The Cedar Tree (Love Is Not Enough)

by McGriffith, Danni

She turned. "Why?"

  "Didn't think you'd want him to hear it."

  "I see. You've thought of something else I've done wrong. Been unfaithful with the President of the United States, perhaps?"

  He grinned. "I could've told him somethin' like that. No. I thought of somethin' I might've got wrong."

  "How very odd."

  "I know."

  She rolled her eyes.

  "I think I said Tracy was better at makin' out than you, but after I thought about it a while, I realized I might've got that wrong."

  She stared at him incredulously. "Out of that whole conversation, that's the best you can come up with?"

  "Conversation? I thought it was a fight. You left a bruise on my shin."

  "Good."

  "I thought you'd be glad I was wrong." He acted puzzled. "What's it take to make you happy?"

  "You're such a jerk." She turned back to the window in offended silence.

  At Sunnyside, he stood next to her at the foot of the boulder. Long evening shadows fell across the rock now, but it still radiated heat. The lamb's thin cries had become hoarse and infrequent.

  "I'll have to lift you up there," he said.

  "I can climb."

  She slipped off her shoes. Searching for a handhold on the rock face, she inched up almost far enough to reach the crevice then lost her hold and slid down.

  "You're gonna tear your dress. Get on my shoulders."

  She eyed him. "No thanks."

  "How else you gonna get up there?"

  "I'll get a ladder."

  "Where?"

  "I'll go home and get one."

  "I'm not drivin' back for a ladder when it'd take five minutes for me to lift you up there."

  She turned, searching the area for an alternative.

  He stooped over. "Get on."

  After a long hesitation, she stepped onto a rock then eased onto his shoulders. She pulled at her skirt, but the insides of her bare legs made contact with his neck and face, jamming his heart into overdrive.

  "Would you quit foolin' with your skirt?" he gasped. Holding her knees, he straightened.

  "Stop looking at my legs," she snapped.

  He didn't need to look at them while every inch of contact was shooting heat through his veins. "Don't flatter yourself. I've seen better legs on a chicken."

  She strained to reach into the crevice.

  "How much do you weigh, anyway?" he grunted.

  "What?" She stopped to glare down at him.

  "Hurry up. You're pretty heavy."

  "You told me I was too skinny."

  "You must've gained weight. Can you reach it?"

  She strained against his shoulders again.

  He ran his hands down her smooth calves. "When was the last time you shaved?"

  "Stop it, you jerk!" She slapped at his hands.

  He dodged away, stumbling. She gave a startled shriek and clutched at his head. Purposely stumbling again, he grabbed her thighs.

  "You're doing that on purpose," she yelled, smacking his head.

  "Hey, it's not as easy as you seem to think to hold you up there."

  "Get your hands off my legs, Gil."

  He removed his hands and stumbled again. She screamed. Grabbing his head, she gripped it like a pumpkin between her legs and arms.

  "Ow," he exclaimed. The smell of perfume on her skin made him lightheaded. "Let go. You wanna pull my head off?"

  "Yes."

  "You think I'm an idiot with my head, think what I'd be without one."

  "Smarter?"

  "But not as good lookin'. Let go."

  "I'll fall."

  "Katie, I'm not gonna let you fall," he said irritably, trying to pry her hands off his eyes, "but I've gotta hang onto you."

  "Just put me down. I can't reach that far anyway."

  "You'll have to stand up."

  She wrenched back his head to meet her outraged glare. "No, you creep. You'll look up my dress."

  Was it his imagination, or were her hands lingering unnecessarily on his face?

  He scowled up at her. "Just hurry up so I can take you back to play with your little friends."

  She grabbed his hair and gave his head a vicious shake. "I'm so sick of you treating me like I'm ten years old."

  "Ow," he yelled, yanking away her hands. "No wonder Lance's goin' bald. Just stand up. I might do a lot of things, but I wouldn't look up a ten-year-old's dress."

  She struggled to her feet on his shoulders, clinging to the crevice in the rock while he staggered, trying to keep his balance.

  "Can you reach it now?" he panted.

