Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  Custus ignored him, chomped down on his stubby cigar and went on milking. A few minutes of oral silence went by; the only sound in the barn was the sound of the milk hitting the pail and Montana's teeth grinding. Then Custus began to hum.

  It got on Montana's nerves. He kicked at the hay on the barn floor and spun around. Listening to the old man hum off key, he wondered what had been behind the hiring of Custus. "Hired you to do what?"

  "Just what I'm a doin'." Custus stood and bent down, pulling out the milk pail and setting it aside. He leaned against the feedbox and grinned at Montana. "A-milkin'… an' a-feedin' them there smelly old chickens… an' a-cuttin' wood… an' a-helpin' ya. She said somethin' 'bout when I weren't a-helpin' 'er I were ta be a-helpin' you." He rolled the stub to the other side of his mouth and crossed his arms across his chest and waited for his words to soak in.

  Montana had a hunch he knew what she'd been up to. "When did she hire you?"

  "Yesterday, in town."

  Little Miss Pinky had hired herself a chaperon—in the form of an old coot named Custus McGee. "Stupid, damn woman," Montana mumbled.

  "Yup. She must be." Custus walked over to the hay pile and picked up a pitchfork. He stuck it into a bale of hay and then leaned on it. "Ya might wanna do up yer pants."

  Montana looked down at his open fly. Damn if he didn't feel his neck flush. He fumbled with the buttons. Then he went back to his pacing, only this time he ran his hand through his hair every time he spun back the other way.

  "Whatcha mutterin' 'bout?" Custus broke up the hay bale.

  "The little missy," he answered sarcastically.

  Custus dug the pitchfork into the hay and started flinging it into Jericho's feed trough. "Well, I got two greenbacks bet on ya."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "There's this here kitty in town. Ever since the judge ruled, most ever'one's been a-bettin' on whether you or the little missy'd come out on top."

  "I'd say I've come 'out on top' more," Montana said, remembering last night. "But that's not my problem now," he admitted.

  "What is?" Custus asked around his clenched cigar.

  Montana unloaded. "I tried every damn thing I could think of to get this place, and she's blocked me every time. I can't buy the place from her. She's got some harebrained female notion about making her fortune here. She won't leave, even at gun point. I've tried everything and finally, last night, I… well, let's just say I blew my last chance. She's beat me, dammit, and it's rightfully my land!"

  The old man stared at him for a moment, then he leaned on the pitchfork again and asked, "Why don't ya jus' marry 'er?"

  Montana stopped pacing and looked up, stunned. "What did you say?"

  "Get them taters outta yer ears, boy! I said, why don't ya jus' marry 'er? As 'er husband, the whole place'd be yers." He shook his bearded head and grabbed the milk pails, heading for the open barn doors. He walked past Montana, still talking away. "I don't see what yer all riled up 'bout. Seems downright simple ta me." He stopped and barked, "Now there ain't no reason ta swear at me, boy!"

  "I'm not swearing at you. I'm swearing at me, stupid me." Montana stood there, unable to believe that his problem could be solved so simply.

  Custus mumbled again, and Montana watched him leave, milk pails swinging alongside his squat old body. He wondered why he hadn't thought of this himself. It was the perfect solution, he thought, mentally listing her qualifications.

  She'd be a great wife, except for her cooking. He grimaced. But she was an entertaining little thing, and he was certainly never bored around her. For a city woman, she was a fine, hard worker. He smiled. Both in bed and out. Hell, he figured he'd have no problem living on baked apples and long, hot nights in that feather bed.

  That thought triggered the memory of last night and a certain moment that passed between them. For a brief instant she had looked at him as if he held her heart. That look had done something to him. It had touched a place he didn't want touched. He didn't want to care about her, but he did. He'd tried to get her off the place before this happened, before he cared enough to wonder about her after she was gone. And now he wouldn't only wonder about her, he'd probably worry about her. The damn fool woman would probably go read some book about ranching and get herself killed trying to brand a calf.

