She grasped the hands he extended toward her. “Why, Rooney, you’re not nervous, are you?”
“Never been so scared in all my life, not even fightin’ Indians with Wash Halliday. Never been really married, ya see. My first wife was Cherokee. Indians don’t go through all this...” He gestured to the milling townspeople in the room. “Fol-de-rol, I guess you’d call it.”
“Don’t think about the crowd, Rooney. Just take a deep breath and keep breathing in and out, nice and slow. Think about Sarah.”
“Hell’s bells, Miss Winifred, that’s what got me so scared. I’d do most anything for Sarah and I surely want her to be happy. With me, I mean. I mean married to me.” He wiped his tanned face with the handkerchief he snatched from his breast pocket.
Winifred patted his arm and smiled at him. “She will be happy with you, Rooney. I know she will.”
With a grateful look, he moved off.
Reverend Pollock, his cherubic countenance beaming, made his way to the front of the room and tapped on the mantelpiece for attention. When the crowd quieted, Sarah Rose descended the staircase wearing a lovely lavender dimity afternoon dress and carrying a bouquet of dark purple clematis. Even from where she was standing, Winifred could see Sarah’s hands shake. The crowd parted for her and she heard Rooney suck in his breath.
Sarah looked up at him and when he stepped to her side, Winifred’s heart kicked. The woman’s happiness was luminous.
Sarah’s grandson, Mark, took his place beside her and Wash Halliday stepped up to stand with Rooney. Sarah handed her flowers to Mark and clasped Rooney’s offered hand.
“Dearly beloved...”
In the next instant Zane was beside her, breathing hard as if he’d been running. “Girl,” he murmured in her ear.
“...this man and this woman...”
He stood close enough that she could feel the heat from his body and catch a whiff of his spicy shaving lotion. Surreptitiously he took her hand, brushing their entwined fingers against his light flannel-covered thigh.
“...to have and to hold from this day forth...”
Zane moved his shoulder to touch hers and stood gazing straight ahead at the couple as they exchanged their vows.
Winifred’s breath grew ragged. She was going to cry. Was crying. Oh, dear God, this was so beautiful.
Zane pressed her fingers.
“You may kiss the bride.”
She couldn’t watch. It seemed so private, joining one’s life with another. Instead, she dropped her gaze to the floor and felt Zane’s hand squeeze hers again. He understood. Of course he did. He knew what it was to love someone, to pledge to honor and cherish her. He knew because he had loved Cissy.
Ever since her sister’s death she had felt envious of what Cissy had had with this man. Perhaps she, too, would have done what Cissy had; set aside everything to be with Zane. She had never really understood it before, but she did now, at this moment.
Zane offered his handkerchief. She snatched it, feeling more unstrung than she ever had in recitals or concerts, even when she was just starting out on her performing career. She mopped at her welling eyes and tried to control her breathing.
The room erupted in cheers and began moving into the dining room for refreshments. Zane steered her in the opposite direction, out onto the honeysuckle-draped front porch.
She couldn’t seem to stop crying. Zane settled her into the porch swing. “Gets to you, doesn’t it?”
“Y-yes, it does. I think I will never attend another wedding after this.”
He gave her a long, unsmiling look. “I’ll bring us some cake and lemonade.”
While he was gone, Winifred tried to calm herself down. Goodness, her nerves were disintegrating! She hoped someone would add some hard cider to the lemonade.
Zane stepped out the front door, one hand balancing two plates of wedding cake and the other clutching two tall glasses of lemonade. Two forks stuck out of his jacket pocket.
Winifred took one look at him and again burst into tears.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she sobbed.
“I do. You’ve kept yourself away from things like this, away from life.”
“No, I haven’t. My life is very full. I’m so busy with my music, with teaching and performing, I can scarcely keep up.”
He thrust a glass of lemonade into her hands. “Take a big swallow, Winifred. Now take a deep breath.”
A choked laugh escaped her. “That’s exactly what I told Rooney before the ceremony, for his nerves. I suppose wedding jitters are l-like stage fright.”
Zane set a white china plate of wedding cake in her lap and pulled a fork out of his pocket. “Want to hear about Ellie Johnson’s baby?”
She nodded and stabbed at her cake.
“Beautiful baby girl. Lots of dark hair. Big blue eyes. Matt has fallen in love all over again.”
She sniffled. “I felt just like that when I first saw Rosemarie.”
“Ellie and Matt’s wedding was a bit unusual,” he said after a moment of silence. “Matt got tired of waiting while the flower girl and all the bridesmaids sashayed down the aisle, so he charged down, picked Ellie up and carried her up to the altar himself. People talked about it for weeks.”
Winifred laughed. “No stage fright, I guess.”
“None,” Zane agreed. He studied the plate before him. “Good cake.”
Suddenly she realized he had successfully gotten her to stop crying. “You’re a good doctor, Zane.”
“Not very good at whist, though.”
“Maybe not, but you’re good with hysterical females, good with pneumonia cases, good with mothers having bab—” Except for Cissy.
