Wild Yearning

by Penelope Williamson

  Caleb nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “Y-yes. Every time. She’s so darn small. I make her cry. I try and get it over with quickly, to spare her, but it still hurts her.”

  Ty heaved a huge sigh. He couldn’t believe he was actually going to do this. He nodded toward the parsonage’s front door. “Do you have any brandy back in there?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of—”

  “Fetch it then. You and I are going to have ourselves a little talk, Caleb my friend, and I think we’re both going to need to be a little drunk to get through it.”

  Delia worked a smidgen of salt pork onto the end of the hook, then wedged the alder pole into Tildy’s dimpled fists. “There you go, puss,” she said, rubbing the little girl’s blond curls. She dropped the line with its bait into the river. “See if you can catch a fish now.”

  Tildy wriggled her bottom along the bank, getting closer to the water. Her mouth was screwed up in fierce concentration, for she expected to feel a nibble at any moment. She picked up the cornhusk doll that lay across her lap and handed it back to Delia. “Fix a pole for Gretchen too.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Meg Parkes proclaimed from her perch on a nearby rock. “Gretchen’s only a doll. She can’t fish.”

  “She can so!”

  “Hush now, girls.” Delia selected a tiny twig and began to tie a piece of twine around the end of it. “I see no reason why Gretchen can’t fish.”

  Meg stuck out her tongue at her little sister. Tildy reciprocated, showing a mouth stained purple from the blackberries they’d been snacking on while at the river. The smell of the ripe fruit filled the air, cloyingly sweet.

  “If you girls are good”—Delia equipped Gretchen with her own tiny pole and sat her on a doll-sized rock near the water’s edge—“I’ll show you later how to catch a fish with your bare hands.”

  Meg sniffed dubiously.

  Delia laughed. “You’ll see. An old Indian I met taught me how to do it.”

  As the hot noon sun climbed above the treetops, mist began to rise from the high green grass along the riverbank, still wet from yesterday’s rain. Nat had taken a cartload of freshly threshed grain to the gristmill and Delia felt guilty, as if she were sneaking out behind his back, like a child playing hooky from school. There were dozens of chores waiting for her back at the farm, but when Meg had suggested going fishing Delia had immediately leaped at the chance to spend more time alone with Nat’s girls. Since the day the hen had gotten stuck in the chimney, Delia had sensed a weakening of Meg’s hostility toward her and she intended to press her advantage.

  The tip of Tildy’s pole dipped sharply toward the water. “I got one!” she screeched. “Oh, Delia, Delia, I got a fish!”

  Tildy stood up and tottered two steps into the water. Meg hurried to her side, grabbing her around the waist. “Hang on tight, Tildy, and I’ll pull it in,” she said, grasping the end of the wriggling pole to help.

  Tildy jerked away from her sister. “By myself! I can do it by myself!”

  As Delia tried to intervene, her skirt brushed against the cornhusk doll, knocking it off its perch and into the water. Within seconds, it had floated out into the middle of the river where the current grabbed it.

  Tildy was the first to notice and she screamed. “Gretchen fell in the river! Gretchen’s drowning!”

  Delia shoved the little girl into her big sister’s arms before Tildy could think of going after the doll herself. Then, pulling up her skirts, she waded in.

  Away from the bank, the current was much stronger than Delia had realized. The water was also very cold and soon her legs were numb. Luckily, the doll snagged on a rock or Delia would never have been able to catch up with it. But the river seemed suddenly much deeper; it had risen above her waist. She took another step—it rose to her breasts.

  The rushing water was a roar in her ears, but even so Delia could hear the echo of Tildy’s hysterical screams. The rapids tugged at her skirts as she leaned precariously over, stretching her fingertips toward the doll. She was inches shy.

  She took one more step … and the water closed over her head.

  Given his head to find his own way home, Ty’s horse walked slowly between the cart ruts along the river. The hot sun beat down on them mercilessly. A fish hawk circled lazily overhead and the vivid green wild rice and marsh grass waved in the sultry breeze. A pair of squirrels chased each other up a nearby tree, chattering noisily. Ty cursed them. As a result of his and Caleb’s “little talk,” Merrymeeting’s doctor was in a foul mood.

