Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  He shook his head. "I can't communicate?" he said, amazed.

  "No, you can't."

  "I know what I'm saying. If you can't understand simple English, then that's your problem. Like I told you before, get yourself a book."

  She dusted her hands and clothes off. "That's a good idea. At least a book can get its point across."

  His look grew angry. "Oh, I think I can get my point across." He stepped toward her.

  She raised her face and glared up at him. "When pigs fly!"

  His hands shot out, grabbed her and slammed her up against his chest, lowering his head at the same time. His mouth hit hers. His hand wrapped into her hair and he gripped it tight, holding her mouth to his and muffling her protests.

  She wanted this. She shouldn't have, but she did, and soon she was lost. Her hands gripped his shoulders, squeezing hard, because she wanted the kiss to be hard, faster, even deeper. His mouth left hers and she moaned. It sounded so loud, yet she couldn't stop the sound. She let her head fall back and her lips parted more with each of her deep breaths. His tongue dove into her ear, kissing it as thoroughly as he had kissed her mouth. A thrill shot through her, stronger, more impelling than winning a cycle race.

  His lower body moved in a slow circle, rubbing her. She had some odd urge to rub back. The instinct grew the more he kissed her ear, licked her neck, and whispered. His mouth traced her chin, then up to the corner of her open mouth. She sucked in a breath. His hand moved down the front of her and spanned her left breast, moving in the same slow circle as his hips. She groaned, and his tongue teased across her lip line, flicking and taunting.

  "Get the point?" he whispered, his lips hovering above hers.

  She didn't understand. His hips pushed into hers. She opened her eyes under the heat of his. "What?" she whispered, her eyes settling on his lips.

  He grabbed her hand, his eyes boring into hers. He shoved her hand against the buttons on his pants and held it there. She gasped and tried to pull her hand away. He pressed harder against her palm, his hand gripping her wrist so hard that it felt bruised. She cried out, frightened. This wasn't a game or the kind of challenge she could handle.

  "Don't," she moaned, shaking her head, suddenly frightened and wanting this to stop. She was scared of what this man did to her, of what he made her feel, of what he made her forget. "Please, I—''

  He let go of her hand and pushed his knee upward, against her crotch. His hands gripped her head and he pushed it back, covering her mouth with his. He rammed his tongue against her lips, pushing his palm hard against her jaw until she opened her mouth. His tongue breached her lips and filled her mouth. His hips beat against her, and his one hand held fast to her head, using the force of his mouth to pin her. When she was lost to the pleasure of his mouth, his hand left her head and both hands grabbed the backs of her thighs and jerked her knees up on either side of his hips. His hands closed over her bottom and he groaned. He thrust up hard against her, rubbing, as if he could burn through their clothing.

  She was scared, both of him and herself. This wasn't right. She pushed at his shoulders, trying to break free of the kiss. He wouldn't let go. She had to get away, so she moved her hands to the muscles of his upper chest and she gripped the skin with both fists, twisting. He released her hair and she pulled her head away. "Let me go!"

  His eyes were glowing and his breathing was ragged. He looked as if he were in pain.

  "Please," she whispered and her voice cracked.

  He grimaced and let her slide back down to the ground.

  The minute her feet touched the ground she backed away, farther and farther, never taking her wary eyes off him. He just stood there, hands knotted into fists at his sides, his breath just beginning to slow, his look still so hot that she burned. He hadn't uttered a word, and his silence frightened her almost as much as her own emotions. He could make her forget everything, this angry man who stared at naked ladies. Right now, the way his eyes bored into her, she felt naked, so she turned and ran as fast as she could, trying to run away from him, from what he made her feel, and from herself.

  Chapter 13

  Addie stood on the pedals and pushed down as hard as she could. The cycle's wheels moved like molasses through a muddy, low section of the road. Her tow cart hit a rock and the metal milk cans clanged together. The bike wobbled and she tried to pedal forward. Her legs weren't strong enough. With a squishy oosh, her feet sank into the warm mud. She grimaced. My six-dollar, hand-turned, Dongola kid shoes! The damp mud oozed through the common-sense buttons. Dadgummit!

