Three Weddings And A Kiss

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, Catherine Anderson, Loretta Chase

  His groan shuddered against her parted lips a split second before his mouth closed over hers. His lips were hot, his breath moist, his tongue arrogantly demanding.

  Rachel felt her heart begin to race and a dull roaring filled her ears, as eagerly, desperately, she arched against him, her body responding as though driven by a will of its own. She exulted in the harsh rasp of his breathing.

  When his hands tugged her shirtwaist free, she gasped. When his fingertips sought her breast again, she moaned. Between hard, eager kisses, she tore at the buttons of the chambray shirt he’d plucked straight from the ironing basket that morning.

  Just as her shirtwaist fell open, she heard a sound. A voice, calling Clint’s name. A woman’s voice. He jerked free, his hands instinctively drawing her against the protection of his big chest, even as he turned toward the sound.

  Heart thundering, and lungs starved for air, Clint fought to clear his head. He knew that voice.…

  “Clinton? Is that you?”

  “Aunt Hester?” he said in stunned disbelief, a split second before his aunf s rotund form filled the doorway.

  Like a plump blackbird spreading its wings, his aunt, dressed head to toe in mourning, held her arms out at her sides. “I got your letter, and here I am, come to keep your house and help raise those dear great-nephews of mine!”

  11

  Rachel poked her fork forlornly at the stewed turnips remaining on her plate, unable to force another bite past the bitter lump lodged in her throat. To her right, Cody was busily gnawing the last few shreds of meat from his second chicken leg. To her left, Matt was shoveling down his third piece of sour lemon pie. Rachel had to admit that prior to Aunt Hester’s arrival two days ago, the boys had never eaten so heartily nor praised the food more fulsomely. Even Clint had taken to coming to the table with an eager glint in his eyes.

  Oh, he never came right out and said he preferred Aunt Hester’s cooking to the pathetic offerings she’d put on the table, but the signs of his newfound contentment were so obvious that even she, blind as she was without her spectacles, could see them.

  Take this morning, for example, she thought, stabbing her fork at another perfectly cooked turnip slice. Why, the man had actually waxed poetic over his portly aunt’s buttermilk biscuits. His brothers had been too busy to comment in kind, engaged as they had been, slathering on strawberry jam that Hester had brought with her from Ohio. The mound of biscuits had disappeared from the basket in a trice—unlike her biscuits, which generally lasted a good three days.

  “There’s more pie, boys,” Aunt Hester sung out from her place to Clint’s right.

  “I’ll have another piece,” Cole said eagerly, shoving his plate forward.

  “Me, too, Aunt Hester,” Cody shouted. “I ain’t never tasted anything so good.”

  Aunt Hester beamed as she slid huge slabs of pie onto each of their plates. “Clint? There’s one last piece of pie here with your name on it.”

  “No, thanks, Aunt Hester.” Clint put down his fork and leaned back. “But like Cody said, that’s about as good as pie gets.”

  “Why thank you, Nephew. That’s just about the nicest compliment a lady can get from a gentleman.”

  At that, Matt leaned close to Rachel’s ear to whisper, “Remind me to use that line on Dora Faye next time I’m in the Golden Goose.”

  Rachel gave his booted foot a good kick, which only served to widen his wicked grin. “Careful, Sis,” he whispered, offering her a broad wink. “That there’s the foot I use to prop up the bar of a Saturday night.”

  Seeing his brother cozying up to Rachel like a stallion sniffing heat would normally put Clint into a foul mood, but with his belly full of his aunt’s good cooking he was too mellow to do more than scowl a warning in Matt’s direction.

  For some reason he couldn’t fathom, Rachel seemed different since Aunt Hester’s sudden arrival. Though he wasn’t partial to analyzing emotions—his or anyone else’s—he couldn’t help noticing how quiet she’d turned, like an unshielded lamp suddenly extinguished by an unexpected gust of wind.

  Rubbing a hand across his belly, he thought back to the scolding Aunt Hester had given him her first night on the place. “Why, the poor girl is plumb worn to a nub,” she’d chastized. “Trying to handle a house full of rowdy men and deal with all their trappings is more than a new bride should have to do.”

