by Carol Arens
He’d attempted to hire a deputy to help out so that he wouldn’t be called away from the reception but no one wanted the job.
The boardwalk was deserted this time of night with the shops closed and folks in their homes.
Everything was peaceful except for the occasional shout that erupted from the saloon a block over.
Walking past the Parson home, he heard the baby crying and Mrs. Parson singing a lullaby.
It was one of the sweetest sounds he had ever heard. Children were a great blessing.
This afternoon while watching Ivy, Travis and their little one together, he’d nearly wept. He wasn’t sure what the emotion behind the withheld tears was.
Joy at seeing Ivy so happy—watching with longing while Agatha tickled the round little belly—sorrow that he would never tickle the belly of his own child—all these things probably.
And hope—it poked its improbable head up through his angst. He quashed it as soon as he noticed a smile tugging his mouth. Not once but several times since he’d left Agatha in her lacy shift he’d had to deny hope.
He’d accepted the fact that his marriage would be barren of intimacy and children. When he demanded that Agatha marry him, in spite of what he had hoped for, he’d accepted the fact his career would be satisfaction enough.
For the sake of his aspirations he had denied what he wanted and reconciled himself to the reality that he would marry an appropriate woman—be fond of her, but not fall in love with her.
Before he had decided to marry Agatha, he’d believed he would feel respect and affection for his wife and love for his children.
The opposite had happened. He loved his wife and would have no children.
There was nothing he could do about that—the situation was beyond his control.
If there was one thing he disliked, it was a situation out of his control.
So here he was, walking along under a canopy of sparkling stars, feeling like he might spin away like a top wound too tight.
Nothing seemed under his control. Certainly not life—not death.
Yes, he had Dr. Connor’s assurance that all would probably be well for Agatha bearing a child.
And yes, she was no longer the weak girl he had felt protective of that stormy night when he’d danced with her at the Lucky Clover. That night he’d felt like he had been holding a porcelain doll in his arms.
One thing he had learned about his wife was that she was not a glass doll.
Damn! All the reassurance in the world would do no good because giving birth was a risky thing to do.
He had no control over it. The only thing he could do was make sure he never put his wife in that sort of danger.
From half a block away, he still heard the baby’s faint cry. He remembered seeing Mr. Parson standing in his window looking like he had been given the most precious treasure of his life.
He and Agatha might have that treasure, too. If only he could let go. Be willing to accept that it was all right for things to happen that were beyond his right to control.
All those gamblers at Pete’s knew about risks, were eagerly looking forward to them, even though all they would win was money.
He stood to gain far more—or lose it.
A gunshot cracked, ruining the peace of the sleepy town. It might have been fired by someone chasing off coyotes.
More likely it came from the saloon.
He meant to go there anyway. His business with Hilda Brunne was urgent.
It was also tricky. He wondered again whether a crazy woman who had never been charged with a crime could be arrested? Did he have any grounds to put her away? He’d know that if he were a real sheriff, not a politician with a badge pinned to his chest.
Brunne had been deceitful when she’d lured Ivy into a storm. Left her in the path of stampeding cattle by running off with the only horse.
He couldn’t imagine a judge charging her with attempted murder, though. Ivy was the only witness and in the end, she had not been harmed.
For a long time, everyone assumed justice had been served, believing Brunne to be dead.
Crossing the street, he climbed the porch stairs, went inside.
Men were drinking, dallying with women, but not gambling much. Must be saving their luck for tomorrow.
Lounging at a table, his boot propped on it, Pete waggled his cigar, inviting William over.
“What do you want this time? Paying a visit as sheriff I assume?” Pete snuffed out his cigar. Rings of smoke twirled toward the ceiling.
He nodded. “Folks don’t like your business.”
“Now that’s a downright shame. But no matter. Don’t see why you and I can’t be sociable. Perhaps come to an understanding about how to keep peace in our fine town.”
“You don’t break the law. We have peace.”
“I am a law-abiding man.” Lydle traced the rim of a shot glass with his long, slender finger. “But things do happen that are beyond my control. I’m sure you understand. I do my best but sometimes when men drink, things happen.”
“I heard a gunshot. Sounded like it came from here.”
“Might have. Like I said, things do happen. What I suggest is monetary compensation. You hear a noise and ignore it, I give you money every week.”
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself, then.” Lifting his leg off the table he thumped it on the floor then slid a glance at a burly-looking man standing at the bar. The patch over his eye made him seem like a pirate. Some sort of understanding passed between them. He didn’t have to be a lifelong sheriff to understand the saber rattling going on. “Have a drink, play some cards. Oh, wait... I bet you’d like a woman.”
“That’s what I came for.”
Lydle’s brows shot up. The curve of his smile brought to mind a snake’s unhurried, sinuous slither.
