by Lisa Plumley
This, he decided, could truly enliven the boring social calls that lay ahead.
“If you had told me all that,” he said, lowering his head so their conversation would remain private, “I’d have had to tell you how much I’ve been wanting to kiss you again. The taste I had amongst the pines will never be enough to satisfy me. Not when you felt so soft and warm and amazing in my arms.”
She cast her gaze downward, obviously surprised that he’d joined in her outrageous talk. Her lips moved, parting and then closing as Julia struggled to recover. When she had, Graham knew it immediately. An answering challenge was in her eyes when she looked up at him again.
“Nor will I be satisfied with so small a taste,” she said, her voice even huskier. “Not when you hold me like this now, and—and tempt me to kiss you again.”
At the invitation in her words, he wanted to groan with need. Instead, Graham let his palm stroke up and down her back. Like a cat, Julia arched slightly beneath his touch.
This was a dangerous game they played. Graham could scarcely believe they’d begun it. But now that they had…he could no more stop than he could change his days as a trail-bound man.
“I wish you would kiss me again,” he said, hearing the hoarse need in his own voice as he spoke low against her ear. “Here. Now. Long and slow, with all the passion I know is inside you.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “Again? H-here? Now?”
At the nape of his neck, her fingers began an uncertain patter. Julia gazed upward, and he found himself loving the sassy tilt of her nose, the scattered freckles on her cheeks, the luscious bow of her mouth. She looked beautiful, uniquely herself. Graham knew he’d remember her face as he had no one else’s, long after he’d gone from here.
Her brows drew together in thought. Seeing the movement, he braced himself for the inevitable.
“Of course you know I can’t kiss you here, on May-belle Marchant’s front porch,” she said briskly, clearly having only just now realized the need to clarify things between them. A fine line appeared between her brows. “Don’t you?”
“Do I?”
“I—I—” Her fingers stilled. Her eyes widened. “I don’t think you do!”
She drew back in alarm. Graham hauled her closer again, and gave her a carefree smile. The lady deserved at least that much, he reasoned, for playing with fire the way she had.
“I’m a drifting man,” he reminded her. “Beholden to no one. With no boundaries but those I choose. If I decide to kiss you, I will, and no power on earth will stop me.”
“No power at all?” Julia gulped. “Truly?”
“None save a refusal from the woman in my arms. I would not force myself on a lady who didn’t want me.” Graham paused, deliberately resuming his long, careful strokes up and down her narrow back. “But since that’s not the case here—”
“Um—” Panic lighted her eyes. Julia bit her lip, looking wildly from his face to the quiet porch, and the front door that still remained closed while the maid consulted her mistress. “Mr. Corley, I do believe—”
“Since that’s not the case here,” Graham said again, “since you do want me—and I want you—then what’s to stop us from indulging ourselves?”
“Propriety!” she said. “Plain common sense!” Her voice took on a pleading edge. “Over-familiarity between the sexes, especially in public, is entirely vulgar, and is—is—is always avoided by ladies and gentlemen of delicacy and refinement.”
“It is?” He cupped her chin in his free hand, and stroked his thumb over her lower lip. Julia shivered at the contact. “Is that from Miss Julia’s Behavior Book, volume one?”
She gave him a blank look.
“Your book?” he prompted. “Volume one?”
“Oh!” A nervous laugh escaped her. “Er, v-volume three. I think.”
Julia looked as though she weren’t thinking at all. She looked, he thought with pleasure, as though she were only feeling…feeling, and coming alive.
“Ahhh. I see.” Smiling, Graham regretfully lowered his hand. He had no intention of compromising her, especially here, of all places. Despite the hanging swing in the corner, an open porch would hardly be the place to show Julia how much he wanted her. “Volume three.”
“Yes.” She darted a nervous glance toward the door, where the maid could re-emerge at any moment. “I’ve only been so bold as I have because I knew I was protected by the rules of etiquette. Don’t you see? Teasing you was safe, because I knew the proper social boundaries would prevent things from going too far between us.”
