"We all are," Cleav answered, squeezing her hand gently in reassurance before releasing it to wrap his arm familiarly around her waist.
"You can want something so much," he said, his eyes caressing the curve of her jaw, "that you forget that it's what you want, maybe not what's meant to be."
Uncomfortable with her own thoughts, and not wanting to pursue this line of conversation, Esme rushed to return to the original discussion.
"You'd think Miz Hightower'd know better," Esme insisted.
"She does," Cleav replied. "But she also knows that sometimes it works. Sometimes it's part of the plan after all."
Esme turned to face him. The silvery moonlight lit his face in handsome heights and hollows. In the distance the rumble of thunder was premonitory.
"Do you think we are part of the plan?" she asked, a tremor of concern in her voice. "Do you think our marriage was meant to be?"
Cleav gazed down at her, the eyes so wide in worried question, the cheeks so hollow without hint of smile, and the lips, so sweet in his remembrance that he didn't even try to hesitate as he brought down his own for a gentle kiss.
"Our marriage is, Esme," he whispered softly.
Esme wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his throat. He'd spoken so sweetly she'd felt overwhelmed, though she wasn't sure if he was happy or sad.
The two embraced tightly, so tightly, as if each could enfold the other to his heart. Both thought the limbs they felt trembling were their own.
With a determined sigh, Cleav released her and attempted to steer the conversation to a lighter vein.
"Well," he began, his face sober, "at least I know that something good will come from Granny Hightower's words."
Esme swallowed, bringing her thoughts back to the present. "You think what happened tonight will lead Armon to salvation?" she asked him, slightly startled.
"No," he answered, the hint of laughter in his eyes. "I think it will lead him to let the twins escort themselves to the rest of the revival meetings."
Esme stared dumbly at him for a moment, and then they both broke into laughter. They began walking again, hand in hand, this time with a more lively step.
When they reached the path that led to the house, Cleav hesitated.
"Are you ready to go in?" His question revealed his own reluctance.
Esme shook her head. "There's no hurry. Though we may end up a little wet."
Cleav glanced into the darkness at the ominous cloud bank coming on them from the west.
"We've got a few minutes," he said.
Walking to the smooth, dry grass near the water's edge, Cleav seated himself cross-legged on the ground and held his hand out for Esme to join him.
She dropped to her knees and scooted up close beside him. He wrapped his arm around her, and they sat companionably together.
They gazed into the gentle ripple across the top of the pond. "What do you think your piscean friend, the Gentleman, is up to tonight?" Cleav asked.
Esme glanced with mock concern at the depths of the water. "I suspect he's sound asleep by now."
"Asleep?" Cleav's question was incredulous and he chuckled lightly. "Do fish sleep?"
Esme gave him a shrug. "Everything sleeps, doesn't it?"
"I don't know," Cleav admitted.
"Folks think that river critters aren't like the rest of us, but I suspect they pretty much are."
She sighed thoughtfully. "We're all made by the same God, so more than likely we're pretty much the same."
Cleav looked at her approvingly. "I'd never thought of 'river critters' that way."
Pulling Esme closer, he set his chin lightly on the top of her head. "You're very likely correct. We are probably pretty much the same."
Smiling proudly at his agreement, Esme snuggled against the man at her side.
"That old Steelhead is sleeping for sure," she said.
"Do you think he's dreaming?"
"Sure enough." Then curiously she asked, "What do you think fish dream about?"
Considering the question, Cleav's lips finally curved into a smile, and he placed a gentle kiss in the sweet-smelling hair on the top of her head.
"I bet that Gentleman has some long-finned female Rainbow swimming through his dreams."
Esme giggled for a minute and then sobered. "Wouldn't he want a Steelhead?" she asked. "A woman more like himself?"
Pulling back slightly, he raised her chin to look into her eyes.
"Is that what you think?" he asked her softly. As she nodded mutely, he shook his head. "No, Esme," he said. "The Gentleman's memories are for bearing, not for sharing."
