Renegade's Kiss

by Barbara Ankrum

  Jesse nodded, rubbing his jaw. "I've, uh, heard that." What the hell had he been thinking, inviting Sam Eakin over here to spark Andi?

  "Drives 'em right out through the silk." Sam actually smiled. "Heck, I can give you the recipe for it. Ain't hard to make. You just gather up a mess of them little green worms in a mixin' bowl and—"

  "Thanks," Jesse interrupted, pushing his plate away. "You can... give that to me later."

  "Oh." Sam glanced up at Andi and blushed. "S-sure."

  Lisbeth leaned forward with a devilish grin. "Lukey eath wormth," she lisped.

  Gregory giggled. "Only live ones. Not mashed ones."

  On that note, Andrea stood. "Where is Lukey, by the way?"

  "Ee-y-ow!" Jesse shot out of his chair, sending it crashing to the floor behind him and reached down to rub his wounded shin. Scowling, he bent down, and pulled the culprit out from under the table. Lukey squirmed in Jesse's outstretched arms like a hooked worm himself.

  "He bit me!" Jesse growled.

  Lisbeth and Gregory convulsed into a fit of giggles, no doubt, Jesse mused darkly, glad not to have been Lukey's latest victim.

  Sam clucked his tongue and reached for his son. "Sorry, Jesse. He's a biter, this one. Furniture, worms, legs... He'll chew on just about anything. Just like a pup."

  Jesse cast a disbelieving look at Andi's amused expression while he rubbed his shin, wondering if the kid had actually drawn blood.

  "I have an idea," Andi suggested brightly. "Why don't we go outside where it's cooler. I made some lemonade earlier. I'll bring some out onto the porch and—"

  All the children but Baby Benjamin hit the floor running for the door like a yowling herd of wild dogs.

  "Great idea," Jesse replied, deadpan. "You and Sam go on and keep an eye on those kids. I'll bring the drinks."

  "Don't be silly," she argued, with a pleading smile as Sam bent to undo Benjamin's bib and the belt that had him strapped into the chair. "I have to finish the dishes."

  "Later," Jesse told her. "I'll help you with them myself. I promise. You've done enough today, Andi. You and Sam go on out. I'll be right there. I'm sure you and Sam can find something to talk about. Can't you, Sam?"

  Terror crept back in Sam's expression. "Uh—"

  "Good," Jesse said. His hand found the small of Andrea's back and he guided her forward, around the table toward the door. The sensation raced along her nerves like a tingling current.

  "I'll be out directly," he told her.

  Andrea narrowed a look at him before following Sam and little Benjamin out the door.

  Evening's long shadows crawled across the yard. The air, cooler with approaching darkness, was perfumed with night-blooming jasmine and the fragrant pink-tinged roses that climbed over the porch trellis and up the side of the house. Jesse had scythed the grass earlier and the children spilled across the sweet-smelling yard, rolling and tumbling in a tangle of arms, legs and giggles. They caught sight of Mahkwi, whom they'd met earlier. They made a beeline for the animal, who in turn made a beeline for the protection of the cornfield. Unperturbed, the Eakins resumed their game of tag.

  Zachary cooed excitedly at the sight of the children tussling in the yard. Sam handed Benjamin down into the melee, and the baby toddled off like a wobbling top after his siblings.

  A bittersweet smile curved Andrea's mouth. She had always imagined a houseful of her own children filling the yard with laughter. Perhaps she would have to settle for only one.

  "You wanna, um, sit?" Sam asked, hovering near the peeling porch swing. He gave it a testing push with his hand. The chain link squeaked in rhythmic invitation.

  "Sure." She sat down on the slatted wooden seat and turned Zach around in her lap so he would watch the yard. The swing creaked when Sam joined her, and he pushed off on the floor with his foot.

  "It's a beautiful evening, isn't it?" she asked, gazing at the sinking sun.

  He nodded. "Um-hmm."

  "Your children seem to be enjoying themselves."

  "Um-hmm." He wrung his hands together, staring out over the yard. Sweat beaded on his forehead and she wondered suddenly if he was feeling ill. She'd known Sam for years. Not well, of course, but they had often passed pleasantries when Andrea had run into him and his late wife, Suzannah, in town. He had always been shy and content to leave the socializing to his wife, an arrangement that had apparently worked well for both. With Suzannah gone, Sam Eakin was like a duck without pin-feathers.