Her flirtatiousness suddenly made sense to him. How like her, Graham thought, to place so much faith in a bunch of “do’s” and “don’t”s. ’Twas unfounded, he knew. But Julia believed, and that was what mattered.
“You’ve forgotten one thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
Before answering, he removed his arm from around her waist. A current of cool air swept between them, and Julia sighed. With relief? Or disappointment?
“I’m not versed in society rules,” Graham told her. “And those I do know…I mostly ignore.”
She gasped. “Impossible! Even you must—”
“Very possible,” he assured her. Hearing a sound from behind the door, Graham straightened. He swiftly examined Julia to make sure she wasn’t embarrassingly rumpled, and then adjusted his hat. “Look, the door is opening. With any luck, your friend has decided she’s in. I’ll have another chance to try to remember my manners.”
“Try?” The word emerged, partly strangled. Julia’s eyes bugged. “Try to remember your manners?”
“Mm-hm.” Graham winked. “And you can try to keep your hands to yourself. I know ’twill be difficult, given how ‘wickedly appealing’ you find me.”
He’d have sworn she turned purple. Graham felt his grin widen.
In front of them, the door swung within—revealing not the maid, but another woman. She looked at them both, gave a muffled sob, and then pushed past.
Julia gaped after her in astonishment. Before she could say a word, though, the maid reappeared.
“Mrs. Marchant will see you now,” she said.
And just when Graham had resigned himself to yet another session of miniature cakes, overly sweetened tea, and giggling conversations about the latest fashions, he earned an unexpected reprieve. Julia took one look at the disheveled woman who’d hurried past them. She paused with a shrewd expression on her face, and then straightened to address the maid.
“We won’t be calling after all,” she said. “And please don’t bother to give Mrs. Marchant our regrets. As of this moment, I don’t believe we have any.”
Then Julia lifted her parasol, and followed the woman.
Chapter Fourteen
“Wait!” Julia said, shoving aside thoughts of the scandalous banter and enticing closeness she and the bounty hunter had just shared. She hurried down the porch steps in pursuit of the woman, with Mr. Corley following in her wake. “Mrs. Farmer? Is that you?”
The woman stopped. Beneath the plain calico of her day dress, her shoulders slumped. She wore no hat, nor gloves. Wiping a raw-knuckled hand across her face, she reluctantly turned.
“Yes, it’s me. Abbie Farmer,” she said. “I suppose you don’t want to be seen talking with me, neither.”
“Oh, no, that’s not true! Although I—” Julia paused. Strong emotions weren’t discussed in polite society, and yet…Abbie’s plight struck a chord with her. Pish posh, she decided. Rules could be bent, if not broken. “You seem to be upset. Is there something I can do to help?”
“I—well…” Before she could get another word out, Abbie burst into renewed tears. Turning away in embarrassment, she hid her face in her hands.
Oh, dear. Grasping her parasol firmly, Julia hurried to include Abbie beneath its shielding ruffles. From up close, the woman’s blotchy, tear-streaked cheeks were plainly visible, and her pale hair straggled from its chignon.
Julia wrenched at
the drawstring closure of her reticule, searching for a handkerchief. Before she could locate one, though, Mr. Corley reached over her shoulder and, with a rumbled word of kindness, offered his.
Abbie accepted it, and dabbed her eyes. She looked at Graham gratefully, insensible of the way Julia beamed at him. The gallant gesture, however small, only proved what she’d begun to believe of him. Despite his rough ways, the bounty hunter truly was a gentleman—on the inside.
“I’m awful sorry,” Abbie said, speaking between stifled sobs. She blew her nose with gusto, and then held out the wadded-up handkerchief toward Graham.
“Please keep it,” he said, remarkably straight-faced.
“Thank you.” Abbie clenched the handkerchief in her hand and drew in a deep breath. She stared at her work-roughened fingers, kneading the handkerchief as she spoke.
“I—I’m not usually so emotional, but…you see, I been calling on Mrs. Marchant for more’n a week straight now. And she never would see me. But today—today her girl told me she was in, and showed me to the parlor.”
“See now?” Although she was still unsure as to what was amiss, Julia did her best to be soothing. “That’s progress, isn’t it?”
