joe has an itch.’’
Joe started saying it all the time. And when he did, Mother would turn redder than blazes and Papa would muffle his amusement. Essie had to break a switch off a tree, then bring it to her mother for a whipping.
Essie never understood what she’d done wrong. She’d taught Joe to say lots of things and had never gotten in trouble. But now, with the aftereffects of that kiss still humming through her body, she had a very good idea what exactly an itch was.
Mortification seeped into her being. What if Adam told the men in town that she, the town’s old maid, had an itch? Tears sprang to her eyes. Surely he wouldn’t.
Dear Lord, please, please, don’t let him tell anyone. I promise not to ever, ever do that again. Just don’t let anyone find out. Especially not Mother.
She’d almost reached the bend in the road that would take her into Corsicana. She slowed her step, knowing she couldn’t just brazenly walk through town. Someone would see her and they’d know. Know what she’d been doing.
She brushed the dirt from her skirt but could do nothing about the two spots of moisture covering her knees. Nor could she wipe away the shame of her wanton response to Adam’s kisses.
Stopping, she looked back over her shoulder, but Adam was nowhere to be seen. She’d half expected him to ride up on her bicycle and poke fun at her.
Because clearly he’d kissed before. Probably more than once or twice. And clearly, she had not. So why did that make her feel embarrassed when she’d been taught such virtue was a badge of honor?
But she knew why. By her very nature she wanted to be the best. At everything. Including kissing. And she would never know how she measured up, because she would never ask. And she would never do it again.
chapter ELEVEN
CUTTING BACK AND FORTH through the woods around town had made Essie’s route home three times as long, but she didn’t begrudge one single step, thankful for the protection the trees and brush had offered. She stood within their shelter, gauging the final leg of her journey. It was a good hundred yards to her house, and wide open.
She removed what few pins she had left in her hair, stuck them in her mouth, then finger-combed her hair once again, pulling it together at the back.
When she had all within her grasp, she twisted until it coiled up like a snake against her head and then transferred the pins into strategic spots. The style was severe and sloppily done. Anyone who knew her well would know she never wore it this way, but it would have to do.
She stepped into the open just as Mrs. Lockhart rounded the bend. Would the woman see something different? Something she oughtn’t? Essie forced herself to walk in a sedate manner.
‘‘My dear, dear girl,’’ Mrs. Lockhart said, ‘‘how have you been?’’
‘‘Very well, thank you. And you?’’
The elderly woman touched Essie’s arm. ‘‘Such a surprise how Mr. Crook married up so fast to that woman from Dallas. I haven’t had a moment alone with you since. How are you managing without him?’’
‘‘My work in the Slap Out was temporary from the start. I was just helping out until he could find someone permanent.’’
Mrs. Lockhart tsked. ‘‘You needn’t feed me that twiddle-twaddle. I know a budding romance when I see one.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘Why, look at you, so stiff and stern.’’ She patted Essie’s hand. ‘‘I always have preferred the stories where the woman wounds the man, not the other way around.’’
Essie glanced at her home. So close, yet so far. ‘‘Yes, well, perhaps the new Mrs. Crook will be able to recommend one from the catalog for you.’’
‘‘Very commendable of you to say so. Commendable, indeed.’’ She tilted her head. ‘‘Have you read the book I loaned you?’’
‘‘No, ma’am. Not yet.’’
The woman brightened. ‘‘Well, you must do so right away. Might teach you a thing or two about how to hold on to a man once you have him.’’
A spurt of defensiveness surfaced, giving Essie an overwhelming urge to explain exactly who had left whom this very afternoon, but she didn’t dare.
‘‘Don’t give up, dear. However, you must desist from that ridiculous hairstyle. Much too off-putting for attracting a man.’’ She glanced up and down Essie’s frame. ‘‘And these tomboyish ways of yours have gone on long enough. Why, just look at your skirt. A mess, to be sure. I insist you read Mrs. Clay’s novel. She’s all-knowing about these things.’’ Mrs. Lockhart punctuated her pronouncement with a tap of her cane, then continued on her way.
Essie made no pretense about moving sedately any longer. She all but ran the rest of the way home, flew through the front door and right into her mother.
‘‘What on earth?’’
‘‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mother. I wasn’t watching where I
was going.’’
Her mother took Essie in with a glance, and her eyes filled with misgiving. ‘‘What has happened?’’
‘‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’’
‘‘What happened to your hair?’’
