Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  "That's what most of us are planting. Jenson's just got the seed in from Chicago. Herbert Schultz might need to break up his team. He's had eight Morgans. He might be able to get by with four." John nodded at the defeated farmer.

  "I don't profit from another's bad breaks." Montana spoke with determination.

  "You'll probably be saving his farm. No one else needs those horses. We've all got a good team, but you decide." John waited.

  Montana watched the man for a moment. "What are we waiting for, then? Come on, let's see if I can't change that man's luck."

  The two men turned, heading for the farmer, but they were stopped when Wade Parker called out to them. "You two going to be here for the association meeting Tuesday night? The railroad and the grain operators can't stop us! We're going to raise less grain and more hell!"

  John called out, "I'll be there!" He turned to Montana. "How 'bout you?"

  Montana glanced back at the poor farmer, then he turned and said, "Sure. There's nothing I like better than raising a little hell."

  Addie hunched over and looked out through the frosted print on the front display window of Peabody's Mercantile. Three men stood in the center of the street: John Latimer, a smaller man whom she didn't recognize, and Mr. Creed. It was odd, but those long legs of his looked perfectly normal, yet on the wagon seat she'd have sworn they were hard fire. After all, she'd just spent the longest half hour of her twenty-four years on a small wooden wagon seat with one of those thighs rubbing her until she boiled inside like a vat of fruit jam.

  The glass fogged slightly, dulling her view, so she moved over. He tipped his hat back, a gesture that was now familiar to her. She could see his profile, his strong jaw, and the hard, carved lines of his face. His long, curly hair was tied with a leather strip, right at his neck. Lately he'd had it tied back every time she'd seen him. It made him look less… wild, more civilized. Although he wasn't civilized, that she knew. In fact, the man was a real stinker. Cold, indeed!

  "I've got your total here, Miz Pinkney."

  Addie shot upright, her hand on her heart. "Uh, yes. I'll be right there," she told the proprietor. She was just being silly, standing there watching that man instead of browsing through the mercantile. She shuffled through a stack of cloth bolts and felt as if she'd just been caught with her fingers in the jar of peppermint sticks. Unable to resist, she looked outside again. Mr. Creed and the short man shook hands, the man looking happier than he had earlier. People seemed to naturally like Mr. Creed, and it puzzled her.

  The merchant cleared his throat loudly. Addie rammed a few strands of loose hair back under her fine hat, plastered a smile on her flushed face and spun around, marching past the mother-of-pearl button display and over to the long oak counter that dissected the town's only general store.

  The room was crammed with merchandise. Signs and posters advertising everything from curative soda water to electric belts colored the paneled walls. Wood and glass cases filled with jewelry, hairpins, and personal toilet items lined the west side of the store. On the shelves behind the counter, hundreds of bottles—blue, amber, and dark brown—covered almost every square inch of space. A rainbow of tins—red, blue, yellow, and orange—containing powders, tobacco, cocoa, and every spice imaginable, were stacked like bricks on a long, marble-topped, iron display rack that stood between the counter and the east wall. A huge, red coffee grinder with a grinding wheel bigger than the ones on Addie's bicycle sat bolted to the end of the oak countertop. Next to it were oversized glass jars with bright tin lids. They were lined up like toy soldiers on display. The fine, clear glass showed their colorful contents, everything from red and black licorice whips to giant green pickles. Addie's mouth watered.

  Behind the counter was Mr. Seth Peabody. A tall man—everyone was tall except Addie—he was blessed with bright blue eyes and a head that was as bald and shiny-white as a newly laid egg. Icepick-thin, with a high, midwestern voice, he stood at the counter, greeting everyone as if they were his oldest and dearest friends.

  Seth Peabody had a face with character—a long, hook nose, no chin, and more teeth than Mr. Creed's horse. And he was one of the kindest men Addie ever had the pleasure of meeting. He'd told her how he'd respected her aunt, whom he had considered one of the best "gall durn" women in Muledeer County. Honest, hard-working, and would do anything for someone who wasn't as "blessed" as she.