With a flick of his fingers he summoned a bare-shouldered harlot standing beside the man with the eye patch.
“Send out Hilda Brunne,” William said.
That made Lydle laugh, slap his open palm on the table.
“She’s the one I want.”
“Ain’t here. She went out.”
“Where to?”
“Couldn’t say, but don’t go getting any ideas about finding her and cheating me of my money. My women belong to me. Even that dried-out old hag is under my protection—so to speak. The Palace does not give anything away for free.”
Whether the man was telling the truth or not about Brunne going out was a coin toss.
With the odds even, he’d better get home.
* * *
William arrived home to find the guests who were staying in the mansion gathered in the ballroom.
The large space had been used for the town’s Christmas gatherings, for weddings or any event that required a big, festive room.
This evening Mother had gathered her guests for a performance by the orchestra she’d hired for the reception.
After the dirty feeling he had leaving the saloon, he wouldn’t mind sitting and listening to the orchestra, letting beautiful melodies wash away the ugliness.
First he had to check the backyard, make sure that Brunne was not in hiding in the shrubbery or peeking in windows. It was unlikely, with so many people who might see her, but he did need to satisfy himself.
It turned out there was only one person in the yard.
Agatha.
She sat on the wood dance floor with her back toward him. Her legs were folded under her while she swayed slightly to the music drifting out of the open ballroom doors.
Eyes closed, she tilted her face toward the star-spangled sky. Was she seeing something behind her eyelids that was more wondrous than the show overhead?
It was hard to imagine what that could
be until it occurred to him that he was not looking at the sky, either.
Nothing in that moment could be as enchanting as watching the play of lamplight in her hair. She’d left it loose with only a green ribbon to tie the wavy mass at her nape.
Not wanting to disturb her peace like he had earlier in the day when he’d invaded her bedroom and given her good cause to be angry with him, he approached the dance floor silently.
After the women he’d seen at the saloon, she was a cleansing breath, the same way the music was. The one and only thing he wanted—needed desperately, was to stand and watch her upturned face while she swayed to the melody.
Until she lifted her hand, that was. It was as though an invisible partner had asked her to dance. She smiled, accepting the invitation.
All of a sudden, watching was not enough.
Stepping silently onto the dance floor, he clasped her fingers. Her eyes opened, growing round in surprise.
“Good evening, Miss Magee,” he said the same as he had the night of the barbecue at the Lucky Clover when he’d asked Ivy’s weakling sister for a dance. “You look fetching this evening.”
Funny how the moment came back to his mind so clearly. He heard the drum of rain on the roof and the distant rumble of thunder. He recalled how her eyes suddenly sparkled when he spoke to her. He remembered the way she’d resisted for a moment but then given herself to him in trust.
Like that night, the ghost of a tremor shook her hand when he touched her.
“I believe this dance was meant for us.”
He had felt tenderness for her even then. His intention that night had been to bring a moment of joy into a life that seemed subdued.
He’d promised that he would not let her fall.
Tonight, she rose gracefully from the floor, poetry in motion, really. She did not need to grip his hand for leverage or balance.
In spite of the fact that she had every right to be angry with him for the way he had acted earlier, she smiled.
In the flash of a second, as quickly as the star that just shot across the sky, he saw the truth—accepted it deep in his heart.
Agatha Marigold Magee, the girl he had danced with that night, was a different person than Agatha Marigold English.
Or rather, she was the same, but the lovely woman she had been meant to be had been suppressed, forced into submission by the very one who should have nurtured her.
The Agatha he held in his arms now was free. He would like to think he had something to do with that, but he hadn’t.
It had been all her from the time she took her first step in order to please her sister, to the moment she walked away from the security of home, to right now, when she stepped into his arms, smiling and self-assured.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair and tugged her tight to his chest. Clearly, she held no grudge but the words needed to be said. She deserved to hear them.
“Forgiven.”
Just like that she put his high-handedness behind her. No lingering resentment, no wanting to make him grovel. She just forgave him.
He buried his face into the side of her neck. “I never expected you.”
“I always dreamed of you.”
He felt the swish of her skirts brush his boots when he twirled her slowly about the dance floor, breathed deeply of the fragrance of roses in her hair.
Looking up he saw his mother standing in the doorway, smiling. She blew him a kiss, turned and went back to her guests.
“Will you walk with me?” He had some things to say and wanted privacy for it.
He led her to the stream that ran through the yard on the other side of the fence.
It was a pretty place during the day, but magical at night.
“It sounds refreshing.” She touched his arm while he led her down the bank.
“Sure does, especially right now.”
Agatha let go of his arm and sat beside the water.
“Can you imagine the coolness running between your toes? I’m taking off my shoes.”
