Weeping Angel

by Stef Ann Holm

  He wouldn’t talk.

  If she kept the conversation going in this direction, she would be forced to carry it. But the subject was worth pursuing, and she tried once more. “It would be nice to have family you could write to or visit. My aunt Clara was the last bit of close family I had. My father’s side is spread out in the Midwest, and I don’t really correspond with any of them. I can’t imagine you writing a letter. But if you did, where would you post it? I mean to say, where does your family live?”

  Frank snipped a daisy in his fingers, the petals looking fragile in his strong fingers. “I can appreciate what you’re trying to do, Amelia, but my family is dead, so there’s no sense in talking about any of them.”

  Her chin rose from her knees, and she turned her head to gaze at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Tossing the flower/he frowned. Then he met her sad expression and his face softened. “Ah, hell. You can be sorry for Harry, but not for Jack and Charlotte.”

  “Who’s Harry?”

  “He was my brother.”

  “Oh. . . . And Jack and Charlotte?”

  “My parents.”

  “When did they die?” she asked, wondering how long he’d been alone. She still wasn’t used to the emptiness of her aunt’s house, even though Aunt Clara had been departed for two years now.

  “Jack and Charlotte died when I was nine.”

  “And your brother?”

  A play of emotion clouded his eyes. She felt his sorrow and knew that he must have loved his brother deeply. “Harry died when I was twelve.”

  “How awful to have lost him when you were sc young,” she sympathized. “Was he older than you?”

  “No.”

  She dared to press the issue further since he was beginning to talk. “How did he die?”

  “He drowned.”

  Growing reflective a moment, she did put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Frank. Truly.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged with a forced lift of his shoulders; she sensed he was trying not to show his sadness to her. “Well, it was a long time ago. I’ve gotten over most of the guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  He gazed at her, as if realizing the implication of what he’d said after the fact. His eyes studied her hand on his white sleeve. Then he smiled and said, “Let’s count clouds,” as if their prior dialogue hadn’t transpired.

  “Count clouds?”

  “Yeah.” Tossing his panama by the picnic basket, he leaned back, and her fingers slid across the fine fabric of his silk shirt. “Lay down.”

  She did as he asked. She put her feet straight out and her arms at her sides, just like Frank. A lodgepole pine shielded the sun from her eyes, and she was able to stare at the cobalt sky without squinting. There were cottony billows of clouds. Some were defined with curving edges; some looked like marshmallows and whipped cream pillows.

  “You can’t count all these clouds,” she said.

  “No, but that one there”—he pointed—“looks like the Widow Thurman.”

  Amelia glanced at him. He was grinning.

  “The Widow Thurman happens to be an acquaintance of mine.” But she couldn’t keep a straight face.

  He kept the corners of his mouth turned up but said, “How come you don’t have any friends your own age?”

  She stared ahead again, her smile fading. “I don’t have anything in common with women my age.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’ll be twenty-five this December. And you?”

  “Thirty next month. Why don’t you have anything in common with younger women?”

  She was embarrassed to say, “They’re all married and have children.”

  He grew quiet for a moment, then asked, “Did you love that salesman?”

  She took her time answering, trying to figure out the best way to phrase her answer. “I thought I did.”

  “Pap told me what happened.”

  She turned her head toward Frank. “Mr. O’Cleary?”

  Frank shrugged. “Pap can be nosy.”

  Amelia put her gaze back on the endless sky. “One doesn’t have to be nosy in Weeping Angel to find out a person’s life history. Just drop a name or a hint, and someone will tell all. The problem is, most times, it’s retold in fabrication.”

  “Then you tell me. What happened?”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to. It was humiliating thinking about being jilted, much less telling the details aloud. “Let’s just say . . . I fell in love with the wrong man. Jonas wasn’t in love with me, and I was too stupid to see him for what he was.”

  “He was the stupid one, Amelia, for running off with that dancing girl from Charley’s shebang. Pray would have done much better to stay with you.”

