What a Woman Should Know

by Cara Colter

  Tally Smith was wearing a white shirt, open over what looked to be a lacy little camisole. The slacks were form-fitting.

  And did the lady ever have a form.

  Her hair was loose and she’d done something with her eyes. Makeup. It made her eyes look huge and sultry.

  Herbert was insane. That was all there was to it. Could he really let the guardian of his child marry an insane man?

  Jed flew into his arms, thankfully dressed in overalls. J.D. picked his son up and swung him around until every bit of confusion in his heart had melted into that little boy’s laughter.

  “So,” he said as he put the truck in gear, “you ready for some mud bogging?”

  “Some what?”

  “Four-wheel driving in mud. It’s fun. I told you to be prepared to get dirty.”

  She looked at him with horror, and then her face turned bright, bright red.

  He felt himself draw in the air so sharply he whistled. “Did you think I meant, um, something else?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said tightly.

  But he snuck another glance at the outfit. Tally Smith had thought he meant a different kind of dirty. And she’d dressed for it! So she knew Herbert was a mistake. She knew it!

  But she was getting ready to throw her wild side at him? At J. D. Turner?

  And where had she got the idea that dirty expressed all the wonderful things that happened between a man and a woman?

  His list of things she needed to know seemed to be expanding rather than getting smaller! There was a strangled silence in the cab of the truck, broken only by the happy sighs of the dog as Jed bent over double in his car seat trying to kiss him.

  They took a secondary road out of Dancer, and then turned onto an unmarked trail over the prairie. The road dipped and twisted over rolls in the land, and then dipped one final time into a natural depression in the earth. A sea of muck, the size of a football field, awaited.

  “This is the mud bog,” J.D. said, his voice like a tour guide who was thinking of things far more interesting than what he was pointing out to the tourists.

  “What causes this?” Tally asked, politely, like a tourist who was also thinking of more interesting things.

  “There must be a spring under the ground here. This is kind of Dancer’s playground.” The mud was crisscrossed with tire tracks and deep grooves where people got stuck.

  “That’s nice,” she said woodenly.

  He’d hurt her feelings. She was doing everything he wanted. She was being wild and taking chances. Look at that outfit!

  And he was scared to death.

  He switched his truck to four-wheel drive, put it in gear and aimed it at the center of the bog, a man driven to prove he was not afraid of anything. Somehow it had always seemed like so much fun before.

  Now all he could think of was her shoulder touching his, the whiteness of her knuckles clutching the dash, the expression on her face.

  The expression he had put there.

  Okay, so he’d made a mistake, he could fix it now, right? They could have their picnic lunch up on the bank, and while Jed played with the dog, they could get dirty in the way she had interpreted it.

  No they could not! She was Tally Smith. She’d never forgive herself or him if things got out of control in that way.

  How did he get himself into these predicaments?

  He got the truck out of the bog, retrieved a blanket from behind the seat and spread it out on the grass.

  Of course Jed had been cooped up in the truck long enough and made straight for the bog. Tally settled herself on the blanket, removed a book from her bag and proceeded to ignore him.

  J.D. followed Jed down to the bog. The little boy squatted at the edge, and J.D., being something of an expert on mud, took off his son’s shoes and rolled up his pants past the knee.

  “Look,” J.D. said, and made a handprint in the mud. Then he made a footprint with Beau’s paws.

  In no time, Jed got the idea.

  After they had done every kind of print except a face print, J.D. took his son’s hand, and they strolled out in the mud, Jed laughing deliriously as the black gumbo sucked at his toes.

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  He turned around. Tally had put down her book—she must be past the dirty part—and she was standing at the edge of the bog, giving them her teacher-from-hell look.

  “We’re getting dirty. That’s what boys are supposed to do.”

  “Grow up,” she snapped. “It’s filthy. Jed will get germs. I read about germs burrowing in the bottom of children’s feet.”

  “You know how I feel about all your reading.”

