She folded the cloth neatly and placed it on his forehead before she turned away and continued to speak.
"See, most people don't cotton to me."
"Why not?"
The truth had a way of coming back on a person, and no amount of lying or pretending could ever change it. She knew that if she didn't speak the truth now, she'd be taken for a liar later.
"I was a come-by-chance child. I been wearin' my mama's sin all my life."
Silence followed her confession. Rallying her pride, she turned to face him. His eyes were open and he was watching her again, not with the jaundice she was expecting but with insight, as if he knew every detail of her life without being told.
“Tell me about your plans," he said softly, simply, closing his eyes once more.
Was that it? she wondered, filled with pride and fightin' words that she wasn't going to need. Didn't he care who he invited into his home? Or who he let tend him?
"I ... I been thinkin' on a small house here in the mountains somewhere. Someplace quiet and away from other people. Someplace new where no one knows me. But someplace where I can earn a livin', so I won't have to be on the welfare. And someplace close to a school," she added as an imperative afterthought. "Gotta have a school."
She went silent, thoughtful on the power of an education, wishing she had one.
"School?" Bryce urged her, sounding half-asleep.
"I wanna go to school. I want a high school diploma," she said. "I ain't sure what I'd do at college, but maybe I'd know if I finished high school. I mean, well, I wanna finish high school, and then if there's something special I wanna know about, I might wanna go to college too." She paused. "Anne went to school, didn't she?"
"Mmm," he mumbled.
"She's real smart, ain't she?"
"Like a tree full of owls."
"I like the way she talks. She talks educated."
“Talks a lot."
"So do you."
He opened one eye to peek at her. "Anne says the house is so quiet with just her and me in it, she has to cut on the radio or go nuts listenin' to dust fallin' on the furniture."
"Do tell. Well, she can take my end of your stick any day. You're always yapping at me."
"You need to be yapped at. She don't."
"Ya wanna hear the rest of my plans or not?"
"Yes," he said, closing his eye. "School, little house, no people."
She was debating how much more of her plan she was going to tell him when Buck entered the room.
"How's he doin'?" he asked. "Heard him hollerin' in here a while back, but I figured if you needed me, you'd start hollerin' too."
"Fever's broke and he's back to bein' peevish," she said, more in jest than serious. She'd actually enjoyed their last few minutes of conversation. It was nice to tell someone about her plans for the future, and to have that someone listen as if it mattered. "I reckon it's time for me to leave."
"No!" Bryce shouted, sitting straight up in bed.
"Where ya goin'?" Buck asked, much calmer than his brother. “You haven't slept all night."
"Don't I know it?" she said, standing to stretch her muscles. "But I got a job. It wouldn't do to miss my second day on a new job."
"Looty's? I could call her and explain. She'd give ya the time off . . . seein' as Bryce is the only young fellah in town who still flirts with her."
She turned an incredulous expression on Bryce. "You flirt with Looty, too?"
"She makes great biscuits," he said, lying back down on the bed. "Will ya come back here when you're done?"
"I think you should sleep, Ellis," Buck said. "Ya look worn out."
"Save your breath, Buck," Bryce said in a resigned tone. “Ya can't reason with her. She's got plans. The best we can do is just hang around to pick up the pieces when she falls apart."
“You can fetch me some turpentine, if ya have any," she told Buck, ignoring Bryce's words. "Make him stay in bed and sleep today. And give him lots of water to drink. He don't need the plasters no more, but he should have the cough medicine every few hours or he'll cough his fool head off."
“You ever taste that stuff you been pourin' down my throat?"
“You ever been quiet for more'n five minutes?"
Both men were quiet by nature. They'd spent days together without uttering a word. They looked at each other: Buck grinning and looking wise to the ways of nature; Bryce stymied in his stupefaction.
In Ellis's mind a shower came in second best to a full night's sleep. Her first real bath in two weeks revived her well enough for her to work far into the morning before she began to feel the ravages of thirty-six hours without sleep.
