Heartbreak Creek

by Kaki Warner

  “You gotta make her stop, Pa. It’s embarrassing.”

  Declan turned his head and looked at his son.

  “Well, it is. She’s even got you wearing perfume.”

  Declan frowned, then remembered the soap. He was wondering how to defend his manhood to his own son, when Ed yelled, “Found it!”

  To Declan, “it” looked like every other patch of dirt within a hundred-mile radius.

  But Ed was bobbing on her toes with excitement. “It’s a big flow. Joe Bill, get that long switch without a fork, and I’ll tell you how deep it is.”

  Muttering under his breath, Joe Bill went.

  “What makes you think it’s here?” Declan tried not to sound too skeptical. Yet if he was going to ask men to dig in this rocky soil, he’d like to have a reason for picking this spot other than that a stick told him to.

  Ed rolled her blue eyes. “I declare you’re the stubbornest man alive. Just stay here and watch what happens when I walk by.” Moving about ten yards away, she gripped the forked stick like she had before, flat across her palms, knuckles pointing up, and walked slowly toward them.

  Three yards out, the tip of the stick began to twitch. At one yard, the twitches became jerks, and when she reached Declan, it swung sharply down to point directly at the spot she had indicated. “See?” Letting go of one fork of the stick, she winced and rubbed her palm on her skirt.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all.” Quinlan spoke in such a tone of deep admiration and respect Declan tried not to glower.

  Ed grinned happily back. “Have I made you a believer, Sergeant?”

  “You have, ma’am. You surely have. I’ll get the men and we’ll start digging.” He walked back toward the campfire, barking orders as he went.

  “What’s wrong with your hand?” Declan asked.

  She studied her palm. “Rubbed a bit. It happens if you grip too hard and the pull is strong.”

  “Let me see.”

  Taking her smaller hand in his, he traced a finger across the red welt cutting across her palm.

  “That tickles,” she said in an odd voice.

  He looked up, found himself sinking into her eyes, and forced himself to let go. “How does it work?” He had watched her hands when the stick started twitching and moving, and he was convinced she hadn’t shifted her grip or turned her wrist or done anything that he could see. Yet the stick had moved in her hands . . . apparently while she held it as tight as she could. It made no sense.

  “It’s magic,” she said with that imp’s grin.

  “It’s bunkum.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Joe Bill returned with another willow switch. This one had only been cut on one end and was an entire twig, about three feet long, less than half an inch in diameter, and very limber. Like the forked sticks, the cut end had been scraped of bark.

  She went to her starting point ten yards out and turned. “When I get closer, watch for the switch to start bobbing, then count each bounce.”

  Gripping the tip of the stripped end with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, and bracing it with her left, she walked slowly forward. As she neared, the drooping end started to twitch. When the tip hung directly over the spot, it began to bounce up and down in a regular rhythm.

  “Count,” Ed said, her entire attention focused on the bobbing switch.

  At twenty-two, the bouncing began to slow. By thirty, it had stopped altogether. Ed let out a deep breath and lowered the switch. “You should hit water somewhere between twenty and thirty feet.” She pointed at the ground between her toes. “Right here.”

  They took turns digging. Those not working in the four-foot-wide hole cut saplings and carted rocks to line the sides. They’d dig a few feet, send up buckets of dirt, shore the walls with stone and wood, then dig some more. They hit a trickle at seven feet, another at twelve. After temporarily plugging the seams as best they could with stone, they kept digging. By dark they were down almost twenty feet and into gravel.

  Declan called it a day.

  They shared their campfire that night with the soldiers, dining on the last of the venison and beans, with Ed adding a cobbler made of canned peaches, dried plums, and lumps of dough to form the crust. The bottom was burned crisp, the top gooey, the insides too sweet. But the soldiers couldn’t seem to get enough of it, which Declan could see pleased Ed.