A tensionless quiet settled between them.
"Are we still talking about fish?" she asked.
"No," Cleav replied again.
"I—" Esme forgot what she meant to ask as his mouth came down on hers.
His lips were soft and warm, but they were demanding. No sweet, gentle pressure, but hot urgency guided him. The persuasive movement of his mouth teased and tempted her to respond in kind.
Esme twisted against him, holding his broad shoulders, trying to bring herself as close to him as possible. Side by side was not nearly intimate enough.
Cleav pulled her into his lap facing him. The new position forced Esme's dress indecently upward, baring her legs to him. Cleav's hands took advantage. Possessively, he ran his strong hands along the length of her calves and thighs, making her feel hot and sweet all over.
"Kiss me, Hillbaby," he murmured softly before he plunged his tongue deeply into her mouth.
She did. She was as eager for the taste of him as he was for her.
Cleav moaned in appreciation as Esme teased him even more immodestly to demonstrate her gratitude.
She ran her hands through his hair. She thrilled at its smooth, silky sleekness and breathed deeply of the spicy masculine smell.
He bit her lower lip, teasingly, and she traced the sensitive curves of his left ear with her tongue.
The low mellow sounds of her pleasure could no longer be distinguished from his own.
Cleav's mouth strayed down to her throat.
Esme reveled in the feel of his slightly scratchy beard against the flesh of her neck and wiggled unchastely in his lap.
Moaning, Cleav allowed his hands to explore her long, lusty legs, as her hand boldly guided his up to her bosom.
Cleav was thoroughly caressing her, but Esme was eager. Anxiously she pulled away from his kiss and raised her arms to undo her own buttons at the nape of her neck.
"Help me," she begged him. "I can't wear these clothes another minute."
Unwilling at first to release the warm, silky flesh of her legs, Cleav finally reached up to pull away the fabric covering her bosom. He, too, wanted her naked to see her curves exposed in the moonlight.
The two began pulling at each other's clothing in a rush of youthful abandon. Shirt, suspenders, chemise, and stockings, nothing was seen as necessary covering. Within minutes both were naked and clinging to each other.
Cleav laid Esme out on the cool grass. He placed tiny kisses on her eyes and her chin, before putting one distended nipple in his mouth. She parted her legs, impatient for more. He drew himself up and pressed his shaft coaxingly at the crux of her womanhood. But he held back, wanting to prolong the closeness.
Their kisses became deeper and more urgent Esme squirmed against him, and Cleav nearly lost control like a boy half his age.
The boiling black clouds covered the moon above them, and Cleav could no longer see Esme's face beneath him. Then the first cold drops of summer rain splashed against his back.
"It's raining," he whispered hotly.
"Oh, yes!" Esme pushed her pelvis against him, eager for him to be inside her.
"It's raining," he tried again. "You'll catch a chill."
The droplets of water were now soaking the parts of her his body didn't cover, but she didn't care.
"I want you to always keep me this warm," she begged, press
ing her body against his.
Her actions, more than her words, encouraged Cleav to ignore the increasing tempo of rain that pelted his back, trickled down his limbs, and soaked his hair.
But finally she shivered.
"You're cold," he said, pulling away.
"No!" she declared and pulled his lips back against hers.
Cleav couldn't help but agree as he spread her legs with his knee and ran a loving hand along the swelled sweetness of her sex.
Hearing her plaint of desire, Cleav embedded his finger within her, reveling at the tight heat that surrounded him.
Her jolt of pleasure was mirrored by flashes of fire in the sky above them, and her cry was lost in the crash of thunder.
The rain poured down upon them but failed to put out the fire that blazed. Cleav was hot and hard, and knew she was ready for him.
A wild streak of lightning passed just above them, touching its fiery tip to the juniper tree across the pond. The loud crack of the tree was like a scream of pain.
Instinctively he huddled Esme protectively beneath him. "We've got to get away from here," he said.
With more strength than he would have believed he possessed, he pulled away from Esme.
