by Devine,Carol
"What about all that stuff you told me about saving yourself for marriage?"
"You spoke of how much your freedom means to you. This means much to me, as well."
"Sarah, it's just a house."
"It's more than a house. It is a home. Once you see the inside, I'm sure you will think of it differently."
"You think I'll experience some kind of spiritual awakening if I go inside? It's not going to happen, Sarah. I don't care what you've done to it, that house is still the place where I grew up. And I'll never be able to forget the things that happened there."
Sarah pressed her lips together in an inward search to explain herself. How do you offer hope to a man who has long ago given it up? "You would reject me then?" she asked, meeting his gaze directly.
His eyes narrowed and she knew he had correctly interpreted the challenge in her voice. "Don't play games with me, Sarah. If you are serious about this, there's no going back."
"I have never been more serious about anything in my life," she insisted.
He hesitated, his thumb measuring the rapid pulse of her wrist. "You want me to inspect the house. That's it?"
"Yes."
"How long will it take?"
"Long enough to see every room."
"Which comes first, my part of the bargain or yours?"
"Yours," she said quickly.
"Not a chance," Zach said, needing to test how far she was willing to go. He also needed to make sure she understood exactly what he'd require of her. "Either we sleep together first or there's no deal."
"Only sleep together?" She looked puzzled.
"A figure of speech, which in this case fits. I want you beside me the entire night and we won't be holding hands. We'll be touching each other, kissing each other, and when you next leave our bed, you won't be a virgin anymore."
Nerves jumped along her limbs. "You need me all night?"
"If this is going to be our first chance to be together, I want you there from the beginning to when we wake up in the morning together."
Sarah swallowed but she had gone too far to back down now. He was leaving in two days. Time had run out. She had a certain faith the Lord was leading her down this path. Somehow, some way, He would make everything all right.
"Where would we do this thing?" she asked.
Zach resettled in his chair, using the movement as a chance to force down the anticipation coursing through his body. Talk about adrenaline. But he needed a chance to think. The house was out. Making love in his parent's old room? No, the trailer would be the logical choice but he couldn't bring himself to suggest it. They'd be cramped in the small bed and there was something profane about taking Sarah to bed in a tin can of a room a stone's throw from the bunkhouse.
"We'll go to a hotel," he said.
"Like Pretty Woman, the movie with the prostitute?"
Suddenly Zach didn't want to go to a hotel.
"I have a better suggestion." She looked rather triumphant.
"Let me guess. The house."
"It's seems fair. Then one of us can't back out on the other. We'll stay there all night, just like you wanted."
He shook his head no. Inwardly, though, he had to admit using the house answered his most important criteria, privacy. And she had a point about the terms. They would be meeting each other in the center, ensuring an equality of effort. "What about Butcher?" he asked. "The house is his territory. He won't like having me there."
"I will see to it that he doesn't bother you. Us, I mean."
Zach looked down at their joined hands and knew he shouldn't go along with this hare-brained scheme. Given her beliefs, she would regret it, and if she did, so would he. He thought back to the time he had first seen her, outlined against rushing whitewater and an afternoon sun, blinding in her grace. He vowed then to have her and a month later, he had obtained his heart's desire. Here she was, offering to sleep with him, with all that entailed, willingly, without any guarantees for the future. If she said no to Brazil tomorrow, he would at least have something to remember, something that might very well help him get over what had turned out to be an obsession. The price might be high but the reward was higher, higher than he'd ever imagined. He'd still be free.
"You drive a hard bargain, Sarah Smith."
She gravely shook his proffered hand and rose, agreeing to meet at the house after supper. After she left, Zach went to the window to watch her cross the yard, her posture as graceful as ever. He should feel victorious. Except he didn't. He felt sad. But the sadness didn't make him change his mind.
He was going to make love to her.
