Miss Delwin's Delights

by Raine Cantrell

  Bridie ran upstairs, and in seconds ran back down. She stood in the doorway and tossed a pair of her father’s pants and a shirt at him. And disappeared as quickly.

  Kit shucked down quicker than a calf roper threw a loop. He didn’t want Bridie to have an excuse to throw him out. But he faced another problem. Her father had been a short, stocky man. Kit felt like he was back wearing knee britches again. The shirt cuffs hung by his elbows and his shoulders strained the seams. He couldn’t button the shirt.

  He stoked the fire in the stove and put up coffee. A little hunting in the pantry gave him rags to clean his boots. He had a feeling he’d have more than enough time to spit polish them before Bridie showed her face.

  He moved a chair near the stove and hung his clothes there to dry. The mud would brush off easier that way. The puppy whined and in need of both company and comfort, he held her on his lap, petting her and whispering questions that only Bridie could answer. He didn’t spare more than a curious look at the old cheese box turned upside down in the middle of the table.

  He waited.

  And upstairs, Bridie knew it. She had hoped that he would change and leave. The aroma of fresh coffee came wafting up to her. She wouldn’t put it past Kit to stand below and fan the scent her way. She slipped her feet into thick wool socks. She would never get warm unless she stood by the stove. Over the heavy flannel nightgown she put on the robe, then a shawl. She squeezed out her hair and tied it back with a ribbon, but she could feel the grainy bits of mud that clung to the ends. She was nervous as a pea in a hot skillet or as her mamma had been fond of saying, she had a bad case of the all-overs. The fact remained that she didn’t want to see Kit.

  But she wasn’t about to hide in her own home and wallow in self-pity.

  Bridie wouldn’t dare call it disappointment that swept through her when she didn’t immediately see Kit in the kitchen, but it came close. The room was toasty warm and a glance at the empty wood box revealed the reason. She leaned to one side and found Kit. Her socks didn’t make any noise so he wasn’t aware that she stood there in the doorway.

  The lamplight draped him in golden shadows except for his hair, that glistened like a raven’s wing in the sunlight. His eyes were closed. He sat next to the laundry basket with one hand over the top. From the movement she guessed he was petting Cinders.

  Bridie moved without thought into the room and stopped once again. The open shirt revealed a wedge of dark, curling chest hair. The sight held her gaze. Reminding herself that she was furious with him didn’t do a bit of good. He took her breath away. He should have appeared ridiculous with his bare feet, too short pants and too small shirt, but all she felt was the force of his masculine presence.

  “There’s hot coffee, Bridie.”

  “Made yourself right at home, I see.”

  “Oh I heat up right quick just being near you, Bridie. I made the coffee for you.”

  “Don’t be giving me any of your charm-the-husk-off-corn lines. I don’t want to hear them.”

  His drawl had been lazy, but his move to stand was anything but. “Sit down. I’ll serve you. The way you’re shaking you’re liable to spill it all over yourself.”

  Bridie sat. Not on his suggestion, but because she was shaking. It hadn’t a blessed thing to do with being cold. If Kit thought he heated up right quick near her, Bridie could have started a fire all by herself.

  The feeling confused her. She blamed it on the kiss they shared. Some defense had weakened once he touched his lips to hers. She didn’t like it a bit.

  He set the cup of coffee in front of her and watched the way she wrapped her hands around the cup. “Don’t you think you owe me some explanation for tearing into me? After last night—”

  “Last night, Mr. Sidell, I had a memory lapse and took a walk down the path to sin. I will thank you not to ever mention my shameful behavior again.”

  Oh, my, Bridie, you’re getting as good with lies as he is.

  If they get rid of him, I shall do a suitable penitence.

  She stiffened at the touch of his hand on her hair.

  “You’re wrapped up tighter than an armadillo. You can’t believe I’d attack you, Bridie.”

