Weeping Angel

by Stef Ann Holm

  Frank worked the buttons on the sides of her shoe, freeing them with the rod. Once they were unfastened, he slipped the patent leather from her foot. She couldn’t stop the reflex of curling her toes in her black lisle hose. She brought her leg down, wincing as she extended her other one. As he poked that contraption into the side of her shoe, she asked, “What is that you’re using?”

  “Sockdologer spring fish hook.”

  She grimaced. “Is there fish guts on it?”

  “Nope.”

  When Frank was finished, he slid the shoe off and held her leg by the calf. His hands were large and tan against her stocking; he kneaded her flesh for a minute and the pleasure of it sent tingles darting in all directions of her body. She closed her eyes and imagined him rubbing her calf for the rest of her life. She’d cook him the best meals ever.

  Sighing, she opened her eyes to find him watching her. His gaze had darkened with emotion. He enthralled her. He also scared her. What would she do if he swept the picnic cloth clean with his hand and demanded to make mad, passionate love to her? It was what she’d dreamed about, but now that she was with his flesh and blood body, she didn’t think she’d have the nerve to go through with it.

  She waited for him to move, her muscles tense and unyielding. She wished she could read his mind.

  He turned away and, without saying a word, leaned back on his haunches and went to his fishing box again. She watched his fingers shake and thought that it was a good sign. He wasn’t so sure of himself. He wasn’t so immune as he let on. He did feel something for her. He just was afraid to admit it.

  Amelia unrolled her stockings from her legs, and not once did Frank glance her way. She folded the delicate hosiery and put it by her shoes. Then she brought her feet under her dress so he wouldn’t see them.

  He busied himself with the line of his pole, tying on some intricate feathers and a hook. She couldn’t stand the silence any further and asked, “Don’t you use worms?”

  Lifting his head, he said, “No fly fisherman in his right mind would ever dirty his hook with a worm.” He stood and held out his hand to help her up. She took the offering, fitting her fingers in his; electrical storm currents seemed to strike every time he touched her. With her pulse skittering, she looked at the connection of their hands. Her skin was pale as flour next to his. She bet he never once wore a pair of gloves.

  He let her hand go sooner than she would have liked. The spread was toasty from the sun under her feet, and the first step she took in the grass felt cool and tickled her soles. Frank was already walking toward the water’s edge. She took small steps, watching where she placed her feet. Even the smallest pebble felt like a stone on the sensitive bottom of her foot.

  Frank paused at a knee-high boulder and assessed the stream. There was a pool that looked made for wading, and he began to walk into it. He didn’t cringe, so she assumed the water would be warm as a bathtub.

  The first contact with her big toe, and she knew the water was a far cry from warm. Brisk was a better adjective.

  “How far out are you going?” she asked when he kept walking, the cuffs of his pants getting wet where he hadn’t rolled them high enough.

  “Not far.”

  She didn’t continue, preferring to stand in the extreme shallow. She wasn’t a swimmer, and the current, however gentle, looked deadly to her.

  Frank flicked his wrist. She wouldn’t have been able to see the fishing line if it hadn’t glistened in the sun. The feather fly on the end snapped over the water in strokes so light, it seemed the lure barely kissed the sun-brilliant waves before he was moving it again.

  She watched him, her heart heavy in her throat. He looked so peaceful, so serene, a startling contrast to the man he was at the baseball game. He never wore an expression like this in the saloon—a face of utter contentment, of relaxation.

  As the sun poured over him in its golden glow, and the water bled into his expensive trousers, it struck her then that she didn’t really know him at all. They’d been acquainted for nearly a month, and she couldn’t remember any tales of his family nor his upbringing, save that he’d implied it was worth forgetting.

  Right now she wanted to forget the piano stood between them, for suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter who had it. The day was too joyous, the scenery too heavenly, to be troubled over finances and differences of opinion.

