Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  She remembered her bottom.

  The slat came down, right on his backside.

  A muffled, unrepeatable male word was all she heard. He rolled through the feathers and out the opposite side of the broken bed.

  Addie brandished the slat at him while he waved the feathers away. "Get out of here, you, you weasel!"

  "You'll love it." He leered at her. "I promise…''

  She grabbed her hot chocolate cup from the bedside table and flung it at him.

  He ducked and put his hands out, backing up a bit. "Now, sweet…'"

  She waved the slat in one hand, and with the other, spun the saucer at him. "Don't you 'now, sweet' me! Get out!"

  He was smiling, actually smiling at her.

  A vase hit the wall beside his head. She moved forward, swinging the slat like the Count of Monte Cristo—she'd loved that book. She parried and lunged forward. He stepped around the rocker, backing straight toward the window.

  "There, there, sweet, now don't get upset." He still had that smile on his lascivious face. "I understand. It'll take time for you to overcome this shyness." He was almost laughing.

  Her face turned purple. She couldn't speak. Instead she looked for something else to throw, and spotted the heavy gilded bronze inkstand.

  Her hand reached toward it.

  His gaze followed her hand. "Oh shit!" He dove out the window, and the stand, ink and all, sailed out after him.

  Addie stormed to the open window, glaring out at him. He was lying, thigh high, in the mud, Peyton's Indelible Ink spotting his face and dripping from his dimpled chin. He grinned at her, his teeth sparkling milky-white in his ink-splattered face.

  His deep voice echoed in the farmyard. "Does this mean I won't get breakfast?"

  Addie threw the broken slat at him and slammed the window shut.

  Chapter 10

  Montana bent under the pump and let the water spill over his head. He shook the water from his hair and then washed his hands, one at a time, under the spigot. His stomach growled, and he smiled. It was dinnertime, close to noon if the high sun was any indication, and he was hungry. He'd missed breakfast, but he didn't mind because he'd had too damn much fun, attacking the Pinky woman.

  Laughing at the memory, he dried his hands on a towel. One whack on that round little butt of hers and her dark head had shot up from the pillow. Her black eyes had all but swallowed her prissy-white little face. It had taken every ounce of his restraint to keep from laughing out loud, especially when he had laid on the sugar stuff.

  He pulled a comb from his pocket, drew back his wet hair and tied it behind his neck with a thin leather strip. Then he leaned on the pump, watching the smoke burp from the roof's stovepipe.

  She was in the kitchen now, cooking—on second thought, burning. The woman wasn't much of a cook, although anything was better than the beans and bacon he'd lived on for weeks, and some things she cooked weren't too bad. Others—well, he thought, remembering his sore jaw, others tasted like his saddle. Maybe he'd get lucky and she'd make black-eyed peas and ham again. That meal had been great.

  Food, however, was not his concern. Driving her off his land was, and it looked as if he was finally succeeding. Feeling his small triumph, he whistled "A Man Without a Woman." He remembered her fear-filled face, and the sweetness of her flowery smell. The whistling slowed. He could almost feel her stiff little shoulders, and the soft whisper of her skin against his lips. The tune died on his lips. He remembered how she'd quivered beneath him. It had been in fear, but he savored it, just like he savored the way she'd shivered when he'd licked her ear. But it was the memory of her scooting around the bed like it was on fire that told Montana his plan was working.

  And now it was time for more—if he wanted to be a man without that woman. He grinned and the whistling began again. With the towel slung over a shoulder, he pushed away from the pump, then walked across the muddy farmyard, heading for the back steps. It was dinnertime, and time to seduce the determination right out of little Miss Pinky.

  The mud clung to his boots and covered the sound of them on the wood of the back steps. He looked down at the muddy boots. Anticipating her reaction, he pulled them off and set them by the back door. He straightened and tried to look through the door's window. The glass was dirty, so he wiped the dust off with the towel and tossed it over the stair rail. The flowery curtains dulled the scene but he could see her moving around the room. He reached for the knob and turned it, slowly.