She closed her eyes in anguish. “Oh, Zane, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He said nothing, just forked bites of cake into his mouth and washed them down with lemonade. When his plate was clean, he set it on the floor of the porch and turned toward her.
“I am good with women having babies, Winifred. Celeste didn’t die in childbirth. But she hemorrhaged afterward, and I couldn’t stop it. I have never felt so helpless in my life.”
“Oh, Zane. I—”
“Now, let’s go inside and congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Cloudman.” He took her plate and the empty lemonade glass, set them on the floor and stood up. “Damn, I could sure use a shot of whiskey.”
“Oh, so could I!”
They walked home slowly in the cooling dusk, the air soft and scented with roses and honeysuckle, the evening song sparrows audible over the neighborhood sounds of children’s hopscotch and piano practice.
“Do you like Smoke River?” Zane asked suddenly.
“Yes, I do. It’s a pretty town. The people are friendly.”
“Do you think—?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t.”
Zane lifted his eyebrows at her over-fast response, but he didn’t argue or challenge. He merely took her hand and kept on walking.
Chapter Thirteen
Winifred tossed the sheet off her sticky body and sat upright. She couldn’t sleep. It was too hot, and the July air outside her wide open window smelled so sweet and delicious it made her ache. Why, why did everyone in Smoke River have to grow roses or jasmine or honeysuckle or other things that smelled so evocative?
What was wrong with her?
All at once she heard Cissy’s voice. Nothing is wrong, you silly. You’re just alive.
She felt as jumpy as Sam’s cat. Restless and short-tempered. At supper she’d snapped at Zane about everything, the soup, the mint tea Sam had brewed for her, even the salt and pepper shakers they passed back and forth. Every time their fingers brushed she wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both.
After supper Zane had made fresh peach ice
cream, refusing to let Sam or Yan Li take over turning the crank and refusing to believe her when she said she didn’t want any. He simply chuckled in that maddening way of his, scooped up a big dish and plunked it in her lap. Then, when she’d absentmindedly eaten it all up, he laughed.
Oh, why did this man make her so mad?
She slipped out of bed and padded to the open window. The moon was up, spilling silvery light over the quiet street and the wide meadow beyond the house. It gilded the field of wild buckwheat stalks and the low-growing blue daisy-like flowers so they looked like miniature swords and tiny shields. It was beautiful out there, so serene and untroubled it looked like a Monet painting.
She should read something until she grew sleepy. But lately even Milton was making her cry. Everything made her cry.
She could write to Millicent in St. Louis... No, she’d be vacationing at her home in Rochester. Millicent had wanted her to come home with her for the summer, but Winifred could hardly wait to come west to see Rosemarie. And Zane.
She could steal silently downstairs and out onto the porch.
Maybe rocking in the swing would settle her nerves.
And maybe not. The sound of crickets made her jumpy, reminded her of creatures that made noise to attract mates—bullfrogs and nightingales and owls. Did owls mate at night? What about swans? And wolves and...and giraffes? How annoying. Why did all God’s creatures have to mate?
She drew in an uneven breath. Because if they did not, the creatures of the earth would die off and life would cease. The cycle of birth and death would stop and Milton’s paradise would be truly lost.
She didn’t know how long she stood staring out at the moon-bathed grass and silver-leafed trees, but it didn’t help her jangled nerves or her fluttery heart one bit. Instinctively she knew that nothing would help; she would have to unjangle her own nerves, as she did on performance nights. But, she wondered, how did one unflutter one’s heart?
The next morning promised to be another scorching day, and by ten o’clock Winifred had exhausted a lemon meringue pie lesson, Milton and a frustrating practice session on her Mozart piano concerto.
Rosemarie was always quiet when she played the piano; the baby sat motionless in the makeshift playpen Sam had rigged up out of apple crates, apparently listening; the minute Winifred stopped to mark something on the score, Rosemarie set up a wail of protest.
Another year and her niece could reach the piano keys, and then the household would never be the same. Maybe when Rosemarie was older, Winifred could start teaching her the rudiments of beginning piano.
Maybe. Winifred wasn’t sure she could stand another summer out here in Smoke River. She always returned to St. Louis and the conservatory so unsettled it took days to focus on the curriculum and her students.
This morning Zane had patients to see. Now he emerged from his office surgery looking hot and tired, tossed his flannel jacket onto a library chair and pulled off his tie. Winifred stopped playing and swiveled toward him; her hands were perspiring so much her fingers were slipping off the keys.
“Hot,” he said.
“Too hot,” she responded. Suddenly she scooted off the piano bench. “Zane, could we go swimming?”
He looked at her oddly and didn’t answer.
“Please? Could we? It’s so hot today.”
Zane glanced to the playpen where Rosemarie sat poking the remains of a soggy cookie into her mouth. It was time for her nap. True, today was much hotter than yesterday, but swimming with Winifred?
He frowned and shook his head. Not a good idea, no matter how hot it was.
Winifred came toward him, her eyes alight. “Please say yes, Zane. Please.”
Good God almighty, he couldn’t refuse her anything. He nodded shortly. “I’ll get Sam to make up a picnic bask—”
She didn’t hear the rest; she’d flown up the staircase with more energy than he’d seen in a week.
