Sweet Annie

by Cheryl St. John

  The candid statement hung in the night air. They treated her like a child. Somewhere over the years she'd grown into a woman, but they hadn't acknowl­edged it. Her mother chided and protected, her father pampered and decided, and Burdy...well Burdy was Burdy.

  "They don't see me as a person, not a real person," she said, the disclosure tumbling out. “To my parents, to my friends, to the whole world, I'm poor little An-me.

  "But not to you," he said.

  "Even the things that I can do, they don't allow me to do. I'm able to care for my nephew, I can hold him and play with him. I can help with dinner and chores and all kinds of things." Tears had gathered behind her eyes and she swallowed hard to keep them from her voice. "I'm not just a burden." Annie looked up at him. "I can stand. I can walk...a little."

  She'd never shared these feelings with anyone. Sharing her secret shame made her feel vulnerable, but also free and, somehow, unburdened.

  "Well then, stand up, Annie."

  She just stared at him.

  "You want to, don't you?"

  "Yes. But—it's embarrassing."

  "To who? There's just me and you out here."

  Annie glanced back at the light pouring from the windowpanes of the social hall. The strains of the mu­sic reached them, sounding faraway and off-key. No one would see.

  She stepped across the wooden footrest to reach the ground, and pushed against the arms of her chair for leverage. Slowly, she lifted her weight until she was upright. The chair remained safely behind her.

  "Have you ever stood outside at night before?"

  "Not for years."

  He rolled the chair completely away, surprising her. She stood in the open, nothing to fall onto except the hard earth. Her heart hammered and she felt quite vul­nerable.

  Luke reached for her hand.

  She grasped it like a lifeline.

  "Let's walk away from the tree and stand under the stars," he coaxed.

  "But there are roots."

  "If you fall, I'll pick you up."

  She pictured herself falling, pictured him picking her up, dusting her off, as she'd seen Diana do to little Will so many times. She laughed out loud.

  Yes, he could pick her up. What was so awful about falling? What was the worst thing that could happen to her? A skinned knee? A dirty dress? A bruised ego?

  Holding his strong, callused hand, she moved for­ward across the grass with her ungainly limp. Since her childhood, she'd stolen only secret steps in her room, never outside on the ground. She'd forgotten how the grass felt beneath her shoes.

  "Wrangler's over here," he said, leading her to­ward the penned horses.

  "Is he? You rode him?"

  Luke clucked and his horse stepped away from a cluster of animals and walked over to the pine pole fence.

  Annie placed her left hand on the fence for support. Luke released her other hand and turned it over, plac­ing her palm on Wrangler's soft nose.

  Annie smiled and stroked the horse's bony fore­head. He nuzzled the front of Luke's shirt. Luke took something from his pocket and opened his palm. The horse bit it delicately and crunched.

  "What was that?"

  "A sugar cube. They were on the table with the coffee."

  "I think those were intended for the coffee," she said with a grin.

  "I had punch, which was delicious, even without whiskey, because you poured it."

  She turned toward him. Moonlight bathed his black hair and his broad shoulders, now only an arm's length from her touch.

  "I wanted to taste the sweetness on your fingers," he said softly.

  Annie's heart kicked against her ribs at his words, at the thought of his lips, his tongue on her fingers. This wasn't just flattery, it was a wicked thing to say, she was sure. "Did you gentlemen drink whiskey and smoke cigars at your gathering?'' she asked, to change the subject.

  "We did."

  It sounded sinful, but not as sinful as him tasting her fingers. Her fingertips tingled at the suggestive thought.

  And then Annie did the craziest, boldest, most spon­taneous thing she'd ever done in her life. She reached across the distance between them and touched his mouth. He had a small scar on his top lip that she remembered seeing in the sunlight, and she traced his lip, searching by feel. "You have a scar on your lip... here."

  "Mm-hmm."

  Beneath her fingers, his lips were warm and smooth, pliant, and ever so sensual. "Where did you get it?"

  His mouth formed the word she felt from her fingers to her heart. "Burdell."