  While he whipped the deceptive fly back and forth across the water, she held up her skirts and sloshed carefully toward the boulder to sit on its smooth surface. From there she could watch him better. From this height she could also see the tops of the red, white, and blue picnic canopies over the trees. In the distance the town continued to celebrate.

  Cottonwoods lined the stream, and their buds had burst open, sending fuzzy, snowlike seeds through the lazy air. They fell around Frank, his arm stirring them as they landed on the water.

  “Come on out here and I’ll show you how to cast,” Frank said without missing a whip of his fly.

  “No . . . I don’t think so.” She felt safe on the dry rock and perfectly content to observe him.

  He turned his head toward her, his eyes shaded from the woven brim of his panama. “Come on.”

  “I’ve never fished before. I’d break something.”

  “No, you won’t.” As he spoke, a bite on his line bent his pole. He whisked a shimmering trout from the river and into the air.

  Amelia sat up. “You got one!” she exclaimed.

  Frank held the fish by the gills. “Get me the creel, Amelia. I forgot it.”

  Amelia slid from the rock and stumbled to where he’d left his fishing gear. “What’s a creel?”

  “That basket with the strap.”

  She picked up the creel, went toward the water, and stood at its edge. “Here.”

  “Bring it out. Hurry.”

  She bit her lip, contemplating his request. She would have thrown the creel to him—if she’d been any kind of thrower. But she couldn’t even hit Hamlet with an apple when he was turning up her flower bed with his snout, and he was a big target.

  “Come here!” Frank urged, the trout wiggling to be free.

  Dismayed, Amelia bunched up her skirts and took a tiny step. The cold mountain water washed over her feet, and she sucked in her breath. She hiked her petticoats even higher as she went another foot, the sand rough with pebbles beneath her. She teetered precariously as she went ankle-, then calf-deep, holding on to the creel for dear life and her skirts at the same time—as if either would save her, should she slip and fall.

  “That’s it, sweetheart, keep coming.”

  Amelia glanced up at him, trying to save face by smiling as if she weren’t the least bit nervous or frightened by the water whooshing between her legs. She had a yard to go and she’d be by his side.

  Just shy of Frank, she slipped on a rock, but he caught her elbow before she could plunge into the water. Resuming her balance, she was proud of herself that she’d neither dropped the basket or her skirts.

  She held out her hand and presented him with the creel.

  “Thanks.” He put the strap over his arm, unhooked the fish, and let it go.

  She watched in disbelief as the trout swam from her view, then disappeared into the deep pool. Gazing at Frank, she said, “Why did you do that?”

  “I wasn’t fishing for a meal, just for sport.”

  “Sport?” She would have put her hands on her hips if not for the fact her dress would get drenched. “You made me come out here under the assumption you needed that basket for your fish.”

  “That I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted your company.”

  “Well, I like that,” she complained. “I didn’t want to admit this, but I can’t swim. I’m sure that seems very ridiculous to you, you’re apparently comfortable in the water, but I—”

  Unexpectedly, he put his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

  “I . . .” she trailed off, her mind mudd
led by the depths of his eyes. “ . . . never had the opportunity to learn how to . . . swim . . .”

  She still grabbed hold of her skirt, her arm crushed between them. He brought his head over hers, his mouth close. Closer. “Stop talking,” he whispered.

  Chapter

  16

  At the touch of Frank’s lips, Amelia’s eyes fluttered shut, and she stood there, immobile. The coolness of the stream and the warmth of Frank made her forget to be fearful of the soft current. Slowly, she began to relax against him as he gathered her closer. Ever so slightly, he bent her backward over his arm, and she hung on to him as his mouth slanted over hers. She tried to hold on to her slipping composure, but the kiss hit her with a stunning force. The sensation was dreamlike and not so very far from how she’d imagined a thoroughly passion-filled kiss would be.