  She peeled open her eyes. The mud christened her shoes ankle high. She popped one foot out of the mud, examining it. It looked like she'd stood in a fudge vat. She shook it and a few clumps of brown, sticky gunk flew off with a plop. The stuff was all over the hem of her skirt too. She gave up. She sank her foot into the soft, wet ground and, with both gloved hands gripping the handlebars, trudged the bike and cart up the small grade.

  The morning sun glowed down, making her wish she'd left for town later in the day. Then the sun would have had a chance to dry the few muddy patches left on the road. But she'd left bright and early, thinking the cooler air boded better for the milk she carted behind her. She glanced back to check on the milk cans, but her gaze caught a distant wagon on the road, heading her way. Good, she thought, a friendly California neighbor who would no doubt assist a distressed lady into town. The wagon neared and she could hear the jangle of the harness.

  Addie released the handlebars, steadying the bicycle between her calves, and she tucked up a few loose strands of damp hair under the crisp Milan straw of her Carmen hat. Then she grabbed the short brim, tugging the hat down twice. She patted the trim of silk hyacinths and cardinal-colored velvet ribbon that cascaded from one side of the hat. With a welcoming smile she turned back to face her fellow traveler.

  It was the gruesome twosome—the toad and his bucking horse. She groaned, cursing her luck.

  He pulled the wagon to a stop, the horse exactly even with her cycle. "Well, well, Jericho, look who we have here. It's Little Miss Pinky… and her big brain." He smiled, although Addie thought of it more, as a baring of teeth.

  "Hit a little mud, huh?" He enjoyed this, she could see it written all over his face.

  She didn't say one word. She gripped the handlebars, pretending they were his neck. With her hands strained tight, she shoved the cycle forward. It moved in inches.

  "Not speaking? Tch-tch-tch, that's a shame. Isn't it, Jericho, old boy?"

  Addie gave the horse a furtive look. His pink lips wiggled up. She could have sworn the horse grinned.

  His owner rested his elbows on his knees and kept talking. "You know what? I would have thought anyone with so much 'common sense' would have known that you can't ride one of those contraptions in the mud."

  She moved a good five feet out of pure cussedness.

  The harness jangled again and the wagon and horse meandered forward.

  "Need a ride, Miss Pinky?"

  She crested the top of the rise, milk cans clanging with each shove of the cycle. Her head was down, her chest heaved from exertion and anger, and her arms and legs ached as much as her saddle-sore bottom. She looked up, ready to send him to blazes, when one of the elastic stocking supporters that jimmy-rigged her cart broke. The cart pitched down on one side, the milk cans clattering together like country church bells.

  "Oh, noooo!" She dropped the bicycle and moved toward the tilting milk cans. Two stoppers tumbled onto the road with a gush of spilling milk. Addie knelt in the road, hugging the cans while milk poured down the front of her green and red calico shirtwaist. A moment later a man's strong hands gripped the can handles, pulling them both upright and away from her small body.

  "I've got 'em," he told her in that deep, bone-melting voice, now devoid of its baiting tone. He stood behind her, his tall body looming over her while he held the cans upright. "Get the stoppers and clean them off."

  She scrambled out of the m
ud and reached under him to retrieve the metal stoppers. The mud was drier at the crest of the rise, so the stoppers weren't even half as muddy as her shoes or hem. She looked around for something to wipe clean the stoppers and found nothing. She turned her hopeful eyes toward him.

  He stood watching. "Improvise," he said.

  She reached beneath her seersucker skirt and grabbed a handful of the deep cambric ruffle on her underskirt. She wiped the first stopper. She checked the top for any speck of dirt, and finding it clean, started to straighten. She saw his gaze, locked right on her exposed, stockinged legs. She dropped the skirt and shot up, embarrassed.

  "I could use one of those." He nodded at the broken, pink elastic stocking supporter. Then he looked right at the spot where she fastened them to her stockings. She could have sworn that he could see right through her skirt. She spun around and drew up the front of her skirt and underskirt, unfastening one of her supporters. She straightened and wiped flat the wrinkles in her skirt, then turned and held out the garter by its elastic strap.

