Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  Then what did you do?

  Addie swallowed. She'd goaded him, "yes mastering" him until finally he'd kissed her just to shut her up. Her gaze flashed to that spot in the barn. The spot where she had learned all about tongues.

  She'd asked for trouble, and she'd gotten it all right. The man couldn't keep his hands and lips off her. She sighed. Never in all her born days did Adelaide Amanda Pinkney think that she would inspire lust in a man. Desire, maybe love, but this was too… too thrilling to be those emotions. Love was something warm and comfortable, like lying in a feather bed. The feeling she got from kissing this man was more like lying in a bed of fire, and enjoying it.

  That's what really scares you.

  It is not, she argued with her mouthy conscience. What scares me is this man. He's confusing, and a little shady. The man did have a black side to his soul. She had a right to be a little afraid of him. This man ogled pictures of naked women, for God's sakes! He was probably easier to spark lust in than most. He looked in her bedroom window too. And she'd foolishly kissed him. She didn't fight him at all. All because she was curious.

  Good Lord. She had to live near this man, eat meals with him. They were both forced into farming this land together. By not fighting him, she had surely given him the idea that she welcomed all that canoodling.

  What a dadgum, foolish, idiotic thing for her to do. Of course he'd slithered into her bedroom. He'd probably thought she'd welcome him with open arms. But then, he should have caught on when she resisted. If someone threw things at me, she thought, I'd figure I was doing something wrong. Men could be hardheaded, though. She'd bet he figured he could wear her resistance down.

  He might do it too.

  "Ok shut up!" Addie yelled into the empty barn.

  He won't do it, because I'm going to explain things to him, she decided.

  She stood, dragging the heavy milk pail out from under the cow. She would apologize for making him think she wanted his attentions. Lugging the pail forward, she justified everything. She really hadn't meant to encourage him; so, she thought, trying to balance both of the heavy pails on the neck yoke she'd discovered, she would apologize. It was the proper thing to do. She'd take the blame, even though it was his fault too. After all, he did encourage his lecherous side by goggling at naked women. But she'd overlook that and make him see that they had to work together, so they could make this farm into the best, most lucrative farm in the valley, maybe in all of California. It was the smartest thing for both their interests.

  Yes, Addie thought, trudging under the weight of her yoked milk pails, that's exactly what she would do, at the first opportunity.

  Before Montana opened the door, he looked down at his boots, No mud this time. He opened the door and braved the culinary beast. The kitchen was empty, but a clatter sounded from around the corner and he moved into the pantry.

  "Dadgummit!" she muttered, standing on a small milking stool while she reached toward a can on the top shelf. Her back was to him and he found himself eyeing her butt. Then his gaze slowly drifted up her waist, her back, up the small little buttons that traveled to her hairline.

  She muttered again and he watched her strain to try to grab a can, her small hand swiping at the top shelf. He wondered how long it would take her to inch the can forward. A hairpin fell out of her hair and pinged onto the wooden floor. Her black hair was jammed into some knot thing high on her head, and one long piece fell, then another, and another, then the knot slid halfway down her back.

  Montana silently padded across the small room until he stood beneath her. He reached up and grabbed her waist.

  She shrieked, and a stack of cans clunked onto the floor. Her head jerked and she frowned down at him over her shoulder. Smiling, he plucked her off the stool.

  He heard her inhale and felt her stiffen, so he waited for the fight. Nothing happened.

  Surprised at her lack of reaction, he tossed her slightly, turning her so he held her high above his face. He wanted to see her face. This should be good.

  Her eyes were squeezed shut. He waited. She slowly peeled open her huge, black eyes. It was the strangest thing. They looked a little foggy. Then she stared at his chin. Before he could figure out her reaction, she started to squirm.

  "Put me down!"

  "No." He held her fast, closing his hands tighter around her small waist. His middle fingers touched.