She put a comforting arm around Abbie’s thin shoulders, and glanced past her parasol’s edge toward the three-story redbrick Marchant home. In an upstairs window, a lacy curtain fluttered back into place, as though someone had been watching them. Frowning, Julia slowly walked Abbie away from the house.
“I thought so, too,” Abbie said, sniffling. “She’s an important woman in this town—no offense to you, Miss Bennett. Of course I heard of you! I heard your books were right fine.”
Julia smiled and patted the woman’s shoulder.
“I’m saving up egg money to buy me one,” Abbie continued. “But it’ll take a while. My Jonas, he turned out to be a good husband,” she explained in an aside to Julia and Graham, “but he don’t make a lot of money working at the freight office.”
At that, Julia remembered what she knew of Abbie Farmer. Aunt Geneva had written to say that the woman had come to Avalanche shortly after Julia had left for her final year at Vassar. A mail-order bride, Abbie had been a stranger to Jonas Farmer at first, but Aunt Geneva had made it sound as though things had turned out fine in the end.
Looking at poor Abbie now, Julia had her doubts.
She’d only met Abbie once or twice, in passing at the mercantile or during a brief hello after church. But the misery in her face was all too familiar to Julia. She couldn’t bear to see anyone suffer…especially at the hands of Maybelle Marchant, one of Avalanche’s most high-and-mighty residents.
The three of them walked farther, passing by other houses as they left the Marchant residence in the distance. Mr. Corley remained with them, silently offering his protection as he strode on the trafficked side of the street.
Julia was grateful for his presence. If she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit that it was his example which had inspired her to help Abbie in the first place. In the old days—the days before the bounty hunter had come to town and accepted her betrothal bargain—Julia knew she would have been too paralyzed with indecision to act in time. She would have been too fearful of doing the wrong thing, of stepping outside propriety’s boundaries and giving anyone cause to reject her, to do what needed to be done.
But now, inspired by the way Graham always followed his own path, Julia felt strong enough to take a chance.
“From what I recall,” she said, returning to her conversation with Abbie, “your husband has a claim in the mountains near here. Someday, when Jonas Farmer strikes it rich, Maybelle Marchant will be begging you to call on her.”
Abbie gave a faint smile. “You really think so?”
“I do.”
“Maybe.” Looking doubtful, Abbie pushed tendrils of blond hair away from her cheeks. “But until then, I’m not to call on Mrs. Marchant at all. Or even address her in the street.”
Julia stopped. “No.”
“Yes.” Abbie nodded, pausing beside her. She did not look up. “That’s what she called me into her parlor to talk about today. She said she’d got so tired of turnin’ me away, she figured she ought to just tell me straight.”
“She didn’t!” Disbelief mingled with fury. At Abbie’s affirming nod, Julia shook her head. She pressed her lips tightly together. “How dare she?”
“I—I guess she didn’t think nobody would care.” Abbie sniffled again. “I probably shouldn’t tell you, only…only you seemed so nice, and all. Nicer than I heard you were.”
A sudden sense of shame filled her. Julia closed her eyes against it, but there was no escaping the truth. Was it possible she had let her quest to be accepted in town blind her to common kindness?
As though sensing her dismay, Graham laid his hand on her shoulder. The comforting weight of his touch did ease her, but it was his next words that truly humbled her.
“Miss Bennett is a fine woman,” he told Abbie. “Anybody who says differently doesn’t really know her. Not like I do.”
Abbie swabbed her eyes again. When she looked up, she wore a wobbly smile. Her gaze swept over Julia and Graham both, and her smile widened still further.
“I reckon you’re right.” She cleared her throat, and addressed the bounty hunter directly. “We haven’t been prop’ly introduced, but I recognize you, Mr. Corley. The whole town’s heard of you nabbing that outlaw you brung into Avalanche a few weeks ago.”
He nodded, acknowledging her compliment.
“And maybe it isn’t my place to say so,” Abbie continued, “but you two make a right fine pair.” Her gaze settled tellingly on Graham’s hand, which still rested on Julia’s shoulder. “Sometimes the unlikeliest matches work best, you know. Me and my Jonas are proof of that.”
