Land of Dreams

by Cheryl St. John

  MaryRuth stayed with him for a while, and David played quietly at the foot of the bed until both he and his grandfather grew tired. She left her father to sleep until dinner, and put David down for a nap in Zoe's room.

  Last night's rain left the air muggy and the floors filthy. Thea had washed the bedding and towels, hung them on the line and tackled the muddy kitchen floor. MaryRuth joined her, scrubbing dried blood from the cracks.

  "He seems just fine," she commented.

  Thea pushed a lock of hair back from her perspiring cheek with the back of her wet hand. "He is. But he could have been killed."

  "And they don't know who it was?"

  "I don't think so. If they did, Booker would have gone after them." She shuddered. "I don't even want to think about what he'd do."

  MaryRuth finished scrubbing and dropped her brush in the pail.

  Thea dumped the water outside and together they moved the table and chairs back into place. By then it was time to start the noon meal. MaryRuth peeled potatoes and dropped the chunks into a kettle.

  "MaryRuth," Thea said.

  Her sister glanced up.

  "Are things the same—between you and Denzel?"

  MaryRuth nodded.

  "I think you need to change his mind."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You say he's afraid of hurting you?"

  MaryRuth nodded. "It scared him when I had David. He said he'd never have forgiven himself if anything had happened to me."

  "I was pretty scared, too, MaryRuth. We all were."

  "Well, the doctor said David was hard because he came out backward. It won't be like that next time."

  "You know that and I know that, but Denzel's fear is real to him. Maybe he won't get over it until you have another baby and prove it to him."

  Her sister raised a brow. "That's not going to happen unless things change here."

  "Tell me something," Thea said.

  MaryRuth peeled. Skins dropped to the table. "Okay."

  Thea forged ahead. "If a woman wants a man to... make love to her, how does she go about getting him to do it?"

  MaryRuth's hands paused, and she stared ahead for a moment. "Well," she said, coming back to life. "She'd wear something he'd find attractive. A certain dress or—" she surveyed Thea "—an undergarment or perfume. She'd leave her hair loose." She rested her fingers on the edge of the kettle. "Are we talking about you or about me?"

  "Both of us," Thea replied candidly. "I need to know how. I want to get him interested." She fanned her face with her apron.

  MaryRuth's surprise was evident. "Why, Thea, the man's crazy about you! He follows you with this—" she paused "—positively aching look in his eyes. When he speaks to you, his tone of voice is different from when he talks to Papa or Denzel. Surely you know this."

  Thea let those words sink in, wanting to believe that what her sister thought she saw was truly what Thea needed so badly. "So what else?"

  MaryRuth thoughtfully resumed her peeling. "All right. Touch him," she directed, and gestured with the knife. "When you pour him coffee or set a plate in front of him, run your hand across his shoulder or up his arm. Say something with your lips next to his ear."

  Thea absorbed that idea with a slow smile.

  "And," she said softly, "you could let him catch you undressed."

  Thea's brain fuzzed over at that one. "I'd have no reason to be walking around the house undressed. And he's never come into my room." She caught her sister's amazed expression. "That's the problem. I have my room, and he has his. Even with Papa and Skeeter here, there's enough room in this house for everyone."

  "That is a problem."

  "I'll start with everything else you mentioned."

  "He won't be able to resist," MaryRuth predicted. She carried the full kettle to the sink and pumped water over the potatoes. "You think I should try this with Denzel, don't you?"

  Thea nodded.

  MaryRuth lugged the kettle to the stove. "That way his—passion will overshadow his fears. And once it's done, he'll realize he had nothing to worry about."

  They cast conspiratorial grins at each other. Thea turned to slice the bread, her mind already leaping ahead to the evening meal and the time that would follow.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Booker and Denzel helped Jim Coulson to the back of the springboard where Thea and MaryRuth had made a comfortable quilt pallet for his ride home.

  "I'll come check on you tomorrow, Papa," Thea promised, and waved off Denzel and MaryRuth.