"No!" she cried forlornly.
"It's lightning, Hillbaby," he explained to her hurriedly over the increasingly loud torrent of rain. "We can't be out in the open like this."
He had moved from her embrace, and Esme felt a loneliness that was completely tangible.
"Please!" she pleaded.
Slipping one arm beneath her shoulders and the other behind her knees, Cleav scooped her into his arms. Holding her tightly against his naked chest, he raced through the night and pouring rain to the shelter of the hatching house.
He unlatched the door, and the wind slammed it open. Stepping inside, he stood holding her securely in his arms as water dripped from their bodies to the rough wooden floor beneath his bare feet. The storm beat a staccato rhythm upon the tin roof.
The tiny room was crowded with tanks and tools and machinery, and there was no place to lay her down. The hatching house, when not in use, was the logical place to store nets and cranks and lumber curing with tar. Jars and buckets, gloves and fish-gutters covered every square inch of the tables.
Cleav set Esme on her feet and tenderly wiped the long strands of rain-soaked hair away from her forehead. Her knees still trembled in passion.
"Touch me, Cleav," she whispered. "I need you to touch me."
"I need you, too," he told her longingly. "When this rain lets up a little, we'll make a run for the house. You'll not get a wink of sleep tonight, ma'am, I promise."
Esme smiled, shivering, as she wrapped her arms around his naked form and rubbed the tips of her breasts against the thick dark fur of his chest.
The feel of her body, her hardened nipples, made his loins tighten again.
"No, Hillbaby," he said with a sharp intake of breath. "Don't tease me now. It's torture to taunt me with what I can't have."
"I'm tortured, too," Esme murmured. "I'll be tortured to death before we make it back to our proper marriage bed."
Leaning forward, she grasped the sleek muscles of his arms as she searched his chest with her tongue. Finding a small, brown nipple with a point as hard as a two-penny nail, Esme nipped him gently.
Moaning, Cleav grabbed her shoulders firmly and turned her away from him. If he continued to look at her breasts, her lips, he would have to touch her. And he was aching for her already.
Holding her away from him so that his jutting arousal could not find soft haven in the curve of her buttocks, he spoke gently.
"You've got to stop, Hillbaby," he insisted.
"No!"
"Yes! I can't take much more."
"Make love to me," she begged.
Taking a deep and controlled breath, he tried to explain. "This is clearly a moment that calls for"—his voice cracked slightly—"civilized behavior."
A quiver went through Esme's flesh at his words.
"You're chilled," he whispered tenderly. "And we haven't even a blanket in here."
"Keep me warm, Cleav," she beseeched him desperately. "Your body can keep me warm."
Cleav swallowed with difficulty. "There's no place in here," he explained painfully through teeth clenched against his own desire. "Not enough room to lie on the floor, not even enough wall to lean up against."
The frustration in his own voice mirrored her own.
Esme looked back over her shoulder at him with despair.
"There must be some way." Her tone was frustratingly forlorn.
"Maybe there's no room to lay down on or lean against, but there's plenty of room to bend over."
Against his will, Cleav reached out and ran a trembling hand along the soft, perky backside so prominently displayed before him. "Esme, put your hands against your knees," he whispered.
Cleav had seen French postcards with pictures of men and women doing this exact thing. He, however, had never imagined he would be participating. It was strictly night-dream fantasy.
Tenderly he reached out and stroked the firm young flesh of her backside. When he allowed his hand to wander down between her slightly spread legs, she gave a deep sigh of pleasure.
"Do you really want this, Hillbaby?" he asked, shaking with desire.
Esme worried that she'd asked too much.
"Do you think I am very wicked?" she asked, dismayed at her own inability to practice ladylike behavior.
"Nothing between us is wicked, my love," he whispered as he leaned over her, stroking the sides of her breast and waist as his sex pressed against her.
She purred like a cat against his caress.
"Cover me, Mr. Rhy," she said with a naughty inflection. "Cover me like the stallion covers the mare."
