I went down to my knees beside him, cupping his face with my scarred right hand. “Of course I’m here, my darling.” I kissed him softly. “My husband.”
“Make love to me,” he whispered against my lips.
We kissed, softly at first, then with more passion. The autumnal chill pricked at my skin as he drew me down to the blankets. “What do you want?” I murmured as his hands unbuttoned my shirt.
His green eyes were wild in the dim light of the kerosene lantern. “Make me feel it,” he said. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I want to be reminded of tonight every time I move.”
I kissed him again, this time hard enough to feel the imprint of his teeth through his lips. Slipping my thigh between his, I rocked against him, and was rewarded by a growing bulge through the cloth of our trousers.
A part of me wondered if perhaps this was folly. Griffin had been caught in a barn before; making love with him here, our first night in Fallow, might not be the wisest course. But the doors were secured, and we were alone save for the animals and the wind.
And he needed me. I could read his desperation in the way he gripped the back of my neck, the haste with which he undressed when I finally rolled off of him. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn’t be easy for him to face. Even the best possible case, that Nella would throw open her arms and welcome him home without reservation, would have its share of pain thanks to the years of silence between them.
I couldn’t do anything to take that pain away. But if he found comfort and courage in my body, in the things we did together, I wouldn’t deny it to him.
The hay rustled beneath us as we stripped. The lantern light painted his skin in gold, and picked out the first strands of gray in his chestnut hair. I longed to run my hands reverently over his body, to shape every muscle, to kiss and lick every inch.
It wasn’t what he needed from me right now, though. He reached for me, and I caught his wrists in my hands, pinning him under me. I kissed him again, then made my way down, biting and sucking the base of his neck while he writhed beneath me.
“You wanted to feel this tomorrow.” I slid lower, bit his nipple sharply.
He gasped with pleasure and shock, bucking against me. The tip of his cock left a slick trail over my belly. “Yes, Ival.”
“Then roll over.”
He did so, a whimper of anticipation escaping him. We’d brought our toiletries with us to the barn, and I searched through them to find the petroleum jelly.
His hands clenched in the blankets in anticipation. He lay on his belly, face turned to the side, eyes shut and lips parted. “Tell me what you’re going to do to me,” he begged.
He’d always loved to hear me say things to make a sailor blush. I nudged his legs apart and slid a slick finger inside. “I’m going to fuck you,” I said breathlessly while he gasped. “Until you beg me to let you come.”
His lips curved in a grin half of hunger and half of delight. “Do it.”
I grasped his hips, lifting them just high enough from the blanket to give me access. My heart thundered, pulse making my cock jerk slightly, at least until I pushed inside him.
He groaned, an animal sound of pleasure. “Yes. More. Make me feel it.”
I gripped his hips hard enough to leave bruises. His body was tight heat, slick and greedy for mine. Our gasps mingled with the sigh of the wind, and a drop of sweat fell from my chin to glisten on the curve of his back. His brows grew tight, teeth bared, fingers tangled in the blankets.
“Feel this,” I growled. “Feel me.”
“I do. I do, Ival. Oh God.”
Pleasure built, the ache sharpening toward something undeniable. “You’re going to remember this later,” I babbled. “Remember having me; remember being mine.”
He cried out suddenly, the friction of the blankets against his member enough to make him spill. His whole body shook beneath me with the force of it, and I bit my lip against a cry of my own as I gave myself over and spent inside him.
After a few long moments while our breathing returned to normal, he rolled over onto his back with a content smile. “Mmm. Thank you, my dear.”
I kissed him, gently this time. “My pleasure.”
“Not just yours.” He reached up and ran his thumb lightly over my cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” I reluctantly pulled away. “We should dress before we fall asleep. Just in case.”
After we’d dressed, rather than lie down beside me again, Griffin paced to the loft doors, and swung one open a crack. “What are you doing?” I called.
He stared out into the darkness. “It’s something we used to do every night. The last thing before going to bed, we’d look out the windows for any sign of light on the horizon.”
I sat in the nest of blankets, my elbows resting on my knees. “Light on the horizon?”