  Hell, it was probably his duty to save her from herself. It was hard for him to admit that she'd gotten to him, so he blocked out his thoughts of how she'd made him feel last night. Instead he concentrated on her looks. He liked the feel of all that dark hair, and her body might be miniature, but it was about as close to perfection as he'd ever seen. Her legs were shaped perfectly, her white skin—which he'd first thought of as citified—was softer than anything he'd ever felt. She responded to him last night like a match to dry wood. And she was pretty. Her small nose fit her pale little face perfectly, and she had great lips. His blood ran just a bit hotter when he thought about her mouth. And those big black eyes were more interesting than blue ones. They were harder to read, and there were times when they held secrets—secrets that he wanted to uncover.

  Like a little tick, this bit of a woman had wormed her way under his skin. So he figured he might as well make her part of his life. She already had a damn good grip on him. She sure could make him mad. There were times, like this morning, when he had to hold back to keep from throttling her. Instead he had throttled her with his cruel words. He frowned. He shouldn't have used those words with her, and the fact that he had used them bothered him. The only people who had ever angered him that much had been men, so in his red haze he'd lapsed into men's crude terms. For some harebrained reason, she could really piss him off. The woman got to him, but at least he wasn't bored.

  In fact, he'd probably have missed her prissy little face and airborne nose if his other plan had worked. Marriage was much better.

  Now that he'd given it some thought, he realized that was probably what had her all lathered up this morning. It made sense. He was a fool for not seeing it right away. She expected him to marry her. After all, they'd already had a consummation.

  That was it. No wonder she was so hysterical. Women always equated sex and marriage, so why should she, a little pistol of a librarian from Chicago, be any different? When he hadn't mentioned marriage by morning, she must have been fit to be tied. No wonder she'd tried to shift the blame to him. She'd felt guilty. In Montana's mind, there was no one to blame. What they had done was a natural act—acts, he added the plural—and the best damn natural acts he'd ever had.

  Well, now he had the answer to his problem. All he had to do was go back in there, tell her he'd marry her, and everything would be fine. Of course he'd have to apologize for his harsh words, but he reasoned that if she wanted marriage, she'd forgive him.

  He grinned, rubbing a hand over his chin and feeling that for once everything was going to work out. He winced at his rough chin. He needed a shave and to clean up a bit. If he was going courting, he should look the part. So Montana went into the small workroom where he'd made his bunk and set about getting himself ready. He was going to give Addie exactly what she wanted, and then he'd have exactly what he wanted, the whole damn farm.

  Addie squinted at the oval mirror. It didn't do any good. She bore the signs of what she'd done last night as sure as if she wore the word unchaste blazoned across her chest. Grabbing the blue bottle of face wash, she put some on a cloth and scrubbed her face for the fourth time. Now her whole face was bright pink, even the whites of her eyes. Turning her head this way and then that, she wondered if her lips would ever look the same again. She stretched them over her teeth and dabbed some petroleum jelly on the puffy, red parts. As she leaned to the left, a small little purplish-red bruise just below her ear glared back. Good Lord! It was just like the ones on her stomach.

  Quick as a lick, she buttoned the high lace collar on her shirtwaist. It didn't cover the mark. She jerked the long black hairpin from her topknot and pulled her brush through her heavy hair. She h
eaved a relieved sigh. Her hair covered it, but she'd have to wear it down. Grabbing the long sides, she twisted them and tucked a comb in just above her ears to anchor the rolled twists. Then she grabbed a big black sateen bow and pinned it to hold the sides back low on her head. The long hair that hung below covered the neck perfectly; except with her black hair held down by the bow, Addie looked twelve.

  But she wasn't twelve. She was a woman with whisker burns on her chin, puffy, overkissed lips, and an ache between her legs that wouldn't let her forget what she had done. It was no use trying to look normal. She'd never be normal again. She couldn't ignore it, though she'd tried. She couldn't cover up what had happened with a starched, lacy shirt, a prim black skirt, and undergarments that were pure white.