“You’re not to swim, Winifred,” he ordered when she returned. “You understand? You’ve had pneumonia, and you can’t risk getting chilled. It’ll still be cooler for you in the shade around the hole, though.”
She looked so disappointed that a dart of guilt laced into him, but as a physician he knew he was right to insist.
With a sigh she deposited a bundle he supposed was a bathing costume on the library chair.
* * *
She sat beside him on the buggy seat, shaded with that lacy-looking parasol, and sighed dramatically. “Swimming would cool me off,” she said.
“Don’t whine. I’m your doctor, remember?”
Her shoulders drooped. “Oh, all right. I’ll sit in the shade and...think. Or do something equally unathletic.”
He clicked his tongue at the horse and rolled off the dusty town road onto the narrow lane that led to the swimming hole. Good. He wouldn’t have to look at her lush body in a swimming suit. Covered up from her ankles to her neck, as she was now in the yellow-striped skirt and shirtwaist, he should be perfectly safe.
But as soon as she climbed down and fluffed out her skirt, he glimpsed her ruffled petticoat and knew he was wrong. He would never feel safe around Winifred. He was always going to notice her, feel her eyes regarding him with interest or amusement or pique or with overflowing tears.
He knew now what he’d been denying for months; he was always going to notice Winifred Von Dannen.
And he was always going to want her.
It wasn’t the same kind of wanting he’d known with Celeste, the heady, star-spangled rush of blind desire. He let out a groan. This wasn’t the same at all.
Winifred stopped en route to the shady spot between two vine maples and turned toward him. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just tired, I guess.Too many patients this morning.”
“Darla Bledsoe?” Her eyes sparkled with one of those looks she got when something tickled her. “Another broken...toe, was it?”
“This time it was a sprained finger,” he said dryly. “Lifting a heavy washtub.”
Winifred laughed and sat down in the shade, settling her skirt around her. “You know, Zane, by the time Darla finally hog-ties you, she won’t be able to—”
Her cheeks turned crimson.
Zane laughed and dropped down beside her with the picnic basket. “Oh, yes, she will. Darla is not easily deterred.”
She gave him a thoughtful look. “Do you want to deter Darla? Really?”
“Dammit, Winifred. How can you ask that?”
She blanched and he was instantly sorry. Oh, hell. He couldn’t sit here beside her, smelling her hair, feeling the warmth of her body for one more minute.
“I’m going swimming,” he announced. He stood, stripped off his chambray shirt and shucked his denims down to his drawers while her eyes rounded in shock. Then he sprinted for the water.
He swam twenty laps in the cold water, then ten more for good measure. When he emerged with his wet drawers leaving nothing to the imagination, he threw himself facedown beside her. “Good thing I’m not naked, Winifred, because you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost,” she said in a shaky voice. “Just a man with...with...”
He sat up, spraying water droplets onto her yellow blouse. “All men have them,” he quipped. “I bet even Dr. Bassoon has—”
“Oh, no,” she interrupted. “I mean, he has never—”
“Never undressed in front of you?” He rolled away from her stricken face.
“He has never gone swimming with me.”
“We are not swimming,” he said, trying not to laugh. “I am the one swimming. You are supposed to be resting.”
Her breath hissed in. The long silence that followed made him uneasy. Then he heard a choked sound. “Just you wait and see,” she murmured.
He bolted upright.
Too late. Her clothes lay in a heap beside him and when he looked up there she was, striding away toward the river in nothing but her lace-trimmed drawers and camisole. Oh, hell. He should chase her down and tackle her before she reached the water. On second thought he should ready a towel and wait until she came out of the river and rub her down before she took a chill. Damn, what a choice.
She thrashed about in the chest-high water, upended her body so her rump poked up above the surface, and splashed happily in a big circle. Her hair came unpinned and floated about her shoulders. When she grew tired, she dog-paddled toward him.
As she emerged, her wet camisole stuck to her breasts and Zane caught his breath. He shouldn’t look at her. But he couldn’t not look at her.
Her drawers clung to her hips, revealing her clearly defined waist, the curve of her buttocks and—oh, God—the triangle of dark hair at the apex of her thighs.
He snatched up the larger of the two bath towels and advanced toward her with long strides. “Here.” He wrapped her up tightly and immediately turned his back.
“Oh, that w-was just w-wonderful!” Her teeth were chattering and Zane swore again.
“Strip and dry off,” he ordered.
“Y-yes. I am r-rather cold. But it w-was worth it.”
“Was it?” he bit out. “You are the most foolhardy, most headstrong woman I’ve ever known.” He kept talking with his back to her until he was sure she had disappeared behind a huckleberry bush. When he turned, he noticed her wet garments still lay on the ground beside him.
He also noticed that his entire frame was shaking.
Her voice came from behind the shrubbery. “Hand me my skirt and shirtwaist, would you, Zane? And my petticoat.”
He balled them up and tossed them over the bush.
When she emerged, her smile sent an arrow of fire up his spine. Even clothed as she now was, he couldn’t look at her. He knew damn well she had nothing on underneath.
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 12