  He flipped through a few green receipts. "Here's the total credit of the milk, three dollars and seventy-two cents. And remember, I'll buy your eggs, just as soon as you get that chicken farm running." He gave her a horse smile. "I've got your list filled, one apple parer, a pound of Morton salt, four nutmegs, two Mexican cinnamon sticks, one tin of red cayenne pepper, one spool lavender cotton thread…'' He looked up and asked, "You want Clark's or J. P. Coats?"

  "Clark's," she answered, her gaze captured by the variety of fragrance atomizers that lined the case in the front of the oak counter.

  "Got it." Mr. Peabody turned and plucked a small wooden spool of thread from a wooden display case behind him. Then he went on, "One bottle of indelible ink, five-pound slab of bacon, one cured ham, White Lily Face Wash, Dr. Rose's Dyspepsia Powder. That's it! Anything else?"

  "The ice?" Addie reminded him.

  "Ah yes, Ben Richards will start delivery Friday, and he'll be out there every fourth day. How's that?" He stuck his pencil behind one large ear and looked up from the receipt.

  "Fine, thank you." Addie stepped back to look at the items in the glass cases in the front of the long counter. Her muscles twitched. "Do you have a good liniment?"

  "Dr. Silas Camphor Muscle Restorer. Use it myself, every time the missus gets me to reorganizing the display case." He laughed and plucked a tall, brown bottle off the crowded shelves behind the counter. He added it to her purchases, then he paused, looking a bit sheepish. "Do you need these delivered?"

  "I'd planned on using my cycle and cart, but it might be easier if Custus brings them out. The road's still a bit muddy."

  "Uh, well, there's a little problem." Seth Peabody looked as if his collar had just shrunk. "Custus is a bit, ah, set in his ways. He got put out with me and quit this morning."

  "Oh. Did he go back to work for the railroad station?"

  "Nope. Jess Spindle, the stationmaster, said if he ever saw Custus McGee again he'd tie him to the track and hope his hard head didn't derail the express."

  Addie had to laugh. "He's a character."

  Mr. Peabody looked at her, amazed. "You're just as kind-spirited as your aunt was. I can get these out to you later today. The missus will be in this afternoon, and she can mind the place while I make the delivery." He started to remove her purchases and set them in a crate.

  "Wait." She held up a hand, her face suddenly thoughtful. "You say Custus is out of a job?"

  He nodded.

  "Where can I find him?"

  "Now, Miz Pinkney, I don't think you ought to be—''

  "Custus and I deal fine together. Besides, I need to hire someone to help with the farm."

  "What about Mr. Creed?"

  Mr. Creed is the reason I need Custus, Addie thought. "We need more help." And I need a protector. "Now where can I find Custus?"

  Seth Peabody scratched his bald head. "If you're sure…''

  "I'm sure."

  "He's down at the livery, giving Bud Hinckle hel—uh, what for."

  "Thanks, just box these items up," she said, opening her money purse and paying the bill. "Custus and I'll pick it up on our way out of town."

  "Whatever you say, Miz Pinkney." He watched her go, then added, "And… good luck."

  Addie closed the mercantile door, then the smart click of her heels echoed down the wooden walk. This was the perfect solution. She would hire Custus as a farmhand. Between Mabel and Maud, and the chicks and the turkeys, she hardly had time to breathe. This would solve her problem. But best of all, Custus was the perfect answer to her problem with Mr. Creed and his hot, tricky hands. Those hands
had become a real problem. They could make her forget her own behavior. In fact, everything about the man seemed to light something inside her. His hands, his voice, his tongue.

  There went those goose bumps again. She rubbed her upper arms as she walked. There was no way he would be able to chase her with Custus there. And no chance that Addie would get herself into another one of those sticky situations. Custus would serve as the perfect chaperon. She didn't need good luck. She'd already found it. Finally, she could get on with her farming and forget about her troubles with Mr. Creed. Tonight, she thought, tonight I'll finally get a good, safe, and secure night's sleep. With that comforting thought, Addie went off to hire Custus McGee as her protector.

