Forever Mine

by Charlene Raddon

  "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" Ariah asked, unaware of the cause of his silence.

  He flushed red, even though she hadn't noticed where he'd been staring. To get his mind off her bosom, he went to sit on an upended bucket while he inspected a broken harness.

  "Three brothers, one sister. I never knew Richard, though. He died before I was born."

  The kittens fell asleep in Ariah's lap. The mother, deciding perhaps that she wasn't going to get her brood back, crawled into the soft cradle of Ariah's lap and began to purr. Certain he knew how the cat felt to be in such a delicious spot, and feeling himself harden at the thought of placing his own head there, Bartholomew bent his head lower over the harness.

  "Would you believe I was born in a covered wagon during a stock stampede in the middle of a thunder storm?" he said, his voice a bit strained.

  Ariah giggled and flapped a hand at him. "No. You're teasing me."

  He held up a hand, palm out. "Honest Injun. Ma always teased me about having had violence bred into me because of it. She liked to call Calvin and Mary and me her 'three little bluffs', because they were born in Council Bluffs and I was born near a place on the Overland Trail called Scott's Bluff. Every time she said it Pa would ask, 'Does that mean John's the only honest one in the bunch?'"

  They laughed. Ariah went back to stroking a silky kitten nestled against her chest, and he found himself fantasizing about testing the softness of her breast. Suddenly he could sit there no longer. Two minutes more and he would have her on her back. He hung up the harness and rose to his feet. "Do you believe the morning's gone already? I'm hungry."

  Halfway back to the house, Ariah came to a dead halt. He followed the direction of her wary gaze and saw the Upham's old yellow dog trotting their way. "That's just Bones. He's old and even more harmless than Pudding."

  Ariah edged closer to Bartholomew anyway. "Does everyone have a dog out here?"

  Enjoying her nearness, he put his arm around her. "A good dog is invaluable on a farm. Keeps small varmints like possums and raccoons away from the chickens and warns a man if there're bears or wild cats about."

  The dog stopped a few feet away, lifting its nose to whiff their scent. Bartholomew hunkered down and ruffled the dog's fur. "Let him sniff your hand so he'll know you're a friend."

  Not wanting him to think her a coward, she summoned her courage and edged a hand forward. Bones craned his neck, nostrils flaring. His pink tongue came out and swiped at her fingers. She yelped and yanked back her hand.

  "See? He likes you." Bartholomew stood and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze.

  Bones sat at her feet, tongue lolling, his thumping tail splattering mud everywhere as he seemed to smile up at her. Studying the mangy dog, Ariah said, "I believe I still prefer cats."

  To her chagrin, the dog followed them to the house. Safely inside, Ariah hung her slicker on a hook. When she sat down at the table to take off her muddy boots, not particularly eager to mop the floor again, Bartholomew knelt in front of her and removed her boots himself—something he'd never thought to do for Hester. Even if he had, Hester would have found cause to complain about it.

  There had been a time when he tried very hard to make his wife happy, until he decided that some things simply weren't possible.

  He set the muddy boots aside and sat down to remove his own. In her stocking feet, Ariah padded over to the stove to pour hot coffee for them. The ordinary chores they performed made living there with her seem natural, right. He found himself wishing it were for real.

  Seated in front of the fire, Ariah curled cold fingers around her warm cup, a wistful expression on her delicate face. "It must have been nice to have so much family. All I ever had was Mama and Papa."

  "No aunts or uncles or cousins?"

  "No. There was Uncle Lou and Aunt Ida, but they weren't truly related to us. Lou was Papa's law partner."

  Bartholomew tossed down the towel and joined her at the table. "Law partners. Pritchard said his uncle heard about you through an associate. Was it this Uncle Lou who talked you into accepting Pritchard's proposal?"

  "Actually, it was my idea. I acted as a secretary at the law office, so it was me who first opened and read the letter from Mr. Monteer's attorney. When my father died, I remembered the letter. To leave Cincinnati and start a whole new life in a new country seemed like a good way to put the past behind me, so I wrote and accepted."

  "Why couldn't you have stayed on with your friends?"

  "It was a complicated situation, Mr. Noon."