  Zoe held the dented bucket out to her.

  Thea knelt. "Sweetheart, it rained so much last night, we don't need to carry water today."

  Booker read the disappointment on both their faces. He'd finally figured out what they were up to. The absence of Zoe's ever-present acorn and their fevered watering and attention to that forlorn spot in the dooryard had tipped him off. They were waiting for a tree to grow.

  He intended to plant plenty of trees. This barren Nebraska landscape needed windbreaks and lumber. He'd seen wooded areas farther north. Trees grew along most of the rivers and streams, but the prairie remained desolately bare. He planned to set cottonwood seedlings along the northern ridges of his property to act as windbreaks. He envisioned an orchard with fruit and nut trees. And he'd sighted a stand of oaks with plenty of sturdy young saplings down Hazel Creek a ways. The memory gave him an idea.

  He and his hired men finished constructing the stone foundation for the mill that afternoon. By supper, his sore muscles complained as he seated himself at the kitchen table.

  Tantalizing sweat-beaded jars of lemonade stood at each place setting. The tangy sweet liquid cooled his throat. The others obviously appreciated Thea's extra effort, too. Lucas gulped down his and stifled a contented burp.

  Skeeter didn't bother to cover his belch, but Thea graciously ignored it.

  "Where'd you get lemons?" Booker asked.

  "MaryRuth brought them." She refilled his jar, her cool fingers resting on his neck.

  He turned his head and looked up at her.

  "Is it sweet enough?" she asked, her lips near his ear. A shiver shot into his scalp and down his arm.

  His gaze flicked over her marvelous hair, several springy strands fallen from the knot and touching her neck. She moistened her bottom lip with her tongue in what he knew was an innocent action, but the sight provoked a twinge of desire to tighten his groin. "Plenty sweet," he replied.

  She smiled and withdrew her hand.

  He watched her refill Red Horse's empty jar, both of her hands steadying the pitcher.

  Skeeter stabbed himself a thick slice of roasted pork and poured dark, steaming gravy over it and his bread. "Fine woman, Hayes. Damned fine woman."

  Thea met Booker's eyes and grinned—a conspiratorial, intimate grin that assured him she took no offense at Skeeter's coarse words.

  He watched her settle gracefully into the chair beside him and cut Zoe's meat into small pieces. No doubt about it; she was a fine woman. A desirable woman.

  Conversation centered on the progress they'd made on the mill, and she listened attentively when Booker spoke. He asked for the salt, and she passed it, her fingers lingering on his. She served peach cobbler and poured coffee, pausing to absently lay her hand on his arm while she answered one of Lucas's questions.

  Booker glanced around the table. Everyone ate, Red Horse and Lucas watching Thea as she spoke. No one seemed to notice what was so painfully obvious to him—the way she touched him, the way his skin and insides and body reacted. The others went about their meal as if it were perfectly normal for her to skillfully arouse him at the supper table.

  He wanted to get up and leave the room, but he couldn't risk removing the checkered napkin from his lap and standing. He needed to put some space between them before he expanded uncontrollably and burst into a million pieces.

  Finally, she withdrew her hand and moved away. He stared at his plate, desire lodged in his throat, unable to finish t
he cobbler.

  "Booker?" she asked a minute later while the others discussed a piece they needed for the wagon hitch.

  He met her vivid blue-green eyes with a raised brow.

  "Are you all right? You're not eating your dessert."

  "I'm tired. The heat is making me cranky, and I still have some work to do on the ledgers tonight. Will you excuse me?"

  "Of course."

  Abruptly, he turned in his chair, stood and left the room, not waiting to see the others' reaction to his hasty retreat. Lighting the lantern on his desk, he sat and opened the ledger. He stared at it sightlessly.

  What had all that been about? He'd better get a grip on himself. He lived with her, and he'd be spending a lot of time in close proximity. Booker focused his attention on the figures in front of him.

  Darkness fell around the house, and one by one he heard the others leave or go to their rooms. An hour later, he was thinking about going up when the study door opened.