  Her feet looked like she was pedaling that bicycle of hers, so he locked his elbows and held her up even higher. He had been right. She didn't weigh much more than a sack of flour. This was fun, holding her high above him and watching her feet pedal through the empty air. She muttered the whole time, and when her words registered, he was impressed. She really could come up with some inventive curses. His poor "black soul," he thought. The madder she got, the faster her feet went. He couldn't help it; he laughed out loud.

  To throw her off, he lowered her slowly toward his face. Panic flashed in her black eyes before they bore into his. This was his best plan yet.

  "Release me, at once!"

  "Now if I do that, you'll land right on that sweet, little white butt."

  Her fist flew at him. It missed by a foot. Her cheeks turned darker than apples.

  "I'll put you down…''

  "Good." She crossed her arms, as if she weren't airborne, and waited, indignation spitting from her little red face.

  "It'll cost you." Very slowly he let his tongue wet his lips. Her eyes almost popped out of her head and her mouth gaped open.

  "A kiss. One sweet kiss…''

  Her mouth clamped shut. Her hands grabbed his wrists. "You are a sick man. Put me down."

  "I said it'll cost you a kiss."

  The little witch dug her nails into his wrists. He just smiled and drew her down toward his mouth. She puckered up her little face and pursed her lips together so tight that they all but disappeared. He didn't laugh this time, but it was tempting. She looked like she was about to kiss a frog.

  He watched her scrunched-up face, and when their mouths almost touched, he stopped, waiting a long moment. The determined Miss Pinky didn't open her eyes. He slowly drew his tongue across her tight lips.

  It worked. Her eyes flew open and her lips relaxed. He kissed her; she squirmed, so he backed her up against the pantry shelves. He had her pinned, his hands still gripping her small waist. Her feet still moved, so he moved his leg between hers, wedging his knee against a pantry shelf. Her hands left his wrists and pinched into his shoulders. She twisted her head away from his mouth. There was her soft neck, presented to him like a succulent Christmas goose. He concentrated on nibbling over her neck.

  It was a mistake. Her fist slammed into his left ear.

  "Ouch!" He dropped her and grabbed his ringing ear. She landed astride his thigh.

  He shook his head and rubbed at his ear, so he could better hear her tirade.

  "Keep your lecherous lips off me!" She threw her leg over his and slid off, bending to pick up the stool. She held it in front of her like a shield.

  He still rubbed his ear, but then remembered his goal. He let his gaze rest on her lips and purposely moved forward. "I'm hungry… Addie."

  She raised the stool. "Well, I'm not dinner! Your meal is out there." She nodded toward the kitchen.

  "I wasn't talking about food." He winked.

  She was so scared, Montana could tell she was about one more clench away from packing. Her jaw worked in and out and she finally sputtered, "F-Food. Our agreement was for food. I'd promised to feed you because you helped me save my chickens. That's all we agreed on."

  "Feed me, now." He took a step toward her.

  "Stop that!" Her stool waved around his nose and he stopped, praying to keep from smiling.

  He purposely lowered his lids, giving her a look that should have scared the drawers off her. "You were hungry last night… in the barn." He gave her what felt like a good suggestive leer. "Remember?"

  "I—I—" Her face reddened again and she raised a ha
nd to her forehead and swiped the hair off it. She had begun to sweat. Some damp black hairs began to curl around her bright face. She absentmindedly fanned herself.

  Little Miss Pinky was hot. He loved it.

  She took a deep breath. "Mr. Creed. Uh…I…I think you misunderstood what happened."

  Montana schooled his look. Her eyes searched his face, and then she did the one thing that stopped him cold.

  "I'm sorry. It was all my fault."

  She had just apologized. He couldn't believe her. She was accepting the blame.

  She sighed and shook her head. "I'm afraid my actions led you to believe that I… I feel a special—'' She stopped, searching for the right word. "…a special regard for you. I'm afraid that's not the case."

  He could see her trying to gauge his response. He didn't even blink.

  She went on. "I've been thinking," she said, setting the stool down and locking her hands behind her little butt while she paced the small room. "This whole farm-sharing thing is difficult. I've tried to do the right thing." She stopped and looked up at him.

