by Jo Goodman
“So is this. You begin. I’ll follow.” He waited, eyebrows raised in patient expectation. He was careful not to challenge her. She would not have hesitated to meet that, but it was not what he wanted. He could sense her caution, just as he had sensed it in the kitchen, and what he wanted was her trust. Everything he had said about the kiss they shared was true, but then he had not mentioned that he suspected she had been anxious, perhaps even afraid, and what followed was her proving that she wasn’t. He did not believe he was the sole source of her wariness. There was something else that made her pause, something that she reflected on before she could move ahead.
It happened now. He could see it was not a puzzle that occupied her; it was a memory. Her eyes were distant, vaguely unfocused, but they moved slightly as though she were reading or reviewing an image in her mind’s eye. It did not last long, and it would have been easy to miss if he had not been looking for it, and it was easy to forget when her mouth touched his.
She sought his lips tentatively at first, brushing them so lightly it was the warm whisper of her breath that he felt, not the pressure of her mouth. When his lips curved in a faint smile, she tilted her head and put her lips to his again, this time matching the curve. Her mouth opened and she sipped on his upper lip. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders as she sought purchase. She held on as though she thought he might dislodge her from his lap.
It was the very last thing Israel wanted. He held her firmly, and when her mouth covered his again, he applied pressure in return. Her lips parted and then so did his, and the kiss that had been so sweetly started became lusty and carnal. Her mouth slanted across his and the tip of her tongue traced the line between his lips and along the ridge of his teeth. He sucked it into his mouth, twisting his tongue around hers, teasing her with forays and retreats, forcing her to explore and expand her awareness of him.
It was clear to Israel now that Willa had to know he was the one she was kissing. Above all else, she had to know that, and it meant familiarity with the taste and heat and smell of him. When she broke off the kiss and buried her hot face in the curve of his neck and breathed deeply, he was satisfied with that because to his way of thinking, it meant she was learning. He was also selfishly relieved that she did not remain there long.
Her mouth came back to his. Her lips were damp, succulent. She tasted of peppermint and more faintly of whiskey. He heard her breath catch and he liked that little hiccup, liked it for reminding him that it was something they shared. The breath that wasn’t trapped in his throat, she had already taken away.
She briefly hummed her pleasure against his mouth. It was light and soft and it tickled his lips. It was not, thank the Lord, “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” but the thought that it could have been made him choke back a chuckle.
Willa pulled back, searched his face, suspiciousness in hers. “What was that?”
He made a show of swallowing hard. “That was ticklish.”
“What? What was?”
“The humming.” And to keep her from thinking about it too deeply, he put his lips against hers and did the same. He felt the change in the shape of her mouth under his. She was smiling, and then she hiccupped again, but this time it was because she was trying to hold on to a laugh. He knew because he felt the first stirrings of it with the hand he had against her back.
He raised his head. “‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’?”
She nodded. “You?”
“The same thought.” Israel blinked when Willa smiled again, this time brilliantly. It touched every part of her face, but most especially her eyes. He drank it in, but not all of it. He did not believe he deserved all of it. “So there are things you don’t take seriously. I suppose I was hoping that kissing was not one of them.” His smile was a shade rueful. “Do you think we can come back from that lapse into humor?”
“Oh, I think so.” To prove it, she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him hard on the mouth.
“I guess we can,” he whispered when she put a hairsbreadth space between them. “That is very good to know.”
Willa briefly touched her forehead to his and released his face. She returned her hands to his shoulders as she drew back and sought a more comfortable position on his lap.
Israel gritted his teeth and winced.
“I’m too heavy for you,” she said.
“No. You’re not.” He moved his hand from her hip and slipped it under the curve of her bottom. He shifted her in his lap until they were both satisfied with the fit, he perhaps more so because she was pressing in an agreeable way against the bulge in his trousers. Israel moved the hand he had resting on her back to her nape and made a half circle around her neck with his thumb and fingers. His thumb did a slow up and down pass from the base of her ear to the knob of her collarbone. He brushed loose tendrils of hair out of the way.
Israel bent his head and kissed her where his thumb had been. He sucked gently, heard her whimper, and moved on, kissing her once on the jaw, her cheek, and then the corner of her mouth.
He kissed her deeply, slowly, with heat blossoming in his belly and in his groin. She answered in kind, which made him think it was no different for her. She was a glowing ember in his arms, bright, hot, sizzling when he touched the damp edge of his tongue to her skin.
Israel felt her hands move from his shoulders to the uppermost button on his coat. She stopped there, fingers hesitating. He looked down and saw that she was tracing the circumference of the button with a forefinger. His eyes lifted and caught her staring at him.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
She was a long time answering. “I’m not sure I should say. You might think me a whore.”
“A whore? Willa. I would not think that. Ever.”
“You might.” She shrugged as if she had decided it no longer mattered. “I want to touch you,” she said, grasping the button and deftly pushing it through its hole. “Do you mind?”
“No. Not unless you will think me a whore.”
