Imagine

by Jill Barnett

  Must be a large size, she thought.

  Then he bent over and began to randomly toss things aside as if they were completely worthless.

  The goat came trotting by and dropped something at Hank’s feet. He scowled down, bent over, picked it up, gave it a disgusted look, then pitched it toward the water. The goat brayed and trotted after it.

  “What was that?”

  “Some old worthless bottle.” He bent over the trunk and threw out something else.

  “You keep throwing things away.”

  “Worthless,” he muttered and stuffed something back inside the trunk.

  Margaret propped her fists on her hips. “What was that?”

  “This?” Hank held up a corset by its tape strap. She raised her chin. “I’ll take that, please.”

  He stared at her, his gaze on the area below her chin. After a few seconds, he pointedly looked at the corset, held it up, and turned it this way, then that, eyeing it. He looked back at her figure and frowned. “Think it’ll fit?”

  She snatched it away. “You are so very witty.”

  It took a minute or two for him to stop chuckling. “Now here’s something useful.” He held up a deck of playing cards and shuffled them with the ease of someone born with a deck of cards in his hand. He did a fancy shuffle by arching his hands.

  Theodore looked up at him with awe. “Can you teach me to do that?”

  “No!” Margaret said.

  “Sure,” Hank said at the same time.

  She gave him a pointed look. “He’s a child.”

  “The best time to learn.” He handed the cards to Theodore, who sat in the sand and tried to shuffle them. Cards flew everywhere. A chagrined Theodore picked them up and handed them back to Hank.

  “Like this.” Hank bent down and fit his hands over Theodore’s. He cupped the cards and let them shuffle into a neat stack into the boy’s fingers.

  She didn’t say a word. She couldn’t, not when she saw Theodore’s delighted face turn up to grin at Hank. She cast a glance at Lydia, who was also watching them. “Perhaps you can show Lydia, too.”

  “I don’t want to shuffle any silly old cards,” Lydia said and walked toward the goat.

  She waited until Hank straightened, then looked him in the eye. “You toss away clothing, a hair brush, combs, and ribbons, claiming they are useless. But you keep a deck of playing cards?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t need hair ribbons.”

  “But Lydia does.”

  Hank looked at Lydia. “What’s she blubbering about now?”

  “She’s hurting.”

  “Yeah, well, she’d better learn to get over it.”

  Margaret shook her head in disgust. He wasn’t going to help her in that quarter. She looked at the girl standing beside the goat, stroking its coat.

  Margaret started toward her but stopped when Lydia turned to look at her. They watched each other for a moment. As if Lydia could read her thoughts, she stiffened, then she spun around, presenting her back.

  It stopped Margaret in her tracks. She wanted to help but didn’t know how. She decided to give the girl a little time alone and herself some time to try to analyze the situation and come up with some way to try to reach the girl.

  Margaret glanced back at Hank who was tossing things into piles so swiftly she had to blink. She moved closer. In his keeper pile were dice, a flint, a pistol, a pocketknife, a pair of black pants, and a belt. All but the dice were useful items.

  It still annoyed her that he’d tossed aside things she and Lydia could have used. She started to turn back but stopped when she saw another stack of things. “What’s that pile for?”

  “You.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s your stuff. Things women need.”

  There were a few pots and pans and some skillets, a scrub brush, and a small hand broom—the type a maid used to brush clothing—a flat iron, a sewing basket, and a cap and apron.

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t clean. I can’t sew and I can’t cook.”

  “You’re a smart woman. With a brain and an education. You’ll learn.” He paused. “Remember, counselor, in your own words: Man hunt. Ugh! Woman cook.”

  “I’m used to having my words thrown back at me by men who think they are superior.”

  “I don’t think I’m superior.” He stood there rubbing his black beard. “I know it.”

  She watched him for a moment. He scratched his neck again.

  “You know, a little soap might help.”

  He looked at her. “Might help what?”

  She gave his beard a pointed look. “Your itch.” His cocky gaze poured over her slowly, then he gave her a perfectly lascivious grin.

  She cast a quick glance at the children, who were a small distance away, then leaned close enough for him to hear her whisper. “Don’t say it.”

  “Say what?” His voice was dripping with feigned innocence.

  “Whatever it was you were thinking.”

  He laughed obnoxiously. “You think enough for all of us. I don’t think, sweetheart. I do.”

  She could have sworn she saw his chest swell. No doubt his head did.

  She reached into the trunk she’d been going through and whapped a leather case into his hands. “Then here. Do this.”

  He stared at the case.

  “It’s a shaving kit.”

  “I can see that.” He opened it.

  “There’s a straight razor, a mug and brush, a comb, and a toothbrush.”

  “Yeah.” He scratched his beard again even harder. Then he shrugged. “No lather.” He turned toward the pile of things he’d tossed aside and started to toss it away, too.

  “Wait! Here!” Without thinking, she plopped that wonderful little ball of soap into his hand.

  His fingers closed around it so quickly she blinked. “Thanks, Smitty.” He tossed it in the air in front of her nose, then snatched it out of midair. “I never even had to ask.” He started laughing, a sound she could only describe as crowing.