  He walked to the fireplace. "This morning I was Bartholomew. I liked hearing you use my given name."

  She glanced up and tried to smile. "I'm sorry . . . Bartholomew."

  "Never mind." He knelt and poked at the logs. "Ariah, are you in some sort of trouble?"

  Her eyes widened in alarm. "No, of course not."

  Swiveling toward her, he caught her gesturing hand in his. His gaze on her face was grave and questioning. "If you were, I'd want to help."

  Afraid she would start crying, or disgrace herself even worse by throwing herself into his arms, she retrieved her hand and got up to start lunch.

  Bartholomew watched, white-knuckled from gripping the back of the chair to keep from going to her. If she were in trouble, it was Pritchard's business, not his. The thought didn't help, knowing how inept and insensitive the boy was. He studied the gentle curve of her back and the graceful arch of her head as she investigated a cupboard. How he longed to kiss that slender white neck. He imagined her turning in his arms and offering up her lips.

  Blood heated and surged. His heart galloped like a stampeding steer. He gave a silent snort of laughter at the futility of it all. Here he was, suffering for the love of a woman he could never have even if by some miracle she were to return his affection. He had never regretted his marriage more.

  "Bartholomew?"

  His head jerked up at the sound of his name.

  "Will you tell me about Mr. Monteer? What he's like, I mean."

  Bartholomew ran his hand down the back of his neck and grimaced. "Pritchard? He's young, twenty-three as of January thirtieth. Not tall . . . about your height, but pleasant looking." The words tasted like gall in his throat.

  "Effie said he likes baseball," she prompted.

  "With a passion. I doubt he thinks of much else."

  Ariah smiled teasingly as she tried to open a can of beans with a knife. "You make him sound rather . . .shallow."

  With a sigh, Bartholomew went to open the can for her, trying to think of something more complimentary he could say about his nephew. "He's healthy, honest, and he'd never hurt a soul. I'm sure he'll try his best to make you a good husband."

  Their hands brushed as she took the open can from him and excitement coiled low in her abdomen. After setting the beans on to warm, she mixed flour with baking powder and milk for biscuits. Her hopes for a happy life sank as she considered Bartholomew's lackluster description of her future husband.

  Pritchard. How odd she never thought of him as anything but Mr. Monteer, yet Bartholomew's given name came so naturally to her. She supposed it was understandable. After all, she had yet to meet Pritchard, while his uncle had come to seem like a good friend. She sidled him a glance where he was slicing bacon on the sinkboard.

  Few men were as handsome as Bartholomew Noon. It was more than his dark good looks and muscular body; he was intelligent, sensitive and caring, virtues Ariah cherished. Even his dark, brooding enigmatic side, which would put most people off, attracted and intrigued her. She didn't waste time being shocked by the fact that she wished he weren't married, but it did disturb her to realize she was already forming a dislike for a woman she had not even met.

  "Tell me more about what it's like living at the lighthouse," she asked as she slid the biscuits into the oven.

  Bartholomew laid the bacon in a hot pan. The lighthouse. Here was something easier to describe than his nephew. He launched into the task with enthusiasm. "The l
ight itself sits at the tip of a finger of land that juts out into the ocean. The keepers' houses sit a thousand feet back. There's a barn, and a large vegetable garden."

  "Are there flowers?"

  "Only the few that bloom on their own. Hester doesn't believe in wasting time on something that can't be eaten."

  "What about trees?"

  He chuckled. "There're plenty of those, a whole forest that covers the rest of the cape. Spruces, mostly. Hemlock, elderberry bushes, alders."

  Ariah's face lit up. "How lovely. Are there wild animals in the forest? And birds?"

  "Deer, wild hogs, rabbits, possums, a bear or an elk now and then. Over toward Netarts Bay there are wild cattle, little runty red mullies that came originally off a Spanish ship wrecked on Cape Lookout years ago. And loads of birds."

  "Oh, I can't wait to see it all."

  Bartholomew's smile faded. He busied himself turning the bacon and tried not to think how much he dreaded going home. Hester would watch him like a starved vulture. He'd hardly dare speak to Ariah. And the thought of Ariah living with Pritchard, sleeping with him . . . Bartholomew's hands shook and a strip of the bacon fell to the floor. He scooped it up, rinsed it under the pump and plopped it back into the skillet. The hot fat popped and splattered.

