The Long Road Home

by Mary Alice Monroe

  From behind his book he stole glances as she sat bent over her sewing machine, wrestling with yards upon yards of thick, insulated fabric, pins protruding from her lips. He marveled at her industry—she was always working. Too often he was caught spellbound by her gentle beauty, so like her gentle spirit. Her blond hair was always swept up, either in a braid or bun, and it symbolized to him her struggle to maintain control over her life. He longed to loosen the bonds from her hair and watch it fall freely around her shoulders. It took all of his self-control to be patient, to wait for a sign from her.

  On this last evening of Nora’s first month on the farm, a gusty wind whipped over the northern ridge. C.W. walked the distance between the cabin and the house in record time. In one hand he held a stack of ledgers. In the other, a package wrapped in tissue and tied up in a bright bow. Before knocking, he adjusted the bow and stuck in a sprig of pine.

  The door of the house swung open and Nora met him with her usual welcome. He held his breath, as he always did, when he first spied Nora’s smile. Her eyes were as bright a green as the bow on his package, and they warmed him more than any fire could.

  She wore jeans and a repaired navy turtleneck of cashmere. Brown leather at her waist and feet was the only contrast in color, giving her an aura of quiet elegance. Her long hair twined in a French braid, and gold French knots adorned her ears.

  He looked over his faded flannel shirt, which was worn under another shirt of denim, and the torn pocket on his jeans. Next to Nora, who looked great even when covered with mud, he felt shabby. Once he had taken great pains with his appearance. His suits and shirts were custom tailored, his ties were designer made, and his shoes were of the finest leather. Lint on his jacket used to distract him.

  C.W. shrugged and smiled inwardly. He liked it better this way. He was confident with the knowledge of what was quality and what wasn’t—and when it mattered. Wiping his feet on the woven mat, careful not to muddy her clean floors, he handed her the package.

  “What’s this?” she asked in surprise. “It’s not my birthday.”

  “It’s not a birthday present,” he replied, gazing at his shuffling feet. “It’s sort of a housewarming present. And given that gusty wind, you can use this one.”

  Nora’s expression changed from surprise to affection, and he felt a blush rise from beneath his shearling collar.

  “Well, open it,” he said gruffly. “I’ll lay this stack of books down on the table.”

  Nora followed him, gently fingering the sprig of pine. She stared at the package in her hands for a moment. “I love it already.”

  “You don’t even know what it is.” He was pleased.

  Glancing up at him with a tease in her eyes, she gave the package a shake.

  He gave a look that said, Will you just open it.

  “Okay, okay.” She giggled. Carefully, she took off the sprig and set it into her water glass. Then in a rush, she tore open the paper and opened the box. With a confused look on her face, she pulled out a pair of gray thermal bib overalls.

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” she said, turning the overalls from front to back.

  C.W. smiled and coughed back a laugh. “They may not seem much now, but I promise you. Before you know it, you won’t step foot out of this house without them. They’re insulated and you’ll be able to hike down the mountain and do your chores at the barn without freezing that pretty—your legs off.”

  “My legs,” she repeated with a sly smile. Holding it up, she asked, “How does it look?”

  Had he known she was going to model his gift, he would have bought something besides bib overalls, he thought.

  “Fine, just fine,” he replied.

  “I’m truly touched,” she said, holding the overalls to her breast. “As presents go, this one ranks right up there with Oma’s pearls. You must have really thought about what I would need up here in the winter. And, I take it as a vote of confidence.” She felt like giving him a big hug but offered a smile instead. “I love them. I don’t know what to say. Thank you, C.W.”

  “Check the pockets.”

  With a raised brow, she fingered the bibs. “What could this be?” she asked tapping a lump in the pocket. “It feels like a small box, a jeweler’s box, perhaps?” She winked and he held back a laugh.

  She dug in and pulled out a small green tin. Casting him a suspicious glance, she read the red-and-green label.

