Forever Mine

by Charlene Raddon

  Please, God, let me sleep, and in sleep, escape the torture of imagining Ariah in bed with Pritchard.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The shack sat amidst a tangle of bog birch and elderberry shrubs, shaded by a single maple tree. A thin stream of smoke curled upward from the chimney, telling Pritchard someone was home. He was trying to work up the courage to go up and knock on the dilapidated door when it opened and a young girl emerged with a basket of laundry.

  Pritchard guessed her age to be in the neighborhood of fifteen, though there was a definite sensuality in her walk and movements. Her hair was so pale it was almost white and seemed to shimmer even on this cloudy day. She turned toward him and he sucked in his breath at the sultry beauty of her face.

  "Hullo," she said, spotting him on the weedy track that led to the house. Lips so red he thought she must have been eating cranberries curved in a smile that made his toes curl and his groin sizzle with a rush of heat.

  The girl set the basket of wet laundry down on the grass near a drooping clothesline. With her hands on her aproned hips, she sauntered toward him. "You lookin' fer me?"

  Pritchard gulped. "Yes, I mean . . .no. I was looking for Nettie Tibbs."

  Her head tilted to one side as she studied him with friendly amber eyes. "I'm Nettie. Don't I know you?"

  As he watched her glide closer, he realized she was older than he'd guessed, at least seventeen, but since he'd expected a woman reputed to be so experienced in sexual matters to be a good deal older, her claim to be Nettie Tibbs took him by surprise. He eyed her warily, wondering if she could be trying to fool him. "You sure you're Nettie?"

  Her laugh was low and husky. "Ain't nobody else living here an' answering to that name but me." She stood close enough now for him to catch a subtle scent of roses. The bodice of her threadbare dress fit her like skin, making it difficult to keep his eyes off the lush roundness of her large breasts. His body hardened and began to ache.

  The girl laughed again and moved even nearer, hips swaying, her gaze travelling brazenly down his body to his groin. "So, you gonna tell ol' Nettie what you want with her, or do I have to guess?"

  Pritchard blushed to the roots of his mouse-brown hair. "I, uh . . .I heard . . ."

  "You're cute, you know that?" She interrupted his stumbling discourse. "You wanna come in for some coffee? Or if you need somethin' to calm them nerves o' yours, I got some wine inside."

  He ducked his head in an awkward nod of acceptance. "That would be . . . nice."

  There was only one chair inside the small one-room shack, sitting next to a wooden table with a broken broomstick grafted onto a shattered leg. The only other furniture was a large bed, covered with a pieced quilt, a washstand holding a chipped basin, and a chest of drawers. The mere sight of the bed made Pritchard nervous. He edged toward the chair, only to be cut off by the girl.

  "Sit yerself right here." She patted the edge of the bed. "I'll fetch the wine. It ain't fancy, but it's wet."

  She moved to a set of crude shelves on one wall and took down a tall green bottle. Pritchard watched as she removed the cork and half-filled two glasses. She carried them to the bed and sat down beside him. "What's yer name?"

  "Pritchard."

  She sipped her wine, her eyes never leaving his face. "You look familiar, but I don't remember a-meeting you afore."

  "I just moved here last summer from Missouri. I'm a keeper at the Cape Meares light."

  "A keeper! You mean them they call wickies?" Her golden eyes lit up and she smiled. "Bet that's excitin', sitting up there in yer tower an' watching all them big ships go by, and whales an' ever'thin'."

  He shrugged and tried the wine. It was acrid and thin. "I wouldn't exactly call it exciting."

  Nettie leaned toward him, one finger playing with the insignia on his collar. "What do you do for excitement then? Come into town and look up little ol' gals like me?"

  "No! I've never . . .I mean, I don't . . ."

  She chuckled as his words trailed away and his cheeks bloomed like roses. "Don't be embarrassed. I'm right glad you come."

  "You are?"

  "Sure." Her hand slid down his chest and inside his coat to stroke his chest through his shirt. Since he was only supposed to be playing poker with the men from his team, he hadn't worn a vest or any neckwear. Nettie toyed with a button as she smiled up at him, her face so close now that all he would have to do to kiss her was to bend his head. But she didn't wait for him to work up the nerve.

