by Lisa Gregory
"A man ever hurt you? Or you jus' naturally shy?"
Dovie's eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon?"
Micah smiled. That prissy way she talked never failed to start a heat inside him. "You know what I mean. You sure always backtrack from me fast."
"Maybe I think you're dangerous."
"Then you oughta not be sittin' here alone with me."
"The thought had occurred to me."
Micah looked at her with a steady, unwavering gaze. Dovie stared back at him with all the calm she could muster. She knew it wasn't wise to be alone with this man—and as soon as Lurleen got back, she'd let her mother know exactly how she felt about that little bit of treachery. She ought to ask him to leave. Yet she couldn't open her mouth to say so. Her gaze shifted and fell to the table. She began to trace the whorl of the wood with her forefinger.
Micah watched her. She was as nervous as he'd ever seen Dovie, and It gave her an appealing air of vulnerability. For that reason he backed off. He took a sip of his coffee and began to talk about the Turners. He could see the relief in every line of Dovie's body. He wondered if there was any disappointment in her, as well.
"That Luke now, he goin' through hell," Micah commented.
"What makes you say that?" Dovie looked back up at him, glad to have a safe topic of conversation.
Micah shrugged. "He be sleepin' alone ever night."
Dovie felt the heat rising in her face. It wasn't so safe a topic after all. "He told you that?"
"Don't have to. It plain on his face. He look like a man that ain't had enough res' in weeks. He drive himself like a devil. She don't look too happy, either."
"I don't really think that this is a fit topic of conv—"
"He gonna put himself in the grave 'fore too long, if he don't watch it. They got something powerful 'tween them, them two, and it be killin' them to keep it in."
"You sound awfully concerned about these white folks of yours. I thought you didn't care anything about any white man." Dovie arched her brows challengingly.
"Maybe the way you think rubbin' off on me." Micah paused, and the faintest trace of a smile touched his lips. It was a smile that didn't make Dovie comfortable. "Or maybe I jus' got fellow feelin' for a man that been achin' for a woman too long."
Dovie jumped up and moved away from the table. One hand flew up to her hair as though to make sure it was still screwed tightly into its bun. It wouldn't have surprised her if it had come loose, just as everything inside her had at Micah's words. "Ah..." She glanced around, searching for something to say, and quickly. Her thoughts were flying around in her brain like buzzing bees, wild, furious, and loud, with nothing logical or decent that could be picked out to be said. She glanced into the kitchen. "Oh! Oh yes." Her mind found something ordinary and clung to it. "There's a cabinet in the kitchen that the, uh, door won't stay on. I— Mama thought you might fix it when you came today. That is, if you don't mind."
Micah watched her. She never once looked at him while she talked. He enjoyed her confusion; it was rare to see Dovie not in full control, and he liked it. He liked causing her to lose it. "Sure. I don't mind." He stood up and sauntered toward the kitchen. "Which one?"
"Which one what?"
Micah smiled. "Which door? Which cabinet?"
"Oh." Dovie caught his knowing smile, and it made her feel even more like a fool. He knew his effect on her and fully enjoyed it. She ought to throw him out. She already would have had he been any other man. She ought to at least lecture him on the way he had spoken to her. But she was afraid that would only make her appear even more foolish.
Dovie followed Micah into the kitchen and pointed out the offending door, standing a good three feet away from him as she did so. He glanced pointedly at where she stood, and though the smile wasn't there, she could see the amusement— and the satisfaction—in his eyes. Damn him! It pleased him to put her at such a disadvantage. She swung away, starting back to the living and dining area.
"Wait."
Dovie turned, trying her best to recapture the haughty expression she was normally so good at.
"Where're the tools?" She looked at him blankly. "To fix the door?"
"Oh!" She'd been so busy trying to pretend that he didn't affect her that she'd practically forgotten what she had asked him to do. "Uh, here." She went to a drawer and opened it. He came up close behind her and reached around her to take out the screwdriver. She could feel the heat of his body and his hard strength as his arm curved around her.