  The night air was still as a stone. Not a breeze, not a chill, not a cloud moved above Montana, just a full, fat moon that glowed like a stockman's lantern and an ink-black sky filled with bushels of stars. He turned the loaded wagon onto the gravel drive and drove to the barn.

  He'd made a good deal for the drayage horses, and he'd ride out to Schultz's place and bring the team back tomorrow. He unhooked Jericho, leading him over to the water trough, and as he pumped, he thought about plowing his field with the team, something he'd wanted forever. He left his horse to his drinking and grabbed a tarp from near the barn, snapped it up and over the bags of grain seed he'd bought.

  On a whim, he walked out into the moonlit field. Hunkering down, he pulled his hand through the clumps of dry dirt. His dirt. He closed his fist and the clump changed to a fine powder that sifted through his hands. It was late and the dirt cool. No warmth from the sun clung to the land, but he didn't need to feel the warmth. Knowing this handful of rich earth was his, Montana Creed's, warmed him more than a dozen suns.

  Rubbing his hands on his flexed thighs, he looked over the field. Acre after dark, rich acre lay fallow, begging for the seed that would prove its worth, awaiting the water that would help the soil drive its very essence into the crop. He would soon plow this field, digging the metal coulter into the dirt and turning it so the seed had a fresh womb in which to thrive.

  For Montana, farming was like giving birth. The farm was a fertile belly of land that grows with the miracle of new life and springs forth with hard labor. His wheat would be his child, conceived in love and tended with a father's pride. It would be the best wheat he could nurture because its strength would come from virile land. His land.

  And her buildings. He swore and stood, ramming his hands in the back pockets of his denims and kicking a rock back across the farmyard. He had to get rid of her. He was close to driving her off, real close. He was sure that if he could just catch her off guard one or two more times, she'd be long gone.

  Leading Jericho to the barn, he put him in the stall. He was heading for the bunkroom when he remembered that he hadn't tied down the tarp on the wagon. He almost left it and went to bed, but he remembered how fast the Pacific storms could blow over those hills. He couldn't afford to lose that seed.

  Behind the barn Montana uncoiled a hank of rope from a rope pile and took it back to the wagon, where he secured the cover. He wrapped the rest of the rope around his elbow and shoulder as he went around the barn, returning the rope to its original stack.

  He rounded the corner of the barn and saw it—the open window—his invitation. He changed direction, prowling toward the back of the house. He peered in, half expecting a small, fireball of a body to barrel into his chest. He smiled at the memory. She was sound asleep, lying on her stomach, her face turned away from the window. Long black hair trailed across the bed, and he could follow the lines of her small body, round little butt and all, underneath the thin, lacy sheet. His palms itched.

  This was just too good an opportunity, and he was no fool. He knew this was his last chance to scare her off. He wouldn't pass it up. Some guilt-ridden little speck of decency deep within him cried No! But that was all the more reason for him to climb in the window and into Little Miss Pinky s unsuspecting bed.

  If he wanted this farm and his crops, he couldn't afford to care about the consequences. He couldn't afford to care about what happened to the woman when she was gone. He couldn't afford to admit that there was something about her that made him want to whack her prim little butt and hold it, all at the same time. For some reason he needed to bait her just to watch her reaction. It was a game that kept his blood flowing quicker, and he liked that. But the games had to stop, because this might be his best and only chance to rid himself of her. This would be the last game he'd have to play with her.

  Montana bent down and pulled off his boots. Then, determined to scare the courage right out of her, he silently crawled in the window.

  Chapter 14

  Oh my God!"

  The toad was in bed with her! His hands clamped onto her wrists and he held her, on her stomach, pinned to the bed. He didn't say a word, and it scared her to death.

  "Let me go!" She bucked up with her backside, but he collapsed full length on top of her, his hands still gripping her small wrists. His lips brushed the side of her face, so she turned into her pillow, trying to get away from his mouth.

  "I'm going to teach you something else, sweet Addie." His teeth nipped at her ear, right through her hair. "How to ride… me."

  His lips grazed her cheekbone.

