A Touch of Frost

by Jo Goodman

  “That’s better,” he had said.

  She pushed deeper into the cradle he’d made for her. “You think so?”

  “I do.” His voice was strangled.

  She reached behind her, found his arm, and pulled it across her body.

  “Comfortable now?” he asked.

  “Hardly. But I’m warm.” He, on the other hand, was like a furnace. “I still want the blanket.”

  He’d spread it over them. His fingers brushed her breast and they didn’t move on. She had turned slightly, then, just enough for his hand to cover her. The rough pad of his thumb moved over her nipple. She felt a sweet ache between her thighs and the sensation that he was there, inside her, moving slowly, deliberately, and she was contracting, holding him, holding on, because this was what she wanted.

  It was perhaps inevitable that it became the reality.

  Phoebe was aware that Remington was watching her. His mouth was tipped in a manner that told her he was amused, but set in that way that meant he would not tell her why. She ignored him.

  That hadn’t been possible earlier. He’d held her still, slipped into her from behind. She had moaned, and he had rubbed his chin against the crown of her head. “Phoebe,” he’d whispered. Just that. “Phoebe.” He’d said it as if it were important, as if she were important.

  And right then she felt as if she were.

  “There,” one of them had said. “I want you to touch me there.”

  “Hold me.” Had that been her? “Yes. Like that.”

  His hand went between her thighs. She was tender there and the sensation of pleasure was so sharp it was almost painful. Her mouth, too, was swollen, and she had run her tongue along her upper lip to trace the new line. A sound escaped, a whimper as he moved in her, and she closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel.

  “You can shout if you like,” he’d said. His mouth was close to her ear again. “No one will hear you.”

  “You will.”

  “Hmm. I know.”

  She reached behind her, palmed his buttock. It clenched under her hand. He held himself still. “That’s good,” she’d said. “A moment. I need . . .” And her voice had trailed off because what she needed was more. His thumb flicked her nipple. She drew in a sharp breath. He rocked her with his next thrust. Her head went back and knocked him on the chin.

  There was a hasty, husky apology. Low, wicked laughter. And then he was pushing into her again and she was taking all of him.

  • • •

  Phoebe held out her hand for a wedge of cheese when she saw that Remington had taken it out of the bag. “No sense giving it to the mice,” she said. Thanking him, she bit off half and chewed. He was rooting in the bag again and no longer curious about what she was thinking. That suited her.

  It was afterward that they’d slept again, this time for much longer than the first. It was the rain, she decided. Lightning and thunder had already moved into the distance, but the rain and the gloom remained. There was also that devilish drip in the corner. It had finally stopped keeping good time, but then, when she had curled against him, her head on his shoulder, it had lulled her to sleep.

  Phoebe’s eyes shifted to the line where their clothes were hanging. Remington had used the hook supporting the lantern to secure one end and attached the other to a knob at the head of the bed. The line sagged in the middle under the weight of their clothes but none of them swept the floor.

  “The sleeves of my shirt aren’t dripping any longer,” she said.

  Remington glanced in that direction, nodded, and returned to rooting in the saddlebag. He came away with a hard-boiled egg. When she declined his offer to share, he cracked it on the floor and began to peel it. “Is that what you want to talk about?” he asked. “Our clothes?”

  “What then? I haven’t remembered anything.” She pressed a finger to her temple. “No seeds. No sprouts.” She turned to look at the bed. “Maybe if I—” She rose and walked over to the bed, dragging the blanket behind her.

  Remington made a grab for her, then the blanket, and missed both. The egg fell out of his hand and wobbled on the floor. “Phoebe. Stop. You don’t have to do that.” But she was already beginning to sit. He forgot about the egg, his appetite, and went to her. “It will come to you or it won’t. You don’t have to force it.”

  “Isn’t this why I’m here? You didn’t plan the other, did you?”

  He blew out a breath and raked his hair with his fingers. “No! Jesus. Why would you ask me that? You damn well know better.”

  Phoebe’s face flamed but she held her head up and did not look away. He deserved at least that after what she’d said. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless. You’re right. I know better.”

  “Jesus,” he said again, this time on a thread of sound. He backed off and went to the window. Hunching his shoulders, he stared out. Phoebe was right about the water; it was lapping at the smokehouse. He thought he should go out and check on the horses again. They’d sense the water coming toward them. Also, he had to piss. Phoebe probably wanted some time to herself. “I’m going outside,” he told her. “Horses. Nature call.”

  “But it’s still raining.” As an objection, it was inadequate. She watched him dress in clothes that were only moderately drier than when he had taken them off, and then followed him to the door. He stood there, his fingers curled around the handle, not moving, his head slightly bowed. His hat was not sitting at its usual angle but tilted forward, and she could see that his hair was once again long enough to brush his collar.

  Mr. Shoulders had worn his hat like that, tipped down in the front, higher in the back, but the black scarf that was wound twice around the lower half of his face also hid his hair. She knew it was dark because she had seen his eyebrows, but she couldn’t tell if it was overlong or trimmed short.

