Sugar went about making preparations for the food as though she were preparing a wedding feast. Even the little boys, when they raced each other to the barn Friday morning to fetch Rubal’s horse, were talking about the dance.
“I hope Gloria Danforth can come,” Willie Joe was saying. “Boy-eee, I’d like to dance with her.”
“You don’t know how to dance,” Little Sam was saying.
Rubal and Molly stood in the kitchen door watching them and smiling. Rubal hadn’t stopped kissing her goodbye since his confrontation with Lindy, but after that, he sent the little boys to the barn of a morning to fetch his horse, for the obvious reason of having a moment alone with Molly. Sugar’s occasional “Uh-huh, what a gentleman the mister is,” never seemed to bother him.
Friday morning, as had become ritual, when Molly handed him his lunch pail, he bent to kiss her cheek. Except he missed. His lips brushed tenderly, quickly, but ever so passionately across her own. His eyes searched hers, and she knew he read more shock than passion on her face.
But the passion was there. Regardless of the old maid Lindy took her for, Molly knew the truth. Inside her a core of fiery passion smoldered, ready to leap out, fierce as a panther from the woods, and she was determined to hold it in check.
For her passion was for Jubal Jarrett. Jubal Jarrett who looked so much like his brother, she trembled at the very thought of him kissing her, holding her, loving her. Jubal Jarrett, who reminded her of Rubal in infinite ways.
Such as his stance the night he leaned against the wall, trying to talk sense into Lindy. Molly had taken one look at him and had seen Rubal leaning against the portal of their parlor the night of the dance. Her pulse rate had rocketed.
She knew Jubal would dance like Rubal. Somehow, perhaps from the way he sauntered away from the house with the little boys in tow. Perhaps by the way he traipsed downstairs, sort of loose-jointed, of a morning. Somehow she knew that dancing with Jubal Jarrett would feel the same as dancing with his brother. And she dreaded the dance.
She dreaded it more than anyone would ever know. She dreaded it because of Lindy, yet in a sense she welcomed the problem with Lindy, for if anything could, Lindy could take her mind off that other dance, so long ago, so fresh in her memory…and in her heart.
Friday morning Molly spent in the parlor. First she took down the heavy velvet draperies, pinned them to the clothesline and beat out a year’s worth of accumulated dust. Leaving them to air, she dusted the furniture, moving the sofa and chairs around the walls, fitting the little tables between them, then waxing the center of the floor. Depending on how many people showed up, they would use the parlor, the foyer, and part of the dining room for dancing. The band—the logger named Waldo played a fiddle and Joe Don from the blacksmith’s shop played a Jew’s harp—would have one corner of the parlor. The refreshment table would take up the opposite end of the dining room. Of course, the dining-room furniture would have to be rearranged at the last minute.
Sugar polished silver and washed the big crystal punch bowl, at Molly’s request accepting the task of policing the serving table to keep guests from spiking the punch.
Guests or family. At the thought, Molly hid the sherry they used sparingly for Christmas syllabub, under her own mattress.
She had gone out back to retrieve the draperies from the clothesline when Jubal came riding up the lane. The sight of him lit up her heart. She smiled, raised a hand in greeting, and he laughed back.
For a moment they were lost in the magic of seeing each other unexpectedly, like that. He drew rein, stepped out of his saddle, and came forward, pulling his reins behind him.
“And why are you playing hooky, Mr. Jarrett?” she teased.
He grinned from ear to ear, not even pretending to hide his enthusiasm. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“Get your bonnet and come on.” He scanned her skirts. “I’ll get the wagon…unless you’d like to change and ride a horse.”
“Where to?”
“Change,” he decided. “I’ll saddle you a horse.”
“But Jubal, I have—”
Taking her arm, he shoved her toward the back porch. “Change, I said. Time’s wastin’.”
By the time she changed into riding habit and boots, an old outfit that had belonged to her mother in ancient times and looked it, Rubal had saddled her mare and begged an additional lunch from Sugar.