  She lifted her head and yelled, "Get off mfmpgh—'' She buried her face in the pillow, muffling her screamed threat. It was the only way to escape his seeking mouth, which was everywhere. Again she pushed upward with her fanny and batted against hips. He bore down with his hard groin.

  Chin stretched up, she let loose with a scream so loud it sounded like hell turned upside down. She couldn't move the lower half of her body, and she tried, over and over. Her breath plowed through her throat. She squirmed; she jerked back on her wrists; she twisted every free part of her body, all the time yelling into the bedding, commanding that he stop.

  He didn't.

  God! This was horrible. He was so much stronger than she. She tried to fight. He overpowered her. She struggled and pushed, but she couldn't move. Hushed tales she'd heard raced through her mind. She'd heard that men defiled women. She knew that was what he intended. Oh God, but she didn't even know what it meant. The word rape, some kind of intimate cruelty, was always whispered. It should have been screamed!

  Addie began to shake. She couldn't stop.

  But he stopped.

  His breath no longer brushed through her hair, his lips no longer chased over the sides of her face, searching for skin, his hips no longer pressed her deep into the feather mattress. Her breath still skipped past her lips in short little fear-filled gasps. Her shoulders hiccuped with them.

  "I want you, Addie, and the only way you'll stop me from having you is to leave." His voice was deep, clear, and not whispering his frequent taunt. This was a threat, and it was as real as death.

  She swallowed, trying to moisten her dry mouth. From his tone she knew that this man would do as he threatened. Oh God, she prayed.

  His knees bracketed her hips and his hands still clamped tight on her wrists; then he used one hand to hold them in a hard and painful grip against the bed. His other hand closed over her shoulder and he pushed her over onto her back. She tried to bring her knees up through the tower of his thighs, but he was too quick. He straightened his legs, burying his hips against hers and pinning her again.

  Addie stared up at his chest, which loomed above her. She looked higher. The mouth that could smile with such charm was pressed into a thin, determined line. With each deep breath he took, his nostrils flared and the strength in his face was all there, showing even harder. There was a cruel edge to his look. He wasn't human; he was all stone, except for the harsh yellow eyes which fixed hers.

  "You can get out or get laid—you decide."

  Her rapid panting stopped, then grew shallow, turning into sobs.

  Tears of fear burned into her eyes and she squeezed them shut, locking out the horror of what was happening. The drops spilled over an
d trickled past the corners of her tightly squeezed eyes, running down over her temples. The sobs kept coming, poured out like the tears. She cried so hard she could hardly catch a breath.

  He groaned, and released her wrists so fast it was as if they'd suddenly caught fire. His elbows grazed her ribs and sank into the mattress. Her wet eyes stared at his hung head, watching as his hands rubbed his forehead as if he were in pain.

  "Don't cry," he groaned through the wall of his hair. It hung down to her chest, hiding his face.

  "Please don't hurt me." Her voice was a mournful wail.

  "Don't cry. I won't hurt you." He lifted his head high and shook his hair back. One hand still shadowed his eyes.

  Her sobs quieted to hiccuping sounds and sniffs.

  "Just don't cry, please, Addie." He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and finger.

  She sniffed, and he finally looked at her, wincing at the sounds she made. The hardness was still there, but it was only the hard cut of his facial features, not a hardness that came from within.

  "I don't want to hurt you. I thought I could go through with this game. I can't."

  His hands threaded into her hair, tenderly, and he held her head, his thumbs wiping away the dampness on her temples while his fingers caressed the back of her head.

  She still wheezed a bit. "Y-You thought you could r-rape me?"

  "No, goddammit!" He turned his head away and stared at the wall. "I thought I could scare you away."

  "Oh," she said, and the crying started all over again, this time because he didn't like her.

  "I can't do it," he admitted, and his breathing deepened. He rolled off her and laid next to her. Still she cried. He groaned again and gathered her into his arms.

  "Please, sweet, don't." His hands slid in soothing, circular paths on her small back. He pulled her even closer to his chest, resting his chin on the top of her head, holding her with all the gentleness, all the care, with which one holds a heart-broken child. Over and over he reassured her, "It's okay, sweet. It's okay…''