  Part of it was due, he knew, to the roiling effect of the brandy bubbling through his veins so early in the day. But a bigger part, a very big part, was filling his breeches right now with the most uncomfortable state of arousal he’d ever experienced. It was all the fault of the explicit sexual advice he had just been pouring into the Reverend Hooker’s tender and eager ears. He wasn’t sure what sort of effect all that randy talk had had on Caleb, but he sure as hell had managed to talk himself into one hell of an erection.

  “Damn!” Ty rose up in the stirrups, seeking some relief. What you need, Savitch, you lustful old bastard, is a woman.

  The warm, hard pressure in his crotch was a painful reminder that he hadn’t held a woman, a real live woman, in his arms since a certain afternoon in Falmouth woods. The trouble was he didn’t want just any woman.

  “Delia-girl,” he muttered grimly between his clenched teeth, “you’d better hope to God our paths don’t cross any time soon.” In the condition he was in at the moment, he’d throw her down on the ground and take her, married or not. Willing or not.

  Such was Ty’s self-absorbtion in his own miserable state that the screams didn’t penetrate his consciousness for several seconds. He was just about to kick his horse into a canter, for the noise came from ahead of him, when a movement in the water to his left caught the corner of his eye, and he jerked his head around, hauling on the reins. A body was caught in the current, being swept out toward the bay.

  Just then Meg Parkes stumbled around the bend with a screaming Tildy in her arms. She was sobbing something of which Ty heard only one word—but it was enough to freeze his heart.

  Delia.

  “Stay there!” he flung over his shoulder, pressing his knees hard into the pacer’s sides. He urged the horse back along the bank—if he had any hope of pulling Delia from the churning rapids, he was going to have to get downriver from her. Looping the reins around the saddle pommel, he pulled off his coat, casting it aside along with his cocked hat. With his thighs, he maneuvered his horse, sending the panicked animal splashing across the marshy ground and crashing through the brush.

  He was ahead of Delia now, but there wasn’t much time. Kicking free of the stirrups, he jumped from the horse, landing on his moccasined-feet on the soft ground, knees bending to absorb the shock, and then he was wading fast into the river, pumping his arms hard. When the water reached his chest, he struck out swimming.

  He had only one chance to snag her body as it was carried by him and he almost didn’t make it. For one terrifying second, his fingers groped nothing but water before becoming entangled in her hair. Even then he almost lost her twice, as they were carried along side by side on the current, before he was able to wrap his arm around her chest and get a good grip. He was sure she was already dead. Her tiny frame was a sodden weight in his arms and her face, from the one glimpse he’d gotten of it, was blanched and lifeless.

  He flung her onto the grassy bank and scrambled up after her. He pressed his fingers against the pulse point in her neck … and felt nothing.

  “No!” he screamed, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her, as if he could shake the life back into her. He clutched her face, pressing his mouth onto her blue, lifeless lips. “No!” he screamed again.

  It wasn’t Edinburgh University that had taught Dr. Tyler Savitch how to try to revive a person who had drowned. He had seen his Indian father Assacumbuit do it once, bringing back to life a child who had fallen into
the lake near their village. He did to Delia what Assacumbuit had done to the child, pumping her arms up and down in a rowing motion and squeezing her chest.

  He did it over and over, unwilling to accept that he had lost her because the reality was unbearable. He had seen Abenaki shamans try to blow life back into the dead and he did that, too —pressing his mouth over hers and breathing into her, hard.

  Suddenly her head lolled to the side. She coughed once and then a second time, and then water poured from her mouth and nose, and she was retching.

  He held her head up so she wouldn’t strangle, making it easier for her to draw air into her heaving lungs. When the choking finally stopped and her breathing slowed, he gathered her into his lap, pressing her head against his chest while he rocked her back and forth. His eyes squeezed tightly shut and he buried his face in her hair. “Ah God, Delia, Delia. You scared the living hell out of me.”