  "Red?" He plucked it from her outstretched hand, his face all smirky. Then, just before he turned back to the cart and cycle wheel, he humiliated her. He whistled.

  She wanted to crawl under the mud. Instead her nose went up. "They match my hat."

  His look turned hot, and it boiled over her body.

  "I can do that," she volunteered.

  He ignored her and started fixing her makeshift hitch.

  "Did you hear me?"

  "Um-hmm," he answered, completely absorbed with his task.

  "I said, I can do that." Her voice went up like her nose. "You can go on." Please, she thought, just go.

  He snapped the garter to the tow cart, appearing to test the hold. "And leave you stranded?" He blessed her with that hot look of his. "Never… sweet."

  Addie eyed the wagon seat. It was one narrow plank of wood just big enough for two adults. Town was another eight miles, and she was sure that it would feel closer to a hundred miles if she were sitting next to this man on that little seat. She turned to make some excuse, but she was too late. The tailgate was down and her milk cans were in the wagon. Mr. Creed heaved the cycle and cart onto the bed and then chained the tailgate into place.

  "Please put my cycle back down here." She couldn't think of a good excuse.

  He frowned at her.

  "I need to… uh…'' What did she need? She looked everywhere but at him. She settled for a bad excuse. "Uh… to… promote my muscle tone."

  Faster than a flea's sneeze he swung her up into his arms. He tossed her lightly and her arms looped his neck. The hand that supported her back squeezed her torso. "Your muscle tone feels mighty fine to me." His grin was bare inches from her face.

  His other hand gripped the back of her thigh and she squealed. "Stop that! Put me down!"

  "Gladly," he said, as he swung her up and tossed her into the wagon seat.

  She landed with a soft, but fanny-aching thud. "Oooh," she moaned under her breath, dying to rub her sore bottom. Stubborn determination kept her hands on the seat. She would not let him know she was saddle sore.

  She started to tell him to please put her back down, but he hopped up into the seat, settling against the iron rail that served as a backrest. Then he stared at her, as if daring her to say something.

  She refused to look at him, so she stared at his elbow, propped on the side rail right next to the red-painted Studebaker Bros. emblem. She couldn't think, but ohhh, could she feel. His hot gaze almost melted through her straw hat. Her hands flew to its brim, tugging it down and swiping the red velvet ribbon out of her face. She raised her head, staring straight ahead, and she squirmed a bit in the hard seat.

  "Sore?"

  Her mouth tightened. The man could read her mind.

  "Of course not!" she lied. "I'm perfectly fine. Just dandy, in fact. Let's get this thing going. I don't have all day, and my milk might sour."

  "Looks like you're wearing most of it."

  Her gaze went to the wet front of her shirtwaist. The fabric clung to her chest.

  "Cold?" the toad asked, a smile in his voice.

  Her arms clamped over her chest. With her mouth tight, she aimed her face upward, away from him and right at that hot sun. "Yes. Let's go!"

  He unwrapped the reins from the brake stick. She heard him mumble something about her "prissy" face being enough to make the milk sour.

  This time she looked at him. "If you don't like my face, then just put me down like I asked!"

  He gave her a knowing look. "And have you tell the whole town that I'm no gentleman?" He shook his conniving head. "Not a chance, sweet." He snapped the reins. They rattled down the road, his right side—from hard, hot shoulder to tough, fiery thigh—rubbing against hers.

  Addie was cold all the way to town.

  Montana tipped back his hat and leaned against the wagon, watching Little Miss Pinky stomp down the plank walkway. It wasn't easy to stomp and push that silly bicycle of hers too. She stopped, ignoring the odd stares of passersby. The woman acted as if that contraption of hers were a sight as common as bees in a flower garden. She leaned the bicycle between some nail barrels in front of Peabody's Mercantile and she slammed inside.

  He couldn't hide his smile—the damn thing just kept itching at his mouth. Although he did manage not to laugh. His plan was working. He was sure that the woman was getting close to her limit.