  Maybe Aunt Hester was right, Clint thought, staring the length of the table at his wife’s bowed head. Unlike other nights when she’d been slaving over steaming pots, her shiny brown hair was neatly tied back by a plain black ribbon, and her white shirtwaist was crisp with fresh starch and neatly tucked. Damned if she didn’t look as young and innocent as a school girl, he thought, covertly eyeing the swell of her breasts under the modest attire.

  Guilt stabbed him hard, reminding him of all that he and his brothers had demanded of her these past weeks. Hell, he’d brought her home to a pigsty and all but insisted she turn it into a home. And without much help, if truth were told. At least, not much from him.

  But that was about to change. Now that Aunt Hester had a good hold on the running of the house, Rachel would have more time for fun. In a day or two, the branding would be done and he’d be able to take some time off. If he got a decent price for the beef this year, he might be able to treat Rachel to a few days in San Francisco. He’d heard tell of some right fancy hotels, with beds soft enough even for her delicate skin.

  Just thinking about the two of them stealing off alone had his blood heating. Aunt Hester’s arrival had put a crimp in his lovemaking, no doubt about it. This winter, he would build on another bedroom for himself and Rachel that would afford them a little more privacy, but for now he couldn’t help worrying about making noise. The boys had all moved into two of the sleeping areas upstairs, leaving the third empty for Aunt Hester. But that didn’t put the woman far enough away to suit Clint. Those damned corn husks! They crinkled every time a man so much as wiggled a toe.

  Which was why Clint looked forward to a stay in San Francisco like a parched man did drink. Lord, but Rachel’d be a pretty sight with her hair spread out on one of those lacy hotel pillows.

  “Aunt Hester’s promised to make me cookies after the dishes are done,” Cody piped up between bites. His announcement jerked Clint from his mental meanderings back to the present. “Didn’t you, Aunt Hester?”

  “I recollect I did,” Hester acknowledged with a nod of her graying head.

  “I’ll help,” Rachel volunteered, rising quickly to take up her still half-filled plate.

  “No!” chorused Cody and Daniel before exchanging sheepish looks.

  “Uh, that is, you’re lookin’ kind of tired tonight,” Daniel amended quickly. “Ain’t that right, Clint?”

  Still clutching her plate, Rachel squinted the length of the table at the blur she knew to be her husband.

  “Actually, I was just thinkin’ she looked particularly tidy tonight,” Clint drawled.

  Tidy? Rachel glanced down at the plain black skirt more suited for a matron of advanced years than a bride. She’d worn it because the wide sash reduced her waist to a mere wisp, something she’d heard men found irresistible. Instead, Clint thought she looked tidy. Lord, he might as well stand up in church and declare her a miserable failure as a wife and lover.

  The lump in her throat took on sharp edges. Just when she had finally begun to feel at home, the family she’d grown to love was letting her know how little they valued her. “I suppose I should really attend to the mending—”

  “Bless your heart for offering, but there’s no need,” Aunt Hester interrupted in her hearty mid-western twang. “Since I had a few spare minutes, I managed to finish the last of it before supper.”

  Rachel blinked, seeing the overloaded mending basket in her mind’s eye. It had always seemed like an unscalable mountain. “All of it? The socks, too?”

  Though she couldn’t see Aunt Hester’s face, she could hear her answering chuckle. “Why,
child, it wasn’t such a chore, not when a body knows what she’s doing.”

  Which I don’t, Rachel thought, turning away from the table.

  Just a few minutes before noon the following day, Clint came in from the fields in hopes of stealing Rachel away on a nice long ride for a picnic. For dessert, he planned to make wild and noisy love to her. As he entered the kitchen, he slapped the dust from his hat and tossed it onto the table. Aunt Hester was outside boiling linen, and the house seemed strangely quiet. Too quiet, come to think of it.

  “Rachel? Where are you, girl?” Hearing no answer, he strode impatiently toward the master bedroom, his boot heels thudding noisily on the freshly waxed planks. “Rachel?”

  The door stood open. Inside, where the knotty pine bedstead gleamed under a fresh coat of polish, the rag rugs were almost bright as new and the windows actually sparkled. Aunt Hester had worked her magic once more, and Clint allowed himself a rare moment of self-congratulation. Despite temporary inconveniences because of inadequate sleeping arrangements, writing to Aunt Hester had been a stroke of genius, sure enough. Finally, he had the smoothly running home he’d craved. Once he got a master bedroom built onto the existing house, everything would be perfect.