It was her heart that compelled her to ask Looty for more work that afternoon, and when the old woman firmly insisted that she take the time off, her mind and body rejoiced. She needed the money, but by noon she was no longer merely dragging her feet, she was plodding to get from one place to the next.
She wasn't sure how she got as far as the LaSalles', but when she turned the old truck onto the half-hidden road leading to the house, she felt pleased that she wasn't going to have to waste the time turning around to look for it again.
"Ellis," Anne said, standing in the doorway. "You don't have to knock on the door every time you come home. You live here now." She opened the screen door wide when Ellis appeared not to have the energy, and brought her into the house with one arm around her shoulders. "I put your things in Mrs. LaSalle's old room, second on the left. We haven't redecorated it yet—we wanted to do the nursery first—but the bed works fine, and right now that's all that really counts. You look beat."
She sighed, nodded, and let Anne go on chatting.
"Are you hungry? I could warm up some leftovers, or there's soup."
"Thank ya, but I ate some at Looty's." She smiled feebly at a thought and added, "She makes great biscuits."
Anne growled. "I know. I hear about them all the time. Mine come conveniently out of cans or boxes, and you'd think it was the crime of the century."
"How's Bryce?" she asked, allowing herself to be led up the stairs.
"Aside from a dry hacky cough and feeling drained, he seems fine. I won't ever take an onion for granted again," Anne said with a laugh. "Where did you learn how to do that?"
"The cough is dry, you say?" Her brain was too tired to register more than pertinent facts.
"The cough medicine works great, but when he does cough, he sounds like an old man with pleurisy."
Ellis frowned. “The chest rub should have broken that up."
Anne laughed. "He won't have anything to do with that stuff, and I can't say as I blame him. It makes my eyes water, just to think of it."
"Where is it?" she asked, stopping on the stairs.
"In his room." Anne looked confused and worried and could see that Ellis was in no mood to laugh.
She nodded, turned, and marched up the steps and into Bryce's room like a soldier on a mission.
"I ain't got the time nor the energy to be nursin' the fevers of a childish and ungrateful man," she announced, her arms akimbo as she glared at Bryce.
He was propped up in clean sheets and pillows with a newspaper spread across his lap. He'd been up to shave and shower and to change into a white T-shirt and . . . well, and whatever he had on under the sheets. He looked so handsome, so male, so . . . No! He looked well, she decided, trying to keep her mind on track.
"I see you're as jolly and pleasant as ever," he said, grinning at her like a barrel full of possum heads.
Ignoring him and the tingling low in her abdomen, she scanned the room for the mason jar of lard and turpentine she'd mixed that morning. It was standing in a pan of water that at one time had been hot enough to melt the lard.
"I'm goin' down to heat this up again," she told him. "And when I come back you'll be usin' it, or when the poison takes to your head again, I'll let ya die. Ya hear me?"
"There ya go sweet-talkin' me again," he said, unruffled. "I swear, Ellis, if ya
don't stop talkin' at me like that, I'm gonna fall head over heels in love with ya."
"You hush," she said, a hand to her midsection to settle a quiet riot of excitement. "Ya wouldn't know beans if ya had your head in the pot. Are ya enjoyin' your poor health?"
"I thought I might, but seein' as how it doesn't bring me any kindliness from my nurse, I'm thinkin' better of it."
"Huh, kindliness," she said disdainfully. "If it's kindliness you want, do as I tell ya and get well. I ain't got the energy to be sittin' up with ya night after night."
She stomped out of the room, down the stairs, and stood tapping her foot in the kitchen while she reheated the rub for his chest, her anger sustaining her. Childish, bull-headed man. Why was she bothering with him? He was no kin to her. He wasn't a friend. He was a nosy, intruding thief ….
She suddenly remembered the pouch of money, still in her coat pocket from the night before. She'd meant to find a proper hiding place for it, but . . .
She hurried down the hall and grabbed her coat from the peg rack near the front door. She squeezed the pockets and sighed with relief when she felt the distinctive bulge of her vast fortune. She frowned, trying to concentrate on the safest place to hide it.