  She leaned forward. He held tighter to her small-boned ankles.

  "Are you looking up my dress?"

  "Why would I do that?" he said, looking up her dress. He caught a glimpse of pink cotton panties with butterflies then by sheer force of will, he dragged his gaze down. "Besides," he said without thinking, "I've already seen your legs. And your panties. They're not that hot."

  She froze in ominous silence. "It was you."

  "Can you reach it, or not?"

  Her feet gripped his shoulders with a last effort then she slowly crouched with the panting lamb. Her skirt fell over his head and she fought to get it loose while he leaned over.

  She scrambled off his shoulders, turning on him. "You went through my stuff."

  He rubbed his hand over his face and neck where her skin still burned him. The lamb bleated loudly. Katie released it to the ewe who claimed it with frenzied relief. The lamb headed for the udder to nurse voraciously, butting and wagging the stump of its tail. Satisfied, the ewe quieted.

  "What stuff?" he asked.

  "In my bedroom."

  "Why would I do that?"

  "Give my stuff back."

  "What makes you so sure I've got it?"

  "I know you."

  His heart jumped. She knew him, and yet she was here…with him. "You still don't trust me."

  "Not about this."

  "About anything?"

  She flushed. "Gil, just give—"

  "Fine." He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Removing a twenty-dollar-bill and three ones, he fished out the ribbon. "This yours?"

  She snatched it. "You know it is. Where's my perfume?"

  The dainty bottle remained on the stand beside his bed. He thrust the twenty-dollar-bill at her. "Buy some more. Happy graduation."

  Eyes flashing, she wadded the bill and flung it at him. He caught it and tossed it back at her. She caught it then drew back to hurl the paper ball hard and contemptuously toward the water of the spring. It dropped gently to the ground a foot away. He grinned.

  She glared, but her gaze bored watchfully into his. "Why'd you take my stuff?"

  He shrugged carelessly. "Sticky fingers, I guess."

  She tossed her head with an impatient exclamation and then bent to dust off the bottoms of her feet.

  "You want some advice?" he asked.

  "No."

  He waited. She slipped on her shoes and straightened to eye him coldly.

  "In the unlikely event you can get Lance…or anybody…to marry you with that tongue in your head, you'll need some hotter panties."

  Angry color flooded her face. She opened her mouth to reply, but he turned and left her. He fed the dogs in the pens beneath the wide canopy of a cedar tree then tossed hay to the old horse. With his cheeks hot where her hands had held them for that long moment, he bowed his head onto his arms crossed on the top corral pole. She hadn't exactly caressed him, but her touch had been vividly alive as it had once been.

  Tonight she was with him, nobody else.

  "Please, God…" he prayed, raising his face to the sky.

  He returned to his truck. She was gone. He heaved a sigh. Okay. Not with him. Not tonight. She'd probably taken off walking. Fine. Serve her right. She wouldn't get far in those shoes.

  A half-mile later, he found her walking down the track carrying her shoes. He rolled up beside her, lowering the pas
senger window. She brushed angrily at tears on her cheeks.

  He eyed her across the cab. "What're you bawlin' about?"

  "Leave me alone. I pretty much hate you right now."

  "Tell me somethin' I don't already know."

  "I could write a book about things you don't know."

  He rolled the truck along beside her for a long moment. "What would you say in this book?"

  Her reddened eyes flashed at him. "I'd start by dedicating it—" sandals and ribbon dangling, she held up her hands with a flourish as though framing a poster in the sky—"to all men who think they're God's gift to women…You're so seriously deluded."

  He paused. "We're not still talkin' about me, are we?"

  She tossed her head disgustedly.

  "Because you cured me of my delusions about bein' God's gift to women a long time ago. What else would you say?"

  Her jaw set in an obstinate line. The tires ground over the stones of the rough track. She stepped on one and flinched.

  "Get in," he said. "You're missin' your party."

  "Drop dead."

  "I would, but somebody has to be the burr under your saddle."

  "Almost any male would do for that."

  "Really? Lance, too?"

  "Shut up."