  Ariah put her hand on his arm. "Why, you're trembling. Have I upset you?"

  Bartholomew forced his lips into a facsimile of a smile. "No, I was just distracted, wondering how long it would take to get the road repaired. It won't be an easy job and they'll have to wait until it quits raining to even get started."

  She removed her hand from his arm and stirred the beans. "Who will fix it?"

  For a moment, he didn't answer. Ordinarily he would go himself and see what he could do, though he knew men from town must be aware of the problem and already forming plans. But right now, the last thing he wanted was to leave this house. Not as long as Ariah and he had it to themselves.

  Her scent drifted to his nostrils and his insides tightened in reaction. He wanted desperately to feel the texture of her skin, to taste those perfect lips. Perhaps it would be best if the rain ceased immediately so they could get out of there sooner. Otherwise, he wasn't certain how long he could keep from giving in to his urges—the black, iniquitous urges he had been fighting for years, but which had never reached such a burning fever pitch as now.

  The next two days followed the routine set that first day. Bartholomew rose early to start the fires and tend the stock. Ariah bathed in his absence. Afterward, she made breakfast. Afternoons were usually spent talking. Sometimes they argued. Differences of opinion on some point of philosophy as espoused by Plato or Socrates, or the merits of Spenser's sonnets versus those by Shakespeare.

  Tonight was no different.

  "Have you read Emily Dickinson?" Ariah sat on the floor in front of the fire close to Bartholomew's knee, he in Olivia Upham's rocker, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles.

  He shook his head. "I've heard of her but haven't run onto any of her work yet."

  "Oh, you'd love her, Bartholomew. She's wonderful, so fresh and unique. I have a copy of her latest volume in the crate back at the wagon. When I get it open, I'll read you some of my favorites."

  "I'll look forward to it."

  Without thinking, he tangled his fingers in her hair. The rain had ceased for an entire hour that afternoon and they had taken advantage of the lull to get out in the fresh air. Her hood had caught on the knot of hair on top of her head, pulling it loose when she removed her cloak after they had returned. He supposed she hadn't bothered to put her hair back up because it would soon be bedtime. Whatever the reason, it hung now in a glorious mass he couldn't resist touching. He brought a strand to his nose. It smelled of spring rain and lily of the valley. She glanced up with a shy smile.

  "Your hair is like silk," he said in that half-growl, half-caress of his. "Thick, soft, shredded silk."

  Stubby brown lashes as lush as her hair lowered over blue eyes, but she did not move or protest.

  "It reminds me of my mother's," he went on. "I used to brush it for her the last few years she was alive, when she no longer could. She enjoyed it, I think."

  The lashes lifted, impaling him on twin shafts of brilliant blue.

  "Was she ill a long time?" she asked.

  "For years, actually. Apoplexy. At first it was mainly her memory that was affected. Sometimes there was temporary paralysis. By the end, she didn't even recognize me anymore. She didn't know any of us."

  "And you took care of her?"

  "I was the only one left by that time. Except for Pa." He spread Ariah's hair over his lap like a shawl, running his fingers through it over and over. "Brushing it seemed to calm her. It was as long as yours, only dark, with a white streak that ran from one temple clear to the ends. She always asked me to plait it for her at night. I enjoyed doing it." To lighten the mood, he bent forward and gave Ariah a teasing smile. "Would you like me to plait yours?"

  She cocked her head in a coy gesture he found slightly flirtatious, and entirely captivating.

  "Do I look incapable of caring for my own hair?"

  "Yes," he said with a grin. "You look like a wood nymph, helpless and fey and in need of a keeper."

  Her hair dragged sensuously across his lap as she drew it away. Her gaze was hooded by half-lowered lashes, her lips a pouty smile that exposed her teasing nature. "But you're a lighthouse keeper, not a nymph keeper."

  "How do you know?" Bartholomew grabbed the ends of her hair and tugged gently. "Come back here and I'll show you what a good keeper I be for you."