  He wanted to throttle her. Do the right thing.… She hadn't done anything right. If she'd wanted to do the right thing, she'd have gone back to Chicago.

  She raised her hand. "Now don't get all boorish again. I was wrong about the water." She crossed her arms and waited for his response.

  He'd be damned if he'd give it. He wanted to see what she was up to. With a casualness he was far from feeling, he leaned back against the pantry shelves. He waited.

  Apparently it was enough because she began to pace again. "It was very kind of you to help me with the chickens. That's why I said I'd fix your meals. Last night, I realized how dangerous it was for you to be camped outside. That's why I let you use my barn."

  Her barn. He wanted to wring her neck.

  "I've decided to make up for my pettiness about the water. You and that… that animal can use the barn." She stopped her pacing and gave him a tentative smile.

  When he didn't respond, she went on. "I feel we should come to some agreement. Since you will be planting our crops…''

  Montana took a deep breath. My crops.

  "I feel that you should have use of my uncle's farm implements. Therefore, I will give you free run of the farm. Oh, not the house, of course. You may have your meals in here, but you'll have to sleep in the bunkroom in the back of the barn.

  "You must understand that we will be business partners, nothing more. If my actions in the barn made you think that maybe we could be… something else, well, I apologize." She awaited his response, that little nose of hers sky high again. Little Miss Pinky had spoken.

  His mind raced for something to say. He supposed he should let her believe he was thankful, but it would kill him. This was his farm. She didn't belong here. Still, the only way he could see to solve the Pinky woman problem was to continue. The lust angle did scare her. Although she seemed to have come to grips with it, for now anyway. Hell, she'd blamed herself. That was fine with him. Let her believe it's her fault, he thought. Meanwhile, he'd have to do this more subtly.

  "Don't you have anything to say?" she asked.

  He couldn't do it. He knew she was waiting for him to thank her, for her benevolence. He'd never get the words past his lips. They'd stick like her roast in his throat.

  "Do you think that you can forget about last night?" Her voice was suddenly quiet and threaded with a little worry. "Can you treat me like a business partner?"

  Not on your life. Instead of saying what he thought, he tried to look like a spurned swain. He wasn't sure he succeeded.

  "I'll try," he finally said, realizing this was a new angle to his old game. He could continue the act, but this time he'd have her sympathy. Every time he'd get all lovey-dovey, she'd think he couldn't help it. If he hounded her enough, she'd still run. He tried to look contrite, then added, "It won't be easy, Addie, but I'll try to control myself when I'm around you."

  "Good. Let's eat." Her face lit up with her smile, and for some stupid reason, Montana's chest tightened. He watched her walk from the room, but he didn't follow immediately. He stood there, telling himself that he must be catching a cold from the storm.

  Chapter 12

  I want you to teach me to ride a horse."

  Montana decided he was hearing things, and continued to work on the old wagon he'd found behind the barn.

  "Well?" she asked.

  He turned and looked at her. Her arms were crossed and that nose was up again.

  "Will you do it?"

  He turned back and tightened the hub on a wagon wheel, thinking he intended to do more to Little Miss Pinky than she knew. He stretched his arm through the spoke so he could test the bolts on the axle.

  Her foot tapped an impatient beat on the dusty ground. He smiled. "Why this sudden change of heart? I thought you were afraid of horses?"

  "I'm not afraid of them—''

  He grunted, then pushed hard on the wrench.

  "I just don't like them."

  Her foot still tapped.

  "Then why learn now?" He turned onto his back and slid under the wagon, scanning the undercarriage for loose boards. He heard her resolved sigh.

  "If I'm going to become a prosperous farmer…''

  Don't bet your farm on it, he thought, then grabbed a hammer and pounded in a few nails.

  "…I need to learn to work with horses," she shouted over the hammering.