  “Jed,” she said sweetly, “come here. Auntie will get you cleaned up.”

  Jed looked at her mutinously. Obviously he had just begun exploring the joys of getting dirty. He wasn’t nearly ready to give it up, to be cleaned up.

  “Come on, Tally,” J.D. said. “Instead of being the party pooper, come in. You’ll like it. The mud squishing between your toes feels great.”

  “Oh,” she said, miffed. “I’m the party pooper.”

  “It’s not my fault that you misinterpreted what I meant about getting dirty. Honestly, you surprise me.”

  “I did not misinterpret you!”

  “Oh, that’s why you wore white to the mud bog. White and sexy. And by the way, sex is not dirty. Dirty is fun, mind you, but not that fun.”

  “This is an inappropriate conversation to be having in front of a four-year-old.”

  “How convenient for you. Take off your shoes. Roll up your pants. Come on.”

  “Never,” she said.

  “You know what, Tally Smith? Never is just the wrong word to say to a Turner.” And what the hell? He really couldn’t get much deeper into her bad books. He might as well have some fun.

  “Come on, Jed,” he said, using the little boy as a ruse and not feeling the least guilty about it. “Let’s go see Auntie.”

  As soon as they got within snatching distance, he let go of the boy, and lunged for her. She turned, too late, to run, and he scooped her up in his arms.

  Oh, God have mercy, he loved the sweet weight of her in his arms, the scent of her, the way her blouse was falling open and revealing the swell of her breast under the filmy fabric of that camisole.

  “Put me down,” she ordered, a schoolmarm who expected to be obeyed.

  “Nope. I promised you dirty and dirty you’re going to get.”

  “I’ll scream.”

  “Scream away. No one to hear you.”

  He waded out into the bog. She clung to him very tightly. He took off her shoes one by one and threw them back on shore. Then he peeled off her socks. Her feet were dainty, and very white, and he wondered if she would think it was dirty if he kissed them. He resisted the impulse.

  “Okay. I’m setting you down in it. Feel it.”

  “What if there’s glass under there? Or twisted metal?”

  “Or monsters,” he said.

  “These are my best slacks. J.D., they’ll be wrecked.”

  “I’ll buy you new ones.” And some stainless steel appliances, too, if it keeps you from making the worst mistake of your life.

  “Don’t!” she shrieked, and tried to climb up him like he was a tree.

  “Ooh,” he said, “that feels good.”

  She went still, squinted at his face, and gave a little gasp of dismay. Then she wriggled out of his arms and landed feetfirst in the mud. “Ugh,” she said. “This is awful. I hate this.” And then a strange look came over her face.

  “Pretty nice, isn’t it?”

  “No,” she said.

  “There go your ears again.”

  She closed her eyes, and lifted her feet and set them back down. “Oh my,” she said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Chapter Eight

  Why hadn’t J.D. told her this?

  The mud was warm! Tally closed her eyes. The pleasure of the mud oozing up through her toes was
almost unbearable. The temperature and texture of the mud reminded her of pudding that had been cooling on top of a stove.

  She squeezed her toes, lifted a foot experimentally, and felt the powerful suck of the mud pulling on it.

  She opened one eye to see J.D. studying her with a small smile on his face. It was hard enough to resist his looks when she managed to annoy him and he was scowling at her. But when he looked like this—his teeth flashing white, the sun glancing off the masculine perfection of his features, his eyes sparkling—the battle really felt like it was too much.

  He had his jeans rolled up. She had already noticed the rip that exposed his knee and the worn threads across the behind that promised to expose more, given time. His shirt was open at the throat, and her eyes were drawn to the springy hairs of his chest, matched by the springy hairs on his calf muscles.

  “I didn’t tell you the spring running under the mud is a hot spring?” he asked innocently. “I could have sworn I mentioned that part.”