With the ground frozen solid, she couldn't bury it, and with nothing in the world to call her own that was large enough to conceal it, her thoughts automatically turned to the truck. Bryce had found the space behind the loose seat back in the cab, but Ellis was a clever girl.
She was careful to look around for watchful eyes before she peeled back the loose black electrical tape covering a large gaping hole in the seat of the old truck. She removed a goodly amount of the padding, stuffed the pouch in the hole, and then replaced everything as it had been. She pounded the seat three times to restore the indentation that denoted years of wear, well satisfied that her money was safely vaulted away.
"This here's your last chance, Bryce LaSalle," she said a few minutes later, standing at the foot of his bed, the small mason jar of lard in her hands. “You act like a man and use this, or I'm washin' my hands of ya."
She was so tired, she could hardly see straight. Whether he used the rub or not was fast becoming a moot issue.
"Ah, Ellis," he whined, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Askin' me to slather that stuff on my body is like askin' me to slit my own wrists. No. Now don't go gettin' all huffy on me again. I don't want ya to be thinkin' that I'm unmanly or ungrateful. I just can't do it to myself, is all." He pushed the sheets low and, pulling the white T-shirt high up on his chest, he added, "But I'd sit quiet and let you do it."
Her eyes lowered to the great expanse of warm golden flesh over tight rippling muscles, then followed the tapering line of coarse black hair to the sheets. She swallowed hard, then met the challenge in his eyes.
She had an urge to shake the tension from her limbs, but stood as stiff as a statue instead. She wanted to laugh hysterically and run away screaming. At the same time, she wanted to look him straight in the eye, do the deed, and walk away untouched. But she couldn't meet his gaze as she inched to the side of the bed and sat down. Her hands trembled when she filled her fingers full of the tepid mixture from the jar and brought them slowly to his chest.
Her fingers tingled with life when she touched him. He sucked in air as if he'd been burnt. She pulled back and glanced up. His gaze met and captured hers in a microsecond. Fire and passion in degrees she'd never seen before flamed within him. Intense, unbearable heat escaped the confines of his body, permeating time and space, scorching her with a stare that held her locked in place, a willing prisoner.
Her heart raced hard and fast; her breathing was ragged and irregular. Her mouth was dry, and her whole body trembled when he took her hand in his and slowly lowered it back to his chest, near the steady pounding of his heart. The muscles in her arms shook as wave after wave of desire and yearning passed from his body to hers and back again, charging her with excitement and a gnawing need deep inside.
He applied pressure to her hand to glide it slowly over his chest. The rub made the passage smooth and easy. He pressed her palm against his hardened nipple, and she watched with fascination as his pupils dilated, unleashing more and more of his passion. She pressed a little harder and grew bolder, like a child playing with matches. She ignited one explosion after another, mesmerized by the bright light, the heat, and the sense of power.
His other hand rose up off the bed. She felt the back of his fingers caress her cheek, gently, tenderly, as if she might break. It was a touch one would use on an object of great worth and enormous value, something precious and adored. It conveyed to her a reverence and admiration, a sense of being cherished. It blocked all thoughts from her mind and brought her senses spiraling freely to the surface of her consciousness.
His touch brought her intense pleasure, and her senses called for more. He stroked her again and again as he might a frightened, skittish animal, soothing and building trust. She closed her eyes and focused on the enjoyment, leaning her cheek into the source.
He traced the outline of her jaw and grazed the sensitive flesh under her chin. Her head lolled loosely to one side, and he drew a path of rapture down the column of her neck, and lower to just above her breasts.
He fanned his fingers, exploring and testing the size and shape of her. Across her shoulder, down her arm, along her thigh to her hip. He discovered her slim waist and fingered her ribs as his hand moved gradually upward, brushing the side of her breast, launching her mind and body into a wild state of cravings and urges.
She took a ragged breath and opened her eyes when his fingers curled about her throat.
"I'm gonna kiss ya, Ellis," he whispered softly.
She might have nodded. She couldn't be sure. She was aware only of the light pressure at the back of her neck and of his features drawing closer and closer to hers, of the consuming light in his eyes and of the urgency she felt. She wanted him to kiss her.