  The swing squeaked a steady rhythm. Ree-ree, ree-ree.

  Sam cleared his throat. "It was, uh, mighty nice of you to have us out for dinner, Miss Andrea."

  "Oh, it was my pleasure. Jesse was so happy to see you at church today. I never knew you two were such good friends."

  He gave her a puzzled look. "Well, we knew each other years back, but... with him bein' four years younger than me..." He ended on a shrug.

  A frown pulled at her brow. "Oh. Well, we're practically neighbors now. Maybe you two will become friends."

  "I reckon. If he stays around here long enough. I, uh, heard he's thinkin' of heading back to Montana."

  "Thinking and doing are two different things, Mr. Eakin," she told him with renewed hope.

  He swallowed so hard his Adam's apple seemed to stick at the top of his throat. "Miss Winslow?"

  "Yes, Mr. Eakin?"

  "Could you... would you call me Sam?"

  She blinked in surprise. "Well, I suppose that would be all right. Yes. Sam."

  A smile stole over his face. He set the swing to rocking again with a gentle push of his foot. "It's a fine place you've got here, ma'am." Sam rubbed his hands against the shiny fabric of his worn pants.

  "Thank you."

  "I have me a right nice place, too. You know, down on Two Forks Creek. Not so much acreage as you," he said, staring out over the sprawling cornfields, "but I got a fine, big house. It suits me. 'Course," he sighed, "it ain't the same without a woman on the place."

  "Of course," Andrea murmured. "I know what you mean."

  "Yeah, I reckon you do." He regarded her earnestly. "These are hard times with the War and all. I got me a deferral from fightin', considering my younguns and all. I'm steady, hardworkin', loyal as the day is long."

  Andrea frowned, wondering what he could possibly be leading up to.

  He stared at his fingernails that looked, despite the dirt stains, as if they'd been scrubbed hard with a brush. "Got me a passel of kids that'll be helpin' with chores soon enough and well..."—he gestured at Zachary—"yours will be comin' up soon too."

  Andrea stiffened on the benched seat and lifted one hand to the cameo pinned at her throat. "What are you trying to say, Mr. Eakin?"

  "S-Sam," he corrected.

  "Sam."

  Jesse stopped just beyond the open door with the trayful of lemonade, overhearing Sam's voice. His heart skidded in his chest as he leaned against the inside of the doorway. He felt like a peeping Tom, or worse, some kind of underhanded matchmaker. God Almighty, Sam was actually going to get to the point. After the dinner debacle, Jesse hadn't given Sam a chance in a million.

  Sam cleared his throat again. "I just thought... there you are, alone, without Zach. And here's me, without my Suzannah. We both love farmin'. I thought, m-maybe we could, uh... marry up and join our problems up together."

  Jesse heard the swing thump against the porch rail and Andi shoot to her feet.

  "Mr. Eakin!" Shock strained her words.

  Sam got up, too. "Oh, now, shoot," he said. "I knew I shouldn't a brung it up so quick. Sparkin' ain't my strong suit, but I mean, I can court you if that's what you want."

  Jesse's lungs froze and a tight pain cinched around his chest. He peeked around the corner to see Andi standing rigid as a board.

  "No, that's not what I want," she told Sam.

  "Y-you don't want courtin'?"

  "No."

  "More flowers?"

  "No."

  "Well..." Sam scratched his head. "I already
spoke with the Reverend—"

  Her eyes went round. "You what?"

  "Well, y'know just to make sure we'd have his blessin'...it bein' so soon after... y'know, Suzannah and Zach. He said considerin' the circumstances—"

  "Circumstances?"

  "What with us both havin' younguns and farms to look after," Sam explained lamely. "And Jesse said—"

  "You told the Reverend you wanted to marry me? Without so much as a word to me. Mr. Eakin, I hardly know you. How could you presume to—?"

  "Aw, now, don't get mad." Sam twisted his big hands together. "I already told you my courtin' skills ain't sharp no more. I reckon I did this all upside down and backward."

  Andi shook her head. "It wouldn't have mattered how you went about it. I'm not interested in marrying anyone, Mr. Eakin. My husband's only six months dead."

  "And Zannah's gone only two. God rest her soul. I reckon I know as good as anyone how that sits. It don't make us miss 'em any less. But I need me a wife, Mrs. Winslow. And you? You need a husband."