  As Clint moved into the immaculate bedroom, he thought it seemed too empty. Even the dresser that had held Rachel’s female doodads looked a little too naked for his peace of mind. Alarm snaked through him, settling its coils around his gut and squeezing hard. Heart tripping, he strode to the armoire and tore open the door. Rachel’s side was empty. There wasn’t a fussy shirtwaist or leg-of-mutton sleeve or long skirt in sight. Even the jumble of small shoes in the bottom had disappeared.

  “Shit!”

  Leaving the armoire door open, he turned to the chiffonier and jerked open the drawers one by one. All empty, save for the last which held his long johns and socks. Damn the woman’s hide; she had a wagon load of explaining to do.

  Seconds later Clint strode furiously across the yard toward his aunt. “Have you seen my wife?” he demanded, planting his feet wide and jamming hard fists on his hips.

  Aunt Hester finished pinning one of Cody’s shirts to the line before turning her gaze in his direction. “Last I seen, she was riding out of here on a bay mare with all her belongings strapped on the rump,” she declared, her mouth tugged down by the weight of her glum mood. “Riding astride, I might add, with her petticoats hiked clear to her knees and her bloomers displayed for the whole county to see.”

  Clint snapped a fast look at the rutted trail heading toward town. Whatever dust Rachel had raised had long since settled, and the only thing moving between him and the distant horizon were swaying pine trees.

  “Why?” he muttered, forgetting for a moment he wasn’t alone.

  “Don’t know the why of it myself. I asked, mind. But all she gave me was a damned fool answer.”

  “Which was?”

  “That she kept up her end of the bargain, but now that I’m here, she don’t have to anymore.” Hester fastened worried eyes on him. “Nephew, never mistake it. I’d rather leave than cause trouble between you and your missus. I guess, in my eagerness to make myself needed, I might ’ve started off a little strong. Maybe she felt like I was pushing her out.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Clint bit out. And he truly believed it was. “You’ve been nothin’ but sweet and kind since you’ve been here, Aunt Hester. If Rachel felt shoved out, it was because she wanted to feel that way.”

  His aunt didn’t look reassured. “Sometimes we women see things a little different than you men.” She sighed, snapping the wrinkles from a shirt. “She said to tell you to pick up the mare at the livery, by the way, rather than at her house.”

  That news only added more fuel to Clint’s mounting rage. So, she didn’t wish to see him, did she? Not even for the few short minutes it would take for him to pick up the horse? Well, fine. That was just fine.

  He raked a hand through his hair, his temper aboil and his gut tight. Damn it to hell, no woman was worth this kind of aggravation, especially when he’d been as patient as a man could be.

  “I expect you’re aiming to go after her,” Aunt Hester said.

  Damn straight he was going after her, Clint thought, clenching his teeth so hard something popped alongside his jaw. She was his wife, wasn’t she? She belonged here with him. In his bed—

  Shit! Maybe his lovemakin’ wasn’t as great as he liked to think. Could be he hadn’t been patient enough with her that first time. Or skilled enough, for that matter. Given his limited experience with women, he’d tried his best to do right by her. But maybe his best hadn’t been good enough. Especially not after those first nights, what with Aunt Hester listening in, and all.

  Clint stared off into the distance, his throat stinging so sharply with unshed tears, he felt about as old as Cody. Was that the reason Rachel’d high tailed it back to her da at the first opportunity? Because he had disappointed her? Shame scalded his insides, burning deeper and deeper until he damn near doubled over. If a man couldn’t satisfy his woman in bed, he didn’t deserve to keep her.

  “No,I’m not aimin’ to go after her,” he said in belated answer to his aunt’s question.

  “But, Nephew, that’s just plain—”

  “No buts, Aunt Hester. I’m not goin’ after her. I have better things to do.”

  Squaring his shoulders, he turned away and headed for the barn. He was a Rafferty, damn it. Rafferty men had pride. Rafferty men didn’t beg any woman to stay if she really wanted to leave. But, damn, it hurt.

