by Sandra Hill
His knees turned to rubber, but he immediately caught himself by putting his hands under her buns and bracing her back against the door. “Cute trick, honey, but this is my show.”
“Oh, yeah?” She did some incredibly talented thing with the inner muscles of her body.
And his knees did in fact buckle. He sank to the floor, taking her with him, but somehow she managed to be on top. Was she punishing him, or rewarding him? There was a fine line here that he wasn’t about to question.
She rode him like a regular cowgirl then. Totally uninhibited. God bless Dale Evans and Annie Oakley and rodeos and whatever or whoever taught women how to do this. Even when she came around him several times, she didn’t stop.
She was killing him. She was killing herself. Enough!
Rolling them both over, he held her in place with his cock imbedded in her, unmoving, and his arms braced on either side of her head. He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. “Does this mean you missed me?”
Her eyelashes fluttered—she was still in a haze of arousal, which was very, very flattering to his ego. “Yes, I missed you. Dammit.”
He smiled.
“Did you miss me?”
How could she ask? “Baby, did you happen to notice the hard-on I carted in here? Did you notice I’m still inside you doing the happy dance? Damn straight I missed you.”
Then he showed her with the stamina of a Navy SEAL—he knew all those years of PT would pay off someday—and the patience of an Amishman—Patience makes perfect, Dat used to say—and a skill perfected over the years—with way too many women—just how much he missed her. He was pretty sure he succeeded, if her screaming out his name at the end was any indication. And him? He was cooler. He just murmured her name. Over and over and over.
But she didn’t say she loved him. And surprisingly, Caleb was disappointed. How pitiful was that?
He was not James Brown, he was better . . .
Caleb was an amazing sex machine.
Claire would have been impressed if it weren’t apparent that he acted out of desperation of some kind.
He’d fucked her against the wall. He’d fucked her down by the river, where they’d been bitten by a thousand mosquitoes. He’d fucked her in her bathtub under scented bubbles followed by their slathering calamine over each other to control the itching. He’d fucked her again when he awakened her in the middle of the night. And yes, fuck was precisely the word he would use, crude and to the point, avoiding at all costs the word love.
He’d probably do it again as morning light peeped through her shades if she wasn’t pretending to be asleep. Really, what was he trying to prove?
“What? What did you say?” he said, pausing as he zipped up his khakis and walked over to the bed, barefooted and bare-chested. The poster boy for sex on the hoof.
She hadn’t meant to speak her thoughts, but what the hell? She sat up in bed against the pillows, pulling the sheet up to cover her. She winced slightly at the delicious ache between her legs and noted the bruise marks on her body and his, as well. In fact, she was pretty sure those were her teeth marks on his shoulder. “What’s going on, Caleb? What are you trying to prove?”
He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for the sheet that covered her. “I thought you liked what we did.”
She slapped his hand away. “You know I did.”
Cocking his head to the side, he asked, “What’s the problem?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. What are you trying to prove? If you fuck me enough times, do you figure I won’t ask you any questions about when you’re leaving or when you’ll come back, if ever? If you fuck me well enough, do you figure that will be enough to satisfy me, that I won’t want, God forbid, commitment from you? If you fuck me—”
“Stop using that word.” He pressed his fingertips against her mouth, then replaced them with his lips in a soft kiss. “Yeah, I know I use that word. Too often. But you demean what I did . . . what we did . . . by saying it that way. We made love. Whatever else you believe, whatever memories we created here last night, please think of it as making love.”
Memories? That means he’s leaving. I knew he was leaving. Why am I acting like such a fool? Oh, God! She blinked rapidly to prevent tears from welling in her eyes. They were the exact words she wanted to hear, about making love, not lust, except for the memories part, and, well, today was Sunday, and he would be leaving tomorrow. Don’t push him, Claire. Don’t tell him you love him. Don’t ask him if he loves you.