  She rested her fingers lightly on the top of his shoulder, her hand clenching her skirts crushed between them. Her senses were so disordered, she had to remind herself where she was lest her knees weaken.

  He slid his hand through her coiffured hair, his fingers splayed. She felt the pins loosen under his firm coaxing, and since her mouth was otherwise occupied, she couldn’t voice her protest. Wavy curls tumbled to her waist, and she knew she’d never be able to fix the damage. He cupped her neck, massaging and kneading the tightness from her muscles. She moaned, and her lips parted from the pleasure.

  He claimed her mouth with his tongue, and a strange shiver shot through her. The textures and sensations were foreign to her—shocking, but pleasing at the same time. She would have panicked if it hadn’t been Frank kissing her in such an intimate fashion.

  She felt his scratchy beard against her chin and tipped her head. This inadvertently gave his mouth a much better fit over hers, and he deepened the kiss. His tongue touched hers and stroked the inside of her mouth. She met him, tentative and unsure of how to kiss this way. She heard him moan against her lips, and his fingers bunched her hair.

  She quaked in his arms as he pulled her full up against him. The hand coveting her skirt threatened to release the precious fabric. Her breasts were crushed on the broadness of his chest. She was breathless. She was feeling passionate.

  She was in love.

  All too soon, he lifted his head, his grip on her hair gentle, but firm.

  Her eyes were still closed, her mind whirling. It was only the sound of Frank’s voice that brought her back to earth.

  “Did he ever kiss you like that?”

  “Whhhooo?” she sighed, not having the foggiest idea what Frank was talking about.

  “The salesman.”

  The dreamy haze she felt lifted, and as she opened her eyes, the sky looked too bright. “Jonas Pray?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh . . . him.” It seemed odd after what she just shared with Frank, he make her recall someone he had all but erased to a dim memory. “Why do you want to know?”

  Frank kept her close, his eyes hooded and dark; a hint of brooding puzzlement filled them. “I just want to know.”

  She licked her lips, tasting the faint traces of cherries from Frank’s mouth. “No. He never—no one has ever—kissed me like you did.”

  They remained where they were for a long moment, neither moving nor saying a word. Amelia wished he would forget about Jonas and kiss her again. But he didn’t, and the water around her calves grew cold again. She shivered.

  “I’ll carry you out,” Frank said at length.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  Her hand slipped down his muscled shoulder. “How will you manage? You’re holding your fishing pole.”

  His fingers left her hair. “It comes apart.”

  Their hips still touched.

  To Amelia, it was a mixture of hot and cold. She looked into his eyes, feeling a blush creep over her cheeks. He gave her that rakehell gaze of his, then a slight degree separated them as he disassembled his line and made three pieces out of his pole and handed them to her. “Carry that for me.”

  She nodded, taking the segments, careful for the hook.

  He put his arm by her behind and swept her into his embrace.

  The wicker of the creel cut into her thigh, but she didn’t dare wiggle for fear he’d drop her. Not that he wasn’t strong. She felt every single muscle where her body pressed his; the hard definition of his chest; the tautness of his belly; the cords of his upper legs. With each of his steps, she grew a little breathless. The events were rapidly unfolding much like a poetic novel, and she was eager to read quickly in order to find out what would happen to the fated lovers.

  As the river thinned and the shallows approached, she felt more and more self-conscious. What should she do? What should she say? “Pardon me, but I loved the way you kissed me. Can we try it again on dry land?”

  Frank set her down but didn’t let her go. Flowers tickled her wet toes. She let her skirt and petticoats drop, the hems dusting the tops of the daisies. When he didn’t move, she stepped out of his embrace with uncertainty. Outstretching her arm, she handed him his fishing pole. “Don’t you want to fish anymore?”

  His eyes probed hers with a smoldering intensity she felt in her very soul. “I think I’ve caught more than I can handle,” he said as he took the rods from her and set them beside his tackle box. He stood and was about to flip the lid down with his bare foot.