  The image of that day burst into her mind with cruel vengeance. Luke hadn't stood a chance against her much larger and stronger brother, not to mention his crowd of friends. She vividly remembered the trickle of crimson at the corner of his mouth. She'd cried her heart out night after night, wondering if he was all right. If he hated her.

  "Did you hate me, Luke?"

  He raised a hand and circled her wrist, his long hard fingers gently enveloping. "Of course not."

  "I'm sorry." The words were so inadequate, she was ashamed to have said them.

  "The only thing I was ever sorry about was that your family hated me after that. I never got close enough to talk to you again."

  "They just meant to protect me," she said, knowing that she was defending them, and not meaning to ex­cuse what had happened to Luke.

  "They mean well," he agreed against the sensitive pads of her fingers. A moment later, he opened his mouth and touched his warm damp tongue to her skin.

  Annie's arm jerked, but she didn't draw away. His breath, hot and moist, sent a shiver up her arm to her breasts and tightened them. Her whole body tingled with unfamiliar anticipation.

  "I probably taste like horse," she said in a shaky whisper.

  "I eat and sleep horses, so I wouldn't notice," he said. "I think you taste like peppermint ice cream."

  She laughed then, an expression of nervous release and tactile enjoyment.

  Luke cupped her hand and pulled it away from his mouth at the same time he stepped in and drew her close with his other arm. "I want to kiss you."

  Annie'd seen her father give her mother pecks on the cheek. She'd seen Diana kiss Will. But she'd seen Guy Halverson kiss his new bride after they were pro­nounced man and wife that afternoon, and she knew the kiss Luke intended to give her was more like that one. And she wanted him to.

  She moved her hand from the pine rail to his shoul­der for support. Beneath her palm he was strong and solid, the arm around her waist muscled, yet unre-stricting.

  She raised her face expectantly. Luke lowered his head and covered her lips with his, a sweet press of flesh and a gentle bonding of souls. She felt beautiful and desirable and feminine in his arms, heady emo­tions she'd never felt before.

  There was no pity in this kiss, no embarrassment, no condescension. The moment was filled with hon­eyed yearning, joint appreciation and desire. All the loneliness of a lifetime welled up to be purged by this one kiss.

  He raised his head, separating their lips, and Annie almost cried with disappointment that it was over. But he made no move to pull away, placing a palm along her cheek, grazing the curls at her temple with his fingertips. "You're delicate, Annie," he said, his breath against her cheek. "But you're stronger than anyone thinks."

  "I'm not so delicate," she said, denying the frailty she so detested. "I'm not delicate at all." She threaded her fingers into the satiny cool hair at the back of his neck and tightened them as though to hold him captive with that gentle grip.

  Luke bracketed her jaw with both hands and kissed her deeply, stealing her breath and her hesitation, and giving her confidence and a newfound sense of delight. She pressed a palm against his shirtfront to steady herself and his warmth seeped into her skin.

  The smell and feel and taste of him saturated her senses. Luke was the only person in her entire world at that moment.

  Her heart raced, rushing blood to tingle across her skin and pound in her ears. Her body caugh
t fire and thrummed to the beat of Luke's heart beneath her palm.

  Luke raised his head, and she had to untangle his hair from her fist. He took her hands and held them firmly, stepping back and placing distance between their bodies. "Annie," he said on a gust of released air. "Sweet, sweet Annie."

  Annie's heart soared with a sense of freedom. "I never imagined," she said shakily.

  "I did," came his hoarse confession. "But this was better than my dreams."

  "You imagined kissing me?" "Yes."

  Why? Why would he even look twice at her when there were so many pretty, healthy girls in Copper Creek? The knowledge astounded her. Pleased her be­yond measure.

  "You'd better get back," he said, "before they come looking for you."

  "I'll see you again?" she asked, then bit her lip at her forwardness.

  "I'll find a way," he promised. He placed her hand on the rail and went for her chair. Annie seated herself and Luke pushed her close to the building. "I promise, Annie," he said before he disappeared into the night.