  The image of her angry, horrified face still brought a smile of satisfaction to his lips. Then he remembered the inkwell and wondered if he'd have to dodge a fry pan. He frowned; fry pans were heavy. He looked in the window again. She wasn't near the stove, but just to be safe he quietly cracked open the back door and reconnoitered the kitchen.

  Something smelled like heaven. Maybe he'd get lucky again, like the black-eyed peas and ham. He stepped inside, quietly closing the door. He turned at the sound of her heels clicking across the hardwood floor. She walked from the table to the stove, never even glancing at the door. Lifting the lid on a cast-iron pot, she peered inside. The savory smell of stew filled the room.

  He loved stew. His stomach rumbled. Then he remembered her cooking. His face contorted, and he wondered if she'd thrown in a pound of salt. His stomach groaned again. Apparently it had no discretion. He lounged back against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his belly to cover the sounds.

  Pot lid in one hand and spoon in the other, she stirred the stew, humming. She released the spoon and reached for the salt shaker. He winced. She hammered it through the air a few dozen times, then set it down.

  Montana was suddenly thirsty.

  She replaced the lid, still unaware of his presence, opened the oven door and peered in. He wondered what gastronomical horror lurked inside that hot, black oven. No doubt it would give his stomach hell. She poked her hand inside. His gaze left her head and wandered to her small, round backside. He savored the view, then remembered his plan.

  He stared at her through lowered lids and searched for the slow, deep voice he used to calm Jericho. "Hello, sweet Addie."

  The oven banged shut. She shot upright. Her eyes swallowed her face again.

  He pushed away from the wall and slunk toward her.

  She held the wooden spoon in front of her, swordlike. "Stay away!"

  "I'm still…" He slowly traced the edge of his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. "…hungry."

  "Dinner is almost ready." She spun around and started banging pan lids, conveniently holding the largest one in her right hand. It was her shield.

  "It's not food I'm hungry for."

  "Well, food is all you're getting." She spun around, ignoring him, but she raised the pot lid another inch.

  He watched her fiddle with her pans, then closed in. She looked over her shoulder at him and gulped. He loved this. Bent on entrapment, he placed a hand on either side of her and leaned down. He was so close he could feel her quick breath against his lips.

  "Feed me."

  She rammed her bony little elbow into his ribs and ducked under his arm, brandishing her spoon. "Now you stop this!"

  He rubbed his ringing ribs. His stomach growled. It was desperate. She waved the spoon under his nose. He wasn't sure how to handle this charade yet, so he decided to pull back a bit and lull her into a sense of security. He'd eat—hopefully there'd be one or two things edible, as usual—then he'd move in for the kill. He'd seduce better with a full stomach.

  "If you wish to eat in my home, you… will…behave… sir." She shook her spoon with each staccato word.

  He let his gaze rove over her, slowly. Then, when she looked about ready to heave dinner at him, he nodded, but smiled, hoping to make her wonder and worry.

  "You can help, since you're so 'hungry.' You may get the butter crock from the icebox," she ordered as she waved the spoon around some more. It made him dizzy. She reached up to grab a platter off a cupboard shelf, but transferred the spoon to he
r other hand, still waving in his direction.

  No use getting his eye poked out, he thought, and started toward the oak icebox near the back door. Then she added over her shoulder, "And then please put the flour tin back in the pantry. Third shelf on the left, look for the label 620.0212."

  He stopped midstride. "What?"

  "The pantry." She set the platter down and waved her other hand at the pantry wall as if that explained what the hell she meant.

  He stared blankly.

  She sighed. "Just get the butter, please." She marched over to the wooden worktable and plucked up the flour tin, then wedged it onto her hip. She grabbed a couple of small sacks and another small, orange tin and disappeared into the pantry.

  Montana put the butter on the table and crossed to the little storage room next to the kitchen. His curiosity was piqued. She walked along the row of shelves, placing each item in a certain spot. Then he spotted the white labels.

  He walked up to the closest one, beneath the flour tin. The figures looked like money sums except she'd put the damn decimal in the wrong place. He stared at the flour label, 620.0212. He shook his head. There was no way that the flour could have cost her six hundred twenty dollars. Maybe it was cents.