  “Ty?” Her fists wrapped around the wet linen of his shirt and she clung to him, rubbing her face against his chest, her breasts heaving. She felt so damn small and insubstantial in his arms. Christ, he’d come so close to losing her.

  Suddenly she jerked away from him, trying to push to her feet. “Oh God, the girls, Ty! Where are the girls?”

  He held her down. “They’re all right.”

  She still hadn’t quite recovered her wind and the slight struggle had her gasping again for air. “B-but, Ty…”

  “They’re upriver a little ways. I told them to stay put. At least Meg had enough sense to run for help rather than try to jump in after you.” He ran his hands over her face, reassuring himself that she was all right. “Delia, what happened?”

  She twisted her head aside and pushed against him, harder. “G-girls … have to go … They’ll be … terrified.”

  Ty hesitated, torn between his unwillingness to leave Delia and the knowledge that he was going to have to go back for the Parkes girls, when his problem was solved. He spotted Meg running down the road above them, Tildy still in her arms.

  “There they are. You stay still.”

  “But—”

  He clutched her shoulders. “Delia, for the love of God, will you for once, just once, do what I ask?”

  He reached the girls before they could start down the bank. Meg stood at the top and watched him come with huge, frightened brown eyes. “Is she … is she …?”

  “She’s all right,” he said quickly. “What happened?” He squatted down to get a look at Tildy. The little girl had lasped into intermittent, hiccupping sobs, but beyond that she appeared to be all right.

  “W-we w-were f-fishing and—” Meg’s throat caught on a sob.

  “Never mind,” Ty said, to head off her growing hysteria. He squeezed her shoulder. “You take Tildy back to the house and put some water on the fire. I’ll bring Delia along in a minute. She’s all right now, but she needs to get her wind back.”

  Meg nodded and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Then she turned and started obediently back down the road.

  Delia tried to stand as Ty returned to her. “Don’t get up,” he ordered, more sharply that he’d intended. “I want you just to sit there in the hot sun a moment and recover your breath.”

  He sat down alongside her, letting his eyes fill with the sight of her. Her wet hair was plastered tight to her head and her tawny eyes looked huge in her white face. Her lips still had a bluish tinge and occasional tremors shook her chest. Her soaked clothes were molded to her curves. He could see the outline of her full breasts and her nipples, puckered tight from the cold water, stood out sharply beneath the thin, wet material. Christ, even half drowned she was adorable.

  Their eyes met and slowly a smile spread across her face. “You saved me from drowning again, Ty. Thank you.”

  His mouth slanted up in answer. “Who were you trying to kiss this time, brat?”

  She started to laugh, but ended up coughing. She sucked in a deep breath, then sniffed, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand, the way Meg had done a moment before. “It was Gretchen who fell in the river. I tried to go after her.”

  “Gretchen?” Ty’s heart skipped a beat and he whipped around, searching the white-capped water for more floating bodies, even though by now it would be far too late.

  Delia reached out, clinging to his shirt again. “Don’t, Ty. Gretchen’s a doll.” Suddenly her chest jerked and she started to cry. “Oh, poor Tildy. I’ve lost her doll.”

  “A doll! You jumped in the river to rescue a doll?” Unconsciously, his hands closed around her upper arms and he shook her. “Jesus God, Delia, you can’t even swim!”

  “I f-forgot.”

  He crushed her against him, so hard she grunted. “Godsake, Delia!”

  She wriggled out of his arms. “Don’t shout at me, Ty.” Wincing, she pressed her palm against her midriff. “My ribs hurt. I think you bruised them.”

  Furious anger washed over Ty, so powerful he started to shake with it. My God, he’d almost lost her over a doll! What the hell was she thinking to go jumping in the river after a doll when she couldn’t even swim!

  “I ought to put bruises on your backside is what I ought to do,” he said through gritted teeth.

  She glared at him, while he breathed fire back at her. Then her mouth puckered and she started to laugh.

  “It’s not funny!” he bellowed. Did she have any idea what it would have done to him to lose her?

  “Oh, but, Ty, it is.” She pressed her hand to her mouth to stop another laugh. “You look so cute when you’re angry.”