  She was in her element. A beautiful, fluttering butterfly in a field of drab blue flowers, flitting from man to man, thanking them for their hard work and charming them with her smile. He figured tomorrow they’d dig to China if she asked them. It made him uneasy, reawakened his doubts; he’d been through this before, had watched one wife drift away and had done little to stop it. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he saw this woman doing the same thing.

  But for now, he did nothing, just watched in silence as she made her rounds, pouring coffee into one man’s cup, laughing at some comment made by another.

  His mood went from glum to morose.

  Then when he’d about convinced himself he wouldn’t care if this one left him, too, she lifted her head and looked at him across the fire.

  Her smile faltered, softened into something tentative and unsure. It took the breath out of him. And he knew then he would never let this wife drift away.

  “Is that hot yet?” he asked Amos, nodding toward the four buckets of water heating on the fire.

  The old preacher shrugged.

  “Then take it to the loft. Have the boys help you.”

  Amos and his sons picked up the buckets and started toward the house. Edwina watched them for a moment, then looked back at Declan.

  He saw it in the widening of her expressive eyes. Read it in that shy smile that reached all the way down to his thudding heart.

  Later had come.

  Edwina tried not to dither, but it was hard.

  That look. Mercy. She felt like the last hen in the coop when the fox came for a visit. The man was eating her up with his eyes.

  Ever since that morning when he’d patted her bare bottom—her bare bottom, for heaven’s sake—and said “Later,” she hadn’t been able to get that word—along with all it portended—and the feel of his warm, rough hand sliding up her leg, out of her flustered mind. And now this look, his eyes gleaming with something she had certainly never seen in Shelly’s.

  Law’s amercy. She didn’t know whether to run shrieking through the sagebrush or burst into titters of nervous anticipation.

  So she went to take her bath, instead.

  Soon, she thought a few minutes later, as she scrubbed herself into a heady, rose-scented lather. Soon she would know what had been lacking in her first marriage, and what put that dreamy look in Maddie’s eyes whenever she spoke of Angus, and what her body seemed instinctively to crave whenever Declan was near. She paused in her scrubbing, assailed by doubts as old worries rose in her mind.

  Resolutely, she pushed them down. She wouldn’t give him a chance to have second thoughts or disappointments. She’d pounce like a chicken on a June bug as soon as he walked through that door. Go at him like a possum in a pea patch. Hang on those broad shoulders like a cheap two-dollar suit—No, wait. Not cheap. She didn’t want to appear trashy or common.

  But then again, Maddie had said men liked women to be somewhat forward. Somewhat forward. What the dickens did that mean? Surely he wouldn’t expect her to take her clothes off and prance around bare naked? Just the thought of it gave her the shivers. But not necessarily bad shivers.

  “It smells like a flower garden in here.”

  With a startled cry, Edwina clasped her hands over her chest and whipped around in a slosh of soapy water.

  Declan stood beside the screen, that hungry look in his eyes.

  “W-what are you doing?”

  “Waiting my turn.” His gaze dropped to the tub. “Unless you think there’s room for both of us in there.”

  In this tub? Both of them? Naked?

  Stepping forward, he began
loosening the buttons on his shirt.

  Edwina watched in astonishment as he undressed right there in front of her, the whole while rambling on about the well, and relating some amusing thing Sergeant Quinlan had said, and telling her to be watchful because R.D. had seen cougar sign again at the creek, and complimenting her on her fine peach cobbler.

  She scarcely listened, entranced by the unveiling before her.

  First the hat, then the shirt. Seeing that the stool was covered with her discarded clothing, he leaned against the wall for balance as he wrestled off one boot, then the other. Then he started on his trousers.

  Edwina watched, knowing it wasn’t proper but unable to look away.

  The trousers slipped down his long legs.

  Her mouth went dry. Her heart pounded beneath her crossed palms. A distant part of her mind couldn’t believe she was sitting here watching a man undress in front of her.

  It made her feel bold and a little bit nasty. And tingly. All over.