  She stared at him.

  “Think I’ll go take a bath. A real bath.” He sauntered off toward the stream. “Have fun here, sweetheart.”

  She just stared at his back, wanting to slap herself in the forehead.

  He began to whistle a tune that sounded suspiciously like The Old Gray Mare.

  Better yet, she thought, she would like to slap him in the forehead. He was heading off to bathe with her soap.

  Very simply, very easily, he’d outmaneuvered her.

  Hank learned a few things about Smitty that morning as he strolled off to take a bath, casually tossing that ball of soap. She could whip past him, and from right beneath his nose, she could snatch a ball of soap out of midair. She also ran a helluva lot faster than he’d thought she could.

  He stopped and watched her race toward a wall of rocks that protected a pool beneath the waterfall. She had her ragged skirt hiked up around her knees, and he had a great view of those long legs.

  Hank discovered something else. Smitty jiggled in all the right places.

  She looked over her shoulder once as if she had expected him to be right behind her. He waved, then sat down on a rock and waited.

  It only took a few minutes for her to poke her head out from behind the rocks.

  “I can’t take a bath. I don’t trust you.”

  He didn’t say anything, just picked a banana from a nearby plant and began to peel and eat it.

  She climbed out from behind the rocks, tucking a toothbrush and the tin of tooth powder back into the pocket of her skirt. She plopped down next to him, and took the ball of soap from her pocket. She held it in one hand and looked at it for a minute. Then she glanced at him. “I don’t suppose you’d give me your word you’ll stay away, will you?”

  He finished the banana. “Nope.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She stared at the ball of soap with a covetous look. After a minute of silence, she sighed and held out the soap to him. “You win
.”

  He tossed the banana peel away and took the soap, laughing. “You’re a good loser.”

  She watched him laugh. “It figures you’d be a poor winner.” Her tone was resigned. She rested her chin on one hand. “I suppose it was too much to hope that you would accept this without braying like an ass.”

  “Never give up hope, Smitty.” He stood and lightly tossed the soap in the air just to tempt her. “A smart woman like yourself should know that.” He started to walk around the rocks but stopped halfway and looked back at her. “And while you’re at it, you might want to hope for a fairy godmother to magically appear. Or a guardian angel. Leprechauns? Maybe even a genie in a magic lamp!” Chuckling, he rounded the rocks, then leaned back out and said, “Or Santa Claus!”

  A banana flew past his head.

  Chapter 12

  A good hour later, Hank stood waist deep in a small pool near the base of the waterfall. He’d lathered himself three times. Smitty had been right. This was great.

  No routine. No schedule. No guard with a club or a whip waiting to beat him if he thought Hank took a minute too long. He didn’t have to soap up, rinse, and get out before the guard beat the crap out of him.

  He rubbed Smitty’s soap over his chin and neck until his face was thickly lathered. He dunked the razor in the water and began to shave one side of his face.

  “Hank!”

  He glanced toward the dense wall of lava rocks that shielded the pool from the beach. Smitty’s voice had come from the other side.

  “Hank?” She called out again. “Can you hear me?” “Yeah.”

  “Are you decent?”

  He laughed loud and hard. “I’m never decent, sweetheart.”

  There was a lapse of silence.

  He could picture her on the other side of those rocks, her hands on her hips as she muttered something. He chuckled again and drew the razor over his upper lip.

  After another second he shouted, “You say something?”

  There was a pause.

  He shaved his jaw line.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  God, now we’re in trouble. He glanced up at the sun and figured it was about midmorning sometime. “So early?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He shaved the other side of his face. “Did you hear me?”

  “You’ve been thinking,” he repeated, listening with only half an ear.

  “That’s right. I still believe that we should work together.”

  He drew the straight razor over his chin again and down his neck. His mind flashed with something they could do together. If she didn’t think or speak.

  “Regarding this shelter we need to construct. I spent most of the early morning assessing the situation . . .” She rambled on.

  He rinsed the lather off the razor, splashed water on his chin, and rubbed his fingers over his jaw. Smooth. “If you’ll just listen . . .”

  He ducked underwater and surfaced, then shook the water from his face and head.

  “Of course it is the most fair decision and logical compromise we can reach, considering our situation . . .”

  He ran his fingers through his hair to slick it back from his face. He got out of the pool, brushing off the water that clung to the hair on his chest and stomach before he stepped into a pair of black trousers and buttoned them.

  “If one has no defense, then one should consider settling. For the sake of the children and for our own benefit, if we pool our efforts, we can successfully . . .”

  He slung his dirty clothes over a shoulder and walked toward the rocks while he put on the belt. He rounded the rocks just as he was tightening the buckle over his pants.

  “I’m certain that you will see that we can all gain from this propos—” She stopped talking so swiftly it caught him off guard.

  He jammed the belt through the catch and looked up.

  Smitty stood there, staring at him. Her mouth hung open. And she was silent.

  He looked behind him, then next to him, then back at her. “What’s wrong?”

  Her mouth snapped shut. She didn’t say anything, which made him immediately suspicious. He crossed his arms over his chest and pinned her with a dark look meant to intimidate.