He went back to work because he couldn't think about anything except what was to come in a handful of hours. His anticipation increased the closer the clock ticked to suppertime. At five, he quit early to shower and shave. Rather than alert any of the ranch hands still hanging around, he put on his usual black t-shirt and camouflage pants. But while he put on his boots, he changed his mind, and traded the pants for the one pair of jeans he owned, embarrassed to be switching clothes like a teenager, anxious like it was his first date.
The dinner bell clanged and he strode to the bunkhouse. Sarah was already setting platters and bowls of food on the table, serving family style. She nodded at him when he came in, wearing her usual work clothes, an old skirt covered by a long white apron but one of her new blouses, the simplest, he noticed, creamy silk with pretty buttons.
It was Coburn's turn to hold out Sarah's chair and seat her at the table. The other men followed, Zach last. He fought the stupidest kind of jealousy over Coburn taking his turn seating Sarah. Zach didn't join the prayer Sarah recited, a short 'Thanks to God' for the meal they were about to eat. He didn't talk much either, watching her in what he hoped was a less than obvious way. Sarah said very little. He could tell she was nervous. Nervous as a new bride.
He must be far gone.
Feeling curiously tender, he cleaned up the dishes, and she accepted, murmuring her thanks. But it was the secret squeeze of her hand, hidden from the other men, which made her little murmur of gratitude hit home. He reflected on his sense of gratitude after she left and for the first time it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, she wanted to be with him in Brazil as much as he wanted her there. His hope was palpable.
Seconds later, Zach announced to the men that he was going to walk the perimeter of the main yard before retiring to the trailer to pack his traveling gear. In case anyone in the bunkhouse was watching, he circled the barn and outbuildings first, noting the empty stalls, the storage areas swept clean and washed down. Nothing was left. Not a piece of straw or a speck of grain.
He walked the perimeter first, heading for the house by way of the barn. As he went, he realized he should have thought to bring a gift, like, like a house-warming gift of all things. Wine, maybe. Or more appropriately, a romantic gesture. Flowers, chocolates, a sappy card, a ring.
He checked the darkening sky, figured he had the time, turned around and went to the trailer. But what?
When he strode up the flagstone path fifteen minutes later, he carried a handful of wildflowers in one hand, the last of the late season perennials, monkshood, stock and violas and pansies, trailing evergreens and ivy. Under his arm, he had a gift, last-minute though it was.
He didn't feel any real anxiety until he reached the bottom of the porch steps. Just seeing them, repaired and painted, brought memories back. He paused, overtaken by the deep feeling of claustrophobia the house always engendered in him. The roof loomed over him like the lid of a coffin. The front door opened, spilling light across the porch. He looked up and gripped the railing.
Sarah was wearing blue jeans. Blue jeans. Like a second skin, the denim hugged her slim legs, making them appear longer. Or maybe it was simply that he'd rarely seen her legs in anything other than a skirt.
Her silk blouse was the same one he'd bought her during that first shopping trip to the mall. The creamy color emphasized the gold tones in her tanned skin. Her hair w
as pinned up, but there was something different about the style. She had twisted it in a loose knot higher on the back of her head, leaving curling tendrils falling around her face and neck. And she was smiling.
Good Lord, smiling like she was very happy. He was smiling, too, even with the roof looming and the door open like the maw of a whale, sucking him in.
"Come in," she said. "It's cold out there."
He climbed one porch step then another until he reached the threshold of the door. Escaping heat from the house washed over him. She stepped back, gesturing him in but he didn't move.
Her hand reached out and caught the sleeve of his jacket. She reeled him inside but the shutting of the door sounded final and he had an urge to grab her right then like a drowning man. Instead, he concentrated on the details of her appearance, noting the careful way she had prepared herself, for him alone. She'd applied a touch of her lip gloss, giving her mouth the hue of crushed strawberries. Her eyes were huge, the irises nearly black, while her cheeks, instead of blushing, were pale. Still nervous, he thought.
"I brought you these," he said, thrusting the bouquet in her hands.