“Hurry up and get dressed. I’ll make coffee and warm up those beignets Tante Lulu packed up for us. Do you have a thermos and a basket so we can take them with us? I’d like to go for a run first, maybe along that bike trail that abuts the Juniata over by the flea market. If you don’t mind. We could eat after that, sort of a picnic along the river, then head out. What do you think?”
She thought something was really out of whack in this picture. The usually quiet—you could say taciturn—Caleb was rambling on like . . . like Tante Lulu. She tried to register all that he’d said. Okay, he’d wanted to make love to her all night, and now he wanted her dressed and out of bed. To run, eat, “head out.” What was up? “Where are we going?”
“Not camping in a wigwam, that’s for damn sure. I’ve had enough mosquitos to last me a lifetime.”
Now he teased? But he’s not smiling.
And neither was she. “Caleb?” she insisted, getting out of bed with the sheet wrapped around her toga-style. With hysterical irrelevance, she mused over how amazing it was that even the most sophisticated women were afflicted with morning-after modesty. Not so men. Not so Caleb, who looked sexy and buff with his khakis unbuttoned and riding low on his hips.
He leaned against the door frame, arms folded. The pose was casual, but his jaw was tight and his body tense. He appeared to be bracing himself for something, like a soldier about to face gunfire. Then he shot the salvo heard ’round the world. Her world anyway.
“It’s about time I saw your bloody farm, baby.”
I love you, baby, but I still don’t want no stinkin’ cows . . .
Two hours later, Caleb had no choice. He’d procrastinated with a long run, a long breakfast, and a short nooner, except it wasn’t yet noon. Claire was beginning to stare at him as if he had a few screws loose . . . which he did. Now it was time to face the firing squad . . . uh, the farm.
He hung a left in Alexandria at the newly painted sign “Hope Farm” and drove white-knuckled up the lane. Ahead was her farmhouse. “Who owns the crops?” he asked, pointing to the neat rows of corn on the left and oats on the right.
“The farmer on the adjacent property. Harald Gorbitz.”
“So you don’t plan to farm?”
“Not at first.”
That doesn’t sound good. I hear an “eventually” in there. “Eventually?”
“It depends. I couldn’t do it on my own.”
Definitely not good.
“I do want a big garden, though. Tomatoes, snow peas, string beans, onions, beets, turnips, peppers, watermelons, pumpkins . . . everything. And a huge flower garden, of course.”
Is that all? The expression on her face was practically beatific, while his heart dropped with each plant she mentioned.
“And I’ll want a small orchard, and berry patches, too. In the summer I was thinking about running day camps for kids to teach them about the Lenni Lenape Indians. Maybe later I might get into herb gardening. Maybe go commercial at some point.”
It’s a farm. F. A. R. M. You can talk day camp and herbs all you want, but it’s still gonna be a farm. “How big did you say this place was?”
“Only thirty acres, but that’s big enough for me.”
I would hope so.
He stopped the car next to a stone farmhouse. It matched the stone bank barn built against a low hill. Behind the house he could see the Frankstown branch of the Juniata flowing through her property. On the banks were a half-dozen cows slurping up the wate
r. Cows!
“They’re not my cows.”
But you’ll probably get some. Is that a rash on my arm? Betcha I’m allergic to farms.
They both got out of the car, and she showed him around. Okay, he had to admit it was a nice place. The quaint house, more like an English cottage, had a modern kitchen and bathrooms. There was even a sound system built into the living room walls and a large stone fireplace. The barn was clean and sturdy. The place didn’t smell too bad. It didn’t feel exactly like his Amish home, which had plagued his nightmares for years.
Standing in the middle of the living room, he had a sudden vision of himself here. A roaring fire, Claire on her computer or in the kitchen stirring up something delicious-smelling, and him lying on the floor playing with two kids, a boy and a girl. Outside the sounds of a chicken cock-a-doodling, a cow lowing. He closed his eyes on the pain in his heart. It was a scenario he’d avoided his whole life. And yet . . . and yet . . .