  After a tense second or two, he noticed she swallowed thickly as she averted her eyes and stared at his feet. “I was just suggesting that we should pool our efforts.”

  “Why?” He stared at the top of her head.

  She looked up, blinked once. “To build a chest together.”

  “Huh? What the hell are you talking about?” “Hut,” she said in a rush. “I meant build a hut together.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s why.” She pointed at the clearing.

  Hank and Margaret stood side by side, staring at what was left of their shelters.

  “Your frame is still standing even after the storm.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The thatch Lydia and I made stayed together in spite of the winds and rain. But our frame collapsed. Your walls blew away, yet your frame withstood the weather. It makes perfect sense to rebuild with your frame and our thatch. A group effort.”

  He gave her a long look, then glanced back at the remains of the huts. He rubbed his smooth jaw, then looked back at her. “We’ll build where I decide.”

  “But I truly believe it is most beneficial to have the hut near water.”

  “So it can flood whenever it rains?”

  She glanced from him to her spot. He followed her gaze. He knew the ground was too low, and when it really rained, the monsoon rains of the winter, that stream and pool would flood the area where she’d built that tepee thing.

  He turned back and caught her staring at his chest. “Monsoons,” he said before he realized she wasn’t paying attention. Her mouth was open slightly, and he realized why she was acting so strangely. He wasn’t the only one feeling those mating howls.

  He didn’t grin, but it was an effort not to. Instead, he closed the distance between them. She shook her head, then looked up at him. Her eyes widened just slightly, and she took a step back. He watched her for a moment and had to give her credit. She was giving him one of those direct looks of hers. But she was breathing through her mouth, and he’d bet she didn’t know it.

  He took another step forward. “A partnership? You and me.”

  She took a step back and nodded. “Equal partners.”

  “A woman partner?”

  “Exactly.” She took another step back and butted up against the rocks.

  He shrugged and closed the last couple of feet separating them. He looked down at her.

  “Is that a yes?”

  He nodded.

  “Well . . . then.” She stiffened slightly and looked around them for a second. As if she wanted to shove him away and run like hell. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stuck out her hand. “Agreed.”

  He stared at her outstretched hand. His hand closed about hers.

  He smiled down at her. She relaxed her guard slightly and gave him a tentative smile.

  He jerked her against him, clamped one hand on the back of her head and the other on her butt. His mouth closed over hers.

  In the most perfect reaction, she gasped. He filled her mouth with his tongue and tightened his hold.

  Her arms fell to her sides, and she went limp. If it weren’t for his hand on her butt, holding her up against him, he figured she might have sunk into the sand. Hell, from the deadweight feel of her, she might have sunk through to Argentina.

  As suddenly as he had kissed her, he pulled back and looked down at her. She gained her balance and stared up at him in stunned silence. Not moving. Amazingly, not talking. And from her dazed expression, she wasn’t thinking either.

  He let go of her. “Sure, sweetheart.” He raised his hand and gave her a light swat on the backside.

  Her gaping mouth snapped shut, and she went as stiff as a palm tree.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
He gave her a wink and he strolled away. Whistling.

  There was an old Hebrew proverb Margaret had read once: When a rogue kisses you, count your teeth. She still had thirty-two teeth left, but she wasn’t certain she had any sense left.

  She walked down the beach toward Lydia and the baby. Annabelle toddled alongside her older sister. The baby sat in the sand, then picked up a banana and held it up to her sister.

  Lydia stared at the fruit with a weak look. “I’m sick of those.”

  “I’m sick, too,” Margaret muttered as she plopped down to sit in the sand near the water. She had to be sick, she thought and pinched the pounding bridge of her nose, trying to will herself to forget Hank Wyatt existed.

  But her mind flashed with the image of the man emerging from behind the rocks, his head bent and chest exposed while he buckled the belt on his pants. There was something wickedly private about that image as if she’d been part of an intimate moment.

  It hadn’t bothered him. But it bothered her just as much as how he looked cleaned up. He had a strong square jaw, hair as black as the devil, classic features. A handsome man.

  She was sick.

  Frowning, she stared at the sand and watched the waves slosh near her bare feet. She poked her lips with a finger, then licked them. They tasted like banana and tooth powder. And Hank.

  There had to be something wrong with her. Shock. A delayed reaction to the trauma of being shipwrecked. Something. Some perfectly logical reason why she would feel something so incredibly illogical.

  She put her palm up to her forehead. Perhaps she was fevered. She felt her cheeks and face. They didn’t feel hot. She wondered if malaria could make a person go numb like she had.

  With a sudden sense of desperation, she searched her body for mosquito bites. There were none. Just as there was no logical reason for her reaction to Hank.

  He’d kissed her, an act she certainly had experienced before. She was thirty-two years old. But she had acted like a young girl, standing there without a coherent thought in her head.

  She rested her head in one hand and took a deep breath. Nothing was making sense. It was almost as if she had stepped into another world, an odd underworld, like Lewis Carroll’s Alice. A world where she didn’t even know herself. She closed her eyes and saw the foolish image of herself playing croquet with a flamingo. Then she imagined Hank standing behind her, his hands on hers, helping her hit the croquet ball.