Their lips barely brushed each other. He sampled the taste of her with the tip of his tongue, savored it, indulged himself. Their mouths opened and came together. The flame flared, taunting destiny, provoking the fates, and defying providence. He pulled her tightly to him. Tongues met, one bold and enticing, the other shy and teasing. Passion blazed, and their bodies quickened.
Bryce broke away abruptly, turning his face to cough. When she tried to move away he stopped her.
"No. Stay. Please," he said, the cough short-lived. "Don't leave."
With one arm propped up on the pillow near his head and the other on his chest, she looked down at him, much the way she had the first time she'd seen him—in awe and wonder. She'd seen plenty of men, but none she thought more handsome. She'd been kissed, but never the way Bryce had kissed her. She'd been hungry, but never so ravenous that she ached as she did at that moment.
Bryce ducked a swag of her thick blond hair behind her ear and smiled into her eyes. "Amazin', huh?"
What could she possibly say?
She nodded, lowering her gaze from his to hide the depth of her amazement. She sat up and busied her hands, wiping the turpentine rub off each finger with a towel. Too late she noticed that she'd gotten some on the front of her cotton shirt. Brushing at the stain with the towel, she glanced at him. The quiet, gentle expression on his face shook the foundations of her life.
“Ya couldn't suffer alone?" she asked, hoping to change the look in his eyes, uncomfortable with the emotions she saw in them—even more uncomfortable with the emotions they stirred in her. "Ya had to get this gunk on me too?"
He chuckled.
“You laughin' at me?"
“Yes."
“Well, stop it. This is my best shirt, and ya ruined it. That ain't funny."
"No, it ain't. And I'm real sorry about that. But I ain't sorry we kissed. . . . And you ain't either."
"Who said I was?" She tossed her hair back indignantly and leveled a blue stare at him. It was a gesture she'd used often in the past, daring anyone who saw it to
call her bluff. It was foolproof.
"If you're tryin' to pick another fight with me, I won't let ya, Ellis. See, then you could say you were sorry we kissed and you could keep pushin' me away," he said, unperturbed. "But I got your number now, little Miss Prickly Bush. You ain't so prickly as you'd like me to think."
"I ain't prickly at all," she said, not quite able to hold her stare. She stood to screw the lid back on the mason jar. "Fact is, I think I'm a saint for puttin' up with ya these past days. I shoulda shot ya when I had the chance."
Silence bounced off the walls while they both vividly recalled that she hadn't had a gun to shoot him with in the first place. She turned her head slowly to look over her shoulder at the grin she knew he'd be wearing. A giggle bubbled up in her throat at his wry expression, and they burst into laughter together.
"You are the beatin'est man I ever met," she said, shaking her head in defeat as she lowered herself back to the edge of the bed. Feeling her exhaustion again, she was too weak to fight him any longer.
"Good," he said, well pleased with her, even more pleased with himself. "Assumin' that's your sweetest way of saying ya like me."
She studied him for a moment, pretending deep consideration.
"It's more a way of sayin' that I'm too tired and too confused to keep fightin' with ya," she said finally, stifling a yawn, coming as close as she could to admitting the truth about her feelings.
She started when she felt his hands on her shoulders. He was leaning forward in the bed, directing her back toward him as his fingers began to massage her weary, overtaxed muscles. She whimpered in exquisite discomfort, and he stopped.
"Am I hurtin' ya?"
"No," she murmured in a high-pitched sigh.
His fingers pressed tight muscle against bone, squeezing out the tension and stiffness, circulating a drugging relaxation that went straight to her head. Her eyes closed, her mind faded to a black emptiness, and her spine turned to rubber. Again she whimpered.
"Lay yourself down here," his voice came to her, soft and coaxing. She was easily turned and rolled facedown into the sheets.
She was vaguely aware of his movements and a faint alarm of danger drifted through a haze of wakefulness when his hands began to knead the pain low in her back and gently grabbed at her thighs and calves. She ignored it. She was perfectly willing to let him kill her with the pleasure and contentment he was inflicting.
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