  Jesse heard her exhale sharply and stomp to the rail that surrounded the open porch. Her arms were tight around her son. The scented evening breeze tugged at the tortoise-shell combs buried in her hair.

  "I'm very sorry you went to all that trouble," she said with her back to him, "but I'm afraid it was all for naught."

  "Y'mean, you won't consider me?" he asked in a quiet voice.

  She drew her hand into a fist around Zachary's blankets. "I... I'm afraid not."

  Jesse slunk back like a rat into the woodpile when he saw Sam's shoulders sag. Blast your black interfering soul, Winslow.

  "It's all them younguns that puts you off, isn't it?" Sam asked forlornly.

  "Of course not." Andrea turned toward him. "They're... why they're darling. All of them."

  Except the one with teeth, Jesse thought.

  "It was the worms, wasn't it?" Sam said.

  She shook her head. "Worms?"

  "The corn worms. I shouldn't have brung 'em up at the table. You probably think I'm"—he dipped his head with a miserable gulp—"uncouth."

  "Oh, for Heaven's sake, nothing of the—"

  He held two palms up, knowing the truth. "No, no, Zannah used to get riled when I talked about farmin' at table. It's just, when I get all tongue-tied, well, farmin' is about all I know."

  "I certainly don't hold that against you."

  Sam nodded, searching the wooden porch floor with his gaze. "Well, I... I'm glad of that."

  "It's not personal, truly, Mr. Eakin... Sam. I'm sure you'll find someone happy to marry you and soon. I'm just not... her."

  "Okay." Sam straightened his shoulders and tried to smile. "You don't have to hit Sam Eakin over the head with a brick."

  Jesse's jaw tightened, disappointment warring with relief inside him. It had seemed so simple when he'd considered it. Andi needed a husband, an honest, decent farmer husband who could give her the kind of life she deserved. He needed to get back to Montana, move on with his life, to put the farm and his tarnished past behind him. Right? Right.

  So why did he feel so damn guilty about trying to arrange Andi's life to make both of them happy?

  In a rush of heat came the unbidden memory of her lips, warm and pliant, surrendering to his; the soft, sweet caress of her hair against his skin; her breasts, her hips fitting against his like lost pieces to a puzzle.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Why, if leaving her again was what he really wanted, did the kiss they shared still make his chest ache, and his loins burn and his resolve to do the right thing pale beside his damnable need?

  Without an answer to that question, he stepped through the doorway onto the porch. Andi and Sam turned at the rattling clink of glass and looked about as happy to see him as two cats caught in a field full of brambles. Jesse pasted what he hoped was an innocent smile on his face and lifted his tray.

  "Lemonade anyone?"

  * * *

  In the cozy Rafferty parlor room, Adeline Rafferty giggled as she scribbled down several words on a piece of paper, folded it in half, then stood and made a slow, calculating sweep of the circle of people cluttering the mean but comfortable furniture. The six Rafferty children old enough to participate in the game of charades bounced up and down in their places, all eager to be chosen.

  Silas stared at that piece of paper, willing it to pass right on by him. Beside him, Etta giggled too, caught up in the game. He'd been lucky so far. No one had chosen him to be it. That he hadn't left already was only a testament to how good he felt to have been included at all in this family game.

  Adeline passed by him, then stopped and came back. Silas gulped. Sweat beaded between his shoulder blades. With a pixyish grin, the eleven-year-old held the slip of paper out to him as if she were bestowing an honor.

  "I—" Silas faltered and shot to his feet. "I gots to be goin'." He glanced at Etta, hoping she wouldn't pick this moment to correct him for speakin' wrong. She didn't. She merely looked at him in confusion.

  "You don't want to play?" Adeline asked with a wounded expression. "It's only eight o'clock."

  "And nearly your bedtime," Isabelle reminded her daughter.

  "Oh, Ma..."

  Silas grabbed his old hat off the hat tree. "It's kind of ya'll to let me come here tonight. An' I's obliged for supper."

  Isabelle stood too, her red hair in a loose corona around her head. "Anytime, Silas. Any friend of Etta's is always welcome in our home."

  "Thank you, ma'am. 'Night, folks."

  They bid him goodnight, and Etta walked him outside. They stopped under the sheltering branches of the elm that stood in the center of the yard. Except for the gentle croaking of the frogs in the nearby stream, the evening was still, breezeless and warm. The place smelled of growing things and rich humus.