  “Are you asking or telling me? ’Cause if you’re asking, I—”

  “Never mind.” Kit kept his hands on the chair back, but couldn’t stop himself from leaning over her shoulder. “You gonna hide all night? Can’t you look at me?” A deep breath brought the scent of something that Bridie not only shouldn’t have, but couldn’t possibly be, in her kitchen. Bourbon? No.

  “Would you mind sitting down? It’s hard to breathe in here.” The soft, breathless note in her voice didn’t sound firm at all. Bridie shook her head. Her body had gone over to the enemy. Could her mind be far behind?

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me since I got here. And to show you that I mean no harm, I’ll sit right here.”

  “Right here” was Kit’s hooking the chair and bringing it alongside hers. She wished she could curl up in a ball like an armadillo, and while she wished, she prayed for the thick hide of one.

  Bridie discovered that Kit didn’t need to kiss her to bring her to a knee-shaking, stomach-churning, heart-pounding state. All he had to do was breathe the same air near her.

  She had to take charge or the man would have her melting like a lump of chocolate in a few minutes.

  Bridie took a deep breath. “Mistake,” her body all but screamed at her. She stared down at the cooling coffee. The man must have doused himself with half a bottle of bay rum and drank its equal in bourbon. Bourbon? That wasn’t coming from Kit but the cake beneath the box. Kit’s partial to chocolate cake. One of his marriage-minded fillies said that to her this morning. She had thought about telling that Jamie slipped and told about their bet. Now an idea came that held such brilliant illumination, Bridie thought she had lit every lamp and candle in the house.

  But did she have the courage to go through with it?

  And that traitorous body of hers whispered warmly, yes.

  Bridie didn’t think she could count on that source for any courage but one that would have herself hopping into Kit’s lap.

  Lips moistened, eyelashes fluttering, Bridie turned to look at him. She found his wonderful smile that made her want to kiss it from his lips so she could have it for her own waiting. More like a trap, she sharply reminded herself.

  “Bridie,” he whispered in a husky voice, “if you keep on looking at me like you are, darlin’, I’m not gonna be responsible for what happens.”

  “And how do I look at you?”

  “Like a violet-eyed innocent too curious about men and—”

  “Don’t.” She couldn’t do this. Flirting with a man of Kit’s experience took more skill than she could gain in a month of Sundays.

  “Bridie?” Kit stroked her rigid back. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong? Did something happen today? Someone come around and bother you? ’Cause if they did, I’ll have a word—”

  “No. No, nothing like that. And please stop touching me. I feel as fragile as my mamma’s best china dish sitting on the edge of the shelf.”

  “Okay. No hands. See how agreeable I can be?”

  She snuck a peek. His grin invited her to share. What his eyes were telling her, was another matter. She could drown in the forest-green color.

  “Bridie, you’re doing it again.”

  “What?” She blinked and looked away.

  “You’re telling me not to touch you, but your beautiful eyes are inviting me to do more than just touch.”

  Bridie was warm. That instantly. Heat climbed from her toes curled over the rung of the chair straight up to her hairline and didn’t miss one body part in between.

  “I know you’re an innocent woman, Bridie. I had hoped that you would give me—I mean us—a little time to get to know each other better. That’s why I’ve coming calling on you.”

  She couldn’t help h
erself. She looked directly into his eyes. “If you’re lying to me, Kit Sidell, may the devil take your soul on the road to hell.”

  She knew. Kit didn’t know how Bridie could have found out about the bet, but he knew women. Bridie had a burr under her, and from the gleam in her eyes, she wasn’t going to be patient with him.

  He thought of last night and the sweet, giving taste of her. Truth was, he had kept thinking about it all day long. And he was very sure that if he leaned a bit closer, he could share that little bit of heaven with her again.

  But guilt reared its ugly head. And Kit knew he was definitely between a rock and a hard place. Tell her the truth and he lost his horse. Lie to her and he’d lose the chance to find out what it was about Bridie that drew him. For he had made the determination last night as he rode home that it was more than lust.

  He had the damnedest urge to protect her, and he gave in to it.

  But not before he leaned close and stole a brief kiss.

  By the time Bridie collected herself, he had his boots on and was already putting on his jacket. He gathered up his clothes and winked at her.