“To indicate a distant prairie fire.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door frame. “Fire can wipe out everything in an instant; the trick is to spot one while it’s still far enough away to stop it. Or try, anyway.”
“Oh.” I shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position where hay didn’t poke me through the blankets. I hadn’t noticed while distracted by passion, but now I found our bed to be rather uncomfortable. “Do you think you’ll see him while we’re here? Mr. Walter?”
The loft creaked as Griffin made his way back to me. “Benjamin? I don’t know. I hope not. It would only cause trouble for him.”
Doubtless he was right. “Do you ever wonder what might have happened if he’d gone to Chicago with you?”
“No.” Griffin stretched out by me and rubbed his hand across my back. “He wouldn’t have come, and I would never have dared ask it of him.”
“I would have,” I said. If I’d lived some other life, not bound to a magical vortex. “Gone with you, I mean.”
“I know.” His hand traced soothing circles. “You’ve always been braver than I.”
“That isn’t true,” I said quietly. If it had been true, I would have told him everything long before now.
“It is.” His certainty hurt. “Now come, my dear. Put out the lantern and lie down. Oh, and Whyborne?”
“Yes?”
“If you have to use the outhouse in the night, do recall the ladder. I’d hate to have you take a step too far and fall on top of the poor cows.”
~ * ~
A hellish noise awoke me the next morning—if it could be called morning, when the sun was only evident as a lightening of the eastern sky. I lifted my head groggily, shedding bits of hay that had worked through my blanket and adhered to my hair. Griffin already sat up, brushing hay from his shirt.
The horrid sound repeated itself. “What the devil is that?” I asked.
Griffin turned to me. “Come now, my dear. I know you’ve heard a rooster crow before, surely.”
“Not so accursedly early,” I grumbled.
“Did you sleep well?”
“No.” Between the hay stabbing me through my blankets and the unfamiliar sounds of the animals drifting from below, I’d waked as much as I’d slept. A dull ache rested behind my eyes, and the world didn’t feel quite stable beneath me.
Although the latter might be due as much to my separation from the maelstrom as to lack of sleep. I’d never enjoyed travel. But since I’d first touched the heart of the vortex, trying to keep my blasted Endicott cousins from destroying Widdershins, I found myself physically affected. Traveling meant I felt consistently off, as though in the grip of some mild but very persistent illness. I knew from experience the sensation wouldn’t subside until I either returned to Widdershins, or drew close to an arcane line.
“A chance to wash will wake you,” Griffin said, picking up a pair of washcloths Lawrence had bundled with our blankets last night. “Leave your coat and vest here—you wouldn’t want to spoil them while we do our chores.”
“Chores?” I knew he’d spoken of it the night before, but I’d chosen not to dwell on t
he prospect. “Like...cooking breakfast? Sweeping the front porch?”
Griffin snorted. “Feeding the animals, mucking out the stalls, milking the cows...”
I stopped at the bottom of the ladder to pick yet more hay from my hair. The cows stared at me with their soft eyes. I peered over the side of their stall and glimpsed their swollen, pink udders.
Griffin opened the door and a calico cat wandered in. I crouched down and stroked her head. She purred and arched against my hand. “Is there some task involving cats?” I asked hopefully. “Perhaps she needs brushed.” Although she looked sleek enough to my eye.
“She’s a barn cat,” Griffin said with a smile. “She can look after her own coat. Now come along.”
He led the way to the well in the yard. A windmill turned slowly overhead, and he opened the spigot of the pump beneath it to fill a bucket. He tossed a washcloth to me, then unhooked his bracers and unbuttoned his shirt. In moments, he was naked to the waist.
“What on earth are you doing!” I exclaimed.
“Freshening up, of course.” Wetting the cloth, he began to scrub enthusiastically at his forearms, face, and chest. When he was done, he bent over and upended the rest of the bucket over his head.
“Your turn,” he said, refilling the bucket.
Certainly he didn’t expect me to expose myself to the world so casually. Mrs. Reynolds might look out the window and see me, nude to the waist, or someone come by on the road, which ran not far from the yard.