  She placed the orange can on a lower shelf, then she raised a corner of her apron and wiped a smudge from the label.

  Montana scratched his ear, trying to decipher her sums. It didn't help. He still couldn't make sense of those numbers. His confusion must have shown all over his face, because she pointed to the labels. "Dewey was a brilliant man."

  Dewey who? And he couldn't have been too brilliant since he can't even add sums right.

  Montana told her so.

  Her nose shot up and she took on her fighting stance—hands on her hips, chin high, lips all prissy. "For your information, this is the Dewey Decimal System of Cataloging. It's an organizational masterpiece, created by Melvil Dewey, the creator of the Science of Library Economy. I was honored to learn from the master himself, at Columbia University." She ended this nonsense with a curt and superior nod of her snippy little head.

  Well, la-tee-dah, he thought, but resisted the urge to say it. He'd like to wipe that smirk right off her face, and he knew how too. His tongue in her mouth would take the prissy look off the Pinky woman's smug face.

  He looked around the small room. Christ Almighty, what was wrong with him? He'd been slipping. There was no back door in this room, and he stood by the entrance, blocking it. He had her! Stepping toward her, his raised his arms out, reaching…

  She must have read his intent, for he felt the wind as she whizzed past him and out of the room.

  He snapped his fingers. Damn! He'd lost his chance. He'd have to be sharper next time, he thought, rounding the corner of the kitchen. She set the meal on the table. He looked for a corner to back her into but she had already scurried back to the stove. Montana moseyed over to the table and took a closer look, hoping to find something that she might not have ruined.

  The stew had to be in the covered dish sitting in the middle of the table, by the biscuits. He loved biscuits. She hadn't cooked those yet, so he had a chance that maybe, like her cornbread, they would be great. She set a small pitcher of cream on the table. Ah-hah! She'd served cream just like that when she'd made those baked apples. She'd hogged most of them, but the one he'd eaten had been good, really good. His mouth watered. Things were looking up. Yes, he'd wait a bit before he moved in for the kill.

  She approached the table, her hands filled with a bowl of spicy baked apples. His stomach cried. She set them on the table, nearer his side. She went to the sinkboard, filling a water pitcher before she started back for the table.

  Thinking quickly, he rushed over and plucked the heavy pitcher from her hands. "I'll help you with that," he said. "It's heavy."

  Her mouth fell open. He'd caught her off guard. He set the pitcher on the table and then again acted the gentleman and pulled out a chair, one that was farther from the apples.

  "Miss Pinkney," he said, indicating that she should be seated. He'd used her real name. It was the only way he'd convince her he was really being a gentleman.

  She must have grown roots. She still stood there, looking at him in an odd way. He waited. He wanted those apples. The only thing he liked better than baked apples was apple pie, hot, warm, and flaky…

  He caught her movement out of the corner of his eye. She still stood rooted to the same spot, but now her arms were crossed. Her look had changed too. It was no longer stunned; now the look was suspicious. She didn't trust him. A smart woman.

  "I'll behave," he lied.

  She searched his face. Something twisted inside him. He ignored it. She walked to the chair and sat, her movements slow and apprehensive.

  "I promise I won't pull the chair out from under you."

  Her head tilted back as she looked up at him. An eternal second passed, and then she laughed. He found himself smiling back. Her eyes sparkled up at him, like those jet beads women wore, and with her head back like that, he could see her long, white throat. All that smooth skin. He remembered its flavor, could almost taste the musky sweetness… Then he remembered the game he must play.

  He quickly sat down by the apples, and while she placed her napkin in her lap, he loaded three of the four apples on his plate. As he reached for the creamer he tried not to gloat. He failed.

  At the sound of her gasp, he didn't even blink, but he could feel the burn of her glare. Ignoring her, he removed the lid from the stew and ladled it into his bowl. Finally he looked up and smiled, real friendlylike. Her nose was up again.

  "Would you pass the water please?" he asked, acting casual as could be.

