by Kaki Warner
Instead, he stopped in confusion when she walked silently up to him without stopping, slid her arms around his waist, and rested her cheek on his chest.
It moved him, such childlike trust from a woman who had been so poorly used, and for a moment he didn’t know how to respond or what to say. Then he realized she wasn’t looking for words from him. Or kisses. Or to be cajoled into a happier mood. All she wanted was a comforting touch.
He could give her that. After what they’d both been through, he needed one, too. So he folded his arms around her, rested his cheek against her head, and simply held her for as long as she would let him.
She was too resilient to give in to sorrow for long, and in a matter of minutes, that sharply intelligent mind had moved on to other problems. He was sorry for it. He liked holding her, liked having her need him. He suspected it wouldn’t happen often.
Lacing her fingers through his, she walked with him back to where the coffin awaited burial. “You brought the shovel from town?”
He nodded.
“You should have brought two. I want to help.”
“You can.” He pointed toward the bank of the creek. “There’s a basket over there. Why don’t you rustle up something for us to eat while I finish this? It’ll be good practice.”
“For what?”
“Being a wife. If I decide to let you marry me.”
She gave him a playful shove that he pretended threw him off balance, then headed toward the trees. A few minutes later, she returned with fried chicken, a hunk of cheese, and four slices of bread, which they carried into the shade of a tree beside the cemetery. While they ate, she told him of the two women buried there.
It occurred to him that they had both lost their families at a young age. It changed a person, such a loss coming early in life. Either it made you hold back, fearing future losses—like he often did. Or it caused you to grab on to any connection you could find, which is what Lottie did. She was fearless that way. Not afraid to love or be loved. Anyone she met became part of her new family.
After they finished eating, Lottie carried the basket to the wagon and he went back to digging. Luckily, the soil was more sand than clay, and although the hole had to be big enough to accommodate a full-sized coffin, it only needed to be a few feet deep, since all it held was bones. Still, it was tedious work and the sun grew hotter as the day advanced.
He was four feet down and almost finished when he looked up to find Lottie standing at the edge of the hole. She wore an expression he couldn’t define—almost smiling, despite the wobbly chin and tear tracks through the dust on her cheeks. “What’s wrong?”
“You made a marker.”
Feeling the slide of sweat down his forehead, he dragged an arm over his brow. “The undertaker had a spare. All I did was carve the letters on it. Hope I spelled his name right.”
When she didn’t say anything, he wondered if he’d overstepped. “I would have gotten a stone, but there was no time to have it engraved. We can get one later, if you want.”
“He was my grandfather, and I never even thought of a marker. Yet you did. I love you for that.”
He looked away, pleased, but embarrassed. “Well, you were pretty busy, being tried for murder, and all.” Not wanting to sweat up the cleanest shirt he had left, he pulled it off and tossed it over a bush, then picked up the shovel again.
She continued to watch.
When he figured the hole was deep enough, he used the flat of the blade to smooth the dirt in the bottom, then stepped back to survey his work. Satisfied it was as level as he could get it, he started to toss the shovel out of the hole.
“Wait.” She pointed at the far corner. “It’s a little crooked there.”
He checked, but didn’t see it, and turned back to find that she wasn’t looking at it, either . . . but at him. He also noticed the wobble was gone. Her hazel eyes still glittered, but with an altogether different expression. And suddenly he felt like a stud in the auction ring. “You’re staring.”
“I can’t help it. You’re so—I never knew—I mean, I knew, I’ve just never seen—Lordy, you’re so beautiful.”
Beautiful? “I prefer manly.” He refrained from flexing to show just how manly. As he climbed out of the hole, her eyes raked over him in a way that made him feel hotter on the inside than out.
“Oh, you’re definitely manly. Maybe too manly.”
Was that even possible? Maybe on a woman. He advanced toward her. “What about strong? Handsome? Smart?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely.” She gave a breathy laugh. “And sweaty and dirty, too.”
That stopped him. “I’ll go wash in the creek.”
“It’s only three feet at the deepest.”
“Might do some good.”
“I’ll help.”
Lottie didn’t question the appropriateness of splashing around in a creek with a half-dressed man within thirty feet of her grandfather’s freshly dug grave. This was Ty, the man she loved and would someday marry, not some stranger. Besides, it had been a week of bizarre events. A lighthearted frolic with her almost fiancé would be the least of it.
If it had stayed lighthearted.
Which it didn’t.
A few well-aimed splashes quickly turned into rapid-fire two-handed water shoveling that ended in a full dunking when Lottie’s feet slipped and she went down in the reeds beside the bank.
Grinning in triumph, Ty stood over her, water streaming down his sculpted torso, drawing her eye to every muscle and tendon of his muscular form—from his very wide shoulders, across his lightly furred chest, down the thin line of dark hair that bisected his belly and disappeared into soaked denims that barely hung on his lean hips. Oh my.
He was magnificent. Unabashedly masculine. A magnificent male animal.