"How pretty." She buried her nose in the jumble of delicate flowers and her eyelashes came down, hiding her thoughts. "No one's ever given me flowers before."
"It's a tradition,"
"A tradition?"
"To bring flowers to a lady."
"A nice tradition," she said. "Thank you."
"I brought wine, too. A California Chardonnay. It's from a very good year."
She nodded but the description obviously meant nothing to her and Zach regretted his words. A good year? In some ways, he was more nervous than she was.
"May I take your coat?" she asked.
He hesitated, loathe to give up the armor it represented. But the heated interior of the house was very warm.
"Thanks," he said and shrugged it off. She set the flowers and wine down on a nearby table and hung his coat on a bentwood hall tree set in the corner by the front door.
The stretch of her body, so clearly defined in tight denim and clingy silk, made Zach breathe deep. Scents assaulted him. Cinnamon, fresh paint and lemon wax. He recalled his promise to check the place out, won at such great personal cost to her. He'd agreed to this tour. He might be a dirt bag for holding her to her part of it, but he would be an honorable one.
"Mind if I look around?"
Color came back into her face. "Please do."
Resolutely he headed down the hall. He didn't remember the row of gleaming brass wall sconces that ran the length of the wall. To his left was the staircase that led to the second floor. To the right was the arched opening of the front room, the setting for many a family fight.
He poked his head inside, intent on making the most cursory of examinations. What hit him first were the windows. She'd removed all the heavy avocado-green draperies that once hung over them, ceiling-to-floor. Now they were framed by panels of lace, parted to reveal the clarity of the glass. Each pane sparkled, backed by velvet night.
Sunny yellow walls enriched the feeling of contrast. The dull braided rug he remembered from his childhood was gone, revealing an oak plank floor polished to honeyed perfection. The broken down couch and his father's overstuffed recliner were gone. Everything else he saw, he recognized.
His mother's antique rocker took up one corner, lamplight glossing the scrolled armrests. The spindle-backed bench set along the opposite wall looked uncomfortable as hell but its finish matched the chair, lending unity. Needlepoint pillows were propped in the corners.
Last but not least was the fireplace. The scratched mahogany mantle had been painted white. Set on top were dozens of candles in different colors and sizes, all set in brass holders.
"Where did you find these?" he asked and went to pick up a candlestick, his memory stirring.
"The attic." She hung back in the hall, watching him. "Do you remember seeing them before?"
"Yes, I remember. Rather than little, skinny cake candles for our birthdays, which my dad said were a waste of money, my mom would get these candlesticks out so all of us kids would have a chance to make a wish and blow out a candle."
"Make a wish and blow out candles? Whatever for?"
"Another tradition. When a birthday is celebrated, a cake is made and candles are placed on top, one for each year of age. Before you blow them out, you make a wish and if you blow them out in one breath, your wish will come true.
"What kind of wish?"
"Anything you want," he said, noting how she lingered at the doorway as though afraid to get too close to him. "The bigger and more impossible, the better."
"Really?" She sketched a sneakered toe on the burnished floor, the curve of her mouth wistful. "And it always comes true?"
"If you close your eyes and wish for it hard enough and don't peek, then yes, it always comes true."
She looked intrigued. "What did you wish for on your last birthday?"
"Sorry, I can't tell. That's one of the rules. If you confess your wish, it doesn't have a chance in the world of coming true." He set the candlestick down and picked up a box of matches. "Would you like to try?"
"It's not my birthday."
"Let's pretend it is." He lit a candle. "Come here."
Sarah hesitated, but he held the candle out to her, his manner as endearing as ever. There were only two choices, either make a fuss or humorously obey. She chose the latter and stopped in front of him. He smelled of his masculine brand of soap. "What do I do?" she asked.
He reached past her to flick off the light switch. The lamps in the room went off, leaving only the light coming in from the hall. The flame from the candle sent shadows leaping across his face, heightening the demon wings of his dark, thick eyebrows. "Like I said. Make a wish and blow it out."