Suddenly, at the mention of her husband, Abbie grew unaccountably somber.
“Abbie, what’s wrong?” Julia asked.
She waved her hand, as though whatever troubled her were inconsequential. Julia didn’t believe it for a moment.
“Well, Jonas…” Taking a quavery breath, Abbie confided in them. “He noticed how I don’t have many lady friends here in Avalanche. ’Most a year since I come here, and nobody but one or two of the teamsters’ wives will speak to me. I don’t know why! I try to be kind and all, and I know I don’t have much time for callin’, what with all my housework to do. But anyway, Jonas wants me to be happy, and he told me to leave my work for a while to make some friends. He’ll be—”
Her face crumpled again, and she swabbed at her eyes with a clean edge of the handkerchief, visibly struggling for control.
“It’s all right,” Julia said. She patted Abbie’s forearm, hardly knowing how to cope with so much unrestrained emotion, all at once. It was beyond her experience. “You don’t have to go on, if you don’t want to.”
“Might help, if you do.” Gruffly, Graham tugged down his hat and looked away. He shrugged. “Women seem to like jawing about their troubles. We’ll listen.”
At their combined efforts, Abbie seemed encouraged.
“Well,” she said bravely, “it’s just that Jonas will be so disappointed if I don’t find some friends! He’s been so nice about encouragin’ me—even said I could order a new dress from the Bloomingdale Brothers’ catalog, if I thought it would help. But now, after Maybelle saying all that…I don’t know what to do! All the ladies in town follow her lead, you know.”
“I know,” Julia said. It was true. She’d been shunned by their clique herself, before returning to Avalanche with her etiquette-book fame stamped on her like a seal of approval. “But you don’t need a new dress, nice as the Bloomingdale’s catalog is,” she went on firmly. “And you don’t need Maybelle Marchant, either. I will be your champion!”
Overcome with the drama of the moment, she thrust her parasol into the air, the gesture mimicking the rise of a legendary knight’s sword. Brandishing the pink-ruffled instrument, Julia pretended to skewer an imagin
ary foe.
Abbie laughed. Graham gawked.
Julia came to her senses.
What a spectacle she was making of herself! Feeling her face heat, Julia lowered her parasol. A quick glance told her no one on the street or in the passing wagons and carriages was looking their way, but she still couldn’t believe she’d acted so rashly. What had gotten into her?
Hurriedly, she began walking again. Perhaps if she kept moving, Abbie and Mr. Corley would forget what had just happened. Like some sort of motion-induced amnesia.
A lady could hope, couldn’t she?
When Abbie addressed her again—barely suppressing her laughter to do so—Julia knew she’d been too optimistic. Still, there was a new hopefulness in the woman’s face, and Julia was glad for it.
“Do you really think it will work?” Abbie asked as they continued down the street. “Do you really think you can make the women in town be friends with me?”
“Yes. I shall,” Julia announced. Already, plans tumbled through her mind, moving with the same rapidity she applied to arithmetic problems and philosophical puzzles. “Beginning today.”
“Today?” Abbie looked from her newfound benefactress to Graham, and pulled a mostly pretend worried face. “Can she truly do that?”
Mr. Corley simply laughed. Apparently he’d walked off all of his chivalry during their stroll.
“Never doubt Miss Bennett’s determination,” he said. “When she puts her mind to a task, obstacles leap out of the way in dead fright. ’Tis an awesome thing.”
Julia only grumbled, and surreptitiously gave him a pinch. Graham would see the good she could do. She’d make sure of it.
The rest of the afternoon rolled past quickly. Graham discovered that small gilded chairs didn’t feel quite so tiny—nor quite so prissy—if he were seated in one to watch Julia work her social hocus-pocus. He found it fascinating.
In a confusing, otherworldly, female sort of way, of course.
It seemed, Graham learned, that those etiquette rules of hers could be applied any number of ways. ’Twas like a game of poker, with high stakes, varied players, and plenty of bluffing. With each new household they visited, Julia varied her game just enough to suit. And as he watched her now, Graham had to admit that he’d underestimated her skill.