  "I best be goin'," Silas said, not really looking at Etta.

  With her hands clasped behind her back, Etta stared at the ground. "Silas?"

  "Yass'm?"

  "Are you really tired? Is that why you wanted to leave so suddenly tonight?"

  He hesitated, uncertain what she meant. Then a smile pulled at his mouth. "Well, I ain't all that tired." He took a step closer to her, his black eyes darkening even more, if that were possible. He took her by the arms and pulled her close to him.

  "Mr. Mayfield!" she gasped in a breathless whisper. "That's not what I meant." Her protest, however, lacked a certain conviction.

  He slid her spectacles off her face. "No? An' here I was thinkin' you's past callin' me Mr. Mayfield." Her gray eyes captured the moonlight and Silas gazed at her as if she were a precious treasure. "I 'spect I's gonna kiss you any minute now, Mrs. Etta Gaines."

  Her lips parted in a mock-outraged smile. "Well, then, I 'spect I've got no choice, but to let you, Mr. Mayfield."

  He shook his head slowly. "All you gots to do is say no."

  She slid her hands up his big arms. "I don't think I want to."

  "Good. That's real good." Silas settled his mouth over hers in a heated, but gentle kiss. He didn't want to scare her, but he wanted her all the same. In fact, he'd never wanted a woman as much as he did this one. With all her fancy words and teacher talk, he wanted her by his side, and in his bed. As his mouth moved over hers, her tension eased into surrender, her confusion to passion.

  When at last they broke apart, their breath mingled together coming fast and hard. He looked down at her, cupping her face in his big hands. "I reckon I's fallin' in love with you, Etta Gaines."

  She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into his hand. "You... you hardly know me, Silas."

  He hesitated, rubbing a thumb across her coffee-colored cheek. "I know enough. I reckon I ain't what you has in mind for a man."

  "I didn't have a man in my mind."

  "Maybe not. But we ain't much alike. I ain't like your husband, Marcus. I ain't so smart."

  "Educated and smart are two different things." She looked up at him. "I can teach you to read if that's all that bothers
you." Through the veil of night, he stared at her, silent, embarrassed.

  She bowed her head. "I've offended you."

  He stepped away from her and leaned one hand on the ridged bark of the white elm tree, staring out into the darkness.

  "No," he said. "It's just... I never felt the lackin', 'til I met you, Etta. Where I growed up, none o' the slaves ciphered them chicken scratches the white folks read. But you... you's a colored, too. And when I hear you talk, I feels... I dunno... not good enough."

  Arms akimbo, she scowled at him. "Huh. Well, now that's plain silly talk, Silas Mayfield. I won't hear it. I've taught dozens of children to read. And I can teach you."

  He turned toward her, defensive. "I ain't no chile, Miss Etta."

  "Of course not. That's why it will be easier for you."

  He frowned and stared at the ground. "I ain't never heard o' no growed man learnin' to read."

  "It's not unheard of. Besides, reading is just like hoeing," she said, smiling. "The more you do it, the better you get at it."

  "Well, I don't think—"

  "You scared to learn to read?" she asked with a hint of challenge. "You think it's too hard for you?"

  "I ain't skeered o' nothin'." He dropped his arm and took a step toward her.

  "Anything," she corrected. "I'm not scared of anything."

  He took another step, his voice deep, teasing. "Right, me neither."

  She backed up a step for each one of his. "No? Then what do you say? You want to learn to read like the whites do?" Her gray eyes flashed in the moonlight and a smile widened her mouth. A breeze stirred the top of the tree, a sibilant rush of leaves in the night air. "I dare you."

  He captured her with a final rush and pulled her into his arms. He grinned. "You what?"

  "I... I dare you."

  He kissed her, long and hard, then lifted his head. "A bet?"

  A little breathless, she nodded. "Strictly on a teacher/student basis, of course."

  "'Course. What I get if I win?"

  She smiled with victory and turned toward the house. "A whole new world, Mr. Mayfield," she said. "A whole new world."

  * * *

  After doing the evening chores, Jesse joined Andi in the kitchen to help with the dishes as he'd promised. But they'd soon run out of inconsequential things to say. A strained silence stretched between them in the dimly lit kitchen. Only the swish of water in the dish pan and the rattle of china broke the quiet.