  “Bag Balm?” she said looking up at him with a blank face. “What’s Bag Balm?” She read the small print on the label, then her face went aghast.

  “This says it’s for udders! Cow’s udders!” she cried with an expression of incredulity.

  He merely shrugged in defense and cast a wary glance at her breasts.

  “C.W.!” she shrieked in mirth as she held the overalls over her chest. “Thanks a lot.”

  At last he burst out laughing and shook his head. “You’ll need it. No, I’m serious.” He reached out for the tin and she crouched in a defensive pose.

  “Come on.” He laughed as he took the tin from her hands. “It’s the best thing for chapped hands.” Then he added, without lifting his eyes from the tin, “Whatever else you use it for is strictly your own business.”

  “You, you, cowhand you.”

  “I’ll show you how to handle a cow,” he threatened.

  Nora squealed as he grabbed her, held her in a neck lock, and administered tweaks to her ears and nose. It was almost more than he could manage not to tweak her bottom and udders. When he finally released her, she leaned against the brick wall and held her sides.

  “I hurt from laughing so hard.”

  He stood with his hands on his hips while controlling his own laughter and catching his breath. He watched Nora as she laughed. When she brushed the golden hair from her face and looked up at him, her face aglow with happiness, he felt as if someone had punched him a good one in the solar plexus. The smile disappeared from his face and his breathing pace increased again.

  With his thumb, he snapped the tight lid from the tin. Taking a sample from the balm, he held out his hand to her.

  “Come here. I’ll rub some on you.”

  Her smile faded slowly as she held out her hand. He grabbed it and pulled her close, then, ever so gently, applied the balm to her hand. It was glutinous and smelled medicinal. Nora stood without moving a muscle as his large hand massaged her small one, engulfing it as her nearness engulfed him.

  He turned her palm up and, looking into her eyes, rhythmically rubbed the balm up and down her palm, from her wrist to her fingertips. Back and forth. Glide and press.

  His breathing grew labored and his fingertips burned.

  Her lips parted and she panted shallow breaths. And still his eyes held hers, never wavering.

  “C.W.,” she said, more in a moan.

  He stopped but kept his hold on her hand. Spreading his own palm he gazed at her hand, as though it were a rare flower. Standing there, frozen for seconds, his stillness belied the war raging inside him.

  He released her hand and still without speaking, tucked the tin back into the bib’s pocket.

  “Hope it helps you out there.” His hands were back in his pockets and his eyes averted from hers. The air in the room seemed colder.

  Nora tucked away her gift in a bureau and gazed around the room at nothing. Her lips were clenched, keeping in words she wanted to say.

  “Well, let’s get to work,” he said.

  Her heart sank. She nodded.

  His gut wrenched. He nodded.

  Neither moved.

  “Thank you again for my gifts,” she ventured in whispers. “I should have given you one for the cabin.”

  “You’ve done enough. Besides, I won’t be there long. Lambing is almost done.”

  She swallowed and blinked. “Are you really going to leave?”

  “Have to.”

  She looked up in surprise.

  “Getting too cold in that cabin,” he added.

  �
��Well, you can stay here. I’ve told you that before.”

  His eyes burned into hers for what seemed an eternity. “I can’t. You know I can’t do that. Especially now.”

  She mouthed, Especially now, as she leaned slowly against the brick wall.

  He paused and rubbed his cheek in consternation. Then, eyes on her, he took three steps toward her. She measured the distance with her breaths. As he neared, she pressed back against the cool brick with her fevered hands. Now, in the few inches that remained between them, the heat from his body seemed to scorch her own, and his breath was like a flame of fire upon her head. He pressed still closer.

  She uttered a soft cry and raised her palm against his chest to stop him.

  “Shhh,” he murmured as he lowered his lips to her head. Slowly, he traced a fiery trail to her temples, to her cheekbone, to her ear.