  "You are really cute." She touched her mouth to his.

  He sucked in his breath as a warm breast brushed his arm. When his lips parted, her tongue darted inside. He thought he would melt to a puddle of bones right there on her bed. His body was blazingly hot, so hard and uncomfortable he could barely stand the pressure of his need. Nettie moved away and his heart plunged in disappointment, until she set their glasses on the floor and reached for his coat.

  "You look kinda warm." She tugged at his coat. "I'm gonna make you real comfortable, cause I don't want you going away any too soon."

  "You don't?" His voice was a faint squeak, so raspy he could barely understand his own words.

  "Told ya I liked ya." She pressed him down on the bed, pushed aside his suspenders and freed the buttons on his shirt. "When I like somebody I treat 'em real nice, so's they'll come back real often."

  Pritchard was glad, as she stripped his shirt off of him, that he hadn't worn any undershirt, and that he'd worn clean drawers. Matters were moving so fast he didn't have time to worry how he might perform. It was all he could do to believe he was not merely imagining the girl and the warm knowing hands that were moving over his body with tantalizing frankness. When her fingers closed over the aroused flesh straining at the front of his trousers, his whole body jerked and he groaned.

  Nettie giggled. "Ooh, you hot fer me, Pritchard? That's good, 'cause I'm hot fer you, too. Wanta see how hot I am?" Without waiting for his answer, she put his hand on her breast so he could feel the hardened nipples through the thin fabric of her dress. "They want you to touch 'em, only without no dress on. They wanna feel your mouth on 'em, too."

  Pritchard groaned. He writhed in joy when she slipped a hand inside his trousers. With sudden, grievous clarity he knew he was going to do the one thing he had feared most.

  "Oh no," he whispered in a half-whine, "Gonna strike out again." With a howl of combined joy and misery, he spilled his seed in his drawers. Shaking with humiliation, he rolled onto his stomach and tried to stem the tears that abruptly filled his eyes.

  "Hey, Prit?" Nettie's hand stroked down his spine. "Don't feel bad. You ain't the first man couldn't wait 'fore he come off."

  "I'm not?" Pritchard's head came up off the bed.

  "Gosh an' golly, no." She eased him onto his back and brushed away his tears with her thumb. "I don't know why you men wait so long to find a gal you can ease yerselves with. Never fails to turn out thisaway when you do that. Simple matter a-waitin' too long is all it is."

  Pritchard cupped her face with his palm, his heart filled with gratitude and relief. "You're about the prettiest thing I've ever seen."

  Nettie giggled. "Ah, you don't mean that. You're jest glad I ain't mad at you fer cheatin' me outta a good time."

  "Holly Hector, Nettie, I wouldn't have done that to you in a thousand years if I could have helped it."

  "I know. Don't fret over it, Prit." She rolled on top of him, rubbed her body seductively against him and kissed his nose. "I bet it won't take two shakes of a coon's tail 'fore you're ready to go at it again, and you can make it up to me real nice."

  No sooner had she spoken than he felt himself growing hard again. His eyes widened and a grin spread across his face. "You know what? You're not only the prettiest girl I've ever met, but you're more exciting than a hitting a home run with all the bases loaded and everybody in town watching."

  "Hey, that's baseball talk. I jest love baseball, Prit."

  "You do?"

  "Gosh and Go
lly, yes. All them men running 'round in them snug little uniforms." Her eyes lit up and she said, "Hey, you're one o' them Tillamook Kings, aint'cha? That's where I seen you afore, I go to all their games."

  "You do?" Pritchard's chest expanded to its full breadth. "Well, I'm their new first-string striker."

  "Oooh, and Nettie Tibbs has you right here in her own little bed. Why, I'm downright honored, Prit." She kissed him hard. "I'm gonna show you such a good time, you ain't never gonna forget me. And I don't want no money for it, neither."

  Pritchard kissed her back, his hands going to her lush breasts. "I could never forget you anyway, Nettie."

  Her hand moved to his trousers. "That's good, Prit, cause I think you're ready fer your turn at bat again."