  He raised his head slightly, so he could see where she stood. Her black, button-top shoes were only a few feet from where his dusty, old boots rested, toes up, on the ground. The boot leather was a dingy gray-brown and wrinkled with time and wear. Hers were dusty, but the clean, shiny newness of the leather still glistened through the fine coat of valley dirt. From the square, pointed toes all the way to the top of the shoe, there wasn't one crease in the black leather, not even where the leather tongue swelled over the rim and buttoned tight and high above her ankle. Montana shook his head. Not even one crease.

  She didn't belong here, this city woman with her grand plans and her books. "I thought you had books to teach you everything you needed to know. Why do you need me? Use a book."

  She called him a toad again under her breath.

  He smiled, locked his hands behind his head and watched that foot tap up a little dust again.

  "I don't have a book on horses," she admitted. The confession was spoken so softly that he'd had to strain to hear it.

  "Huh?" He made her repeat it.

  "I said," she raised her voice a full octave, "that I don't have a book about horses!"

  "Why not?" he asked, grinning to himself. He liked this game.

  "Mr. Creed! It is very difficult to converse with you under that wagon!"

  I know, he thought, but it's so much more entertaining. Then his mind flashed with all the possibilities of entertainment offered by giving Little Miss Pinky horseback riding lessons, which might prove to be a better game. He just couldn't pass it up.

  Still lying on his back, he grabbed his tools, pushing them out by the wagon wheel. He scooted partially out from under the wagon and grabbed the old, splintered edge of the wooden bed, pulling himself completely out into the bright sunlight, and into her view. He blinked at the brightness, then stood and plucked his hat off the wagon seat. He dusted the hat off out of habit, then dropped it onto his head.

  Leaning as indolently as possible against the wagon bed, he pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped the axle grease and dirt from his hands. His eyes had adjusted to the sunlight and he got his first glimpse of her. Her black hair was up, all snotty like, without one hair out of place. She wore a stark white shirt that looked crisper than fried chicken. Her skirt was black and made out of some shiny stuff that looked like it belonged at a church social instead of on the back of a horse.

  He let his gaze drift over her. Her nose went up. He needed to bring it down a notch. "You'll learn to ride astride, Miss Pinky, so unless you want the world to see th
at city-white little butt of yours, I'd suggest you change clothes."

  She sucked in a quick breath and her face began to flush. Her small fists knotted and he'd swear he heard her teeth grind. Then her nose went up again. "Fine." She almost spat the word. Then she spun on her heel and marched toward the farmhouse, leaving Montana to savor his plan.

  Addie didn't have a split skirt like Rebecca's. All she had were her biking knickerbockers from her riding club. She rummaged through her barrel trunk and pulled out the official riding uniform of the Bicycling Belles.

  She removed her corset, wearing only a chemise. One never wore a corset when riding a bicycle. It inhibited one's breathing. Riding corsetless was one of the female luxuries of the riding craze, and almost two years before, Addie had joined the women cyclist reformers who advocated "rational dress."

  She tied her drawers and buttoned the small pearl buttons up the front of the corset cover she used for riding. It was a full size bigger than she used with her corset, but the cambric fabric modestly concealed her body through the sheerness of her uniform's white linen shirt. The shirt was piped in black and had a high-standing collar, like the ones worn by the cadets at West Point. There was a black cap with silver-cord trimming on the visor, and for the shirt's French cuff she had matching silver cuff links shaped like bicycle bells.

  Addie fastened them with care. The cuff links were earned by the club riders. She'd won hers in the Annual Ladies' Pullman Race, a ten-mile course sponsored by Harper's Weekly and the Ladies Associated Cycling Clubs. She smiled proudly and grabbed her castor-colored stockings with the black diamond inserts, sliding them up her legs and fastening them with a pair of black elastic stocking supporters. She unfolded her knickerbockers. Some of the women's clubs called them bifurcated garments, but the Belles didn't like distinguishing the female garments from the male. Most of Addie's clubmates felt that cycling had given them a new freedom and a sense of equality with men. Before she left, many of the men's cycling clubs had begun treating their female counterparts with respect—for the ladies' cycling skill, not their gender.