Willa did not laugh, but the shadow of a smile passed quickly across her face. “A rogue,” she said. “There’s an old-fashioned word for what you are. Maybe scoundrel. Rascal, I think is a better description. Yes, definitely rascal.”
Israel had been called all those things, sometimes with amused affection, sometimes in punishing, strident tones. He’d also been called much worse: good-for-nothing, reprobate, degenerate, and sinner. Annalea had wondered at the outset if he was a villain, and he had not denied it.
By the time he glanced down again, Willa had three buttons undone and her hand was inside his coat working the buttons on his shirt. When she had room to slip her fingers inside, she tugged on his undershirt, pulling it up until she could slide her hand beneath it and lay her cool palm flat against his hot skin.
The contrast in their heat made him suck in a breath, but then her palm began to slowly warm and he released it during the transition.
“You are like a forge. Metal would glow on your chest.” Her hand jumped when his chest rumbled with quiet laughter. “No wonder you didn’t need a blanket.”
He let her go on believing she had nothing to do with the heat. While she dragged her fingers from the hollow between his collarbones to just above the buckle of his belt, he fiddled with the knot keeping her robe closed. She did not appear to know he had undone it until his hand was under the curve of her breast. Her flannel nightgown was still a barrier between them, but his warmth slipped through as if there were no impediment, as easily as water through a sieve.
Israel regarded her inquiringly when she raised her eyes to his. Her bottom lip trembled almost imperceptibly. The widening and darkening at the center of her eyes was easier to see. She did not tell him to remove his hand. She did not tell him to stop.
His thumb made a slow pass across the tip of her breast. The nipple was already budding, but it stood at attention when he
brushed over it. Her lip stopped trembling because she bit down on it hard.
“That’s all right?” he asked low in his throat.
“Mm.”
He kissed her again, openmouthed, with hunger. She arched into him, filling the cup of his palm with her breast, and then suddenly she was a wild thing in his arms, squirming, changing position so that she straddled him, her knees resting on the bench on either side of his hips. It seemed to Israel that if she could have crawled under his skin, she would have done it. He didn’t mind for himself, but he was afraid for her.
Their mouths fused, parted, came together again. They shared heat and air and desire, all of it equally, and then he was on his feet, carrying her, his hands cupping her bottom, her long legs wrapped around his hips. In three long strides he had her back pressed flush to the stall door opposite them. Her fingers were scrabbling at her robe, her gown, tugging hard to put them out of the way. Israel could not reach his belt, not without setting her down, and he was not going to do that. She pushed against his groin, grinding, and he felt himself swell and harden and thought he might come in his trousers like a schoolboy looking at his first French postcard, and then . . . and then John Henry sank a mouthful of teeth into his boot.
Israel growled deep in his throat but then so did John Henry. He tried to shake the dog off but lost his balance as soon as he was one-footed. Willa began to slide down the wall, and he hoisted her back up as if she were a saddle, which might have worked if she were a saddle, but she was a woman, all woman, and her forehead banged hard into his nose.
Israel’s eyes watered with the force of the blow. Willa had to stop clutching his hips and find her own way down. When her foot touched the floor, John Henry nipped at her ankle.
“Hey!” she said, nudging him out of the way while she rubbed her forehead. “He bit me.”
“I bet he bit me harder.” Closing his eyes, Israel gingerly investigated the topography of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. It did not seem to be broken or bloody. “Damn, that hurt.”
Willa shimmied once so that her nightgown fell into place, and then she closed and belted her robe.
Israel blinked several times to clear his eyes. He saw the knot Willa had tied in her belt and knew there would be no opening that robe again tonight. He glared down at John Henry. Willa placed her fingers on one side of his chin and urged him to look at her. He did.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “If it’s any consolation, your face is as manfully beautiful as the angels sculpted it.”
Amused, Israel let her grip his chin and tilt his head this way and that while she regarded him with a critical eye. For all her self-possession, he wondered if she knew her face was a glorious shade of sunset red.
“Lord, but you’re pretty, Israel McKenna. It’s a shame, if you ask me, and I will wager that those fine looks got you out of more than half of the scrapes you got into.”
Israel thought the tips of his ears might be turning pink, but he quelled the urge to run a hand through his hair to find out. “Why don’t you sit down, Willa?” She was as wobbly on her legs as a foal, although she did not seem to be aware of that either. He guided her to the bench she had been sitting on earlier and she dropped like a stone. There was even a whoosh as air left her lungs when she went down.
He scooped one of the blankets off the floor, shook it out, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She was shaking now, not much, but enough for him to see that she was beginning to take an accounting of her situation and all that had come before it. Israel did not imagine that was going to go well for him.
He sat down beside her and nudged her shoulder very gently. He spoke quietly, a husk in his voice. “Breathe. It will be better if you just breathe.”
She answered with a faint nod.
“Is there something I should apologize for?”
“No.” Her voice was pitched just above a whisper. “Not if you want to live.”