  Clint shoved open the bat-wing doors and headed into the Golden Goose. The monthly cattlemen’s meeting had lasted longer than usual, and remembering now he’d met Rachel after the last meeting a little over two months ago, he’d been so tense all evening, his throat was raw with thirst. Squinting in the smoke and lamp oil haze, he cast a look-see toward the bar, half expecting to spot Matt or one of his other brothers bending an elbow. This time he saw only Dora Faye. Judging by her scowl, she wasn’t planning to lay out any welcome.

  “You got your nerve comin’ here tonight, Clint Rafferty,” she said when he drew up next to her.

  “How so?” he asked before signaling the barkeep to bring him a bottle. “Rye,” he amplified. “The kind you keep on hand for bankers and politicians.” He flicked Dora Faye a glance. “And two glasses.”

  “One,” she corrected in a trice. “I’m particular about who I drink with.”

  Clint shoved back his hat. “Meaning you ain’t interested in drinkin’ with me?”

  She turned her back to the bar and rested her elbows on the polished surface. Another time Clint might have enjoyed the snowy expanse of female bosom above the gaudy lace of her cheap green dress. Tonight, however, he had one thing on his mind, and one thing only—pouring enough whiskey down his throat to take away the empty feeling in his belly. Now he knew how his da must have felt after losing his ma. Hollow clear to his marrow. Not really caring if he lived or died. Rachel had been gone a month now, and every second had been an agony for him.

  “Suit yourself,” he said to Dora Faye as he tipped the bottle over the glass. A second later, he slugged down the liquor. Five drinks later, some of the knots in his mood had come untangled, but not all.

  “For someone claimin’ she’s not eager for my company, you sure are hangin’ fast to my shirt-tails,” he told the soiled dove sourly.

  “Only so’s I can tell you what an ass I think you are. You broke Rachel’s heart, you bastard.”

  Clint bit down hard. “The hell I did,” he retorted. This time when he poured, his hand wasn’t as steady as it should have been. And when he downed the triple shot, the whiskey had suddenly acquired a foul bite. Or was it loneliness he was tasting?

  “She’s lost weight since she come home. Big Jim’s at his wif’s end.”

  Clint tapped the bottle with a forefinger. “Sure you won’t have a drink?” he offered, trying to ignore what she said. “There’s plenty left.�
� A good half jug, by his reckoning. Too much to waste.

  “Last time I saw her at the mercantile, her eyes were all red from crying.”

  Clint poured faster this time, slopping the equivalent of a shot on the bar. Shrugging, he swiped his forearm across the spill, then downed the whiskey that had ended up in the jigger. No good. He could still see Rachel’s face on the pillow, her thick brown hair spread like a dark angel cap on the slightly singed linen.

  “Nobody told her to go,” he muttered, his voice whiskey thick.

  “Maybe not in so many words,” Dora Faye exclaimed in a low hissing whisper. “But a woman as sensitive as Rachel can read between the lines.”

  “What the devil are you talkin’ about?” Clint demanded, his head beginning to swim ever so slightly.

  “You jackass! I’m talkin’ about that bully of an aunt you imported.”

  Clint drew his head back and squinted down his nose at his red-headed accuser. It took a full second to get her face in good focus, and then he realized he liked it better when he couldn’t see the green sparks shooting out of her eyes. Was this the way Rachel felt without her glasses? he wondered. Like

  the whole world was on the opposite side of fogged glass?

  “Bully? Aunt H—Hester?” Damned if the whiskey hadn’t numbed his tongue instead of his head. “Is that what Ra—Rachel told you?”

  “Not in so many words, but I could tell she was hurting.” She poked a finger at his chest. “Rachel gave everything she had to that ungrateful family of yours, and what did she get back? Not so much as a ‘thank you, ma’am’ or a ‘don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you.’”

  “Where the good Lord what? Now wait just a minute—”

  She jabbed a finger at his nose this time. “So she can’t cook as good as a woman who’s been doing it for thirty years or more? She tried her best, didn’t she? And maybe she did singe a few underdrawers, but that don’t mean you boys didn’t have clean clothes when you needed ’em, along with a smile and a cheery word when you come home tired and hungry.”