  Thea padded barefoot into the room, her wrapper tied carelessly at her waist, her unbound hair catching fiery highlights in the lantern light. She carried a cup to his desk. "I didn't hear you come up. I thought you might like this."

  The sweet-tangy smell of the apple cider met his nostrils. He took a sip. "Thanks."

  She stood at the corner of his desk and glanced across the papers in front of him.

  "Why aren't you asleep?" he asked.

  "Why aren't you?"

  He remembered the scent and texture of her hair, the silken feel of her pale skin. He rested his gaze on the overlapped front of her thin wrapper, and dropped it automatically to the hem. What did she have on underneath? "I was just getting ready to come up," he said.

  "You look so tense tonight," she observed. "Are you worried about my father?"

  "No. He'll be fine."

  "What, then? Anything I can help with?" She stepped beside his chair. "Want me to rub your neck?"

  "No!" He stood and moved away from her.

  She dropped her hands and self-consciously looked at her fingers. "Okay. Sorry."

  Booker drank the cider in a final gulp and plunked the mug down. "I'm fine. Really." He made a neat stack of the book work on his desk. "Let's get some rest."

  She walked ahead of him into the hall, the soft, feminine scent of her hair a sweet enticement he fought every step of the way. He followed her up the stairs, unable to keep his gaze from the sway of her hips and the shapely ankles visible beneath her wrapper.

  In front of her door, she paused. She reached out and touched his upper arm, the heat of her fingers searing through the fabric to ignite his skin. "I'm afraid for my father," she whispered.

  Her admission cut through his careful withdrawal. She needed his reassurance. He turned her shoulders and led her into her room. "Don't be afraid," he said, his voice still sounding too rough. "He's not in any danger."

  He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her against his chest. Just for a minute. Just long enough to assuage her fears. He ignored the jasmine scent of her hair beneath his nose. He mentally removed himself from the seductive feel of her long, supple body against his, her unbound breasts crushed against his chest. He pretended she wasn't almost naked in his arms and that they weren't standing five feet from her bed.

  "Don't worry anymore. All right?" He took her arms and held her away. "You need your rest, too."

  She nodded in the darkness. "I'll sleep now."

  He released her, closed the door softly and moved into the hallway.

  She might sleep now, but he certainly wouldn't.

  * * *

  Thea awakened from the agonizingly familiar dream, her body drenched with perspiration. The hint of a breeze barely stirred the lacy curtains at her window. The previous night's rain had left the air heavy, oppressive. Tunneling her fingers into her damp hair, she gripped her scalp and fought for control—for her former dignity. What was happening to her?

  She kicked the tangled sheet off the end of the bed and padded in the dark to the washstand. The warm water in the basin seemed cool to her fingers. Stripping her gown off over her head, she placed a towel on the floor and stood on it. Saturating a washrag, she squeezed it over her shoulders, the water running in warm rivulets down her sensation-conscious body. She dipped the rag and squeezed it over her breasts again. Water streamed down the center of her belly in an arousing trickle.

  Thea closed her eyes, and her thoughts centered on the perplexingly tedious state of anticipation with which her body constantly tortured her. Bitterly, she remembered thinking this would all be behind her once she and Booker were married. She knew—and the fact amazed her still—that he found her attractive, that he desired her almost as much as she needed him. Why, then? Why this constant state of denial? Was he ashamed of his desire for the undesirable Too-Tall Thea?

  Was that why even tonight, when she'd done everything she could think of to encourage him, he'd pushed her away and gone to his room?

  Hope had lain dormant until Booker came into her life. She'd been resigned to living her days out as an old maid, stifling girlish dreams, burying womanly fantasies. But he'd appeared and reawakened every unfulfilled longing she'd ever had—and added a few more. He'd awakened her to the needs of her heart and body. Introduced her to her sensual self.

  She'd lived with the burden of hopelessness for too long. Booker Hayes must be the one to change that. Thea had to experience a slice of life, know a shred of happiness before it was too late.