  "So, how's that comin' along? I noticed he wasn't at your party. Did you break up or somethin'?"

  The setting sun gleamed on her hair curling around her stubbornly silent profile. He idled along with her for another hundred yards then rubbed his forehead in frustration. She wasn't going to tell him anything.

  "You had a birthday last week, didn't you?" he asked, changing the subject.

  "So what?"

  "Eighteen, now." He paused. "Hey, you can have a beer if you want to."

  "Maybe I will."

  He tried to picture her with a beer and couldn't. "I got you a birthday present."

  He'd bought the best softball glove he could find—she wouldn't have to share with Tim, now. Her presents were piling up. Molly, the glove, the crumpled twenty-dollar-bill. He'd eaten all the chocolates out of the heart-shaped Valentine's box he'd gotten her, but if she ever stopped being so stubborn and came back to him, he'd get her some more.

  "Will it fit up your nose?" she asked.

  "I haven't tried it."

  "Maybe you should."

  "Maybe it'll fit Tracy."

  She stopped. "You make me sick."

  "So what? One girl's just as good as another. Kinda like guys. We're all the same."

  "No, some guys are nice to me. Others are real jerks, even when I need them to—" She broke off and stalked away.

  He followed. "When you need them to what?"

  "Leave me alone."

  "What'd'you need the jerks to do, Katie? Be your second string?"

  She whirled on him, her eyes wide with anger and pain. "This isn't a stupid ball game, Gil."

  "What is this then? Tell me what we're talkin' about."

  Her lips trembled, but then she clamped them together and walked away.

  Shoving his hand through his hair, he gritted his teeth. He might as well hit himself in the head with a hammer as try to get anywhere with her.

  He pulled the truck beside her. "Get in. You won't like it if I have to get out and put you in."

  She eyed him narrowly. "You just try it."

  "If I do, I'll do somethin' I've been wantin' to do for a long time."

  "What?"

  "Smack your pretty bottom."

  She stared at him. Was that disappointment in her eyes?

  "That's what you've been wanting to do?"

  Definitely disappointment. He smiled grimly. "Every day."

  "I will always hate you."

  "Big deal."

  She walked on.

  He followed. "You thought I wanted to kiss you?"

  "You can kiss my grits."

  "Kissin' you'd be like kissin' a tangle of barbed wire, anyway."

  "Kissing you'd be like kissing a big pile of horse poop."

  "So you've thought about it?"

  "Drop dead."

  He idled the truck along beside her. "Hey," he said, finally. "I was lyin' about why I called you the other night."

  "What a shocker."

  "I actually called to tell you I was sorry for bein' so hard on you." He gentled his tone. "I know you've had a rough time. I'm not that big of a jerk."

  She hesitated, and then stopped, turning to meet his gaze.

  "Get in."

  Her gaze held his uncertainly.

  "Please."

  She grudgingly climbed in and slammed the door. They rode in silence to Rachel and Dan's driveway, still crowded with cars. He turned off the motor. Neither of them moved to get out.

  She didn't look at him. "Are you coming in?"

  "No."

  He leaned back his head on the seat, staring out his opened window at a single star glowing against the darkening sky. A slight breeze carried the warm smell of freshly mown grass, damp earth, and a child shrieking, 'Home Free,' from the shadows near the house.

  He turned his head. She had leaned back against the seat, too, her eyes closed.

  So pretty.

  Reaching across the space between them, he hooked his little finger around hers. The slight contact raced like lightning through him, exploding his longing for her. She slowly turned her head on the seat and opened her eyes, soft and full of wistful uncertainty.

  "You wanna go somewhere?" he asked quietly.

  Her hand trembled. He laced his fingers with hers, his heart thundering in his chest. Her gaze flickered to a point over his shoulder.

  And hardened to ice.

  She wrenched away, sitting upright.

  He straightened, frowning. "What in—"

  "Gil, my car's got a flat tire," Tracy said from his window. "Could you give me a ride?"

  He turned, staring at her in open-mouthed dismay.

  "Pretty please?" She smiled provocatively without glancing at Katie. "With cherries on top?"