Not until they had ridden out of town did he tell her where they were headed. “Your property,” he said.
“My property? We didn’t have to ride. We could have walked out back.”
“There’s a better way to reach the part I want to show you.”
“Well, if it’s on fire, we probably should call the fire wagon,” she called finally, when he set and kept a galloping pace.
He reined, grinned sheepishly, and winked. “Sorry. I’m used to travelin’ on my own.”
After that they slowed down and he began to explain.
“I’ve checked on your timberland and talked to a few men. I’ll show you what I’ve come up with.”
“You’ve done all that…this week?”
“It fit into my schedule. I’ve been checking out timber stands all over the area.”
“How did you know which ones are mine?”
“Deeds. I’ve spent a good part of my time lately down in Lufkin at the courthouse going over deeds. Comparing them with receipts from sawmills. This morning I received an answer from a wire I sent my…uh…” He paused, then rephrased. “From some folks who’re working with me on this down in Orange.”
“L&M?”
“Yeah.”
The day was warm and she rode beside him, growing increasingly conscious of his presence, his nearness. They rode close enough that she could almost reach over and touch him. She didn’t.
But she thought about it.
A couple of miles down the road, Rubal pulled into a stand of pines and hardwoods. This was the virgin forest with pines towering a hundred fifty to two hundred feet overhead, some of them five feet straight across the middle. And hardwoods—liveoak, red oak, hickory.
Drawing rein, Rubal dismounted and helped Molly alight from her sidesaddle. His broad hands lingered a moment on her waist, showering her with fiery sensations. She thought he might kiss her, but he didn’t.
His eyes glittered mischievously, though, as he hitched both their reins and caught up her hand, leading her into the forest.
Instead of being brush-covered, the ground beneath the trees was clear except for moldering leaves and pine needles and here and there a fallen branch. Their footsteps crunched through the pine needles, making the only identifiable sound except their breathing and the soft brushing of their clothing as they walked close to each other.
Redolent with dogwood and honeysuckle, the still air hummed as with unseen life. She felt as though she walked through a wonderland. When she said as much, Rubal plucked a sprig of dogwood. “It is.”
“What?”
“A wonderland.” Studiously he shoved her bonnet off her head and tucked the cluster of flowers behind her ear. She shivered at the touch of his fingertips on her temple and hoped he hadn’t noticed.
Suddenly she felt as if they were the only two people in the world. Apple Springs often seemed isolated, surrounded by the forest, like it was. With no way to see over, through, or beyond the towering trees, they could at least look to streets and buildings and carriages—man-made things in a man-made world.
Here all was as it had been since the beginning of time. The beginning, when there was only the forest and the animals…
Her heart pounded.
…and two people.
Two people, alone, in all the world. Instead of being frightened, she felt somehow at peace. As if she had left her cares behind in the civilized world, her past indiscretions, her present and future worries. Here time stood still; here there was only the two of them. Two people alone in the world.
> Molly and Jubal.
“…take only a strip of the pines to send Travis to school,” he was saying. “Most loggers aren’t going to like that, but it’s best for the land in the long run. Leave the hardwoods and undergrowth, what there is of it. It’s more work that way, but if you disturb as little as possible, the pines can reseed.”
They strolled through the forest hand in hand, while he explained. The pines towered far overhead, shutting out the sky above.
“I located one sawmill owner close by. Until the railroad comes through, that’ll be the way to go. Save on transportation. I’m looking for an honest logger who’ll agree to take only the pines and look out for the rest.”
“There’s enough timber, then?”
“More than enough. Enough to help send each of the kids to school in turn. Even Lindy, if she wants to go.”
“Lindy?” Molly hadn’t thought of sending Lindy to school.
“Why not?”
She turned, startled. Not so much at the idea of Lindy going off to school, as that this man had suggested it. And was serious about it, she noticed when she looked in his eyes.