  “No, you forgot to tell me that part.” She reached down and folded up the hem of her slacks, aware that he didn’t mind her calf muscles either. The slacks folded up as high as she could get them, just below the knee, she stepped out a little deeper. The feeling of mud caressing her calf muscle was almost erotic. She wondered, fleetingly, what it would be like to take off all her clothes, and just give herself to the sensual pleasure of this strange, and wonderful place.

  “I can’t guarantee the germ content,” J.D. said, as if it wasn’t perfectly evident she was well and truly hooked.

  “Sometimes,” she said, and her voice was so strong and sure she wondered if it were even her own voice, “you just have to live dangerously.”

  “Dangewous,” Jed echoed approvingly. She saw he was seated in the mud at the very edge of the bog busily building a leaning tower. Beauford was squeezed up against him, his nose tucked under Jed’s arm. Beau’s wrinkled face was stretched into an expression of complete adoration.

  It tried to enter her mind that Jed was in his brand-new Child-of-the-Morning brand name overalls. Her white slacks were linen, not cheap either. Only J.D. looked as though he’d been truly prepared for this, in the worn jeans and old shirt. Still, he was not going to get off scott-free either. His truck was going to be a terrible mess when they all got back in it.

  The thoughts, she realized, were penetrating her contentment, and so she swatted them away as though they were worrisome bugs.

  She sighed as the warm mud pulled at her feet. She could not fight anymore. She just wanted to surrender to these feelings that kept surfacing from somewhere inside her. Tally did what she had started to do in the truck that day before it had spun out of control, what she had started to do under the stars last night before J.D.’s swift departure.

  She let go.

  She let go of plotting and worrying. She let go of her deep desire to get control back. She let go of thinking about the future and Herbert and the past and Elana.

  She let go of her desire to act in a manner appropriate to a grade five teacher and the guardian of a four-year-old child.

  She let go completely and let some part of her that wanted to be wild and free and unconventional pop its head out of the box she had kept it in all her life.

  That part of her looked around at this brand-new world with grave curiosity. It sighed with happiness, excitement about all the things that were to be discovered and experienced and felt to the bottom of her toes. A newfound energy rippled through her, like laughter.

  Swinging her arms, and watching her feet, she marched up and down through the mud, enjoying the simple pleasure of it slurping away at her toes, reveling in it.

  And then she decided it was time to do something about the smirk on J.D.’s face. She knew what he was thinking. That it was a victory for him—that the uptight schoolmarm had finally let down her hair.

  And that was true, but he might as well learn there was a price to be paid for such a victory.

  She ducked, scooped up a handful of mud and lobbed it at J.D. It caught him square in the chest, and a black blossom appeared on his shirt where she had hit him. She giggled at the look on his face—she had managed to shock and surprise him!

  Giggled! Her, Tally Smith. Right under her picture in the high school yearbook it had said, “Girl least likely to giggle.” Also, though it had not been written, least likely to shock or surprise anyone.

  He stood there for a moment contemplating this development. He inspected the damage to his shirt very thoroughly before looking back up at her, cocking his head, studying her, his eyes as dark and brown and rich as the wet earth around them.

  She stuck out her tongue at him.

  And he lunged toward her. She could see the ridges of his thigh muscles standing out against the faded fabric of his jeans as he plunged through the mud. The sun glancing off hair on his arms, the play of his biceps were mesmerizing. She let the awareness she had of his utter masculinity fill her. It felt warm and oozing and delicious, just like the mud. He was almost on top of her before it occurred to her to move.

  She broke out of her trance at just the right moment, and did the only thing she could do. She picked up more mud, flung it at him, and then turned tail and ran. Or approximated running. The mud sucked at her feet, slithered under her heels, threatened to pull her down. In no time she was breathless with exertion and laughter.

  Jed was on the bank jumping up and down with excitement, chortling happily in the reflection of her joy.

  And that’s when she knew the gift she had to give her nephew.

  Not safety. Not respectability.