  He couldn't have said later how they got rid of the rest of their clothes. All he knew was that they were soon rolling over the bed, both of them stark naked, legs entwined, their mouths and hands greedily devouring every inch of one another's flesh. Nettie wasn't shy about telling him what she wanted him to do or in acting on her own impulses.

  The hot, wet feel of her body closing around him as he slid inside her was more heavenly than he'd imagined. So good he knew he'd never again think of a homerun with the bases loaded in quite the same vein as he had before he met Nettie Tibbs.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  At the same time Nettie was teaching Pritchard some of the finer nuances of making home runs, Bartholomew was entering the home of Dr. Abraham Wills on Third Street.

  "What is it I can do for you, Bartholomew?" Dr. Wills motioned his visitor to a chair across the cluttered desk from his own. "You're not ill, I hope. You certainly look fit."

  "I am, thank you. I appreciate you seeing me on a Sunday like this." Bartholomew eased himself into the comfortable armchair with its puffy, buttoned upholstery, and hung his keeper's cap on his knee. "It's Hester I've come about."

  "You didn't bring her with you?"

  "No. I'm afraid Hester has some odd notion about sickness having a direct correlation with sin. She insists that since she does not sin, she cannot be ill."

  The doctor chuckled. The movement of his three chins made his frizzy red beard shimmy like a jellyfish. "She's an exception to most folks I know, then, if she never sins. Refused to come, I take it."

  "Vehemently, no matter how I attempted to persuade her." Bartholomew shook his head with mixed disgust and wonder. "She is an obstinate woman, but I'm worried about her, Abraham. She’s lost weight. I suspect her vision is failing and her legs seem to give her constant pain."

  "Is she eating?"

  "Like a half-starved boy. She drinks constantly, too. Water mostly, though I'm afraid she's also taken to drinking a so-called tonic she bought from a patent medicine salesman. Supposed to cure everything from childbed fever to gout." His disgust was evident in his voice.

  "Ah, yes, predominantly alcohol, no doubt." Dr. Wills took up a pen with his stubby left hand, dipped it into the inkwell and made some notes on a tablet in front of him. "Damned leeches, preying on innocent people. Half of the poor devils can't even read." He slammed down the pen. A dark splotch spread across his desk blotter, the way an epidemic goes through a town. "I'd give anything to see a few of those bogus doctors strung up from the highest tree. They've caused more than one unnecessary death you may be sure, simply by preventing folks from seeking real medical help."

  "Are you saying the tonic may be causing Hester's illness?"

  Wills shook his head. In this case, probably not. Tell me, is she urinating excessively?"

  "Yes, and she seems tired all the time."

  "Hmm. Any vomiting or diarrhea?" Dr. Wills reclaimed his pen and made a few more notes, his left hand giving his spidery script a slight backward slant.

  "Not that I know of, but it's possible, considering how much time she spends in the water closet. What do you suspect, Abraham? Is it serious?"

  Wills made no reply as he continued to write on his tablet. When he finally put down the pen, he swiveled about in his chair and took a book from a shelf behind his desk.

  "I read an article in a medical journal recently, about a disease called diabetes. Its cause has not yet been discovered, but the article did mention enough of the symptoms you describe to make me suspect this it may be what your wife suffers from. Ah, here we are." Wills found the page he had been searching for and copied something onto a clean piece of paper. He handed the paper to Bartholomew.

  Mix three drops of alum to four pints of milk and drink one pint of this posset three to four times a day for eight to ten days, the note read. Bartholomew folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. "Will this truly cure it?"

  "'Seldom fails to cure in eight to ten days', it says here, but according to the article I read, they believe there are two types, one which is almost invariably fatal. This latter type advances rather quickly toward the end, making it difficult to determine the seriousness of the patient's condition until it's too late. Not very encouraging, I'm afraid, my boy, but, there it is."

  Not bothering to hide his distress, Bartholomew rose and extended his hand. "Thank you, Abraham, I appreciate your time and trouble. I'll bring Hester in as soon as I can manage it."

  "Do that, my boy, do that."

  "I understand that young nephew of yours got married the other day," Wills said as he walked his visitor to the door. "Word is that his bride is a beauty. She's not from around these parts, I take it?"