  Gentle tears stung the backs of her eyes as Frank slipped his hand in hers. “I always thought Jonas Pray was a fine person because of his calling selling Bibles and books about scriptures. But now I recognize it doesn’t really matter what a man does for his living that makes him decent. A true man is one whose goodness is a part of himself. It doesn’t consist of the outward things he does but in the inward things he is. And no occupation can change that.”

  Frank was quiet a moment before saying, “You keep talking that way, and I might believe you.”

  “You should believe me.” With her fingers entwined in Frank’s, Amelia stared at the summer sky of clouds. “I saw the way you were with Jakey and Daniel in the saloon, letting them pretend they were grown-up. Most men would have been bothered by them.”

  “Who’s to say I wasn’t?”

  “You can talk a good story, but you can’t lie.” She faced him. “Not even about cattails. I wouldn’t have found out you weren’t the one who picked them. But you told me.”

  He shrugged while gazing forward.

  “And there’s Mr. Weatherwax.”

  This time, Frank tilted his nose in her direction. “What about Cobb?”

  “You don’t really mean it when you tell Mr. O’Cleary not to give him free drinks. I myself have seen you slip him a few without any charge. Not that I condone what you’re pouring. But I think you only pretend to be gruff with him to save face. You know he doesn’t have anyplace to call home, so you try and make the saloon welcoming to him. And the reason you played baseball was because you didn’t want to let Mr. Weatherwax down.”

  Frank skeptically arched his brows, then returned his gaze to the blue above. “Is that what you really think?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Nobody’s ever taken the time to figure all that out about me before. You make me sound like a nice gent to know.”

  “You are, you ninny.”

  Frank’s thumb grazed her finger. “The way you’ve got me pegged, I’ll be hearing harp music when I kick off instead of smelling smoke.”

  “Well, of course you will.”

  A reflective silence blanketed them as they watched, hand in hand, the clouds move along. The sun’s toasty rays melted through Amelia’s clothes, making her tired and comfortable to just lie there in the serenity of the afternoon. She became drowsy and fought against closing her eyes.

  “You mustn’t let me fall asleep.” Then with reluctance, she added, “We should probably go soon.”

  “I won’t let you fall asleep,” Frank assured her, but his voice sounded tired and peaceful to Amelia’s ears. And for the first time, content.

  * * *

  Frank dozed off. When he awoke, he saw the sun had set. Hidden by the treetops, all that was left was its fiery orange glow in the remote distance.

  Instantly awake, he turned his head. Amelia’s eyes were closed; her breasts rose and fell as she took in soft breaths. He had to wake her, but was finding it difficult to disturb the mesmerizing picture she made. Her creamy skin was pinkened by the sun; her mouth rosy and full. He felt something stir deep inside him. The sensation pained him and left him hot, with a weight on his chest so tight he could barely breathe, even though he was sucking air into his lung
s. Jesus . . .

  He was falling in love with Amelia.

  For a moment, he let the revealing thought govern his mind without diluting the emotional implication. The day Harry died, Frank had closed off the feeling part of himself. He’d buried his heart with his brother, thinking there would be no one else he could commit his love to.

  Frank had been wrong.

  Amelia’s talk about goodness and decency had gotten to him. He hadn’t wanted to consider what she was saying could be the truth. She had to be wrong about his character. Most of the time, he was irritated by Jakey and Daniel. And there was that remote possibility she could have found out he hadn’t picked the cattails or gotten her the frog. As for Cobb, Frank only put up with him because he was amusing. Nothing more. The baseball game had appealed to him enough to go along with it.

  There was an explanation for everything, and she couldn’t make more out of him than he was. But she’d had him believing that no matter what he did for a living, he’d be worthy of her. In her view, he was kindhearted. Well, if he was so kindhearted, why didn’t he just give her the upright?

  Frank sat up and sank his fingers into his hair. There were some things about him that she couldn’t gloss over. So where did that leave them?