  The ability to embrace life and all the unexpected and amazing surprises it threw at you. Her chest heaving, un-ladylike sweat forming on her brow and under her arms, she skidded to a halt, and spun to face her opponent.

  She hunched over, rounded her shoulders, let her arms hang loose at her sides.

  He pulled up short and eyed her suspiciously. “What is that? Your impression of Quasimodo?”

  “It’s a wrestling move,” she told him indignantly. “Bring it on.”

  He tilted back his head and laughed. She could see the laughter gurgling up the strong column of his throat. It was a rich and beautiful sound. She decided if freedom had a sound, that is what it would sound like. J. D. Turner’s laughter.

  And his face had an expression on it of discovery. His eyes were dancing with laughter, his mouth was curved into a smile that put the sun to shame. Taking his time, and never taking his eyes off of her, J.D. scooped up a big handful of mud. He tossed it back and forth between his hands as he advanced on her.

  She waited and before he had a chance to throw it, she lunged at him, caught him around the knees and toppled him. He went over like a giant tree falling, in slow motion. The mud broke his fall, and spurted up on all sides of them.

  She went very still. The full length of J.D. was underneath her. Her chest touched his chest, and her stomach touched his stomach and her legs were sprawled on top of his legs.

  The old Tally would have realized the position they were in was suggestive, and would have squirmed to get free, to get away from the sensations that were coursing over her, like liquid fire.

  “I think people pay for this, somewhere,” the new Tally murmured, as the mud enveloped them, tepid and heavy, a sensuous glove.

  She made no attempt to move off of him. The mud was warm and exotically sensuous, but it had nothing on the warm and exotically sensuous lines of his body.

  His arms went around her, pulling her yet closer to him, and the world stopped. The breeze stopped stirring the grass beside the bog. The birds stopped singing. Jed’s excited crowing was a long way away.

  The only movement in the world was the steady, strong beat of his heart right below her breast. She looked into the liquid brown of his eyes, breath stopped, hearts beating as one, for the longest time.

  She was quite certain she might have been kissed if not for Jed and Beau entering the fray. J
ed was pulling her off of J.D., pummeling her with soft mud balls. She allowed herself to be distracted, and pretending great fear of Jed, she took off running again. She slipped and fell, skidding headlong through the mud.

  There was not an inch of her that was clean. The mud was in her hair and on her face. Grinning, J.D. came and offered her his hand.

  “I saw a touchdown like that once. Last year’s Super Bowl. The one your friend could have had tickets for.”

  She didn’t really want to be reminded of her friend right now, and so she took his extended hand and yanked on it with all her might.

  J.D. had been leaning forward to help her, and the unexpected direction of her momentum caught him off balance. He half turned and then toppled, plopping down in the mud beside her. When she started to struggle up he neatly caught her wrist, and then he and Jed teamed up, pelting mud at her while she tried to escape. Beauford was plunging frantic circles around them, until they were nearly all hysterical with laughter. She finally managed to gain her feet and get away.

  J.D. swung Jed onto the broadness of his shoulders, tucked the sturdy little legs under his arms. “Hold on, pal.”

  “Get her,” Jed yelled. “Giddy-up!”

  It occurred to her she had never played with her nephew like this. Not down and dirty, no holds barred, playing. She had rarely seen him this boisterous.

  She had read him storybooks and showed him board games. They listened to the best children’s albums, Fred Penner and Raffi and Charlotte Diamond. He had several toy musical instruments and they played “house” with his molded plastic pint-size kitchen. They played with alphabet blocks and flash cards. They played hide-and-seek, and made tent houses under his bed. They had tea parties for the teddy bears and went to the park, where she walked beside him while he rode his trike down the quieter walkways. He went to play groups with children his own age and she took him on her school’s field trips to museums and art galleries.

  Until this very moment, Tally Smith would have claimed to have given her nephew the childhood out of a dream.

  But this uncontrolled exuberance had never been part of their experience together.