  She sat alone for a few minutes, savoring the pre­cious minutes they'd spent together. Finally, she pushed herself toward the rear entrance, but her arms had grown tired, and she paused.

  "Annie! There you are!" Burdell rounded the cor­ner of the building. "We've been looking for you."

  "I just came out for some air."

  "Mama said you didn't have your lap robe."

  "I was warm enough."

  He pushed her chair toward the social hall, and An­nie didn't even dread spending the rest of the evening sitting in her chair along the wall. She had the price­less memory of Luke's kiss to savor until he found a way to see her again.

  "I want to help with the cleaning today, Mama," Annie told her mother the following Monday morning.

  "Nonsense, Annie," Mother said, looking up from the tasks she'd been listing on a piece of paper for the young woman who worked for them part-time. “Mrs. Harper can handle the heavy chores as she always does. I am prepared to do the dusting myself."

  "I can do the dusting," Annie said, pushing her chair forward.

  "It's not an appropriate task for you," her mother disagreed. "You have your books to read and your sewing to keep you busy."

  "Well then, just what am I good for?" Annie asked in exasperation.

  "We love you, darling," her mother said in her most patronizing voice. "You're our precious girl. We don't expect you to tax yourself with household chores."

  "Tax myself? Mother, I'm bored out of my mind most of the time. I feel useless sitting here. Worth­less!"

  "Get that out of your head right now," her mother said sternly. "You most certainly are not worthless."

  "Then let me help," Annie begged. "I have trouble walking, Mama. I don't have a weak heart or a feeble constitution. I need to do something!"

  As though Annie's declaration had disoriented her, Mildred laid down the ink pen and stood, glancing about the drawing room, her expression one of bewil­derment. "What's come over you, child?"

  "She could dust the tables and the lamps, Mrs. Sweetwater," Glenda Harper suggested kindly.

  Annie turned and gave the young woman a grateful smile.

  Her mother clasped and unclasped her hands. "Well...I suppose so."

  Glenda brought Annie rags and a tin of lemon pol­ish. "I'll get you an apron, Miss Annie, so you don't soil your pretty dress."

  "Your dress is unsuitable," her mother commented.

  "I don't have any normal dresses, Mother," Annie told her. Her entire wardrobe consisted of fancy frilly feminine clothing in an array of delicate fabrics and colors. "Everything looks like it belongs on one of those Dresden dolls in my room."

  "Don't be ungrateful, young lady," her mother said. “Most girls would be pleased to have the advan­tages you've had."

  "Most girls would, but I'm no longer a girl."

  "Annie, this talk is most unbecoming. I've agreed to allow you to dust, even though it's against my better judgment. Don't be impertinent."

  Feeling as though she'd waged a battle and won only a small victory, Annie set herself to the task of waxing the tables and dusting the lamps and the bric-a-brac.

  The work was rewarding, though frustrating, be­cause there were so many occasions she had to reach a little higher or a little lower, and had to ask Glenda to hand her something or reach for her. The good-natured young mother took Annie's requests for help in stride, however, encouraging her with warm smiles, and never seeming put out.

  "We're dining with the Millers this evening," her mother reminded her. She had finished her chores in time to bathe and dress. "Be ready by seven."

  "I'm going to stay home," Annie told her. "I'll find myself something to eat."

  "But you can't stay home by yourself."

  "Mother. We've been though this before. The Mill­ers are in their seventies, and their house smells like moth cakes. I can stay home by myself, and I can manage just fine. I stayed home last time you went."

  "We don't want them to think you're rude."

  "Let them think I'm bored, then. I can't take an­other discussion of Mr. Miller's joint aches."

  "He's a business partner of your father's."

  "I know that. Sometimes business and dinner don't mix, especially when one has to dine in that mauso­leum of a house."

  "The Miller house is a landmark, as you very well know. For someone as fortunate as you, Miss Annie Sweetwater, you have certainly become a corn-plainer."

  Chastised, Annie regretted her unkind words. Her parents' friends had been nothing but kind to her. And her mother and father had provided for her in every way they knew how, and to the best of their ability. "I didn't mean to be ungrateful, Mother. I know I'm far more fortunate than many people."