“Lots of things a girl can study today,” he argued. “Might be a way to keep her out of trouble until she grows up a little more. Send her to a girls’ school.”
“And when she finishes she’ll have a chance at life.”
“Yeah. A chance at catching a respectable husband, too.”
Suddenly they weren’t talking about Lindy anymore. Suddenly their words carried nuances of deeper, more personal concerns.
They came together slowly, without ever taking their eyes off the other’s face. Their lips met, sending a jolt through them, not unlike lightning cracking a pine branch, bringing them together, lips, arms, bodies. Clinging like honeysuckle, wrapping around, seeking, searching for life, until suddenly they were fitted together as one piece of a puzzle snugged into just the right place against another, against the other, the only other it could possibly fit against.
While they kissed, their lips open and receptive, their tongues tasting and enticing, their bodies pressed, shaping, molding, separated by layers of clothing, which, like the leaf mold beneath their feet, did little to contain the fiery steam emanating from their bodies.
“Molly, Molly, my God, I’ve dreamed of holding you like this…day dreams…night dreams…” Rubal’s lips nipped at her face, as if to cover every inch of it with kisses. His hands ran down her spine, holding her to him, pressing her closer, forgetting until it was too late to go slow, not to press his aroused body against her.
But she didn’t pull away. Instead she moved closer, shooting trails of urgency up his body.
Before she was quite aware of it, he had removed her bonnet and even her jacket, tossing them to the ground. Then he unbuttoned her shirt.
Molly tugged at his shirt, too, freeing the tail from his britches, running her hands beneath it, feeling his smooth, heated skin, the shudders her touch elicited.
And suddenly that wasn’t enough. With frenzied movements she helped him strip off his shirt. He tossed it aside, then drew her to his furry chest. She felt his heart beat against her face, smelled the musky, heavenly scent of him. Mingled with the fragrance of the forest it left her heady, dizzy. She ran her hands around his sides, up his back, delighting in his quivering reaction.
When his lips claimed her breast, freed from its nest of muslin, she wished she were gowned in lace. For the first time in her life, she wished she had sprinkled herself with talcum and clothed herself in silks…for him. And then she was lost in the urgency of the moment, pushing her breast against his mouth, pressing her hips shamelessly against his, feeling his arousal, feeling it and wanting more, so much more.
He inhaled her heady fragrance, knowing he would always associate her with the smell of honeysuckle. If he lived to be a hundred, he would think of Molly and honeysuckle and this great primal forest in one and the same breath.
Their mouths locked once more. He scooped her in his arms and placed her on the forest floor with his shirt as protection from the pine needles. Leaning over her, his eyes absorbed the beauty—of the moment, of the setting, of this woman.
This very special woman.
But when Molly’s body sank into the cushiony bed of pine needles, her brain revolted. Instead of pine needles crackling beneath her, she heard hay. Suddenly she was back in the barn…a year ago. Suddenly this handsome, passionate man staring down at her was not Jubal, but Rubal, his brother.
Suddenly she was about to make the same mistake again. Bolting upright, she jarred his chin with her head. He jumped back. Instead of rising, she clutched her face and sat on the forest floor, weeping into her hands.
“Molly?” When he tried to embrace her, she pulled back. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t.”
His heart still beat to the rhythm of passion. His body ached with it; his voice was weakened by it.
“Can’t?”
Molly sobbed into her cupped hands.
Confused, he pulled her hands away. “What is it, Molly love?”
“Don’t call me that.”
He eyed her self-consciously, wondering what he’d done. “Did I go too fast?” Dang it, he’d tried to hold back. But she had been eager, so eager.
“It isn’t you.” Her sobs intensified, blurring her words. “It’s me. It’s Lindy.”
“Lindy?” Of course. Lindy.
“I’m worried sick about her, and here I am doing exactly what I’m afraid she’ll do.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
“Lindy’s a child. You’re a woman. You can make your own decisions.”