  No wonder men enjoyed their peep shows so much.

  He was magnificent. Perfectly proportioned despite his height. She had seen naked men before—well, a naked man. But Declan was so different from Shelly. So much more . . . male.

  And still he talked, his voice receding into a distant, buzzing drone in her head, unmindful of the fact she had stopped listening, stopped breathing, and could only stare in heart-pounding anticipation as he started on his drawers.

  She suppressed an insane urge to giggle. How did he even keep them up with such narrow hips?

  Ah . . . that’s how.

  Definitely more than Shelly.

  Only dimly aware that he was no longer speaking, she let her gaze drift up his long, sturdy body, and wondered how this perfect man could actually be her husband. The man with whom she would share her life. Her bed. Her body.

  Her skinny, un-pointy “stick” of a body. Oh, God.

  “You getting out or not?”

  Her gaze met his. He was smiling, his head cocked to one side, his dark eyes glittering in the yellow lamplight.

  “Oh, Declan,” she wailed.

  Then, clapping her hands to her face, she burst into tears.

  Fourteen

  Well, that’s deflating, Declan thought, grabbing for his drawers.

  He’d thought since she’d been married before, he wouldn’t have to worry about shielding her delicate sensibilities. He hadn’t expected her to be so upset by the sight of a man’s naked body, even one as big and clumsy and oversized as his.

  Christ. Now he’d scared her.

  Feeling awkward and embarrassed and every bit the “big lump” she’d labeled him, he quickly pulled on his drawers. Then he stood there, wondering what he should do.

  He didn’t want to leave. If he did, that would be the end of it. And he wasn’t ready to give up on this woman.

  He hunkered beside the tub. “Ed, what’s wrong?”

  She sniffled behind her hands. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  He tucked a damp curl behind her ear. “Try me.”

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  Beautiful? What the hell did that mean?

  Joe Bill was right. Ed was definitely crazy.

  Lifting her head, she brushed away tears with the backs of her hands. “See? I knew you wouldn’t understand.” She began splashing sudsy water on her puffy eyes. “And I’m—ow, that stings.”

  He handed her a towel. “And you’re what?”

  After blotting her eyes, she passed back the towel and wrapped her arms around her raised knees to hide her chest from his gaze. “Nervous.”

  “About what?”

  “You know.” She made an offhand gesture that spattered him with soapy water and gave him a brief glimpse of one round, rosytipped breast. “What if it really is me? What if it’s as awful with you as it was with Shelly? What if—”

  “It won’t be.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “How?”

  “Just trust me, Ed.” He showed his teeth in what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ve done this before.”

  “I’ll just bet you have.”

  “Now, Ed.” Hoping to dull that edge in her voice, he reached out to give her a friendly pat. Then he froze, his hand hanging above her shoulder, unable to comprehend what his eyes were seeing.

  Aware of her watching, he trailed his fingers down the long curve of her back and over the slight ridges of scar tissue that marred the smooth, warm skin. He still couldn’t get his mind around it. “Who did this?”

  She tried to change the subject.

  He wouldn’t let her.

  “It’s not important, Declan.”

  “It is to me.” His voice sounded harsher than he intended, so he tried to soften it. “Tell me.” A drop of water slid from the damp hair at her neck. He watched it run down the bumpy ridge of her spine, and thought there was nothing quite so perfect, or fragile, or lovely as a woman’s bare back. Even one crisscrossed with scars. “Who beat you, Ed?”

  Her ribs expanded, then contracted on a weary sigh. “My mother.”

  It was a minute before he could speak. “Why?”

  “Most of the scars are from the time I spilled a jug of milk.” She smiled sadly. “I got off easy. Pru was scalded.”

  Declan flinched at the words. “By your mother? On purpose?” He remembered the pale markings on the Negro woman’s wrist, like the dark skin had been bleached of color. “Why would she do such a thing?”