Pretending surrender, she raised a hand for help in getting back on her feet. As soon as his hand gripped hers, she yanked as hard as she could.
He didn’t budge, other than to smirk. “I may not be as smart as you, but I ain’t stupid. Now you want help getting up, or to swim some more?”
Grimacing, she shook a slimy weed from her hair. “What I want is a bar of soap. I wish Becky had remembered to put one in my valise.”
He released her hand. “Wait here.” Reaching the bank in two long strides, he walked barefoot toward the wagon, rummaged around in his saddlebag, then came back with several blankets and a scrap of soap. Dropping the blankets on the bank by their footwear, he waded in again and sat down behind her, legs stretched out on either side of her hips. “It’s not fancy, but it’ll get you clean. Dip your head back to wet your hair then lean forward.”
Lottie submerged her head then sat up, wiping water out of her eyes.
He rubbed the bar over her head, working up a lather that smelled like the pomade Reverend Lindz had favored.
“Ow.” Lottie flinched when something dug into her scalp. “There are hairpins in there.”
“Sorry.” He fished out several, set them on a nearby rock, then ran his fingers over her wet scalp to be sure he’d gotten them all.
It felt heavenly. His strong hands were so gentle she hardly felt it when he drew the soap through the long, matted strands, trying to work the tangles out.
“You have pretty hair.”
Lottie thought it was ordinary at best, but she didn’t argue. She was too entranced. No one had washed her hair since before Mama died. And never a man. She couldn’t even keep her eyes open, it felt so good.
After piling the soapy hair on top of her head, he began massaging the lather into her neck, then through the fabric over her back and shoulders and arms.
She almost moaned with pleasure. Muscles knotted from Millsap’s attack and the long bumpy wagon ride began to loosen. Tense joints relaxed. Even her headache faded. She felt limp as a rag doll and would have sunk face first in
to the water if he hadn’t been holding her.
“This would work better if you didn’t have on so many clothes.” His voice rustled past her ear, sending delicious shivers dancing down the back of her neck.
Would it truly matter if she took off her dress? She would still have on her shift and drawers, so all the important parts would be covered. And he was behind her so what could he see, anyway? While she reasoned it out, his talented fingers began working at the row of buttons down the back of her dress.
She should stop him. She was a virtuous woman, and virtuous women never allowed men to undress them unless they were married.
But she was going to marry him, wasn’t she? In truth, she had almost married him today. Besides, cleanliness was next to godliness. Grandpa must have told her that a thousand times.
By the time she had convinced herself that it was perfectly acceptable to sit half-clothed in the middle of a creek with the man she was going to marry—someday—her dress was unbuttoned to the waist and billowing in the water below her breasts.
The breasts he was washing now, in fact. She looked down, watched his big hands draw soapy circles over her shift, and felt something clench low in her belly.
Her eyes drifted closed. Her body went lax. Sighing, she tipped her head back to rest against his chest. It was just a bath. And she still had on her shift.
“I love your breasts,” he murmured.
Lottie was beginning to, too. She had always thought of them as bothersome—bouncing too much when she rode horses, drawing men’s attention when she didn’t want it, getting sore when her monthly cycle neared. But under Ty’s slow, gentle hands, she was gaining a whole new appreciation of them. How they seemed to swell under his touch and ache in a way that sent jolts of pleasure shooting all the way to her toes. Maybe they weren’t only for feeding babies, like she’d thought.
“Lean back again and rinse.”
Feeling boneless, yet oddly stimulated, Lottie leaned back and to the side so she could straighten out, her eyes still closed.
With one hand under her shoulders to keep her from going under, he used the other to gently drizzle water over her brow and cheeks and neck and chest. Especially, her chest. And before she became aware that he had moved, she felt his lips close over the nipple poking up through her wet shift.
She sucked in air, let it go on a long, stuttering sigh. It was too much. And not enough. Everything seemed to be spinning out of control, yet she didn’t want him to stop. To make sure he didn’t, she clapped a hand on his wet head and held him captive while his mouth did the most amazing things.
This couldn’t be wrong. Nothing about this could be wrong and still feel so good. “Oh, Lordy,” she breathed. “I had no idea.”
Low laughter sent warm breath over her wet shift. “You still don’t.”
“Then show me.”
She felt him tense and opened her eyes to see him staring down at her.
His eyes had never looked so blue. He breathed deep, nostrils flaring, his lips parted to show the straight, even edge of his teeth. He looked almost savage. A conquering warrior. The primal male. “You’re sure?”
Maybe not. Suddenly a whirlwind of doubts and questions swirled through her head. This was a big step. One her grandfather had warned her against many times. Her brain urged her to think it through, analyze it from all angles, find the logical answer to his question.
But her body screamed, Shut up! Just feel . . . give in . . . allow emotion to rule you for once.