  “Cute!”

  “You ought to see yourself. Your eyes get all dark and stormy, and your brows soar up, and your nostrils flare—there, see, just like that, like a bull what’s getting ready to charge.”

  “That’s not anger you’re seeing, Delia. That’s lust.”

  Now he wanted to laugh at the look on her face. “Lust?” she squeaked, scrambling to her feet and backing away from him, her arms pressed across her breasts like a frightened virgin guarding her virtue.

  He came up after her, slowly, inexorably.

  “Lust,” he said, his face set with determination. “I’ve been lusting after you for so damn long I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel normal. Do you know what an Abenaki warrior does when he wants a woman, Delia?”

  “Oh, Lord above us…”

  “He takes her.”

  “But, Ty, I’m … Ty, you can’t!”

  “Can. Will, Delia.”

  It had started out as a teasing game, a way to pay her back for calling him cute. But at some point it had stopped being a game. He wanted her beneath him, screaming with passion. He wanted her and he was going to have her.

  She saw it in his eyes. She whirled to run and he grabbed her. He closed his fingers tightly around her scalp and slammed his open mouth down hard on hers. For a moment she melted against him and met his thrusting tongue with her own, and God, but she tasted so hot and wet and sweet. He thought he’d die from the hunger she unleashed in him.

  Then suddenly she bucked against him, her two clenched fists pushing at his chest as she struggled to tear her mouth from his. He kept his hand pressed against the back of her head, but he lifted his lips a scant inch off hers to speak. “Delia, my love, don’t fight—”

  “Bastard! Let go of m—”

  He kissed her again. But there was no surrender this time. She fought him with all her might, flailing, kicking, panting raggedly against his open mouth. Her chest heaved and she began to choke.

  He let her go. She backed away from him, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth, coughing as she tried to gulp in breathfuls of air. He reached out to help her, but she flinched away from him.

  “Delia…”

  At last she turned her face toward his … and he had never seen so much hurt in a woman’s eyes. It filled him with such self-loathing that he shuddered.

  “How could you do that to me, Ty?” she asked in a strained, tormented voice. “You have no right. N
o right to treat me that way.”

  “Ah God, Delia, you’ve got it wrong. I didn’t—”

  She stumbled away from him, trying to run, and fell to her knees. He swung her up into his arms.

  Sobbing, she beat against his chest. “What are you doing? Put me down!”

  His arms tightened around her. He welcomed her blows; he only wished she’d hit him harder. He spoke gruffly to hide his emotion. “Shut up, Delia. I’m done assaulting your damn virtue for today.”

  She went quiet as he carried her up the bank and down the cart trail toward the farm.

  “I’m not that kind of girl, Ty,” she finally said in a hurt, quavering voice that broke his heart.

  “Aw, Delia-girl, I know you’re not. It’s me. I’m the bastard, remember?”

  She breathed a tiny sigh and relaxed against him. After a moment she nestled her cheek against his chest. It felt good, Ty thought, to hold her like this in his arms.

  Simply hold her.

  The barn smelled of grain dust and manure. Delia paused in the doorway and watched Nat as he threshed wheat with a hand flail. The air echoed with a steady thumping sound as he knocked the kernels out of their heads and onto the floor. He had just reached for a hayfork to toss aside the straw when he looked up and noticed her standing there. She carried his musket across her shoulder and wore his hat on her head, cocked at a jaunty angle.

  He leaned on the hayfork, his chest pumping as he regained his breath. A tentative smile stretched his wide mouth. “You look like you’re fixing to attend the muster days in my stead, Delia. Are the others here already then?” he asked, and she saluted in reply. It actually made him laugh.

  He set the pitchfork aside and plucked his coat off a nearby hay bale, shrugging into it. “Are you sure you don’t mind my leaving you and the girls alone?”

  “We’ll be all right, Nat. You mustn’t worry.” Delia stepped forward to help him on with his fly coat, smoothing it across his shoulders. It reached halfway down his thighs and was of a bright blue wool, the color of a summer sky. His wife had made it for him. His first wife.