Cleavis did not require a second invitation.
Chapter Eighteen
The morning sun was just peeking over the top of the mountain. Cleav, impeccably groomed and ready for the workday, detoured along the banks of the trout ponds looking for any damage caused by the thunderstorm.
The memory of that wild collection of rain, wind, and lightning lingered just below the surface of his thoughts, evidenced by the naughty little ditty he hummed to himself as he made his survey.
Several of the screens were clogged with leaves and debris, which he quickly scooped out so the appropriate running ripple in the water resumed.
The screen at the lower end of the brooders' pond was blocked with more than branches and vegetation. Reaching down to clean it, Cleav brought to the surface a pair of windswept, rain-soaked, white muslin ladies' underdrawers.
The find brought a warm smile to Cleav's lips.
"So that's what happened to these."
Carefully wringing out the fabric, he let his thoughts roam back to the previous night. Their lovemaking had been as sweet and satisfying as ever, but the added excitement of the clamorous storm and illicit acts made it even more memorable.
It was near dawn when the rain finally let up. Cleav had wandered along the banks of the pond collecting their sodden clothing.
Giggling like naughty children, they'd covered themselves with as little of the cold, damp cloth as decently as possible and sneaked into their own house like thieved.
They hadn't bothered with sleep but warmed each other beneath the luxury of clean, fresh-smelling sheets and bedclothes.
The lack of rest should have left Cleavis exhausted. His jaunty walk, however, indicated otherwise. He took the scanty evidence of their wicked behavior to the hatching house. With a sly grin, he was tempted to hang the drawers from the tin roof, like a conqueror displaying a captured flag.
Propriety still had its place, he conceded, and carefully draped the unmentionable garment across the end of a hatching tank to dry. He had no intention, he decided then and there, of ever returning these underdrawers to his lawfully beloved wife. Dried and hidden in one of the drawers of the cabinet, they would be a souvenir of a ver
y thrilling night together.
Whistling again, Cleav latched the door to the hatching house and headed for the store. He was late. Tyree and Denny would already be there wondering about him. With a shrug of unconcern, he found that punctuality no longer held much of a place in his heart. There was too much love there, and it crowded out the non-necessities.
"Morning, gentlemen," Cleav said as he came around the corner of the store and spied the two older men waiting impatiently for him to open up.
"Where on God's green earth you been?" Tyree asked him, clearly disgruntled. "It's pert-near noon, and we ain't even got our checkers laid out."
Casually slipping his watch from its pocket, Cleav checked the time. "It's precisely seven twenty-five," he told the men calmly. "No doubt there will be time for a game or two before luncheon."
Within five minutes Cleav had the store swept and open for business. The still-grumbling older men were only half-engrossed in their checkers as they speculated on what could have made the storekeep an hour and a half late that morning.
With complete unconcern, Cleav continued his tasks with a smile on his face and a whistle on his lips.
"Guess that preachin' last night was good for you," Tyree suggested.
Cleav looked up. His smile broadened. "Yes," he answered. "You could say I've been communing with heaven."
By midafternoon Cleav had already had more business than was typical for a weekday. With the revival in town, more and more families from the hills would be coming down to camp out in the valley. By Saturday night of the "homecoming," every soul in east Tennessee who'd been "saved," married, baptized, or had kin buried at the Fust Free Will Baptist Church would be in town for the service.
Cleav had his usual "revival days specials," but this year he couldn't make himself concentrate on business.
In his mind all he could see was the beautiful woman that he'd married, and all he could think about was how much he loved her.
When the small bell over the door tinkled, for perhaps the dozenth time in the past hour, Cleav glanced up to see Sophrona.
Strangely she glanced guiltily in both directions, before entering the store. A hasty, uncomfortable perusal of the occupants of the room apparently reassured her. Hurrying to a deserted corner of the store, Cleav watched her uncharacteristically enthusiastic examination of the several types and sizes of washboards available for purchase.
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