Dovie sidestepped out of his reach and left the kitchen. Her hands were trembling. She clasped them together and stood rigid, willing herself to be calm. She was, after all, a grown woman, one used to being in control. There was no reason for her to feel like this, as fragile and helpless as a boat tossed about upon the sea.
She busied herself cleaning up the table and carrying the dishes into the sink in the kitchen. She carefully avoided looking at Micah as he worked. Finally, when the table was cleared and her nerves had relaxed somewhat, Dovie poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. She glanced into the kitchen and immediately wished that she had not.
Micah had removed his Sunday jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves to work. The top button of his shirt was undone, exposing a narrow V of dark skin, glistening with the faint sheen of sweat. The muscles in his arms moved as he twisted the screwdriver, the long tendons pushing against his skin. How large his hands were, wide-palmed, with long, agile fingers. The paler skin on the inside of his hands was heavily callused; they would be rough to the touch.
She watched him work. He was so big that he dwarfed the kitchen, yet his large hands were light and quick, not clumsy. There was skill in him as well as strength, and intelligence, too. He was the kind of man you could be proud of, the kind you'd smile about when you introduced him around.
Dovie swallowed and looked away from him. That kind of thinking was dangerous. He wasn't the kind of man who could be her man. She wanted marriage; she wanted stability, Micah Harrison was a drifter He might seem almost domesticated, walking her home from church on Sundays and staying for dinner, repairing the little things that broke around the house. But he wasn't. He had too much wildness in him.
She remembered the sight of him on Turner's horse. There had been power in him, and freedom. He didn't fit here; he belonged in that wild country where he had been born. And he would return to it before long, while she would stay here.
That was why it did no good to look at him and feel the things she did inside; why she ought to stop herself before it was too late.
Micah turned, as though he had felt her gaze upon him. Dovie couldn't look away. He rose slowly, lithely to his feet and came toward her. The air was suddenly twice as hot. She could hardly breathe. A gust of breeze lifted the curtain and curled around her in a cool caress. He had seen her thoughts on her face. She ought to deny them. She ought to tell him to stop, to go away. But she couldn't say anything. She hadn't the strength; the fire in his eyes drained it from her. Anyway, she'd never been good at lying.
"Dovie." His voice was low, a mere breath of sound. He stopped in front of her, so tall she had to crane her head back to see him. She dropped her gaze. "Baby."
Micah's hands touched her hair. She felt his fingers working on the knot of her hair, unfastening it with quick, sure movements. She should protest. But the sensations running through her at his touch were too sweet to stop. She wanted only to lean into him. Her hair came loose and tumbled down around her head, free. His fingers sank into her hair, gathering it up into thick handful s.
"You sure a beautiful woman. Sometime I think lookin' at you's all a man could ask for. But right now, it ain't enough."
He smoothed her hair from her face, gently pressing her head back until she was looking up at him. He loomed over her, but somehow his size wasn't frightening; it was exciting. He slid his hands down her hair and onto her shoulders. He pulled her up from her chair. Dovie was a tall woman, but she was small again
st him. Her hands came up between them and rested on his chest. She was breathless, her heart pounding, and she didn't know whether to run or to throw herself into his arms.
His hands moved down her back, crossing to pull her in tight against him, and he kissed her. Dovie went up on tiptoe to meet his mouth. The kiss went on and on, unending, thrilling, and all the time he pressed her into him tighter and higher, until her feet were dangling off the floor and the breath was almost squeezed from her chest. She didn't protest. She hardly noticed. There was nothing in the world for her at that moment but his mouth and his arms around her.
Dovie clung to him, returning his kiss passionately and straining to be closer to him. For once, all thought and logic fled her, and she was aware of nothing but pure, raw emotion. His arm went under her bottom, pulling her up and into him, so that she felt the force of his hard maleness. She squirmed against him, wanting to feel it fully. There was an ache between her legs that made her yearn and hunger and... She moved her legs restlessly, and he groaned.