Essie touched the back of her bun. Still intact. ‘‘It came loose when I was out riding and I lost some of my pins. This was the best I could do under the circumstances.’’
Her mouth tightened. ‘‘You fell off your machine, didn’t you?’’
Essie said nothing.
‘‘Where? In town?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Well, thank heaven for that, anyway.’’ She continued to examine Essie, disappointment evident in her expression. ‘‘I have prayed and prayed about the way you cavort about town on that thing. Have you no shame whatsoever? Do you ever wonder why you are an old maid?’’
Essie sucked in her breath.
‘‘I’m sorry to be so blunt, but it is time to face the facts. Look at you. Thirty years old and not a prospect in sight. A confirmed spinster. And it’s no wonder when you drag in with mud on your skirt and your hair in shambles.’’
Essie swallowed back the hurt. ‘‘My hair is not in shambles.’’
‘‘It is! And do you even care? Is that bicycle so important you’d rather have it than a man? Than babies of your own?’’
Essie flinched. She would, of course, rather have a man and a family, but must she really choose between that and her love of the outdoors? Surely it wasn’t an either/or decision.
‘‘Is it something I’ve done to make you act this way?’’ Mother asked.
‘‘Of course not. It’s nothing to do with you.’’
‘‘It’s everything to do with me. You’re my daughter. A reflection of me and all I stand for. And what about your father? If you haven’t a care for what people think of you or me, what about him? He holds a very important position in this town. Have you no appreciation for how hard he works? For the constant insinuations he puts up with on your behalf?’’
Try as she might, Essie could not ignore the sting her mother’s words inflicted. She knew from long experience that keeping silent was the quickest way to end these ‘‘discussions.’’ But they never ceased to hurt. Deeply.
Mother sighed. ‘‘Your father wants to see you right away in his office, but do not even think about going in there until you have at the very least put your hair to rights.’’
‘‘Yes, Mother.’’ She hurried up the stairs.
————
Essie sat in one of the upholstered armchairs opposite Papa’s desk, catching him up on their progress.
Mother stuck her head in the office. ‘‘Mr. Currington’s here.’’ She stepped back and allowed him entrance before Essie had a chance to compose herself.
He’d cleaned up, shaved, and combed back his hair, though it was still wet. How many pairs of those riveted, double-seamed denim trousers did he own?
She brushed a dried piece of dirt from her sleeve, wishing she’d had time to do more than re-pin her hair and change her skirt. But Papa had called for her before she’d had a chance to wash. As a result, she felt like a goose to Adam’s swan.
His cowboy boots thumped against the hardwood floors as he crossed the room to shake Papa’s hand. ‘‘Sir.’’
‘‘Essie tells me you’ve made quite the progress.’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’ He pinned her with his gaze. ‘‘I’m glad she’s pleased with me.’’
Feeling a slow blush move up her neck, she glanced at Papa. He, fortunately, did not notice the double entendre, nor even look her way.
‘‘She’s been singing your praises all afternoon,’’ he said.
‘‘Has she now? Well, I’m mighty glad to hear that.’’
She scrutinized the papers she was holding, praying that she could make it through this meeting without exposing her feelings.
‘‘Have a seat, son.’’
‘‘Thank ya, sir.’’ He sat in the chair beside her, boots together, knees wide apart. ‘‘I stopped by the smithy’s on my way over.’’
Adam went on to explain to Papa how the down-hole tools worked, when Mr. Fowler would have them ready, and when they should break ground.
‘‘Will Jeremy slow you down, do you think?’’ Papa asked.
‘‘Oh, he may be slim as a bed slat, but he’s a hard worker. And I’d rather have that than somebody that’s always sittin’ on his endgate. We’ll get along fine, I reckon.’’
‘‘Excellent. Essie? Do you have anything else?’’
‘‘I think that about covers it.’’ She stood and circled around the desk, withdrawing Adam’s wages from one of the drawers.
Both men stood.
‘‘Here you are, Mr. Currington,’’ she said. ‘‘Thank you for all your hard work.’’
He took the pouch. ‘‘It’s been my pleasure, Miss Spreckelmeyer.’’
‘‘Yes. Well. I’ll walk you to the door.’’
‘‘No need, ma’am.’’
‘‘I insist.’’ She led him down the hall and stepped out onto the front porch with him, closing the door behind them. She touched a finger to her mouth, indicating the open windows.