  Her knees grew weak and her shoulders slumped. Her palm was resisting nothing and beneath it, his heart beat harder. She felt his head turn and his nose press against her cheek nudging her face upward to where he could continue his trail to her mouth. His lips teased hers like a butterfly, alighting here and there, until with a soft sigh, she relinquished and allowed the seal to open. The tip of his tongue slowly slid along the tight aperture, moistening her parched lips, then darted inside and eased them fully apart.

  Then his lips possessed hers—cool and dry, then warm and wet—as their excitement leaped. His palm slid to her breast. Whimpering softly, she inched away.

  “Let me touch you,” he entreated, his voice husky. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  Reassured, she relaxed and, sliding her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoe to meet him. Openmouthed and eager. She tottered back, but his hand grasped her bottom and anchored her firmly against him.

  Fused together, his flame struck deep and low, and she felt the rekindling of a fire she had thought long extinguished. Searing, swirling sensations traveled from her lips to her breasts to her belly, where they churned then shot back up to her brain. There, they wreaked havoc on her common sense. From somewhere came the message to slow down…to stop. But another, more urgent ache screamed to be fulfilled, drowning out any warnings for prudence. She felt starved for his kisses and hungrily sought his mouth for the passion he delivered.

  He crushed her against the wall, and she felt, for the first time in many years, the long hard pressure of a male’s passion. As his hips began to move against hers, she was curious, even desirous, to feel again that passion between her legs. Slowly, tentatively, she moved her hips to his rhythm. Their music synchronized and they began to dance to the beat of their passion.

  “Nora, Nora,” he whispered against her hair.

  The sound of her name snapped her out of rhythm and she stiffened. Mike’s image flashed before her. Her lips shut tight and she clumsily pushed him back. For a moment, C.W.’s arms held tight, as though he would not let her go. Then he dropped them and took two steps back, leaving her trembling against the warm brick wall.

  The heat of his kisses still smoldered on her lips as she took deep breaths of the cool evening air. Her heart was hammering the tale of her unabashed desire and though she shook her head in denial, she heard its truth.

  She closed her eyes in shame and confusion. A part of her soared with joy at the spark he had ignited, but another, more practical side wanted to shove it back into hiding. She had no business getting involved with anyone right now, much less some handsome drifter. And—she remembered Mike.

  When she opened her eyes, he was standing upright with his hands in his rear pockets and his gaze like flint.

  “Just so I know,” he said. “Who are you pushing away? C.W. the man or C.W. the hired hand?”

  Her mouth dropped open and she cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

  “I open a door and you slam it in my face. Why, Nora? Is it because you still mourn your husband? If so, tell me. That I can understand and respect.”

  She stiffened. “It’s not that,” she blurted out.

  He didn’t think so. “Then why, Nora?”

  “I don’t know who you are,” she explained. “Where you’re from—”

  “Or what I have to offer.”

  Her voice caught in her throat. “Just what is that supposed to imply?” Her voice rose as she did.

  “I think you know.”

  The silence spoke for itself.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, abruptly turning and grabbing his coat. “It won’t happen again.”

  She sighed deeply, whether from relief or disappointment she wasn’t sure. Her head back against the wall, she closed her eyes. “No, it won’t,” she agreed softly. The air was heavy with repressed desire.

  He turned to leave.

  Let him go, she told herself. It’s better this way. But as his hand reached for the doorknob, her resolve fled and she pushed herself from the wall.

  “C.W.!” she called.

  He stopped and swung his head, hand still on the door.

  “This has nothing to do with you. I—I just don’t want to get involved right now.”

  He shifted his weight and took a deep breath. Disappointment etched his face.

  “I wish I could believe that.” Then he turned and was gone, taking the warmth of the room with him.

  She stood beside the fire, rubbing her arms against the cold. How could he understand, she thought in dismay? He probably moved from place to place as the whim struck him, depending on his strong back and his incredible appeal. But not her. She wasn’t going anywhere. She wasn’t looking for a good time. She wanted security at last.