In the end, I compromised by rolling up my sleeves. The water was cold as ice. I splashed it gingerly on my face—I wasn’t about to dunk my entire head. Griffin seemed more amused than anything. “We’ll make a farmer of you yet.”
“Very funny,” I muttered.
Reynolds and his three sons emerged from the house. “Chores, breakfast, then school,” he was saying to them. Catching sight of Griffin, he added, “Be glad you take lessons in a proper frame house. When we were in school, it was an abandoned soddie that dripped dirty water on our books every time it rained.”
Griffin grinned. “And don’t forget, we walked uphill both ways.”
“In the snow.” Reynolds winked. “Since our guests have generously offered to help out with chores this morning, we’ll let them choose which they’d prefer.”
“Griffin wishes to milk to cows,” I said hastily, before he could volunteer me.
Griffin chuckled. “As you like. And what of you, Whyborne?”
“Er...” I hadn’t the slightest idea what sorts of chores might be performed at the crack of dawn on a farm.
Dawn. The loud cries of the rooster continued from the coop behind the barn. “Perhaps feed the chickens?” I suggested.
Reynolds looked worried. “Dr. Whyborne, I ought to warn you—”
“Perfect,” Griffin said, clapping me on the arm. “You can let them out, fill their water, and scatter feed.”
That didn’t sound too difficult. “That’s what I’ll do, then.”
Reynolds looked uncertain, but asked his son Simon to show me where everything was kept. Soon enough, I hauled a rather heavy pail of water and a bucket of feed to the henhouse. I refilled the low water trough, then unlatched the henhouse doors and fastened them open.
The hens exited, clucking in excitement when they saw the feed. I scattered some grains for them, and they pecked enthusiastically.
What pleasant animals. Perhaps I could grow to enjoy farm life after all.
The rooster emerged from the henhouse and surveyed me from atop the ramp. He was indeed a handsome specimen, his comb bright red and his tail a sort of iridescent green-black. “Here chick-chick,” I coaxed, tossing the grain in his direction.
He fixed me with a yellow eye.
“Yes, here’s your breakfast,” I said, feeling a bit discomfited by the way the feathers of his neck slowly puffed out.
He started toward me at a walk, ignoring the feed.
“Delicious grain,” I said weakly, backing up.
He broke into a run.
I dropped the feed bucket and fled for my life. Wings battered around my waist, and I felt spurs snag in my trousers.
“Griffin!” I shouted. “Griffin, help!”
Griffin came flying out of the barn—then stopped. Rather than come to my aid, he sagged against the door, clutching his stomach and howling with laughter.
“Just hit him with the feed bucket!” Reynolds shouted.
“I dropped it!” I yelled as the infernal creature renewed its assault.
I fled to the front of the house—surely the maddened fowl would abandon pursuit once I left its yard. I caught a glimpse of a gig coming up the lane, but was too busy attempting to defend myself to pay much attention.
“Sorry, Dr. Whyborne!” Simon called as he ran to my aid. He swung a shovel in the general direction of the rooster. “Diablo! Get back!”
The rooster reluctantly broke off. Shaking its feathers, it cast me a look that promised it hadn’t yet done with me, then strutted back in the direction of the hens. “Sorry,” Simon said again. “Diablo must’ve thought you were another rooster. He ain’t too bright.”
“Diablo,” I muttered. The thing was well-named, for it was surely Satan incarnate in the form of a harmless chicken.
“Dr. Whyborne?” asked a woman.
I turned and found myself confronted by the occupants of the gig. Three young women, neatly dressed and wearing bright bonnets, stared back at me.
Oh good. At least my humiliation at the hands of a fowl hadn’t gone without plenty of witnesses.
“Er, yes.” I gave them a small bow. “How may I be of assistance?”
“Please, let me introduce myself,” said the blond woman driving the gig. “I’m Miss Martha Tate, and this is Miss Lily Springer, and Miss Dolly Norton.”
I nodded stupidly and murmured a greeting. What on earth could they want?
Perhaps seeing my confusion, Miss Tate said, “My mother is the mayor of Fallow, and she heard from a friend at the railroad you’d arrived in town. If only we’d known beforehand, you would have been welcome to stay with us.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds were very kind to offer their hospitality, but thank you,” I said.