Hesitant, she waited a moment, then dutifully pursed her lips and blew. The candle went out and the space between them plunged into relative darkness. All she could see clearly was the flash of his teeth, framed by a ghostly grin that made her not only want to return it but to touch and trace it.
"Now kiss me," he said.
"Is that part of the tradition, too?"
She glowed with barely discernable color, her purity emphasized by the perfect outline of her face. Yet her eyes reflected the night, a night Zach wanted to lose himself in. "Yes," he lied.
He had to go very still to feel the soft press of lips against his own. Unused to the role of aggressor, her mouth was tentative, a scant weight against his. Yet what she offered was sweet, a tiny confection made to be savored. Like the trust of a small bird come to feed from a human hand. How courageous she was. In that moment and Zach had to fight a tough battle within himself not to take her right then and there. Or set her free.
He let her drop back and come down off her tiptoes without touching her in any way, then flipped the light switch back on.
"Did the kiss displease you?" she asked.
"No," he said, giving her his most sincere smile. "I just wanted to prove to you that I'm not going to attack you at the first opportunity. We have all night, right?"
She blinked and nodded.
He took her hand, noting how clammy it still was. "What else did you want to show me?"
She led him back down the hallway to the rear of the house. A hallway filled not only with light, but life. Life in pictures.
It was the first thing his father had done after the divorce, to remove every reminder of Mary Masterson's presence. Since she left when he was eight, Zach barely recalled decorations on the walls, much less family pictures.
The photographs Sarah had unearthed were of happier times. Times that Zach, in all honesty, could not remember. He'd been too young and in these pictures, barely more than a baby. If he made it into a picture at all, it showed him just out of diapers, maybe three or four. As the middle one in the family, he was invariably in the center, framed by an even collection of brothers and sisters, boy, girl, boy, girl, boy. Bram, Lizzie, Zach
, Meg and Joe.
"Do you mind that I put these up?" She surprised him by slipping her hand through the crook of his arm. "I knew it would be only temporary but the house does have a history. I wanted to show it."
"No, I don't mind," Zach said and proved the claim by examining each photo in minute detail, marveling at how detached he felt while examining these pieces of passing time. Even the wedding portrait of his parents seemed several lifetimes apart from his. They appeared like any other couple who thought themselves in love. Rather young and foolish-looking.
She showed him the room tucked at the end of the hall, a study Zach remembered as dark-paneled with deep bookshelves and gloomy floor and desk lamps, crammed with thick rolls of land surveys, notebooks upon notebooks of seed types, crop yields, breeding schedules and dissections of poor hay and wheat harvests, stacks of bank and accounting files, thick almanacs and a massive roll top desk.
The draperies had been removed, making the room seem larger. The rolled and stacked papers had been cleaned out, leaving the shine of mahogany shelves behind. Every book remaining on the wall-to-ceiling shelves had been cleaned. All hardcovers, they glowed with the patina of aged leather, some with gilt lettering. In the spaces between the shortened stacks, she'd taken clay pots and planted what he recognized as common herbs. Parsley and basil punched fresh green shoots from the lush soil of their new homes.
Color came at intervals: more greenery potted in clay, short stacks of blue and burgundy bound books, copper pitchers tucked here and there, and the round orange of harvested small pumpkins, set like fat orange soft balls on the longest shelf, five real pumpkins in a row.
"I'm going to make pumpkin bread for Coburn and the hands tomorrow as a goodbye gift. But I thought they looked good here. You probably think it's silly of me."
"Not silly. Unexpected, like you are, Sarah. To me, that's a good thing, in case you were wondering."
She beamed. "Thank you."
His father's old desk sat in the middle of the room, rolled open. Each cubbyhole had been meticulously cleaned out. Nothing lay on the polished surface except an old leather-bound ledger that dated back to his grandfather's time.