He smiled a trifle crookedly. “I suppose it’s good that you have a sense of humor.”
She turned her head and cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’m serious.”
His crooked smile faltered, but then she turned away, and when she was facing forward, she dropped her head on his shoulder. “I guess you are,” he said.
“Mm.”
They sat without speaking for a time, heartbeats slowing, breaths coming more regularly. There was more stirring among the horses but even they quieted eventually.
“If we’re going to be married,” he said at last, “then I’m glad our first time together wasn’t in the barn.”
“And if we aren’t going to be married?”
“Then John Henry will never be able to make it up to me.”
Willa chuckled soundlessly. She pointed to the hound. He was lying at their feet again, looking up at them under a heavily wrinkled brow. “He looks apologetic,” she said.
“No. He looks sorrowful, not sorry, and I think he’s got a taste for my boot.” He raised his right foot and angled it to show her. “New one.”
“John Henry improved it,” she told him. “It looks like a boot that’s been lived in, not Sunday-morning-only wear. I bet you had a pair of shoes like that growing up.”
“I did. I had to polish them every Saturday night until they gleamed and wear them until they pinched. Usually longer. My parents are frugal. I blame it on being Presbyterian.” Israel liked the weight of her head on his shoulder. It felt comfortable and something more than that. It felt right. He did not understand that. He had spent years avoiding this sort of complication, and now that the complication was resting her head on his shoulder, he felt at peace.
“No one’s showed up in Pancake Valley looking for work,” said Israel. “You have to wonder if that was ever Eli’s intention.”
“I don’t have to wonder. I know.”
Israel thought how like him it was to poke at the peace. He would always skip stones on the calm and glassy surface of a pond. “What about the proposal? Is that something he will do here or does he wait until he sees you in town?”
Willa looked up at him briefly and then resettled her head on his shoulder. “It’s hard for you to let a thing just rest, isn’t it?”
Israel gave a small start but not so small that Willa could have missed it. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said, and that he had admitted it aloud surprised him. “If there was freshly poured concrete somewhere in Herring, I dragged a stick through it.”
She chuckled.
“I’m serious. It’s in my nature.”
“Huh.”
“You don’t believe me? You would be the first.”
“Oh, I believe that you would disrupt a sleeping baby just to create a commotion, but that doesn’t mean it’s in your nature. It could merely be a habit of long standing.”
Israel shook his head and said curtly, “Don’t make excuses for me.”
“I wasn’t. I was offering an alternative explan—” She stopped. “I see. You’d rather believe it’s in your nature. You feel no obligation to try to change that.”
“I am trying to deal honestly with you, Willa, and trust me, that goes against my nature. I want you to know what you’re getting if I say yes to your proposal.”
“Do you?”
Israel missed the presence of her head as soon as she lifted it. He was aware of her shifting on the bench, swiveling so she could study him. He only gave her his profile.
“Tell me, Israel, where were you really going in Chicago on the last day you remember?”
It needed to be said, so he said it. “I was on my way to buy a train ticket.”
“All right. That makes sense. Now tell me where you were coming from.”
And this, most of all, was what she needed to hear. Israel turned his head so she could look into his eyes. Without inflection, he said, “The Cook County Jail. I had
just finished serving my time.”
Chapter Eleven
Willa woke up groggy from a poor night’s sleep, but after sitting on the edge of the bed for a few minutes and pretending to listen to Annalea chatter, she shook it off. “I am going to ride out with Israel this morning and give him an opportunity to show me what he can or can’t do with a gun. I’ll probably take him to Beech Bottom. Would you like to ride along? You could pack some food and blankets, if you like.”
Annalea beamed and bounded out of bed. She hopped around, mostly because she was excited, but some because she was barefooted and the floor was cold.
Watching her, Willa bit back a smile and said, “Chores and then breakfast. Oh, and you should find your socks. One of them is under the bed. I think John Henry is sitting on the other.”
At the mention of his name, John Henry lifted his head and looked from Willa to Annalea.
“And take John Henry out with you when you feed the chickens,” Willa said.
“Can he come to the bottom with us?”
“No.” For a moment it looked as if Annalea wanted to argue, but then she seemed to think better of it. If that was any indication of how the day was going to go, it would be very good indeed.
With that in mind, Willa made a first attempt to wake her father and discovered he was already up, had the stove fired, and the coffeepot set to brew. He was sitting at the table in the chair closest to the stove, warming himself and watching that coffeepot. She could not fail to notice that he had shaved this morning and also combed and slicked back his hair. He was wearing a clean shirt, reasonably clean trousers, and spit-shined boots. Willa’s eyes wandered to the galvanized pail beside the stove. It was filled with kindling where it had been almost empty the night before. It seemed that Happy had been at his chores.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Mornin’.” He moved his stretched-out legs so she could get around the table without having to step over them. “I was thinking eggs and ham this morning. I brought a nice cut from the smokehouse, but I figured I’d wait for Annalea to gather up some eggs. Those chickens don’t like me.”