  "I know your situation can be frustrating at times, dearling," her mother said, kissing her cheek. "We can go without you tonight."

  "Oh, thank you," Annie said, giving her mother a quick hug.

  Going about her business, Mildred quickly left the room. Glenda gathered the cleaning supplies.

  "Glenda?"

  The young woman cast Annie a smile. "Yes?"

  "I wonder..." Annie rolled her chair to the cherry wood desk. "If I gave you a note, would you mind delivering it on your way home?"

  "Not at all."

  "It would be our secret," Annie added quickly. Glenda nodded her agreement. "All right."

  Annie took a sheet of parchment and dipped her father's pen in a bottle of ink before writing a brief note, waving the paper to dry the ink, then folding it. She melted a drop of wax and sealed the fold with a brass stamp that smashed the wax into the shape of a horse's head. Annie handed the note to Glenda. "Give it to Mr. Carpenter at the livery, please."

  Surprise lit Glenda's honey-colored eyes.

  "You know who he is?"

  Quickly, she looked down at the note in her hands. "I know."

  "Thank you, Glenda."

  "You're welcome." She slipped the paper into her apron pocket and carried a rolled pile of rags from the room.

  Annie's heart reacted belatedly at what she'd done, thumping against her breast like a trapped wild bird. She could trust Glenda. She would give Luke the note without letting Annie's mother know.

  Would he think her forward? Scandalous? More im­portantly—would he come?

  Annie removed the apron, rolled her chair to her room, and washed the dust and polish from her hands and face.

  An hour later, she was in the kitchen when her fa­ther called, "Annie!"

  "In here, Daddy."

  "Your mother tells me you're not going with us this evening."

  "No. You have a good time."

  “What are you doing?''

  "I'm fixing myself something to eat."

  "You can't cook."

  "I'm doing a pretty fair job of pretending that I can, then." Following the directions in a cookbook she'd discovered, she had rolled a pie crust, and was fluting the edges around the dried apple filling s
he'd stirred together. "Glenda lit the oven for me before she left."

  "Well, baking will have to wait until tomorrow. I would worry all evening that you'd burned the house down."

  She frowned. "Daddy."

  "You don't need to cook for yourself," he said in a discouraging tone.

  "Maybe I just want to."

  "You always did want to do more than you were capable of. Bank the fire now. I'm sure Mrs. Harper left something you can eat without a fire."

  She refused to let his words steal the air from her sails. She'd been flying high all afternoon, but of course she had to be reminded of her limitations on a regular basis. "Perhaps I'm capable of more than you allow," she said softly.

  He stepped closer, and she turned to look up at his face. "It's not only injury I protect you from, daugh­ter," he said softly. "It's disappointment and cruelty."

  "I know. I'm sure that having a daughter such as I, you understand disappointment."

  "Annie," he admonished, coming close and bend­ing to press his freshly shaven cheek against hers. "You're my darling girl, you've never been a disap­pointment."

  Annie returned his hug, then brushed a spot of flour from the collar of his suit. "Enjoy your evening."

  "We shall. Good night. Bank the fire now. And you're not to go outside. Keep the door locked."

  "I will."

  As soon as she heard the Millers' carriage come for them, she opened the oven door and gently placed her pie inside.

  By the time she had cleaned up her baking area and washed the utensils, she was so hungry, she sliced her­self bread and cheese and nibbled a few olives.

  When her pie was finished, she removed it from the oven and admired the golden crust with cinnamon-scented juice bubbling in the slits. Placing it on a counter to cool, she banked the fire, then rolled to her room, washed and changed into a clean dress.

  The evening feeling cool now that the sun had gone down, Annie placed a shawl around her shoulders and maneuvered her chair out the front door. The sill of the door frame had been specially constructed for ease in wheeling her chair onto the wide porch where she often sat.

  In the day, she read in the west corner, where the sun warmed her of an afternoon. In the evening, she sat where she could watch the stars and see the moon over the mountains. Tonight the moon was only half-full, but the sky was bright and clear.