Valley of Fire (The Mississippi McGills)

by Peggy Webb

  She scooted her chair toward the edge of her porch and leaned toward her neighbor's house. The morning traffic hadn't started over on the highway, and the air was still and quiet. If she listened real hard, maybe she could hear what was being said.

  o0o

  Rick took one last long, heady taste of Martha Ann, and then he released her. And not a second too soon, he decided. A little while longer and he would have taken her on her own front porch.

  “That's not a cure. That's an assault.” Martha Ann stepped back and tried to regain control of the situation.

  “In Tupelo we call it good morning.”

  “In Fulton we call it scandalous.”

  “I think it's nice.” The quavery old voice wafting across the way made them both jump. Mrs. Swan rose from her chair, grinning and waving. “Howdy do, Martha Ann? I see you got yourself a nice new beau.”

  “This is Rick McGill, Mrs. Swan. But he's not a beau; he's just a friend.”

  “Yes, I am, Mrs. Swan. And I'm planning to be her husband.” Rick was in a jovial mood. “You're invited to the wedding.”

  “When?” the old lady asked.

  “As soon as I can persuade her to marry me.”

  Mrs. Swan giggled. “Young man, it seems to me you've got a powerful method of persuasion. Good luck to ya.” She bent down and got her morning paper, then tottered back inside.

  Rick took Martha Ann's elbow and led her into her house, talking all the while. “The neighbors approve, sweetheart. What more could you want?”

  “A few answers for starters.” He nuzzled her ear. “From the other side of the room. I can't think straight when you do that.”

  “Anything for my sassy forties lady.” He straddled a wooden chair on the far side of a sunny room that was a combination study and den with a small kitchen nook.

  Martha Ann went to her refrigerator and took out a pitcher of orange juice. She poured two glasses and carried one over to him. “And make it short. I have a nine o'clock class.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  She took a fortifying gulp of juice. “All that time we were in the Valley of Fire...”

  “Memorable, wasn't it?”

  “...and all those times in Velma's bed...”

  “I love it when you blush.”

  “Just hush up a minute and let me think.” She set her glass on the cabinet and turned her back to him. “I can't think when you look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know... with those bedroom eyes.”

  He chuckled.

  “It should be against the law for a blond-haired man to have such dark eyes.” She raked her hand through her hair. “I swear, you're going to drive me to cuss.” Suddenly she remembered her outburst in the airport. “Already have, as a matter of fact.”

  “Sweetheart, I don't mean to make this hard.” He sounded contrite. The chair scrapped as he stood up.

  She whirled around. “Stay right where you are.” Her hand shook as she picked up her glass. “I declare, Rick McGill, I don't know whether you are a scoundrel or a saint.”

  “A little bit of both, I'm afraid.”

  His smile was so endearing, she almost gave up on trying to create order out of chaos. Watching him, she drained her glass and set it on the counter.

  “Just when did you first know that I wasn't married?”

  “Ahhh. You want to know if I deliberately set out to seduce a married woman?”

  “Yes.”

  His face became serious. “I've known from the beginning, Martha Ann.”

  She wavered between being relieved and being enraged. The rage won. Batting the air with her fists for emphasis, she stalked around the room.

  “Isn't that just like a man? Toying with a woman's feelings for the heck of it. I should have known. All of you are just alike.”

  “So, I'm being lumped with the less-than-saintly Marcus Grimes.” Rick's voice was tight.

  Martha Ann stopped her pacing and whirled in on him. “How did you know about him?”

  “Any private investigator worth his salt would find out all about the woman he planned to seduce.”

  Martha Ann failed to notice the hard edge in his voice and the deadly calm in his eyes.

  “So, you admit it. It was just a seduction all along.”

  “It started out that way.” He stepped around the serving bar and caught her shoulders. “But it turned into something else.”

  “Love?”

  “Yes, love.”

  “How very convenient for you.”

  “Not convenient.” His grip tightened. “Not convenient at all. And certainly not easy.” He caught her chin with one hand and forced her to look into his eyes. “Dammit, Martha Ann—See, you've got me cussing too.” His fingers caressed her jaw. “Sweetheart, I know you're mad, and you have every right to be. But remember, I wasn't the only one carrying on a little charade.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “I'd like to hear them.” The harshness was gone from his face, his voice. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

  She was shaky inside, both from her mixed-up feelings and from the nearness of Rick. Oh heavens, she thought. She did love him so.

  “The Riley girls don't have any sense about men. Never did.”

  “Marcus and Lucky. I see your point.”

  “And then there was that last goober I dated. He was nothing but a common, two-bit swindler.”

  “I don't swindle and I don't steal, and the only excuse I have for not telling you that I knew the truth was that I decided to play your game and have some fun.”

  Her lips quivered, then twitched, then turned up in a smile that was pure nostalgia. “We did have fun, didn't we?”