  He was arguing with his men, trying to convince one of them to stay behind. No one was willing. The scarf was brushed wool. She saw that now. It would have been warm against his face. Too warm for comfort. That’s why in his agitation he had tugged on it, pulled it away from his mouth and neck, and lifted his chin above it for a second, maybe two, before he ducked behind it again.

  Phoebe blinked. Then, softly, because she needed to hear it first and know it was truth, she said, “He has a mustache.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Remington’s head came up and he turned. “What?”

  “He has a mustache.” She laughed suddenly, delighted, and held her forefinger above the curve of her upper lip and wiggled it. “It’s thick. Like a . . . like a plump, wooly caterpillar.”

  “A caterpillar,” he said slowly. He released the door handle but didn’t approach.

  “A plump, wooly, and dark, dark brown caterpillar. That’s why I didn’t see it clearly. It was almost the same color as the scarf around his face. And his chin, Remington. I saw his chin.” She removed her mustache and used the same finger to poke at the center of her chin. “Dimple. He has a dimple right here.”

  He rolled his lips in to keep from smiling. “You probably should cease hammering your chin.”

  She stopped, withdrew her finger, and examined the tip. “Oh. Probably so.”

  Remington closed the gap between them and hunkered in front of Phoebe. “I’m sorry to have to ask, but are—”

  “Sure? Yes. I’m sure. It was you this time, standing there at the door, and it put me in mind of Shoulders standing in the same place, only he was mostly facing me, not turned away. I never mistook you for him, if that’s what you’re thinking. You just helped me conjure a picture of him.” She touched her upper lip again. “His mustache brushes the top of his lip. It’s uneven, not groomed as your father’s is. I had a better image of his hair, thick and dark brown like his mustache, but I couldn’t tell if it was long or short at the back. The scarf hid it even when he pulled it away from his face.”

 
“Are you all right?” he asked. “I can tell you’re pleased that you’ve remembered something, but I don’t imagine it’s a pleasant memory.”

  The faint smile tugging at her lips faded. “No, you’re right. It isn’t pleasant. I was afraid. Perhaps I should have been relieved when none of them would agree to stay behind with me, but escaping on my own was hardly a consideration when I imagined all the calamities that might occur if I couldn’t. I developed a rather lengthy list of unfortunate ways to die if no one came for me.” Her eyes moved past Remington to the window behind him where rain continued to spatter the glass. “And yes, drowning in a flash flood was one of them.” She managed a weak smile in what was a gravely set face. “I never stopped trying to get away, but I was ever so glad to see you.”

  “Oh, Phoebe.” He cupped her cheek. “I wish I could have spared you this.”

  She laid her hand over his and shook her head. “I wanted to come, remember? No matter what you think, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t wanted to be. It was a good idea, Remington, and I’m not unhappy that you thought of it.”

  He nodded and withdrew his hand when she removed hers. He leaned in, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and then stood. “I still have to go out,” he said. “The horses? That call of nature?”

  “Oh. Yes. I suppose you do.”

  Still, he hesitated. “It seems wrong to leave you alone. I didn’t understand so well before.”

  “Remington, you have to. I know that. Go on. It’s better now than when you were going to walk out angry with me.”

  “I wasn’t angry,” he said.

  “Disappointed, then.”

  “Frustrated,” he told her. One corner of his mouth lifted. As a smile, it was self-mocking. “And all right, a little angry.”

  Phoebe waved him away, but she was smiling, too. “Go.”

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Phoebe dragged the pot out from under the bed and used it, thanking Old Man McCauley for leaving it behind. She stepped outside long enough to empty the contents and let the rain rinse it out. She didn’t notice that the tail of her blanket was wet until she came back in. After toeing the pot under the bed, she checked her clothes. The thin camisole was the only article that was completely dry. She dropped the blanket and put on the camisole. She was standing in front of the stove drying the blanket when Remington reappeared.

  Phoebe looked him over, saw he was almost as wet as he’d been when they arrived at the cabin, and jerked her thumb in the direction of the clothesline. “You’re going to have to remove your boots yourself.”

  “I think I can manage,” he said dryly, “but I suppose it means you’re done courting me. That’s disheartening . . . and inconvenient.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “I didn’t realize that helping you out of your wet boots could be mistaken for courtship. You have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know the native customs.”

  Remington laid his vest over the line, tossed his hat on the bed, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Do you want to hear them?”

  She gave him a wry, over-the-shoulder glance. “Oh, yes. Entertain me.”

  “Well, there’s sharing a horse, for instance. Riding double with a fella generally means the gal has her toe in the water.”

  “Fella? Gal? You are giving me the local color, aren’t you?”

  “Aim to please, ma’am.”

  “Go on.”

  Remington shrugged out of his shirt and then peeled his undershirt off over his head. He tossed both on the line without straightening the wet, wadded fabric. “Then, there’s sharing a porch swing in the moonlight. A fella and gal that do that are reckoned to be sweet on each other, but when the gal rests her pretty little ankle boots in the fella’s lap, most folks would consider them betrothed.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Hmm.” He sat down on the bed and shucked his boots and socks. He set the boots beside the bed and slapped the socks over the clothesline. “When a gal asks a fella to buy clothes for her, it’s—”

  She interrupted. “I gave you money for those clothes.”