Miss Springer leaned around Miss Tate to address me. “It is true, ain’t it?” she asked breathlessly. “You are the son of the railroad tycoon? And you’re here with the lady archaeologist?”
“Er, yes. To both.”
All three leaned closer to me at once. It was rather disturbing, like being faced with a pack of hunting wolves. “Mother asked me to extend an invitation to come to dinner tonight,” Miss Tate said. “Along with Mr. and Mrs. Barnett, of course.”
“Dr. and Mr. Putnam-Barnett,” I corrected automatically. Should I accept? Surely the mayor would be in a position to have noticed any suspicious activity on the part of the Fideles.
Unless she was one of them herself.
The invitation hadn’t included Griffin. Did they not realize he was here? Or was his exclusion deliberate? Because of the old scandal...or because of whatever had led Odell and Evers to attack him?
He’d wish me to go, though, in case there was any possibility of learning something to our advantage. “Yes,” I replied. “We’d be delighted.”
“Good,” Miss Tate said with a smile. “I look forward to seeing you tonight.”
“Do you like pie?” Miss Norton asked.
What an odd question. “Yes?”
“My strawberry pie won first place at the fair,” Miss Norton stated proudly. “Of course, strawberries are out of season now, but my pumpkin is even better. I’ll bring you a pie and you can taste for yourself.”
“Oh. Er, thank you,” I said. “I’d best, um, get back to...things.”
“Of course.” Miss Tate straightened and snapped the reins. Within moments, the gig rumbled off, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
The farmhouse door opened, and Christine stepped out. “What a bunch of sharks,” she observ
ed.
“Whatever do you mean?”
She gave me a pitying look. “Honestly, Whyborne, they were all three eyeing you up like a prize cut of beef. Due to your fortune, naturally, not your looks.” Before I could object, she said, “Well, best you’d come inside. Mrs. Reynolds has breakfast ready.” She wrinkled her nose. “And good heavens, man, wash up first! You smell like a cow.”
~ * ~
“It’s so...large,” I said.
Of course I’d glimpsed the plains on our way from the town yesterday, but nightfall had kept me from truly appreciating their vastness. Intellectually I’d known the plains were flat, but I was unprepared for the expanse of endless earth stretching out before me. There were no hills to block the view, only distant farmhouses, barns, or windmills, widely scattered amidst a sea of brown, withered corn stalks. The road ran perfectly straight, intersecting other roads at precise ninety-degree angles, as neatly as a grid. It seemed a strange, lonely place to my eyes.
Lawrence had lent us the wagon and mules. Griffin drove, while Christine sat beside him, and Iskander and I rode in the back. A huge cloud of dust billowed up as we made our way down the unnaturally straight road, and within half a mile Iskander and I were utterly covered with a pale brown film.
“This is worse than the sandstorm in Egypt,” I said, brushing at it futilely.
“I hate seeing this,” Griffin said. “Look at it—the corn should be ten feet tall and in the midst of being harvested.”
Most of the stalks around us would barely reach my knee, and there was no sign of anything I’d call a harvest taking place. Every gust of the wind bore on it a fine haze of yet more dust, lifted from the dry, desiccated earth of the fields.
“No wonder the town is dying,” Christine remarked.
Griffin shook his head. “Farming is a hard, uncertain life,” he said. “The first year I lived here, everything had been going well. Crops were flourishing. Then the grasshoppers came.”
“Grasshoppers?” Iskander asked.
“So many they blotted out the sun.”
I looked up at the vast sky; it seemed impossible to imagine that many insects. “And they ate the crops?”
“They ate everything. Fruits, vegetables, wheat, corn. We put burlap sacks over the garden to keep them off, but they simply ate the sacks first. Paper, tree bark, the wooden handles of our tools, even our clothes if we went outside in the thick of them. Their bodies spoiled any water left uncovered. Only the chickens were happy—they gorged themselves silly. But the grasshoppers had some secretion or oil that spoiled their flesh. The few chickens we slaughtered tasted too awful to eat.”
Fallow Page 7