  “That’s an answer?” she called out.

  “The only one you’re gonna get tonight.”

  The man needed a keeper.

  She needed a keeper.

  And wouldn’t it be nice, a little voice whispered, if you could keep each other?

  Chapter 7

  Bridie awoke to the rumble of wagon wheels coming down the lane to the house. By the time she dressed and ran downstairs a rich male baritone greeted the lovely streaks of color lighting the sky.

  She was treated to the sight of Kit unloading wood from a wagon, singing about the daring young men on “The Flying Trapeze.” He tipped his hat when he saw her, smiled his scoundrel’s smile and went on working.

  Bridie let Cinders out—the puppy was sure to run to him and give her an excuse to get closer—but Cinders didn’t quite understand her role. She ran off to the bushes. Bridie took the coffeepot to the pump.

  “Mind telling me what you’re doing here this morning, Kit?”

  “Being neighborly. Noticed your wood pile was low.”

  “I can’t pay for that wood.”

  He looked over to see the determined set of her chin, the flare of pride in her eyes and every line of her body. He was a mite disappointed not to be treated to the sight of Bridie in britches again, but he took heart from the fact that she hadn’t come out toting a shotgun.

  “Ain’t asked you to.”

  Bridie worked the pump over his rendition of “The Blue Tail Fly.” She was so busy staring at the smooth, muscled flow of his tall lean body that the water was running over her. She jumped back, but the hem of her brown skirt was soaked.

  “I’ll make you breakfast,” she called out.

  “Already ate. You don’t owe me anything, Bridie. Like I said, I’m just being a good neighbor.”

  She finally went inside wondering where her gumption was. She swore she’d have nothing more to do with him and here she stood, moon-eyed and grinning, because the day was beautifully born with Kit’s songs and his smile and his—

  Bridie put a stop to her gushing thoughts. He’d have her as silly as those other women chasing after him if she didn’t watch herself.

  But in the spirit of being neighborly, she could bring him a cup of coffee. There was just enough wood left to fill one stove well. She had the perfect excuse to go near him. And discovered that she had lingered in her daydreams longer than she thought, for Kit was putting the last load of wood in the shed.

  He climbed up on the wagon seat. “Don’t forget. I’m coming by at seven.”

  “I’m not going, Kit.”

  “Seven.”

  She didn’t want to watch him leave, but she stood there until the cold snaking its way up her skirt and through her shirtwaist made her move. The man must be deaf as well as stubborn. She should go into town and buy him a vial of Humphrey’s Homeopathic Specific No. 28 or Parker’s Ginger Tonic. Both claimed to cure as many ills as Hart’s Discovery or Coleman’s Concentrated White Sulphur Spring Water. And while she was at it, she’d purchase two bottles of Green’s August Flower for herself. Surely it was a physical illness that stopped one protest from passing her lips where Kit was concerned.

  Her nervous disorder continued through the day. She couldn’t eat, worked her way through chores with a decided lack of strength and even Cinder’s antics of scattering the hens in the yard couldn’t bring a smile. But she did hitch up the wagon near suppertime, early enough that she could go to the church hall without being seen.

  Seven o’clock on the dot, Kit pulled the buggy to a halt in front of Bridie’s house. He found what he expected—the house dark, Bridie refusing to answer the door, refusing to acknowledge him at all. If it wasn’t for a good cause, he would plant himself in her front yard, but he drove off with the promise that he’d be back later.

  Bridie twitched the lace curtain on the parlor window in place. She had no one but herself to blame for this misery stealing over her. She wished she could blame her cold bath last night for the achy head, watering eyes, and throat-closing lump, but she never caught cold.

  But in the back of her mind, the small part that remained sane and empty of thoughts about Kit and desire, she kept remembering Jamie’s words. Why would he lie to her? He would not and that was a fact. Kit had bet she would come to the cakewalk with him. She would be teased and laughed at, and she couldn’t knowingly put herself in that position.

  She would ignore him from this moment on.