  He put up a hand. “Do you think I’m talking about you? I am explaining the commonly held opinions regarding courtship.” He added a distinctive drawl as he went on. “Anyway, I’m comin’ around to that. So, like I was sayin’, the gal askin’ is one thing, the fella agreein’ to do it is another, and the fact that there was money passed from the gal to the fella, well, that is acknowledged to be an intimate exchange no matter how it’s sliced.”

  “Huh. There is so much to learn.”

  “It’s like walkin’ in the grasslands after the herd’s moved on. You have to watch where you’re going every step of the way.”

  Phoebe’s laughter came in short bursts. She knuckled tears away from the corner of both eyes. “Of all the things I’ve heard so far, that might be the one worth remembering.”

  “It’d be a risk to ignore the others.”

  “I appreciate the caution.” Phoebe stepped away from the stove, turned, and regarded the untidy clothesline. It was not that she wanted to do it; it was more that she could not help herself. She had organized the precious space of too many theater dressing rooms to allow Remington’s chaos to stand here. She lifted his socks off the line, wrung and smoothed them out, and then rehung them. “Is that everything?” she asked, removing his wadded shirt.

  “Almost. There would be folks who’d point to a gal accepting an invitation to go riding out alone with a fella and say that she’s thinkin’ real hard about her weddin’ dress. Probably about the cake, too.”

  “Fiona would say that,” she said, snapping out his shirt. Droplets of water sprayed the floor. “Would Thaddeus?”

  “Hard to say. Ellie would. Maybe it’s a woman’s view.”

  Phoebe arched a brow. “I need to be clear, then, that never once during our ride did I think about a dress or a cake.”

  “Probably because you were trying so hard to stay in the saddle.” He threw up his hands to ward off her glare. “That’s not me saying that. That’s what they’d say.”

  She balled up the shirt she had taken such pains to smooth and threw it at his head. He caught it easily and pitched it back underhand. “That was not at all as satisfactory as I’d hoped,” she said, unfolding the shirt again. She placed it carefully over the line. “That has to be the last of it.”

  “Not quite. It would be accepted as fact that a gal who is fussin’ with her fella’s wet clothes is already hitched in her own mind, whether or not there’s been a proper exchange of vows.”

  Phoebe snorted. “Now that is plain ridiculous.”

  “Maybe. But that’s the customary thinking. You asked.”

  “So I did.” She finished straightening the clothes and looked back to see if he intended to give her his pants. “Are you going to take those off?”

  “They’re not so wet. They’ll dry quickly once I’m sitting in front of the stove again.” He looked her over, head to toe. “Do you have anything you can put on over what you’re wearing?”

  Phoebe looked down at herself. She was modestly covered in her camisole and knickers, and was still wearing her socks. It occurred to her that Remington had never seen her toes. For some reason that made her grin. She wiggled them. “This is no more revealing than a bathing costume,” she said. “They are all the rage at Gravesend.”

  Remington’s mouth took on a wry twist. “I’ve been to Coney Island. Just once, but it was only a year ago in July. No woman on the beach or in the water was wearing anything comparable to what you have on.”

  She plucked at her camisole until it hung more loosely. “The costumes have sleeves,” she said. “I’ll give you that. And some have a skirt, but you must have observed that many women leave off the skirt and swim in bloomers.”

  “Bloomers. Yes. I saw those. Bladders attached to a woman’s hips.�
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  Phoebe laughed. He wasn’t entirely wrong, although she might have called them balloons.

  “Those women also wore stockings,” he said. “Dark stockings.”

  She wiggled her toes again, drawing his attention to her feet.

  “Very nice,” he said, “but I’m noticing a fair amount of bare skin between the ruffle at your knees and the top of your socks.”

  “Then don’t look there.”

  “You would not say that if you knew how difficult it is to look anywhere else.”

  “Surely not a Herculean task.”

  “Just about.” Remington tore his eyes away from her finely curved calves and met her amused gaze. “Have pity, Phoebe. Wrap yourself in that blanket.”

  She shrugged. “All right. But what do folks say about courtship when the gal’s closing the barn door after she’s let the horse out?”

  “Nothing about courtship, I can tell you. They’d say the gal’s feeding that horse from a bucketful of sass.” He pointed to the blanket on the mattress. “Go.”

  Phoebe picked up the blanket and wrapped herself in it. It had absorbed heat from the stove and was pleasantly warm around her shoulders. She settled in, facing the fire, then drew up her knees and hugged them.

  Remington added two logs to the stove then took up the other blanket and joined her. Neither of them spoke. He did not know what she was thinking as they slipped into silence, but he doubted her thoughts were very different from his. He let her dwell on them, while he came to terms with his.

  An ember popped, startling them both. Remington resisted the urge to use the break in the quiet as an excuse to talk. He waited for a more propitious sign and had it when Phoebe leaned into him and set her head on his shoulder.

  “We should talk,” he said. He did not add that it would be a serious discussion. She would know that.

  “Yes.” Her temple rubbed his shoulder as she nodded. “Will you begin, or shall I?”

  “In almost any other circumstance, I would defer to you, but I want to go first this time.”