His mind burst to life imagining things that might happen in this private spot.
Gathering her skirt into her lap, she bent to roll down her stockings.
As soon as her feet slid into the water she sighed, twice.
Settling down beside her, he found it hard not to imagine water lapping at more than his wife’s feet.
She leaned back on her arms, gazing up. “It looks beautiful with the stars peeking in and out of the branches. And the way the leaves rustle together, it’s so peaceful I could drift off to sleep.”
She was right. It was peaceful, with nature’s song melding with music from the house, floating across the water and among the branches.
Since he could think of no casual way to bring up what he wanted to say he blurted out, “I read Dr. Connor’s letter.”
He wasn’t sure what he had expected her to say, but it wasn’t nothing. She glanced at him without a frown, without a smile, then lay back on the wild grass. Folding her hands across her ribs, she looked up at the leaves twisting in the warm breeze.
A raccoon wandering by on the opposite bank in search of fish stopped to look at them. He washed his hands in the stream them scurried through the brush, going further upstream.
“You did also speak with him.”
Easing down on his elbow, he lay his hand across her ribs, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing.
“Yes. But it was reading the letter a dozen times that made me realize something.”
“That I’m no more at risk than any other woman?”
He shook his head. As he moved his hand up, his finger skimmed the swell of her breast. He twisted the pearl button on her blouse. She was dressed casually for an evening at home. He could strip her bare, lay her down in the cool water without much effort.
He ought to do it. The question was, would she allow it, given that he had spent their brief marriage forbidding a physical bond with her?
“Only God knows that. No, what I discovered was about myself.” The button was smooth. It slipped open easily.
“I’m fascinated. What did you discover?”
That he liked pearl buttons. The rest of them slid open to her waist with a whisper.
“Some things are beyond my control.” He drew the blouse from the waistband of her skirt and found that she had not worn a corset tonight.
She sat up, shrugged out of the blouse. “Some things are not.”
While he lay gazing up at her she whisked her camisole off.
“But I wonder if some things are in my control,” she murmured while she slowly flipped open the buttons on his shirt.
“Yes.” Everything was in her control. It was what he wanted to tell her, but more eloquently. The problem was, watching her undress stole his ability to put words together.
The desire to reach up and cup her, run his palm over her pink nipples made his hands ache. He would not do it until he’d had his say.
A damn hard thing to do when emotion squeezed his throat until it ached.
“It’s too hot,” she whispered, with a sidelong glance at the water.
“I do believe that’s under our control.”
With a quick grin she stood, shimmed out of her skirt and everything else.
Standing naked in the stream, she bent over, scooped up a handful of water then dribbled it down her neck, her chest. It ran in rivulets over her firm belly.
She had tried to show him that she was fit, forced him to touch her arms and legs. But his mind had been closed to accepting the fact.
If he had been blind to her earlier, it was impossible to be so now.
Stooping once more she caught up another handful of water, dribbled it on her head then rose with ease. She kicked up a spray of water
with her toes. Cool sprinkles hit his face.
Laughing, he shed his clothes, dashed into the stream splashing, kicking up waves of water at her.
Catching her about the waist he picked her up and spun her around. Damp hair tickled his nose. Her smooth, round backside slid against his belly when she wriggled and kicked, pretending she wanted to get loose. His grip about her waist slipped up. He felt the ripple of her ribs. The weight of her breasts jiggled on top of his arms, tickling the coarse hair that grew there.
By playing in the water, they did have some control over the heat on the surface of their skin.
Inside, he felt like a simmering teapot ready to scream.
Reluctantly, he set her feet back into the stream, but it was hard to quit laughing because—because it felt so damn good.
On the other side of the fence was a mad woman, a gambling tournament, a town with no real sheriff and his mother’s perfect party.
He’d rather stand in the stream, shaking with laughter in the arms of a naked woman—his naked woman.
She turned, flung her arms about his middle.
“I—I—can’t stop—giggling. I don’t even—know what’s so funny.”
“Me, either, but I think we should stand here just like this until we figure it out.”
He pressed her back with open fingers, slid them down the firm dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
If she had been frail at one time she was no longer.
“I truly cannot remember when I’ve had such a good time,” he said, slowly gaining control over the hilarity of nothing. Although, he didn’t really want to.
At the same time he noticed Agatha’s giggles slowing.
She tipped her face up to him. He traced the water drops on her face with one finger, down her nose, and circled her cheeks then the curve of her smile.
“I want to tell you something, Agatha.”
“All right.” She kissed his finger then sat down in the slow-running stream, cross-legged. “I need to cool off while you do.”
He did the same, his knees brushing hers. It did not make him cool off any. In fact he thought it might be a very long time before he did—years, decades, never maybe.