A drop of water trickled down his neck, through the dip at the base of his throat and over the hard, rounded muscle below. Unable to stop herself, she pressed her hand against the spot where it had disappeared into the dark hair of his chest. Watched the short, damp curls wrap around her fingers. Felt the hard heavy thud of his heart against her palm. And she smiled. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Ty didn’t know what he would have done if she’d said no. He was already so worked up he was afraid he might jump on her like a randy thirteen-year-old. Buying himself time to calm down, he quickly washed, rinsed, shook water out of his hair, and wiped down his chest with the flat of his hand.
All under her round-eyed stare.
He hoped she wasn’t analyzing again. That never boded well, especially in situations like this. Not that he’d ever been in a situation like this. He knew it was her first time, and he had to treat her with more delicacy than he might a paid woman, although he’d always tried to do his best there, too. And he also knew if he didn’t slow down, he could ruin this before he even got her primed.
Scooping her up, he carried her to the bank and stood her on one of the three blankets he’d brought. With suddenly clumsy hands, he dried them both with another blanket then spread the third on the ground.
She watched in silence, a worried look in her eyes.
“Maybe you’d rather the wagon,” he suggested.
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Here’s fine.” Turning her around, he quickly undid the rest of the buttons on her dress then worked it over her hips. It didn’t go easy since the cloth was wet and his fingers had turned into thumbs. Luckily her petticoat had tabs rather than buttons. Soon it joined the dress and drawers around her bare feet.
And there she was. Just as God made her. Except for the wet shift. Which molded itself to her body like a lover’s hands. He slid a shaking finger under the thin shoulder ribbon. “You want to take this off, too?”
“Should I? I wish I’d done this before so I’d know what to do.”
“I’ll teach you.” Forgetting about the shift, he held out his hand.
She took it, settling onto the spread blanket like she thought it might burst into flames under her butt. “You’ve done it a lot?”
“Not a lot. Mostly just practiced.”
“How would you practice?”
“Never mind. Just lie back and relax.”
She did . . . with all the enthusiasm of a virgin on a stone altar. He must be doing something wrong. But ever-hopeful, he kept at it.
When he knelt beside her, she sat up, almost hitting his chin, which was still sore from earlier when she’d clipped him. “Why aren’t you taking off your trousers?”
“I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Scare me?” Her eyes went round as a carp’s. She stared at the bulge in his denims. “What are you, a Percheron?”
Words failed him.
Apparently taking his silence as her answer—of what, he was afraid to ask—she lay down again, arms stiff at her sides. “I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.”
He did, too. Propped on one elbow, he stretched out beside her, reminding himself again to go slow and take his time.
“Not that I’m afraid of pain.”
He put a hand on her breast. She started, then settled back. His hand looked dark and alien against the pale shift. Brutish, maybe, but not a hoof. Slow circles, gentle strokes. “Who told you it would hurt?” Surely not her grandfather.
“Lucy McMann from church. Oh . . . I like it when you do that.”
He doubled his efforts. And kept at it until her breathing changed and she started to move against his fingers. “How about this?” he asked, trailing his fingers over her hip, her belly, and down between her legs.
“Oh, my.” She arched, her mouth open. “Don’t stop . . .”
He didn’t intend to.
She began to move even more, her eyes scrunched closed, her breath coming in gasps. Then without warning, she lurched up, pushed him onto his back, and began to fumble with the buttons on his trousers.
He was shocked. But not for long. Gripped by the same urgency, he helped. After he kicked them off, she climbed on top of him, straddling his hips.
He tried to help there, too, but with breathless determination, she found her own way to the promised land. The woman w
as a marvel. She might not have known what to do, but she was a quick learner, God bless her.
For a moment they were out of tempo, but when he gripped her hips to help her along, she pushed him away and took charge with the same wholehearted enthusiasm she brought to everything she did.
His eyes almost rolled back in his head.
Desperate to slow her down before he ended it too soon, he leaned up and tried to kiss her. But by then, she had found her rhythm and rode him like there was no tomorrow, sucking him into a cyclone of arms and legs and mouths and pure, erotic sensation. When she let out a cry, he allowed his own release, and the force of it nearly stopped his heart and singed the hair off the top of his head.
He might have blacked out for a moment. Lottie, too, judging by the lifeless way she was draped over him.
“You okay?” he asked once he caught his breath.
“I think I died.”
Ty hoped that was a good thing but hadn’t the energy to ask.
For a long time, they lay gasping, still intimately joined, his arms wrapped around her. He couldn’t have moved if he’d had to. He could barely even breathe.
If he’d loved her before, he worshiped her now.
After a while, she let out a long sigh. “That was incredible. You’re incredible and Lucy McMann is a bald-faced liar. When can we do it again?”
He couldn’t help but laugh.
She reared up. “What’s so funny? Did I do something wrong?”
“You were perfect. Amazing. More than any man could wish for. But I’ll need a little time to get my strength back.”
“Oh.” She lay back down, this time tucked against his side, one arm thrown across his chest. “I guess now is when I should ask you to marry me.”
“Because I had my way with you?” In truth, it seemed she’d had her way more than he’d had his. But he wasn’t complaining.