  “Wait,” she said. “Could you get that sock thing and put my shoes on for me?”

  “Sock thing?”

  “Whatever you called that metal hook.”

  “Sockdologer.”

  “Yes. I’ll need it to put my shoes on.”

  “Leave ’em off for a while.” His big toe caught the lid, and he closed his tackle box. “It’s too damn hot for shoes. I’ll put them on for you. Later.”

  “Later?” She thought they would be rejoining the other picnickers now. At dusk she had to give her recital. “What are we going to do?”

  “Sit and enjoy the sun.” He sat on the blue-and-white cloth and put his long legs out in front of him. She couldn’t see all of his face; his panama hid his eyes and nose in a gray shadow as he stared at the river. But she could see his mouth. Full. Chiseled. The color of pottery clay, sort of bronze and terra-cotta.

  She swept her hair over her shoulder, but not before feeling for her crimped-wire hairpins. She came up with three. The others must have fallen in the river. She decided to try and repair her hair; she put the three pins between her teeth. Since she didn’t have a brush, her fingers had to suffice. Once she got the small tangles in order, she began twisting the whole mass together to make a coil.

  She’d just positioned the knot on the back of her head when she glanced in Frank’s direction. She froze.

  He was watching her.

  She spoke around the hairpins to explain. “I have to try and fix my hair. I still need to play The Star-Spangled Banner.’ ” Shoving the pins in place, she felt for curl wisps. There were many. Too many to go unnoticed. People would know this wasn’t the hairstyle she’d left with. Perhaps her hat could hide the imperfections.

  She went in search of it and found the hat by the side of the picnic basket at Frank’s knee. He followed her gaze.

  “Leave it, sweetheart.”

  She lifted a brow. “Leave it?”

  “I like you much better without that hat.” His blue eyes traveled over her coiffure. “And without the hairpins.”

  Before she could lose her courage, she asked, “Is that why you took them out?”

  Frank leaned back on his elbows. “This may surprise you, Amelia, but ever since that night I saw you in your nightgown, I’ve been crazy wanting my fingers in the thickness of your hair again.”

  “You have . . . ?” Her voice was small and threaded with the frantic beats of her heart pounding in her ears. This was not like Frank. Not at all. He rarely, if he’d ever, admitted anything to her.

  Especially not a weakness.

  She sat down next t
o him, following his suit by viewing the stream. Neither spoke nor moved. The fragrance of crushed flower petals surrounded them, and the trickle of water seemed the perfect music.

  “I wasn’t sure you liked me at all,” she said softly when he remained quiet.

  Her words broke through his pensive inattention, and Frank’s shoulder bumped hers as he sat up. “I like you, Amelia. Too much.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  She smiled, blissfully happy.

  “You know, there are others who like you, too,” he began in a tone that was strained. “Certain people at the saloon.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “And I like Mr. O’Cleary and Mr. Weatherwax.” She peeked at him from the corner of her eye through her lashes. “I also like you. Greatly.”

  His profile hardened. “I don’t know why. I’m not much to like.”

  She had the strongest urge to put her hand on his arm, but refrained. “Don’t say that. Why, I think you’re very likable . . . at least after I got to know you I thought that . . . which isn’t really true, is it?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know you.” She hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on the top of her hands. She chose her words very carefully, trying to lead up to a question she wanted to ask him in a way he wouldn’t balk at an answer. “When I was a little girl, we had to leave our farm and go to Denver to live with two elderly sisters, the Wootens. They smelled like medicine, but I got used to it as I grew up. We were all women in the house—just my aunt, my mother and I, and the two sisters.” She lifted her chin. “Do you have a sister or a brother?”

  Her subtle query was greeted with silence.

  “I always wanted a sister,” she continued, pretending not to notice his lack of a reply, “but my mother never remarried after my father died when I was five. When you’re an only child, I think it’s natural to want a sibling to play with. Did you, too?”