"Oh, sugar." He made a sound that was part laugh and part pain. "I want you." He released her slowly, letting her slide down until her feet touched the floor. Dovie gazed up at him, her eyes soft and luminous.
"Mama won't be home all afternoon. She always stays the whole day when she goes to Bessie's."
She could feel the tremor in his arms, lightly looped around her. "You tellin' me you want me to stay?"
"Yes." Her voice was as unsteady as the heart rocketing about inside her chest, but it was passion, not uncertainty, that made it so. There was no doubt in her, only desire and rushing, pounding need. His kiss, his touch had turned her into fire. "I want you to stay."
"I will. Oh. baby, I will."
He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the small bedroom that was hers. There he set her on her feet and began to unfasten the multitude of little round buttons down the front of her shirtwaist. His big hands were clumsy on the tiny buttons, and with a smile she moved his hands aside and unfastened them herself. He watched her, his eyes and mouth growing heavy with passion as bit by bit she revealed herself to him until she stood clad in only her white cotton chemise and petticoat.
She reached up to untie the ribbon of her chemise, but he stopped her. He ran his fingers along the edge of the garment, the cotton white against her coffee and cream skin. He untied the bow and smoothed the puckers between his forefingers and thumb, loosening the top. The straps slipped down onto her arms, and the material eased lower. It caught on the tips of her breasts, high and pointed, then slid down to her waist.
He sucked in his breath. She was as beautiful as he had ever thought she would be, slender and smooth skinned, with taut, full breasts. Her dark nipples were hard and prominent, urging his touch. But he did not touch her yet. Instead, his hands went to the drawstring at her waist and untied it, then pulled her remaining underclothes from her, revealing all of her to his gaze.
She was long legged, just as he had imagined, her buttocks tight and firm. He reached out his hand to touch her. His hand was dark against her skin as he slid it down from her shoulder over the soft mound of her breast and onto her stomach. Her flesh quivered beneath his touch, and her eyes, fastened on his face, were huge and dark, full of yearning and a touch of fear.
"Micah, I—I've never—"
He smiled slightly, lovingly. "Don't I know that? Don't worry, baby. I be gentle. I take care of you." He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. His hands smoothed back her hair as he gazed down at her for a moment. Then he kissed her lightly on the lips. He wanted to kiss her much harder; it was difficult to hold back. But he wanted more than that to reassure her that she was safe with him.
She smiled. "I know."
He stepped back and began to undress. He thought Dovie might turn away modestly, but, as usual, she surprised him. She simply stood and watched, and when at last he stood before her naked, she gazed at his large, muscular body with the same sort of hungry awe with which he had viewed her. He was magnificently, undeniably male, and just looking at him she felt breathless and wild. She wanted something that she didn't even know, but she knew that it lay in his power.
Dovie laid her hand upon him, as he had done with her earlier, moving it across the width of bis chest. Delightful new sensations sparked through her. Micah closed his eyes, sighing, at the exquisite pleasure of her touch. He let her innocent explorations continue until he thought he might explode, and then his arms went around her tightly, lifting her up and onto the waiting bed. He leaned over her and kissed her, and the heat shimmering in them exploded. And there, in the hot August afternoon, with the breeze from the window drifting over their fevered bodies, he taught her the ways of love.
❧
Luke glanced over at the black man toiling beside him. Micah's fingers sped through the cotton plants, plucking the cotton from its bolls at a record pace, and all the time he hummed under his breath. It was blazing hot, and sweat was running off both of them, but Micah didn't seem to mind— or even notice.
"You're awfully cheerful this morning."
Micah grinned at him. "For a fact."
There was an aura of sexual satisfaction about the man that was so thick it was almost tangible, and Luke experienced a pang of envy. It seemed a hundred years ago when he had known that kind of peace and energy. He doubted that he'd ever feel it again. But he summoned up a smile because there was a bond between him and the other man, and he didn't want his sourness to tinge Micah's pleasure.