  “Pru tried to intervene. I tell myself it was an accident, that the pot slipped. Maybe it did.” She shrugged, as if this atrocity, this brutality toward two children was of no consequence. “It was a long time ago.”

  Declan realized his hand was shaking and pulled it away. “How long?”

  “I was six. Pru, seven. Can we not talk about this anymore?”

  “Sure.” Feeling slightly sick and not nearly as amorous as before, Declan stood. Taking a towel off a hook, he wrapped it over his drawers, then walked over to the cabinet where his shaving mug and straight razor rested.

  He knew he should say something, but he was so furious he didn’t trust himself not to start yelling. To calm the anger churning inside him, he lifted the leather strop hanging beside the cabinet and began to sharpen the blade of his razor.

  Goddamn her. What kind of mother would do such a thing? And what kind of father would let her?

  Behind him, he heard a sluice of water as Ed stood. The soft scrape of her foot when she stepped out. The rustle of cloth as she dried off. He focused on the razor, dragging it back and forth, back and forth, while he searched for words.

  “I’ll never hurt you, Ed,” he said, without turning.

  “I know.”

  “And I’m sorry that happened to you.” He sensed movement and, lifting his head, saw her behind him, wrapped in a towel and gazing back at him in the small mirror over the cabinet. She looked so sad.

  “They disgust you, don’t they? My scars.”

  He released the strop. Watched it swing back and forth on its hook. Carefully set the razor beside the mug. Then he turned.

  And in that moment of turning, everything changed. As if he’d stepped out of himself and, looking back, saw all his finely wrought rationalizations and justifications as the poor crutches that they were.

  This wasn’t about needing someone to help with the chores and his children. Or about wanting a woman in his bed. Or using one woman to help him forget his guilt over another.

  It was about ending the loneliness that seemed to choke off a little more of his hope every day. About letting go of doubt, and distrust, and the mistakes of the past.

  And reaching for Ed.

  The idea brought on such a swell of panic for a moment he couldn’t take a full breath.

  “There’s nothing about you that disgusts me,” he said. And because he was afraid to let her see the need and fear in his eyes, and reveal to her how completely she ow
ned him, he took her face in his big, rough hands and kissed her with all the emotion and feeling he’d been trying so desperately to keep safely hidden.

  And she kissed him back.

  “Ed,” he said, and tried to pull her towel away.

  “No.” Anchoring the cloth to her chest, she stepped back, a smile tugging at her lips. “Bathe first. I can see the dirt.”

  He started to argue with her but changed his mind when a new idea presented itself. “You can watch, if you’d like.”

  She hesitated, like she might even consider it, which started his heart thudding again. Then she shook her head. “I have to braid my hair.”

  “Leave it down.”

  “It’ll be a mess in the morning.”

  “Then braid it after.”

  That imp’s smile, even as color inched up her neck. “After . . . later?”

  “Go. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She left the room. Fled, was more like it. Like she was shocked at her own self. Or him. He had no idea what went on in that head of hers.

  Beautiful, she’d called him. Big Bob Brodie, the carnival bear. Beautiful. The notion made him smile. Definitely crazy.

  He bathed in record time. Minutes later, hair dripping, and wearing a towel that didn’t hide his eagerness for his wife, he stepped around the screen, smelling like a rose bouquet.

  She was standing at the moonlit window in her white gown. When she heard him come in, she turned and walked over to stand on the opposite side of the bed. She held out her hand. “Will you use this?”

  He stared at the small packet in her palm, not able to make it out in the shadowed moonlight. “What is it?”

  “A rubber thing that prevents babies. I can’t remember what it’s called.”

  Declan was a little shocked that she even knew about such things. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Lucinda. Will you wear it?”

  He’d rather not. Just getting the damn thing on was enough to quell a man’s enthusiasm. And why would she want him to?

  Then he remembered that conversation they’d had several days ago, when she’d told him about her mother’s madness and her fear of passing down to her own children that tainted blood.