  "No. Cincinnati."

  "Hester must enjoy having another female on the place, considering how isolated you are there at the lighthouse."

  Bartholomew gazed out the open door at the broad green plains that surrounded Tillamook, and thought of the mixed joy and agony Ariah's presence brought him. And what it did to Hester. "Yes, well," he said a bit guiltily, "Thank you again, Doctor."

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  Hester vehemently refused the alum and milk posset, along with visits to the doctor. She pushed more and more chores onto Ariah and spent her time reading the Bible and praying.

  Ariah doubled her efforts to be helpful and friendly, reminding herself that Hester was ill and deserved care and understanding, not animosity. But it was nearly impossible not to feel resentment when everything she did earned only criticism and open malice from the woman.

  This morning, thinking it would please Hester, Ariah had served her tea in one of the lovely cup and saucer sets she'd found in the oak china cupboard in the dining room. The moment Hester laid eyes the delicate china, however, she screeched the vilest invectives she could think of, startling Ariah so that the tray leaped from her shaking hands. The hand-painted cup and saucer landed on a strip of bare floor and shattered to bits. Hester had ordered her out and Ariah had gladly gone.

  To restore her spirits, she fixed Pritchard's lunch and carried it down to him at the light, remaining to visit while he ate, a habit she was coming to enjoy. Pritchard loved showing her the light. The first day she had joined him there, he took her up the spiral staircase to the top floor to see the hand-ground crystal lens made in Paris by Henry LaPaute in 1887.

  "There's only one other eight-sided light like this in America," he'd told her proudly. "It weighs over 2000 pounds. They had to bring it by ship around the horn and hoist it up to the tower from a ship below."

  The lens was so large they could walk around inside, reaching it through a crawl space off the stairs. As the day keeper, it was Pritchard's job to keep the thick prisms of the bull’s eye lens cleaned and polished to prevent the sea spray from pitting the precious crystal. It terrified her to watch him hang by a metal handle as he did the upper panels, while the wind tried to pluck him off and fling him into the sea. Together, they trimmed the five wicks of the kerosene lantern. Pritchard taught her how to operate the clockworks by its complicated system of gears and weights which kept the lens turning from sunset to sunrise.

  Days had passed since he had even tried to kiss her, and Ariah felt pleased, certain it meant that he was coming to respect h
er because of their growing friendship.

  The only thing Ariah enjoyed more than standing on the open catwalk outside the glass tower, feeling the wind in her hair and watching the seabirds wheel and soar above the waves, was wandering the beach or the lush tranquil forest. Often in the woods she felt an eerie sensation of being watched. She waited for Bartholomew to show himself, longing to be with him, but never even caught a glimpse of him.

  She sensed him everywhere. In the strength and tenacity of ferns and saplings rooted atop jagged tree trunks that had been felled by lightning or wind; in the gentleness of the spongy moss that coated earth and growing things alike; in the laughter of the wind soughing in the tree tops. Being in the wildness of the forest was like being in his embrace, comforting, yet arousing.

  In her journal she jotted down the birds and animals and flowers she saw each day, along with other observations.

  March 23 — A rare day of sunshine and clear skies. Saw a western tanager, yellow with orange head and black wing. Breathtakingly beautiful.

  March 24 — Too wet to venture out today. Took Hester a book of poetry I thought she would enjoy. She threw it at me, making me wonder if perhaps she doesn't know how to read. How awful for her if she doesn't. I feel so bad but don't know what I can do about it.

  March 25 — Cloudy but warm. Found an enormous Sitka spruce Bartholomew claims was a ceremonial tree where Tillamook Indians buried dead chiefs in canoes slung like hammocks from the branches. The base is over ten feet thick. Limbs, three to five feet thick, go straight out before curving upward, like some giant's fantastic candelabrum. A trail nearby leads to the rocks where Indians used to fish, and where Bartholomew still does. I peered eagerly from the edge of the cliff but saw only a male rufous-sided towhee.

  The warm days in the woods brought thoughts of Easter. Her mother had always made the holiday a celebration, from Palm Sunday through Easter itself, and Ariah saw no reason not to carry on the tradition, even if she was married and thousands of miles away from her home town.