  No matter what she wore, Adelaide Amanda Pinkney would never be pure again. And God help her, but that was a hard thing to face.

  She sank to the bed, her shoulders sagging and her tense hands folded in her lap. The sunlight bled through the window, caught a rainbow from a prism that dangled from the bedside lamp and spilled color onto the white cotton rug atop the hardwood floor. The distant sound of Mabel and Maud lowing drifted through the open window, and the smell of dirt and chickens and eucalyptus whisked in on an occasional breeze. Everything around her was exactly the same. The eucalyptus trees still bent softly in the west wind, their leaves crackling together. The cows still bawled and munched and slobbered along in the grazing field behind the trees. The rich, brickish dirt in the north field still lay there, turned and awaiting seed.

  Inside the bedroom it was still the same. Cotton curtains still framed the windows, and the holland roller shades coiled at the windows' tops. The rug was the same, despite the rainbow light, and the bureau hadn't changed except for new layer of red dust. But Addie had changed. She'd given away her woman's gift to a man she barely knew, but loved. She finally admitted it.

  She did. She really loved him, this wild-eyed, long-haired, rude man who towered above her, whose smile could make her stomach jump, and whose wonderful hands could make her forget everything. Except what he made her feel.

  But she hated him too, hated him for being the one man for her. She hated him for making her face what she'd done, hated him for making her admit that what happened was just as much her doing as his, and hated him for being so crude. But most of all, she hated Montana Creed because he didn't love her back.

  In the harsh morning light Addie had to accept last night. She had tried to blame him for her actions, and all she'd gotten for it was a crude recap of exactly what she had done. No one had ever spoken to her that way, and it hurt that the one person who did was the man to whom she'd foolhardily given the gift of her body.

  Never, not one time, did he say the word love. Oh, he'd said want and need and crave and all those words, but he hadn't mentioned love.

  She had ached to tell him she loved him, wanted to say it over and over. And she had… mentally. Every time he moved his body in hers she had shouted a mental litany of love. But that hadn't eased the aching need to hear him say he felt that way too. So she'd not said the words. Fear of rejection, and her pride, wouldn't let her utter them.

  He was proud too, and that thought triggered another. Could that be why he had been so angry and rough this morning? Maybe he was waiting for her to say them. Like the light rainbow, a spark of hope spilled through her. Some of her despondency fizzled away. Maybe he had needed time to realize his feelings too.

  It was possible. She tried to remember if he'd ever once looked unsure last night, as if maybe he had been waiting. The only time she could remember was when he'd begged her not to stop him, and she hadn't.

  It would be just like the toad to make her say she loved him first.

  She stood and paced the small space between the bed and the bureau. Unlike a few minutes earlier, when her shoulders sagged in despair, there was life in her step and a distinct conviction in the sharp click of her heels across the floor. She'd made up her mind.

  At the mirror she fluffed her hair about her shoulders, then pinched some color into her cheeks. She pinned on her silver watch, tugged down her starched cuffs, wiped the wrinkles from her skirt, and somewhere, found the courage she needed. Addie marched out of the bedroom, knowing that she had to tell him she loved him.

  She had just reached the dining room when she heard a knock on the front door. She stopped, then circled the mahogany table and pinched back the dining room curtain. Montana Creed stood, rocking on his heels on the front porch.

  Her heart beat a bit faster and the room was just a little warmer. She checked the front of her starched shirtwaist, flipped the watch pendant over so the face was up, and walked to the door with a composed air she was far from feeling.

  Staring, with silver-dollar-sized eyes, she opened the door wide and gestured for him to enter. He walked in and her courage flew out. She closed the door and stood there, trying not to wring her silly hands. He stood in the parlor completely silent, and he looked wonderful. All dressed in black, he was hatless and his hair was damp and tied back. The dimple on his chin looked as fresh-shaven as his cheeks, and his strong neck, the one she'd buried her face in over and over, strained just a bit tighter. He was as tense as she. He fidgeted with the silver buckle on his belt, then shoved his hands in the back pockets of a pair of dark denims. He looked everywhere but at her.