They walked to the white picket fence outlining the yard. Only when they reached the gate did she dare to speak, and even then in a whisper. ‘‘Where’s my bicycle?’’
‘‘It was purty bent up, girl. I toted it down to Fowler’s.’’
‘‘Why? What was wrong with it?’’
‘‘The frame was kinked some. He’ll have it fixed in no time.’’
Touching her waist, she looked in the general direction of the blacksmith’s shop. ‘‘What did you tell him?’’
‘‘The truth.’’
She snapped to attention. ‘‘You what?’’
‘‘I told him the truth, Essie. I’ve learned it’s best not to make my stories wider than they are tall.’’
‘‘But . . . but—oh dear. We’d better go back inside and talk to Papa. He’ll know what to do.’’
She turned around, but he grabbed her wrist. ‘‘Hold on, there, girl. I told him I tried your machine out and that it threw me forked-end up.’’
‘‘Oh. That’s all?’’
‘‘That’s all.’’
‘‘Nothing else?’’
‘‘Nothin’ else.’’
It was a moment before she realized he still held her wrist. She pulled loose and examined her fingernails.
‘‘I can’t court ya proper-like, not with you being the judge’s daughter and all.’’
She looked up. ‘‘What has that to do with anything?’’
‘‘I’m a drifter, Essie. Nobody wants a drifter comin’ to call.’’
She hesitated only a moment. ‘‘I do.’’
His expression softened. ‘‘Yer pa would squirt enough lead in me to make it a payin’ job to melt me down.’’
‘‘You don’t even know him.’’
‘‘I know he’s up for reelection. I know he’s mighty powerful in these parts. I know him and the sheriff use the same toothpick. I know it’d only take a nod from either o’ them and I’d be doing a midair ballet from a cottonwood.’’
Disappointment wilted her shoulders. She didn’t think it would be as bad as all that. Truly, Mother would be more of a problem than Papa. Even though she acted it, she wasn’t so desperate to see her daughter married off that she’d settle for just anybody. And a drifter would definitely fall into the ‘‘just anybody’’ category.
Essie also knew Papa’s tolerance level dipped awfully low before an election. If Adam were to ask permission now and Mother put up a fuss, Papa would capitulate simply because it was easier.
‘‘It don’t mean we can’t see each other,’’ Adam said.
‘‘I thought you said—’’
‘‘I said we can’t court. I never said nothin’ about spoonin’.’’
‘‘You mean, secreting away behind my parents’ backs? So
that no one knows?’’
‘‘Now, I don’t know as I’d say that, exactly. Let’s just say we’d be keepin’ things private fer a while.’’
‘‘You mean until after the election?’’
‘‘That’d be better, I think.’’
‘‘I don’t know, Adam. Perhaps if I spoke with Papa first.’’
‘‘No! No, don’t do that. It ain’t right. The man’s supposed to do the talkin’. When it comes time, I’ll go to him. Promise you won’t say nothin’.’’
The front door opened and Papa came down the steps, settling his hat on his head. ‘‘You still here, Currington?’’
‘‘Just finishin’ up a few particulars with Miss Spreckelmeyer, sir.’’
They stepped apart and Papa passed between them. ‘‘Good day, then.’’
‘‘Same to you, sir.’’
‘‘Bye, Papa.’’
They waited until he’d walked several houses down, then Adam turned back to her. ‘‘Promise me, Essie. I mean it.’’
‘‘No, Adam. I’m sorry. Either you speak to my father and court me properly or we don’t court at all.’’
He stepped through the gate. ‘‘Suit yourself, then.’’
He started down the sidewalk, his lazy gait capturing her attention and her imagination. Panic took hold. She knew without a doubt he wasn’t just walking out of her yard, he was walking out of her life.
He was handsome. He was charming. He was an outdoorsman. And if she didn’t take him up on his offer, there might never be another one—from anyone.
‘‘Adam?’’ she called.
He hesitated, then waited while she hurried to him.
‘‘Perhaps I was a bit hasty,’’ she said.
Tipping the brim of his hat back, he shifted his weight onto one foot but offered her no encouragement.
‘‘If I agree to this, um, private courtship, you’ll speak to my father after the election?’’
He gave a slow nod. ‘‘Yes, ma’am. I surely will.’’
She glanced up and down the street. Papa had long since turned the corner. There were no carriages, no horses, no people to witness her surrender.
Election Day was almost seven weeks away. What possible harm could come from keeping their courtship a secret for those few weeks?