  Kit was doing some ignoring of his own. Jamie’s smirk when he arrived without Bridie. Marylee’s attempts to tell him which pie was hers, and Sedalia’s repeated remarks about her perfect pecan pie. He ignored his sister’s disappointment about Bridie, put up with her accusation that he hadn’t really tried.

  He had two thoughts in mind. Leaving as soon as ha could to get back to Bridie, and winning the four-layer chocolate cake that rested on one end of an overladen table. Alma didn’t know who baked it. Mrs. McCarthy and Janny Sue made the same claim. He went to each of the women on the church committee and came away frustrated that he wasn’t going to track down a confirmation of the ghostly baker. The church hall was crowded with neighbors in their Sunday best. The ladies’ committee had not only made the rounds of outlying ranches and farms, but spent considerable time putting up bunting and donated silk flowers around the walls. Three fiddles tuned up, two harmonicas, and a banjo player waited to begin.

  Talk and laughter waited at every turn as Kit worked his way to where Mrs. Davis stood near the fiddle players. He was in his element, joking with men who offered sips from the jugs stashed in wagons outside, serious talk and offers of help to those who were short-handed, or had illness in the family. The women, married and single alike, all received a smile, a word, and more than one sigh followed his passing.

  But Kit was only half paying attention. He set himself to use his considerable charm, and a five-dollar donation, to make sure that Mrs. Davis called his number among the first men to dance, along with her promise that the prize chocolate cake was his. He made sure she marked it down on her card.

  With the prize of the rich dessert in sight, Kit thought of smooth, delicious, and silky things and found those thoughts heightened when images of Bridie appeared.

  Mrs. Davis shouted for space to be cleared and single men and widowers pinned the slips of paper with their numbers on jacket lapels. Most men had kept the papers received with the ten cents admission, hidden in pockets until they could work their way close to the lady of their choice. Kit had used the ploy himself of asking for a lady’s help to pin it in place. Those few seconds in the hands of a smart man allowed a whispered compliment, the promise of a dance, and a walk outside to cool off. Of course, once the crowd’s attention was on the dancers, one of the married men would slip out and return with a jug to spike up the ladies’ punch and insu
re the need for a walk.

  For some unexplainable reason, he flirted with no one and pinned his paper in place himself.

  The numbers were called of ten of the men, and Kit hid a scowl when he found Jamie next to him. There was no time for talk as the music to “Turkey in the Straw” began. Here was another chance to show off for the lady of choice. Most of the single women were in the first circle of onlookers. Jamie had positioned himself to dance with Sedalia, and Kit thought it was due to the lady’s encouragement.

  With his thumbs hooked inside his belt, Kit kicked up his heels, his shuffle picked up from the traveling minstrel shows. He soon realized that Jamie and he kept in step, and the other men faded from sight. Their moves were fast and smooth. Kit thought they probably looked like a pair of rutting bucks, all but butting heads on the dance floor.

  They twirled and turned, boots stomping in time to the lively music as they made their way around the circle, then back again to face each other. Kit was a good dancer, but Jamie was better. Even if his friend was promising payment to come with every glaring look.

  The music ended abruptly, and everyone clapped as each man took a bow. Kit waited impatiently for the numbers to be called. He had already spied a basket for his prize under the skirted table. Alma would make sure it was returned to its owner. All he had to do was find a moment to slip away.

  One pairing of pie and man didn’t surprise him. Jamie won Sedalia’s pie. Kit unfortunately was looking at Marylee when his prize and number were called. If looks could kill he’d have died on the spot.

  Most of the men had already put their slips of paper near their cakes and pies. The second set was being called out on the floor, and Kit used that to make his getaway.

  Jamie waited right by the door.

  “So where’s Bridie?”

  “She couldn’t come.” Kit held the basket with both hands so as not to tip the cake. But he’d risk it, if Jamie didn’t move out of his way.

  “I suspect she wouldn’t come is more like the truth.”

  “And how,” Kit asked in a soft, too, too soft voice, “would you know what Bridie’s thoughts are?”