  “Yes.” He gazed into her eyes. “You're a delightful woman, Martha Ann Riley. A funny, sassy, bright, passionate woman. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  “Rick.” Her hand touched his cheek. “It's not that I don't love you—I do—I've known it for a long, long time, perhaps since that first day I walked into your office.”

  “You, too?”

  “Yes. I've never believed in love at first sight before.”

  “Neither have I. It just goes to show you that love is stronger than skepticism.”

  “Ahhh, Rick.” She rested her head against his shoulder. He tangled his hands in her hair.

  “Take your time, sweetheart. My love's not going to go away.”

  From a distance they could hear the muffled growl and roar of the early morning traffic, like beasts being dragged reluctantly through a concrete jungle.

  Martha Ann lifted her head. “I have to go to class.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I'll miss you, sweetheart.”

  Chapter Ten

  It was that tender kiss on her forehead that she was still thinking about when she dismissed her last class for the day. Thank goodness, it was over. Her concentration had been fractured, to say the least.

  She sank into her swivel chair and began to sort papers. Some she would take home in her briefcase, others she would file. How was a woman to know when to trust a man and when not to? Pressing her fingers over her eyes, she leaned back in her chair. Love was all well and good, but she was too old and too wise not to know that there were other considerations in a marriage. Trust. Dependability. Maturity.

  Oh, help. All that sounded like the qualifications for a good stockbroker.

  She just wasn't going to think about it anymore. She rose from her chair, smoothed down her skirt, and picked up her briefcase. Thank heaven. Rick hadn't interrupted her school day. Apparently he meant what he said about letting her take her time.

  She was going straight home and curl up with a good book and spend two or three hours not thinking at all. Sometimes that was the best way to solve a problem.

  o0o

  She was well into that good book, when she heard the commotion at her front door. It wasn't a knocking or even a call 'hello.' It was pure, unadulterate
d racket.

  “What in the world?” She put a bookmark on page sixty-five, closed the book, and walked toward her front door. She had left the wooden door open so she could catch the late afternoon breeze through the screen. What she saw through the screen made her laugh until her sides hurt.

  Rick McGill was on her front porch dressed in fringed leather britches, beaded moccasins, and a huge feathered headdress. He held a boom box in one hand and a very large, very full mesh bag in the other. On the radio the Andrew Sisters were singing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” two decibels too loud, and Rick was doing a combination Texas two-step and Indian rain dance.

  When he saw her, he grinned.

  “What are you doing?” She had to yell to make herself heard over all the racket.

  “It's a little Indian love dance.” He executed a few steps. He did a few more. “Do you like it?”

  Her laughter turned into a smile. Only Rick McGill would dance so badly and then expect her to like it.

  “It's wonderful. Where did you learn it?”

  “I made it up all by myself.” He stomped clumsily around the porch again, whistling and humming and sometimes grinning.

  “Don't you think the music is wrong for that kind of dance?”

  “No. Forties music always suits the occasion. I think we should play it at our wedding.”

  He was absolutely incorrigible. She went through the screen door and stood in front of him, arms akimbo. “I guess you're going to keep up this racket until I invite you in.”

  “That's right.”

  “And all my neighbors will hate me.”

  “They might even circulate petitions to get you to move in with me.”

  “In that case...” She held the screen door wide. “Do come in.”

  He turned the music down to a soft croon and went into her front room. The big sack in his hand bumped against the door frame.

  Martha Ann moved her book out of the way and sat back down in her comfortable chair. “What's in the bag?”

  “A love potion.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “I made it myself too.” He set the boom box on the kitchen counter and held up the huge bag. “If that little thing Clyde made could do what it did, just think what this sucker can do.”

  “It boggles the mind.” She was enchanted. That's all there was to it, she thought. Such considerations as reliability and stability and trustworthiness flew right out the door in the face of this crazy, wonderful man with his love potion.

  “Of course, in order to work, this potion has to be put in exactly the right place.”

  “Naturally.”

  “You do have a bed, don't you?”

  Her pulse began to race. Without a word, she got up and locked her front door. She leaned against the doorjamb for support. “Do you think it will fit?”

  His eyes went dark. “I'm certain it will fit.”

  She blushed, and he noticed. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face.

  “Why don't we give it a try?” He held out his left hand, and she took it.

  Together they went into her bedroom. It was small and cozy, decorated with lots of wicker and brass and handmade pillows and art nouveau prints. The room was like her, he thought. Both old-fashioned and sweet, and wildly modern and bold.

  She stood in the middle of the room and folded her hands neatly across her breasts. “This morning you told me to take my time.”

  “This morning was a million years ago.” He put the bag on the floor and went to her. Reaching out, he touched her cheek with one hand. “I couldn't stay away.”

  “I can't make up my mind.”

  “I’ll help you.” Gazing deep into her eyes, he began to unbutton her blouse. He took his time, savoring every precious moment. When he had slid it from her shoulders, he stood back admiring her. “You have the most beautiful shoulders in the world.” He leaned down and kissed them, first one and then the other. “Worthy of a poem or two.”