  Katie's door opened. He turned to dive across the cab, grabbing for her arm. She dodged away and jumped out.

  "Dang it, Katie," he yelled, sick with disappointment. "Wait…"

  Snatching her shoes from the floor, she slammed the door and ran.

  Her yellow dress disappeared into the darkness. A moment later, the house door slammed. He agitatedly clutched his head.

  If he didn't go after her, he'd have to wait until morning to finish what they'd started. If he went after her now, she'd slap him down in front of everybody, ruin her party. His only other option was to go inside and act like nothing had happened, visit with her dad and the other guys, have some cake and punch. Not really an option at the moment.

  He glanced at Tracy. He couldn't leave her standing there, and he didn't want to change a flat tire right now. "Get in."

  She didn't say anything on the five minute drive to her cousin's house where she stayed during her weekend visits. He stopped his truck in the drive.

  "I didn't know you two were together, now," she said stiffly.

  "We are."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Since when?"

  "Since always."

  "So… All that at the ball game and that night didn't mean anything? You were just using me to make her jealous?"

  Oh, boy. She was getting ready to blow a gasket. He'd never guessed she'd take him serious.

  "Sorry."

  Her eyes narrowed to slits and hot color flooded her cheeks. "You…creep," she shrieked, nearly spitting at him. She shoved open the pickup door and jumped out. "I hope you get fat and bald, and then I hope you die, you stupid jerk."

  She slammed the door hard enough to rock the truck. With an enraged toss of caramel colored hair, she slung her big purse over her shoulder and huffed off toward the house.

  He backed out of the drive with an irritable spin of the steering wheel.

  Well, he'd probably die anyway.

  Chapter Twenty-one

&
nbsp; Two weeks later, his grandfather's living room door slammed on a warm June night, rattling the windows. Molly started up from the old man's lap where he sat in his chair and burst through his cattleman's paper like a circus trick, yapping shrilly.

  At the door, Gil ripped his hat off his head and flung it at its hook beside the door. "Shut your little trap, Molly," he yelled. "It's me. The guy you sleep with."

  The hat fell to the floor. He swung a kick at it. Molly stopped barking then hopped down, trotting briskly across the room to sniff his jeans. He reached down to wrench off a boot.

  "Have a good day, Son?" his grandfather asked mildly, gathering up his paper.

  "Oh," he grunted, yanking off his other boot, "it wasn't bad for a day straight from hell." He hurled the boot across the room where it thumped down with a clank of spur. Pacing across the room, he churned his hair. "I can't take it anymore. I'm done with her. I mean it."

  "That's what you said yesterday."

  "I really mean it today. I can't take any more."

  His grandfather shook his paper. "What'd she do today?"

  "What didn't she do?" He stopped suddenly, taking a girlish stance with his hands on his hips as he rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me what to do, Buster," he said in squeaky falsetto. "If I wanna ride Candy at a dead run down the steepest, rockiest hill I can find, I will. What's it to you?" He tossed his head and twitched his hips.

  The old man eyed him over his reading glasses.

  "You think this's funny, Gramps? This ain't funny. She's seriously messed up." He strode to his grandfather's chair, thrusting his right index finger at him. The finger sported a piece of blood soaked handkerchief wrapped around with grey tape. "Look at this. She nearly cut my finger off today while we were castratin' a lamb we missed earlier. Just because I yelled and jumped around a little, she called me a pansy and—"

  The old man ducked behind his paper.

  "Hey. What's it called when you don't have any feelin's? Psychopathic? Psychotic? That's her. I was bleedin' like a stuck hog all over the place, but all she cared about was me gettin' blood on her shirt." He glared at the paper. "That's just wrong. I didn't think church girls were supposed to act that way."

  "They ain't, Son." His grandfather's voice sounded choked. "That little gal's plumb outta hand."

  Plumb outta hand. The old man could say that again.

  He flung himself into his chair, puffing up dust in a cloud. Katie was driving him crazy. He sneezed thunderously. Molly fetched her toy bear to drop it at his feet.