  C.W.’s questions flared up in her thoughts. What did he have to offer? Who was she pushing away: C.W. the man or C.W. the hired hand? She covered her face in her hands. “Both,” she said aloud. Nora wept bitterly against the rosy brick, cursing the ghost of her husband. She was afraid to take a risk again. Even after death, Mike could manipulate her rejection.

  C.W. crossed the meadow with an angry stride. But by the time he finally reached the cabin, his anger had subsided into mere frustration. After all she’d been through, he could understand her hesitation, but not her fear. Nora, he thought, don’t be so afraid.

  He pushed open the door and stood in the entry, hands on hips, lost in thought, while the night air blew in.

  There were choices he could make, if only she would give him a sign. Some indication that she wanted him. Him. The man. His fortune had already attracted far too much female attention in his life. He wanted a signal that she loved him and the future his love alone could provide. Until then, and until he could clear his name, he had to keep his identity a secret from her.

  But his patience was wearing thin, his passion was harder to keep under control. He slammed the door and kicked the potbelly stove, stirring up the embers and sending sparks flying. He’d had about enough. Time was running out. His patience with Sidney and Nora was running out. He had to find a way to wrap this business up and find it quick.

  Then, he’d never cross that damn meadow again.

  19

  IT RAINED FOR two days straight, making everyone feel as overcast as the skies. The earth turned to mud that clung to the heels of boots, the bottom of jeans, and the fleece of sheep.

  Junior stood ankle deep in mud outside the Zwingers’ two-story redbrick house. He was soaked to the skin and valiantly trying to muster enough courage to knock on the Zwingers’ freshly painted white door and speak to Katie Beth. He knew she was in there: he’d waited across the street until she returned home from the dress shop. At least she wasn’t driven home by John Henry, he thought, puffing his cheeks in relief.

  His toes were numb and his fingers were like icicles hanging from a low-pitched roof. Junior stomped his feet, succeeding only in spraying more mud on his jeans.

  “Shoot,” he muttered under his breath. He might as well get this over with before he froze out here. Taking a deep breath, he rammed his hands into his jacket pockets and marched straight up the stairs to
the front door, glancing nervously over his shoulders at the trail of mud he tracked across the freshly painted Victorian porch.

  The door was opened promptly by Fred Zwinger, Katie Beth’s father. He was big shouldered and tall and had a bristly black mustache that dark eyes glared over. Fred Zwinger had made Junior shrink in his boots ever since he could wear them. Seth had always said Fred’s stern ways was on account’a him havin’ five pretty girls to watch out for. That thought sure didn’t make asking to see the baby of the girls any easier for Junior right now.

  “Seth Jr., what are you doing standing in that rain?” Fred asked, his dark brows bobbing.

  Junior hunched and nervously stamped the mud from his boots. No one but Fred Zwinger and the reverend called him by his proper name.

  “I come to see Katie Beth. She in, sir?”

  Fred’s brows arched high in surprise. “You’re here to see Katie Beth?” He swung his head farther out of the door to check the curbside. “Where’s Frank?”

  “He ain’t here. Just me, sir.”

  Fred Zwinger stroked his mustache, perplexed. “Well, come on in. I’ll get her.”

  “No, sir. I’m full of mud. I’ll just wait here.”

  Katie Beth appeared as promptly as her father, with as much question written on her face but a lot more kindness.

  “Come on in, Junior. You’ll catch your death.” She wooed a backstepping Junior into the tile foyer, where she assured him the mud could get wiped right up without fuss. Junior sneezed loudly and backhanded his nose.

  “See, you’re catching a cold. Let me get you some blackberry brandy. It’ll take the bite off.”

  “No, no,” Junior stammered, waving his hand before his mouth. “I never touch the stuff. Makes me sick.”

  Katie Beth cocked her head and waited to hear what Junior had to say that would bring him here even in the cold rain. Her eyes were shiny and she seemed nervous, as if she anticipated that the news had to do with Frank.