“What do you think?” Claire asked, breaking into his reverie.
He gulped several times before he could speak. “I’m never going to be a farmer, Claire.”
That took her by surprise and raised her hackles about a foot. “Who asked you to? Good grief, Caleb, you look like you’re having heart palpitations just being here on a farm.”
I’m having palpitations, all right, but not because of the farm. He decided to ignore her sarcasm. “But I think I might be able to live here. Have it be my home base. That third bedroom upstairs would make a good office for me. I assume you’d want to use the downstairs bedroom for your office.”
They had been walking back toward the kitchen, but she stopped abruptly and turned to stare at him.
At least she didn’t say, “Who asked you to?” again.
“What are you trying to say, Caleb? And take a deep breath, for heaven’s sake. Your face is so red, I’m afraid you’ll have a stroke.”
Whatever it is I’m trying to say, I’m obviously not doing a good job. He stuck his hand in the back pocket of his pants and pulled out an audio tape. “Maybe this will say it better. Tante Lulu told me to use it as a last resort.”
“A last resort for what?” Then, “You’re taking Tante Lulu’s advice?”
“Yeah, crazy, isn’t it?”
Just then she noticed the tape case he laid on the mantel. “David Cassidy? Are you kidding me? Is this typical Navy SEAL musical fare?”
Go ahead, make fun of me. The song started to play, and she stood with her head cocked to the side, listening. Slowly, very slowly, she started to understand, especially when Cassidy belted out those cornball lyrics that could be heard at every wedding and special event ad infinitum, “I Think I Love You.”
The only problem was, Claire was crying. Big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Little sobs.
Son of a bitch! Can’t I do anything right? “Blame Tante Lulu. I should’ve known this wouldn’t work.”
She pulled him back when he was about to eject the tape.
“Caleb, say it,” she demanded.
Okay, ground zero. Time to plant my boots on the ground, or run. Which will it be? “I think I love you,” he murmured.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“I love you. Dammit. And I can’t leave here without telling you that, but you never said it again, so it’s probably a wasted effort.” He stopped himself, realizing he was babbling. “I love you.”
She made a flying leap for him, practically strangling him with her arms around his neck, kissing his hair and ears and face. Big slurpy, noisy kisses. They were kinda nice. “I love you, too.”
“Well, about time! One lousy time you said it to me, and that was sixteen days ago. All last night, I kept making love to you, hoping you would say it again, but you didn’t, and I figured I’d lost my shot.”
“You kept track of how many days since I told you that I love you.”
“What’s your point?”
“So that’s why we were engaged in that sex marathon all last night? You thought you’d screw the words out of me?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Caleb, you turned purple the first time I said it. I figured you didn’t want to hear it again.”
“I do. A lot.”
“I love you, I love you, I love you.”
His heart was so full, he thought it would burst. But he pulled away from her and set her at arm’s length. “Listen, I’m an old-fashioned guy at heart. I’ve got Amish in my blood. I can’t be like Jake and Ronnie, having a baby and not being married. I can’t be like them getting married and divorced four times, either. So . . .” He got down on one knee, took her hand in his, and said, “Will you marry me?”
She dropped down to her knees in front of him and took his face in her hands. She’d started weeping again. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do. Will you marry me?”
“In a heartbeat, sweetheart.”
He kissed her and sat down, pulling her onto his lap. “There are some conditions, though.”
“Conditions now?” She’d arched her brows, but frankly she’d probably agree to anything right now.
“I’m going to continue working for Jinx, but this would be my home . . . our home. I’ll pay for half of it.”
She nodded.
“Only two kids.”
“I can live with that.” She looked as if he’d handed her a rainbow. “But I’ll tell you this, Caleb, if you don’t want any children, I could live with that, too. That’s how much I love you.”