  Gazing at Amelia, Frank had no answer. All he knew was, he wanted to enjoy the present. He’d know how to manage the future when the occasion arose.

  Frank plucked some of the yellow and white daisies and put the stems between Amelia’s toes until she wore flower shoes. She twitched, then wiggled her feet.

  “Amelia,” he whispered, awakening her with the touch of a daisy on her cheek. “It’s time to wake up.”

  “Mmmmmm?” she moaned dreamily.

  “We fell asleep.”

  “We did?” she murmured, her eyes flitting open as he put another stem between her big toe and the one next to it. Her toes curled. “What are you doing?” she giggled. “That tickles.”

  He grinned. “Are you ticklish?”

  “No.”

  “Are, too.” Then he held on to her ankle and began to feather his fingertips on the sole of her foot.

  Amelia screamed and laughed and squirmed. “Stop it! Stop it! Oh, let go!”

  “Not until you promise never to sing ‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!’ again.”

  “Y-You didn’t like it?”

  “No.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Promise not to,” he said through her giggles.

  “I-I promise not to—Oh my goodness!” She stilled despite the fact he hadn’t given up his assault. “Stop. Frank, you have to stop.”

  From the serious expression on her face, he did. “What is it?”

  She sat up, her eyes wide. “Oh, my goodness . . . my corset.” She put her palm on her stomach and averted her gaze from his. “My corset string broke!”

  “How in the hell did it break? Aren’t those things supposed to be indestructible?”

  “No . . .” She shut her eyes. “I redid the laces this morning, and I must have made them too tight.” Her lashes flew up. “What am I going to do? It’s almost time to start the ceremony. I’m going to have to go home.”

  “From the look of the sky, you don’t have time to go home and get another corset on. You’re supposed to play the piano at sundown. It’s that now.”

  “This is awful,” she cried, a tremor to her voice. “I can’t let anyone see me like this.”

  Frank crossed his legs and sat Indian style. “Undo your dress then.”

  A pink stain suffused her cheeks. “I-I beg your pardon?”

  “Undo your dress, and I’ll tie the broken lace in a knot.”

  “But you can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because you’d see me half undressed. And . . .”

  “Sweetheart, I think I can control myself to tie the lace and have you put yourself back together.”

  “It’s just that . . .”

  “You don’t have any choice if you’re going to make it to that ceremony in time. Unbutton your bodice.”

  He saw the uncertain lump in her throat as she swallowed, then she raised her hands to her neckline. Her fingers hovered over the decorative pearl buttons a moment before she got up the nerve to actually unfasten one. “Close your eyes.”

  “How can I see what to fix if my eyes are closed?”

  “It’s improper if your eyes are open.” The slowness to which her hands were moving—obviously done to try and save her modesty—had quite the opposite effect on him. It was like a honky-tonk gal doing a strip down, teasing him with every slow and drawn-out move.

  He couldn’t tear his gaze from her hands. His own fingers started to tremble, and he knocked her hands away so he could unbutton the bodice himself. Quickly. “Christ, Amelia, you’re not fast enough.”

  Her mouth fell open as his fingers brushed the warm skin where her breasts created a slight valley. He tried to think of something other than the smooth satin feel of her beneath his fingertips. He tried to keep his gaze from lingering on the neat blue ribbon bow nestled in her cleavage and the lace edge of her corset cover. He had to keep a level and calm head. Think about something distracting. Something safe.

  Saloon fights.

  Bare knuckles scraping skin. He wanted to caress her sweet skin with his knuckles.

  Bloody noses. His blood was boiling for her.

  Windows breaking and glass shattering. His resolve was shattering like glass.

  “Hell, I can’t do it!” he groaned, and pulled his hand away. “Finish it off, for chrissake.”

  There were only several buttons left, and she did so. “Turn around.”

  “What for?” he said through teeth clenched so hard, his jaw hurt.