“I’m…wretched.”
He stroked the top of her head. “Molly, no. You’re…you’re good…so good.”
“I’m not,” she replied between sniffles. “You don’t know me, Jubal. You don’t know…”
“Sh…sh…Molly. If this is about…uh, my brother, I’m sorry. I know he didn’t mean to hurt you like this. I hate what…what Rubal did to you.”
“You don’t understand. If you knew the truth, you’d blame me.”
“Molly, love, don’t put yourself through this torture. Don’t.” Anguish took the edge off his desire. “Let it be over.”
“It’ll never be over. Every time I look at you, I see him. Every time you touch me. Every time…”
“Sh…sh…don’t, Molly.” Rubal sat back on his heels, rocking slowly, feeling more worthless with every reminder of that night in the barn. He watched her, his anguish rising. She continued to wipe tears and more tears from her eyes. She no longer sobbed, but an unending river of tears rolled down her cheeks. He kept himself from reaching to brush them away. Dang it, he deserved to lose her. Yet, he couldn’t bear the thought of it.
He wiped a palm over his face. “Don’t reckon there’s much I can do about that, is there?”
She frowned, quizzical.
“You seein’ my twin every time you look at me,” he explained.
“It isn’t that I want him back, Jubal. I mean, I hate him. When I kiss you, it’s you I kiss. It’s just that…” She buried her face in her hands again. “Oh, Jubal, I can’t make love to you. I’ve already made love to your brother.”
The worst over, Molly felt her need to cry subside. When Rubal reached for her, she let him hold her tightly against his chest.
“I’m sorry, Jubal. So sorry. It was my fault, too. I was like Lindy. I was giddy with infatuation, intrigued by the glorious sensations my body was feeling.”
“Sh, I know, love. I know.”
“If I’d known, though…If I’d known that someday you would come along after I had ruined…everything, then I wouldn’t have done it. Surely I wouldn’t have…”
“Sh, love, sh. Let me say something. Listen to me.” His hand cupped her head to his aching heart. He took his time, not daring to look in her eyes when eventually he said, “It doesn’t bother me that…that you and…uh, Rubal m
ade love.” She squirmed in his arms, but he held her tightly against him. “Now that I’ve known you, though, I’d likely shoot that no-’count brother of mine if he so much as kissed your hand.”
Chapter Nine
Saturday passed in a whirlwind of activity, which Molly welcomed to take her mind off her feelings for Jubal—and off the scene that developed when they arrived back at the house after dark the evening before.
Her hope that they could somehow make it back before suppertime was not to be realized. By the time they rode up the hill, lamplight sprayed from the open dining-room windows. She followed Rubal’s lead to the back hitching rail with female voices chattering through the still night.
Squirrel added his welcome, barking as though to call the dead. Rubal assisted Molly from the saddle.
“Sh, feller, don’t call the troops.” His hands gripped her waist. He kissed her lips, softly, passionately, as if they had all the time in the world. “Come on, let’s go face the music.”
“No. I’ll go in first. You put up the horses. It’ll be easier…separate.”
He watched her gaze skitter toward the house. “I didn’t intend to get you back so late, Molly. I’m sorry—”
“It’s all right.” She moved toward the house. “I’ll see you inside.”
Supper was already well under way when Molly stepped into the kitchen, patted her hair in place, and met Sugar’s knowing eye. She felt herself turn scarlet. Before either of them could speak, however, Willie Joe and Little Sam burst into the room.
“Where’s Mr. Jarrett?”
“Where’s mister?”
Sugar spun each boy around and whacked their backsides with a grace developed through years of practice. “Get back to that table, you two.”
“I wanna see mister.”
Sugar winked at Molly. “I suspects mister’ll be along directly. Get on back to your supper.”
Molly wanted to ask who she was about to face in the dining room, but Sugar gave her no time.
Secret Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Four Page 15