That was a lot, for her. And he felt immensely blessed by that kind of love. “I want to see you grow big with my baby. Honest, I do.” He cleared the lump in his throat, then continued, “One cow max, and I’m not milkin’ it. Ever.”
“As long as I can raise chickens.”
“A deal, but only if they’re not too close to the house.” Like on the other side of the river. “But no pigs, goats, or peacocks. And I will never ever push a plow again in this lifetime. Or mend a fence. Or shovel manure.”
“Oooh, I like peacocks.”
“No peacocks. They’re mean and loud and smelly.”
“Okay. Can I have a horse?”
“Horses make manure.”
“Well, how about bees?”
Bees? BEES? She really is a little bit crazy. “People eat bee shit. Isn’t that what’s in those honeycombs? Nothing to shovel there, so I’m okay with bees.”
“Good. I love honey. I know of at least twelve varieties I’d like to try.”
Twelve? That means thousands of bees. Don’t say anything, Caleb. Keep your mouth shut.
“I have conditions, too,” she said.
“You want me to perform every night of our marriage like I did last night,” he teased.
“Definitely,” she teased back.
He pretended to wince. Hell, if he could have her as incentive, he’d try his damnedest.
“I really, really yearn for a normal family life, Caleb. And I don’t just mean the family you and I create together. Can you promise to work with your family members to bring us closer together?”
He tugged on her ponytail. “As long as I don’t have to have Sunday dinner with them every week. Jonas or Lizzie, anytime. Mam and Dat, sometimes. The rest of my siblings, please, only on rare occasions.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
And he knew they would be having the whole kit and caboodle over first chance she got.
“I’ve never made love with an engaged woman before,” he said.
“Funny you should say that. Neither have I. An engaged man, that is.”
She came easy into his arms, putting a gentle hand on his face. “I love you, Caleb. I feel as if I’ve been waiting for you all my life.”
He was choked up for a second. “I feel the same way. At first I thought this sensation of coming home was related to my family, but it’s you. Wherever you are is going to be home to me.”
“Sounds boring to me.” She pretended to pout.
“Ya think?” He grinned down at her. “Maybe you could do something exciting to rev up your image.”
And she did. Man oh man, did she ever! A half hour later they were both panting for breath. He probably had splinters in his butt, and she for sure had whisker burns on her thighs. But they’d christened their new house in the best way possible.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we just made a baby?” she murmured against his bare chest.
Biting his bottom lip, he stifled a whimper. For the first time in forever, he hadn’t used a condom. How could he have forgotten? Maybe there was some celestial plan in effect here. Destiny or some other woo-woo thunderbolt crap.
He gave a mental shrug. It was out of his hands now.
They lay there, silent for several moments, just relishing this newfound joy.
She chuckled then. “I know what would look great under that window over there.”
He was suspicious, considering the chuckle.
“Your hope chest.”
He laughed. “And the St. Jude statue on the mantel.”
“Do you believe that old lady—or St. Jude—actually had anything to do with our getting together?”
Or my not using a condom?
Both of them thought they heard a voice in their heads then that said, “You’d better believe.”
Epilogue
They were married under a balmy afternoon sun in October at Hope Farm.
Ironically, for Caleb at least, the wedding took place in a barn. Yeah, it had been scrubbed and decorated, but it was still a barn. What was that Jewish expression? Oy vey! Yep, that’s what Caleb thought, but he wasn’t about to complain out loud. He was marrying the woman he loved. Sometimes his heart swelled and swelled, just looking at her.
Tante Lulu, that crazy Cajun dingbat, would probably say it was St. Jude at work. Her nephew, on the other hand, would probably say it was something else entirely at work, located about two feet below his heart.
What had started out as a small private wedding had somehow turned into an outdoor extravaganza with music and two hundred guests. It was a more traditional ceremony than he’d ever envisioned for himself, not that he had ever envisioned tying the knot at all. Till he met Claire.