  “I have to pull my sleeves down to my waist.”

  “Oh, God . . .” That image did it, and he turned to stare into space. His pulse was pounding out of control. He tried to think of anything to make him blot out the scene taking place behind him. But he couldn’t. So he reasoned with himself the best he could. If he touched her, he’d be a goner. Go over the line with this woman and the next step was marriage. She would expect it, and so would every gossipmonger in town if they found out. But the feel of her in his arms was almost worth the risk of discovery.

  Anything and everything made him think about Amelia when he heard the rustling sound of fabric slipping from her arms, and no doubt pooling at her waist. Then came the quiet whisper of cambric as she took off her delicate corset cover.

  “Okay. Turn around.”

  He did and was presented with her back. Her shoulders were naked except for the embroidered muslin straps of her chemise. He attempted to stay focused, but it was too much. Just too damn much. Without trying to talk himself out of it, he lowered his head and kissed the tantalizing bare skin at the nape of her neck where her hair was falling out of its twist.

  She stiffened with surprise.

  He stopped, his mind speeding like a kicked-off shot from a gun. Words like danger and explosive were flying through his head. If she hadn’t swayed toward him, her neck arching against his shoulder, he wouldn’t have kissed her again. But she did. So he did.

  Jesus, her skin was sweet against his mouth. He slipped his hands around her waist, the fine satin of her corset sending an erotic tremor through his fingers. Turning her face toward his, a soft gasp left her throat. Their lips touched. He explored her curves, resisting the temptation of her breasts. If he touched her there, there would be no going back. Lowering his hands with slow exploration, he felt a daisy that had fallen in her skirt, and picked it up.

  Leaving her mouth, he burned with fire. Her accelerated breathing made her breasts rise and fall seductively. He took the flower and dragged the ruffled petals across the milky white swells . . . higher, to the graceful column of her neck, and lastly, her cheek. He would have pulled her into his lap and pressed his lips over hers, had he not heard a rustling sound in the distance.

  He froze.


  Looking up, he peered into the brush. He found it empty.

  Amelia didn’t move, her body still touching his. Apparently she didn’t hear the noise. But he’d been in this clearing too often to know the sound was not natural to the area. Something was there, but who or what, he wasn’t sure.

  He was thinking about investigating just when General Custer came trotting out of the shrubs and went toward the river. He lapped up some water and turned around to sit on the cool sand. The yellow dog was panting and probably would have laid down, but a pop-pop-pop from an exploding firecracker came from the picnic grounds and sent the dog off once more.

  The distraction ended up being Frank’s saving grace. “I guess I can’t control myself. If that hadn’t been a dog in the bushes, we would have been in deep shit.” His heart was pumping double time, and he realized just how probable being discovered was. He had to get her out of here. Now. “Hold still and I’ll fix the string,” he said in a tone harsher than he intended. He needed to get a grip on his emotions and put a stop to his thoughts of pressing her down in the flowers.

  Wordlessly, she turned her back to him. She shivered, and he felt as though he’d let her down. Was she crying? Scared? Angry with him? He would have given anything to pull her into his arms, but didn’t. Couldn’t.

  Drawing on his willpower, he gazed at the double-knotted bow at the top of her corset. The frayed ends were out of several eyeholes, leaving a gap in the back.

  Though he’d taken it upon himself to know the basic mechanics of woman’s clothing, he’d never had to fix a broken corset string before. “What do I do with it?”

  “Un . . . Untie the top,” she breathed lightly, “and loosen the lacings. You’ll have to bring the severed ends together and tie them in a knot.”

  He did as she instructed, keeping the conversation on anything other than what was really on his mind—like kissing her. “Why are the laces on these things in the back? You’d think they’d be in the front, where you could adjust them or whatever.”

  Her voice was still labored when she spoke. “Normally,” she said in a feathery tone, “a lady doesn’t have to do anything to the laces once she establishes them to the form of her body.”