  Her laughter spilled over him with the softness of Oregon rain, as melodic as the song of a white crowned sparrow. "No," she said. "I'm not sure I trust you."

  "Are you afraid I might tickle you or something?"

  "Oh no. I wouldn't allow you to tickle me."

  "How are you going to stop me?"

  He lunged for her, and they tumbled onto the thick wolf pelt covering the floor, rolling and giggling as he tickled her. She slapped at the big hands that seemed to be everywhere at once; her waist, her back, under her arms.

  "You're cruel," she gasped. "Stop."

  "Oh, no, you're my nymph, and must submit to my power."

  "Never."

  She rolled to escape the fingers digging under her arms, and Bartholomew suddenly found himself cupping a soft, round breast.

  Ariah went stone still.

  Bartholomew's breath caught. His grin vanished.

  Ariah stared up at him, eyes wide, lips moist and parted. Mere inches away. The pulse at the base of her neck fluttered with the mad velocity of a hummingbird's wings, and he knew with sudden and inexplicable clarity that she wanted his kiss as much as he wanted to give it. Filled with wild exhilaration, and tense with the knowledge that his control was already thin, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  The kiss was light, a mere brushing of lips. Testing, tasting. He pulled back to take in her expression and found her eyes closed. Without opening them, she lifted her chin, as if in invitation.

  Bartholomew moaned. And succumbed.

  Her lips quivered as they met his. He shifted his head to one side and deepened the kiss. Lily of the valley and the even headier scent of woman filled his nostrils. She tasted as sweet and fresh as exotic fruit plucked straight from the vine. Passion fruit, ripe and yielding. His senses reeled from the delight of it. His hand tightened on her breast. The small husky sounds she made deep in her throat sent the flames of his passion soaring. He traced the luscious outline of her lips with his tongue, finding and exploring the texture of the exquisite little mole that had haunted him since the first moment he'd laid eyes on it. Then he nudged her lips farther apart and dipped his tongue inside. She gasped at this invasion and tried to move away but he held her fast.

  "Open for me, sweet nymph," he whispered against her lips. "Let me taste you."

  A shudder racked her body as she surrendered to his demanding tong
ue. He swept the satiny inner surface of each lip and traced her teeth, finding and worshipping the crooked one he had come to adore. He groaned. "Ariah, Ariah, if I don't have you, I'm going to die."

  Her voice came back low and tremulous, "What do you mean . . .have me?"

  Bartholomew stared down at her flushed face. He had forgotten how innocent she was, forgotten his marriage, forgotten everything but his blind, wretched need for her.

  "Good hell," he muttered. "What have I done?"

  Chapter Eight

  "Bartholomew?"

  Ariah reached for him. Her skin prickled in the cold draft left in his wake as he pulled away from her and rose to his feet.

  "I'm sorry, that never should have happened." He lurched to the door as though in pain and took down his coat. "Go to bed and forget about it."

  "I don't want to forget it. I want to understand." Ariah dragged her passion-drugged body to a sitting position and tried to shake off her confusion. "You say that if you can’t have me, you'll die. Then you jump up and leave? What were you talking about?"

  "Go to bed, Ariah." His voice was harsh. He pulled a slicker on over his coat and flipped the hood over his rumpled hair. "Forget it ever happened."

  She stood up and stepped toward him, both hands out-held. "How can I, when I don't even know what it is I'm supposed to forget?"

  The door slammed shut behind him.

  "Oh . . .oh hell!" Ariah stamped her foot and swung back toward the fire, hugging herself against the chill that had swept in through the open door.

  Blinded by rage and mortification, Bartholomew stomped through the rain and mud, seeing little and heading nowhere. What had gotten into him? A few minutes more and he'd have taken her. He'd have stolen her innocence and in the process committed adultery. Not only against Hester, but against Pritchard as well. He was scum. The most misbegotten, immoral lecher there ever was.

  Hester knew it. Had from the beginning. All the years he had watched her move about his father's laudanum-scented house, with lust in his eyes and curses in his soul, she had known. And used it against him. One scant day after he succumbed to his need for her and made her his wife, she locked him out of her room. Laughing from behind the door. Until he kicked it in, ripped the gown from her body, and barely stopped from raping her.