  She remembered the words he'd spoken to her on their wedding night: It was up to her.

  She had nothing to lose but her pride. And pride wouldn't keep her warm through the cold winter nights. Wouldn't satisfy her needs. Wouldn't give her children of her own.

  She opened her eyes and sponged the rest of her body, drying briskly with a rough towel, her fingers trembling. From her bureau drawer, she unfolded a thin cotton nightdress and pulled it on, then brushed her hair before padding down the sweltering hallway.

  Without giving herself time to change her mind, she turned the knob and entered his room, closing the door softly behind her. The curtains were pulled back from the open windows, offering a slight humid breeze. Moonlight gilded the tall, bare-chested figure propped against the window frame. He turned at the sound of her entry.

  Thea's heart pounded in her ears. She'd expected to find him sleeping. That would have given her a few minutes to compose herself and wake him. Instead, he turned to her expectantly. "Thea?"

  She forced herself away from the door, closer to him, then paused and steadied herself with a hand on the enormous footboard.

  "What is it? Did you hear something that frightened you?" He took a few soundless barefoot strides toward her.

  "No. Nothing like that." Her voice sounded as unsteady as her heart. The rough bark dug into her palm.

  "What's wrong, then?"

  She faced him squarely. The moonlight clearly defined his smooth broad shoulders, muscled arms and the strikingly masculine set of his jaw.

  "I want something."

  "All right." He moved toward the night table. "Let me light the lanter—"

  "No." She stopped him with a hand on his bare arm.

  Motionless, he regarded her hand.

  Beneath her fingers and his perspiring, heated skin, his muscles tensed. Reluctantly, she pulled her hand back.

  "Booker," she said, and it came out little more than a hoarse whisper. "I want you to..." This wasn't going to be easy. "I want us to..." She took a quavering breath. "I want to make love with you."

  bookmark:Chapter 14

  Chapter 14

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  He didn't move a muscle. Silence closed in and around the sultry, hot room. Her words hung between them for an eternity, but she didn't regret saying them. Outside, Zoe's cat yowled. Finally, Booker raised a hand and raked it through his hair.

  He turned his upper body enough that the moonlight caught and defined the muscular underside of his ar
m and a thicket of black hair. The glow revealed the obsidian blanket that matted his chest. "Say something," Thea whispered through tears of vulnerability. "You're frightening me. I thought you wanted me, too."

  "Oh, Thea," he groaned. He reached for her, but caught himself, drew back his hand and placed both hands on his hips, where his low-slung trousers rode. "I want you. Trust me, I want you."

  "What, then?" she asked, and folded her arms against her trembling stomach.

  "Thea." He spoke as though he'd gained courage to tell her something. "Everyone takes advantage of you. Just hear me out." He raised a palm against her silent protest. "I've watched your family, the townspeople, the church members—everyone—ignore your needs. You look after everybody else while you're neglected. It angers me how you're taken advantage of.

  "I've watched you with them, and I can't understand—can't fathom how they can overlook your femininity, your sensuality, your beauty and charm."

  His voice softened to a gruff whisper. "I've watched you with Zoe and with Lucas and little David. I've seen how gentle and loving you are, and I've wanted that for myself."

  "That's good, isn't it?" she asked hopefully.

  "But don't you see?" He gestured with one long arm. "I would be just like all the others if I took advantage of those giving qualities. I want to be... different. I want to meet your needs, Thea."

  "Oh, Booker." Hope sprang back to life in her maiden heart. "I have needs. I have so many needs." Tears clogged her throat, and her chin quivered. "I need to feel like a woman. I need a man of my own. I need to find out what this powerful attraction is all about. I need you to show me what this agonizing want for you can turn into.

  "I have dreams," she whispered. "Dreams of being kissed and touched and—" A tiny hiccupping sob broke her voice. "And my body doesn't feel like my own anymore. It's wonderful, but it's terrible, and I can't sleep at night. It's a need I don't even understand. All I know for sure is that I want you. For myself."

  "Thea." He took a step toward her.