  She clunked the pitcher down next to him. He shoveled in the apples. He'd been right. They were perfect.

  With ladylike delicacy she ladled a small, select portion of stew into her bowl, scowling.

  Time for more, he thought. Slowly, he moved his foot over near hers. He lifted his glass to his mouth and drank. At the same time, he inched his foot under the hem of her skirt. He watched her over the glass rim. She shifted in her chair but didn't appear to notice what he was doing. She was in for a big surprise. She lifted her spoon to that prissy mouth of hers.

  He rubbed his sock-covered toes up her calf. She shrieked and dropped the spoon. Her chair skidded back a good foot and she looked under the table.

  He wiggled his toes.

  She fumed. "You said you'd behave!"

  This was going to be good.

  He set the glass down and rubbed his forehead, "Sorry. I guess I couldn't control myself." He donned the sick swain look. "I couldn't help it. Must be my animalistic nature." He ate half an apple.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  He stabbed another hunk of apple with his fork and lifted it up, waving it like she had the spoon. "These ought to help. Isn't that what you said? If fruit 'enhances a delicate nature' then it ought to counteract an 'animalistic' one." He chomped down on the piece and chewed, grinning like an idiot.

  She scooted her chair back to the table and replaced her napkin. She stared a moment, then she smiled. It was an odd smile. She picked up the plate of biscuits with both hands and offered them to him. "Here, have some biscuits." She still smiled, which was a strange reaction, considering…

  Montana grabbed the plate. She let go and he dropped his fork, ramming his other hand under the plate. It must have weighed ten pounds. He set it down, amazed that a dozen biscuits could be that heavy.

  He stared at them. Maybe the plate was cast iron. He picked up a biscuit. No, the biscuit was cast iron.

  He tossed it in his palm. It slipped and fell. His dinner plate chipped. She passed him the butter crock and then proceeded to eat, occasionally peering up at him.

  He sawed at the biscuit. His knife stuck. He set it down, biscuit still attached, and he ventured a taste of the stew. It was a little salty, but not bad. His next bite was a big, man-sized spoonful. He crunched down on something. His tongue b
urned, and his nostrils cleared—permanently.

  "Water," he gasped, grabbing the whole pitcher and gulping down the water.

  She lifted her napkin to her lips and patted them. "Oh my, did I forget to take that hot chili pepper out? I put it in for flavoring. It's supposed to give it a little spice." She grabbed one of those iron biscuits and held it out to him. "You shouldn't drink water, you know, it'll only make it burn worse. Here, have another biscuit."

  Now his ears were hot. The burn was spreading through his senses like prairie fire.

  She waited for him to take the biscuit. God, he'd try anything.

  He put the biscuit to his mouth and bit down. It crumbled like talcum powder as he chewed. It did help, since it turned into a thick paste that clung to the roof of his mouth. The paste cooled the burning. He pushed at the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Montana decided that if he were to ever eat a hatbox, it would taste like this. The burning subsided, so he didn't feel compelled to eat more of the iron biscuits. Besides, his tongue was numb. When she wasn't looking, he crammed them into his pockets, figuring he'd dispose of them later.

  Now how the hell was he going to lust-scare her with a numb tongue? She'd gotten him again. But he had plenty of time, so he'd back off and try again later.

  Just as he was about to rise, he heard the crunch of horse's hooves come down the drive. He looked at the Pinky woman. She'd heard it too. They both rose at the same time. He went to the back door, and while he pulled on his boots, she went out. A few minutes later, boots on, he rounded the corner of the house.

  There stood Miss Pinky, head craned back as she looked up at Rebecca Latimer. Tall, bosomy, and regal, the redhead sat astride one of the finest pieces of horseflesh Montana'd ever seen. It was a dark bay with black points and the strongest quarters he'd ever seen. The stallion looked as if he could turn on a biscuit and never break the crust, even the Pinky woman's biscuits. Montana moved in for a closer look. The animal stood about sixteen hands and looked to be maybe four years. He wasn't sure, but from the way it backstepped and pulled at the bit, he was sure it wasn't much older.