  The air in the room was heavier than her plaster biscuits, and her mouth drier than that burned hunk of roast beef. He took a deep breath—she held hers—and finally looked at her. "I'm sorry about this morning. I was pretty hard on you, and I didn't mean to be so crude."

  He was apologizing. He'd never done that. "You were, but I wasn't…I mean I wasn't very nice either. I'm sorry too."

  The silence grew. Then he said, "We need to talk."

  She nodded.

  "Can I sit down?"

  "Oh, yes, of course." She walked over near the sofa and he followed her, then went over to the armchair and stood in front of it, waiting. She stared at the buttons on his chest for the longest time. He cleared his throat. Her gaze shot up. He looked terribly uncomfortable, then she realized he was waiting for her to sit. She plopped down on the sofa so fast she bounced. She settled in, her small hands gripping the carved wooden edge of the sofa, while he eased into the chair and bent his never-ending legs, resting his elbows on his knees and gazing at the floor.

  How did you tell someone you loved them? She thought about blurting it out, but that didn't seem right. And they were both being so formal. Finally, she opened her mouth and looked up.

  "I—'' They both spoke at the same time and immediately shut up.

  Addie toyed with the lace on her cuff, then looked up again. He looked as if speaking and marching to the gallows were one and the same.

  "You go first," she told him.

  He stared at his clasped hands. "Let's get married."

  She stared at his bowed head, her mouth gaping. My God, he did love her! A smile spread like rainbow light across her face. He loved her, wanted her to be his wife, forever. Addie felt as if the sun had just risen inside her.

  He finally looked at her. "What do you say?"

  That deep voice sent silly goose pimples all over her again. She vaulted from the sofa right into his arms. "Oh yes! Montana, yes!" She buried her head in his neck. He loved her!

  His arms closed around her and she heard him say, "We'd better do it soon."

  "Yes," she said into his wonderful, strong neck. She settled against his chest, her fanny perched on one knee and her arms locked around his neck, and she smiled shyly. "Now tell me why." She had to hear him say the words.

  "Why soon? Well, because—''

  "No, silly." She grinned at him. "Why you want to marry me." Her finger traced a button on his shirt.

  "Uh… because of what happened."

  "And… ?" she asked expectantly.

  "Well… because it's a good idea."

  Addie frowned. "And… ?"

  "Bec
ause it's… it's proper!" He sounded angry.

  Getting this man to say he loved her was like turning water to wine. He scowled at her, and she really didn't appreciate it. All he had to do was say the words.

  "Don't scowl at me, and since when have you cared about being proper?"

  "After what passed between us, it's only right."

  "You mean all the feelings, right?" she hinted.

  "Well, yes, it felt good."

  "You are so hard-headed!" She stood and planted her hands on her hips and glared at him, certain he was purposely doing this. "Why can't you just say it!"

  "What!" he yelled back.

  "That you love me!" she shouted.

  "I don't!"

  Her whole world died. It became nothing but a big, black empty hole, and she wanted to climb right into it. He didn't love her. After last night, after everything they'd done, he didn't care. Her veins felt suddenly empty, and her heart did too, but her chest was so painfully tight that Addie wondered for an agonizing moment if she would faint. Her hand had flown to her mouth when he'd shouted at her. She touched her lips and swallowed, trying to focus on something, anything in the room. She turned, her little body stiff as a tree, and moved toward the long parlor window.

  I will not cry! Her chin went up and she took deep, cleansing breaths while she stared out the window at nothing. Then it hit her. If he didn't love her, why had he just asked her to marry him? He had said something about propriety. He offered marriage only because he thought he should. Good Lord, what a horrible reason. It made her feel like a heavy weight hung around his neck, holding him down. She wanted to vomit.

  Still staring out the window she said, "You don't have to marry me, just because of what happened, Mr. Creed."

  "I want to marry you."

  She spun around and stared at him, not understanding him at all. "Why?"

  He began to pace. "Because it's just simpler! It'll be easier on both of us."