  A week ago, had he passed her on the road, he would have foolishly driven right past her. He could be hotheaded. But he was learning… And was it worth it. He'd taken his own sweet time getting that wagon into town, purposely rubbing his leg against hers. Every time he did, he could feel her attempt to move into nonexistent seat space. He'd bet her right side was marked from plastering her hip against the metal side rail. Tomorrow that white skin would be black and blue.

  He'd snapped Jericho into a faster speed and she'd almost flown head first over the foot rest. It was perfect. He'd thrown his arm around her small shoulders and hadn't let go once, no matter how much she'd wiggled around.

  The gasps were the best, though. He had slowed down, until they were meandering along, then he'd relaxed his hold, letting his fingers dangle and innocently brush over the top of her right breast. He was careful to do this only when the wagon bumped over ruts. She sucked in a breath every time. Not once did he break down and look at her, not even the first time his fingers grazed her. He'd felt her startled look, heard the sharp whoosh of her gasp, but he had stayed as calm as a skunk in the moonlight. He'd kept his eyes on the road and just whistled.

  But now he had things to do, so with a quick, lithe movement, he shoved off from the wagon and walked in the opposite direction, heading for the old grange hall. A large group of men stood outside the tall, red-brick building, and from all the commotion, Montana assumed their topic was a heated one. As he neared, he recognized John Latimer's dark head in the center of the group. He spoke just as Montana reached the ring of men.

  "Come on, Herbert, we can't go running off half cocked over this thing, you know that," John said.

  "Look, Latimer, you didn't just get your best grain downgraded to number three. That was top-grade wheat. I could have paid off my mortgage with that crop. That railroad-bought bastard running the grain elevator stole my life when he downgraded that wheat." The man whipped his straw hat against his knee. "You know who the hell's gonna get my profit, don't you? The railroad and the elevator operators! Christ, man, I just lost my whole crop! It's the same as having it burned, only those railroad robber barons burned it! How the hell am I supposed to meet my mortgage, let alone feed Bea and the kids?" The stocky, fair-haired farmer ran his gristled, work-worn hand over his tanned and troubled face.

  Montana could remember that same worried look—the downturned mouth that signaled anger but also hinted at failure, the strong brown forehead creased with fear and a need to survive, and the moistness misting around the man's eyes, which screamed despair and disappointment. This ma
n was damn scared and ready to break. His father had worn that look for the last year of his short life. Montana would never forget it.

  He continued to watch the man, trying to concentrate on the present and drive the memory of the past from his mind. The farmer needed help.

  Wade Parker stepped out from the shadowed entrance of the grange. "Schultz is right. We need to do something. I just came back from Sacramento. The rate commission can't do anything. Gordon and Doyle are the only two commissioners who aren't already owned by the railroad. There's no way to get a bill through the legislature until next year." He shook his dark head in disgust. "We'll have to try on local levels. I can't get any action going through government channels. In California, the railroad owns just about everyone."

  The men began to drill Wade with questions. Herbert Schultz, the poor farmer who was about to lose everything, leaned against the brick wall of the grange, listening to Wade. As the crowd closed in to hear the news from the state capital, Montana moved closer to John Latimer.

  "Wade's the lawyer for the local farmers association," John told him. "We've tried to get the railroad's freight rates regulated, but every time it looks like we're gaining, the railroad manages to either buy someone off or sway the vote."

  "The Supreme Court upheld the right to regulate the railroads," Montana commented, staring at the crowd of farmers that seemed to be ready to tackle the railroad single-handedly.

  "I guess you know more than I'd thought." John gave Montana a surprised look.

  Montana backtracked a bit. "If I'm going to be a farmer, I need to know what's going on. It's in my best interests to be knowledgeable." He smiled at John. "After all, it wouldn't do for me to plant hay if cotton's going for five dollars more a bale, now would it?"

  "Guess you're right. What's your crop?"

  "Wheat. Winter wheat. I'm here to buy the seed and a good drayage team," Montana said distractedly. His gaze was captured not by the crowd and their heated plans, but by the small, gristled farmer who walked down the street, his hand crushing the straw hat—a symbol of the farmer's pride, his hunched shoulders screaming defeat, his head hung in dejection and failure. Montana's gut wrenched. He prayed to God the man didn't have a son to see his father's devastation.