  To her amazement he began to quote the Song of Songs. She held her breath, afraid that one single move, one single sound would stop the magic. His voice rose in deep splendor as he quoted from Solomon:

  “Rise up, my darling; my fairest, come away. For now the winter is past, the rains are over and gone; the flowers appear in the countryside; the time is coming when the birds will sing, and the turtledoves' cooing will be heard in our land, when the green figs will ripen on the fig trees and the vines give forth their fragrance. Rise up, my darling; my fairest, come away.”

  She trembled, still hesitant to speak and break the spell. Without a word he unhooked her skirt and slid it over her hips. Then, with tender care, he knelt before her, unfastened her garter belt, and began to roll down her stockings. He lifted his eyes to hers as he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs.

  “I'm still not making any promises,” she whispered.

  “I am.” He eased her legs apart and kissed her inner thigh. “For the first time in my life I'm willing to make promises.”

  He put his hands on her hips and urged her closer.

  “Ahhh, Rick.” Her head fell back. White hot sensations shot through her. Blindly, she reached down and caught his hair, tugging him close.

  The room tipped upside down. All the colors of the rainbow swirled before her eyes. A storm center built in her and spread.

  Rick lifted her and carried her to the bed. She lay with her hair fanned across the pillows and her back pressed flat against the log cabin quilt, gazing up at him. He took his time undressing, making a sensuous show of it.

  With the late afternoon shadows making dark patches on his chest and shading his face in mystery, he was glorious. She lifted her arms, and he came to her.

  There was no need to hurry. The day was almost over, they had nowhere to go, and the bed was soft and inviting. So was she, he thought. So was she. Warm and soft and inviting. The music of a thousand golden oldies played through his soul. And he danced to it.

  It was a love dance that lasted until they were both sated and sweaty. Afterward they lay tangled in each other's arms.

  She leaned on one elbow and gazed tenderly down at him. “You never did show me what was in that bag.”

  His smile was slow and lazy and satisfied. “It worked, didn't it?”

  She grinned. “So... that's what's been seducing me all evening? A big old love potion.”

  “Big, sweetheart, but not so old.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “I figure I have at least a hundred years of loving left in me.”

  “Is that a fact? That will be one for the history books.”

  Rick got off the bed and unfastened his “love potion.” First he pulled a flat white florist's box out of the mesh bag and handed it to her.

  She opened the lid and took out a dozen red roses. She buried her face in the fragrant petals.

  “I haven't had roses since I was in college.”

  She was genuinely touched. It would be just like that wonderful man to have known. After all, he seemed to know everything else about her. And what he didn't know he was rapidly finding out.

  Smiling, she got a vase and put the roses in water. He came up behind her and circled her waist.

  “Sweetheart, I intend to give you roses every day for the rest of your life.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle. “And champagne.” He reached in again. “And bread... and grapes.”

  She was laughing again. Rick always made her laugh. “Grapes?”

  “Absolutely. Don't you know this is the fruit of love?”

  “Do we need fruit?”

  “Are you questioning a gift horse?” He plucked a grape and put it between his teeth. Moving in close, he offered it to her. She bit into it, and the juice dribbled down her chin. Rick licked it off.

  “Hmmmm,” she said. “Some fruit.”

  “Hmmmm. Some body.” He squeezed a handful of grapes over her breasts and stood back to watch the tangy juice trickle over her nipples. “Ho
w can I resist?” He spent a long, leisurely time enjoying the juice.

  “My turn.” She took a handful of grapes and squeezed them on his chest. Her tongue flicked at the juice. “Hmmm, delicious.”

  He uncorked the champagne and unwrapped the bread. They climbed onto the bed and fed each other bits of bread and sips of champagne straight from the bottle.

  A long while later she said, “I could get glasses.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Sweetheart, that's much too far away. I can't let you leave on that long journey.”

  She fell back on the bed, laughing. He took advantage of her position to reach for a bunch of grapes and drizzle the juice on her thighs. His eyes gleamed as he bent over her to lick away the juice.

  “My dear, you do know how to serve a man his fruit.”

  “Rick... ohhhh, my.”

  “If a man... is going... to get... sidetracked...” He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. “...this is the way... to do it.”

  While they were sidetracked, the sun disappeared from the sky. The room turned dark and cozy, and it was filled with the pungent smell of grapes and champagne and roses and love.

  She was lying atop him when the phone rang. It took her a few seconds to realize where the noise was coming from. She thought it might be her overheated blood boiling and her heart hammering.

  “Are you expecting a call, sweetheart?”

  “No.”

  “Let it go then.” He pressed his lips to the side of her throat.

  The phone continued its insistent jangling.

  “It might be important.” Martha Ann rolled off him and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Martha Ann? Is that you? You sound funny.”

  It was Evelyn. Martha Ann cleared her throat and tried for a more businesslike tone.

  “Of course, it's me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What am I doing?” She echoed aloud.

  Rick leaned over and kissed her abdomen. “Making Michael.”

  “Hush.” She swatted him away.