"That's good." Luke straightened from his bent position, flexing stiffened fingers, and pulled the long cotton sack off over his head. He dropped it and walked down the row to the Mason jars of water to take a drink.
Micah joined him. "You know, I done been thinkin'."
"About what?" Luke wiped the sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve and drank another long swallow.
"That forty acres you got on the other side of this place."
"The one in pasture?"
"Yeah. It be good farm land."
"Probably. But it's too much, too far away. I don't have the time to farm it, too."
"You ever think 'bout sharecroppin' the place?"
Luke looked at him, eyes narrowing. "I might. To the right person. Why? You interested?"
"I might be." Suddenly Micah grinned. "I been thinkin' 'bout settlin' down."
"Is that a fact? It wouldn't have anything to do with why you're so goddamned cheerful this morning, would it?" Luke grinned back.
"Yeah. It jus' might."
"Sure. You want to sharecrop that place, it's yours."
Micah's grin broadened. He'd been positive that Luke would not disappoint him. "Thank you."
"Hell, I couldn't ask for a better tenant. Course, we'd have to put up a house for you over there, but there'd be plenty of time for that this winter."
"Yeah."
They started back down the row to their sacks. Luke stretched his back one last time, then looped the long strap of the sack over his head and arm and bent back to work. Micah gazed out across the land as he settled his sack in place. His piece would look like this next summer. Anticipation tightened his chest. For the first time, he wanted to stay somewhere. Wanted to put down roots. Get married.
There was nothing like a sweet woman to make a drifter want to stop moving.
Chapter 20
James Banks courted Julia assiduously. She had never experienced anything like it. He called on her formally, bringing flowers and candy and carefully sitting on the front porch in view of all her neighbors. He escorted her and the children to church every Sunday, and Anthea invited them to her house for Sunday dinner. He took her to a church social one Sunday afternoon and to a Chautauqua concert in Greenville another Sunday. His mother came to call on her several times. He even insisted that she attend a party at the Snowdens with him.
Julia was flattered and amazed by the attention James paid her. She loved his visits. He was charming, handsome, and kind. It would take a
woman made of sterner stuff than she not to be thrilled by the way he was making it plain to the world that he loved her and wanted to marry her. Every time she saw him, whether at work or socially, she fell a little more in love with him.
But it also made her angry that he was making such a fool of himself over her. People must be talking about him, must be shaking their heads over it and wondering how Dr. Banks could be so foolish as to fall in love with Julia Turner—whom everyone knew had gotten married the first time in a mighty big hurry. She hated for James to lay himself open to gossip this way. It would be even worse if he married her. He couldn't marry her, it was unthinkable. Everyone would talk. Everywhere they went, people would shoot her sly, sidelong glances, eager to see if her stomach gave away their reason for marrying. For the rest of his life people would think badly of James for taking her for a wife.
They'd pity him; they'd wonder why; they'd sigh and shake their heads. Poor James Banks, they would say, he ruined his life when he married her.
Julia couldn't do that to him. She couldn't be the cause of people pitying him and gossiping about him, maybe even turning away from him. James was too good to realize what he would be letting himself in for. He wouldn't realize what he had done until it was too late. But then, once he understood, surely he would begin to resent her. He might fall out of love with her. He might realize that his love was only passion or a stubborn determination to have what had been denied him years before. That would be the most awful thing in the world: to be married to James and him not love her anymore.
Yet how could she not marry him? How could she resist him when he asked her to? How could she hold out against his persistence or prevail against his arguments? Especially when she wanted so much to yield.
She could think of nothing more wonderful than to be James's wife—to take care of him, to love him, to fall asleep in his arms and wake up beside him. to have his name, to bear his children, to know again the bliss of his lovemaking. Julia could not have dreamed a better life than that, which made it doubly hard to tell him no each time he asked her to marry him. And he continued to ask.
