She smiled at him, but he didn't see. Actually, he hadn't looked at her more than six times all evening. He'd been restless throughout dinner, jumping when spoken to, fiddling with but not eating his food, quiet and introspective in a way that worried Ellis. And then he'd left.
She'd bided her time, clearing the table and wistfully watching as Annie joined Buck at the sink to dry the dishes he washed, which she did frequently, as if any opportunity to stand beside her husband, to share any task with him, to talk softly with him was golden and not to be missed.
She had left them to their time together and crept upstairs to her room.
In her clear-thinking, deliberate, Ellis-like fashion, she removed the clothes she'd worked in all day and set out a nearly identical set that was clean. She didn't waste more than a minute or two wishing her underwear was the low-cut, flimsy sort she'd seen in catalogs before she changed into a fresh set made of sturdy cotton.
Dressed, she brushed her hair and pinched her pale cheeks so she wouldn't look as nervous as she was beginning to feel.
The birds Effie had told her about gathered their food using only the instincts the good Lord gave them. Ellis was praying that He'd given her equally keen senses to reap what she needed.
Bryce had left his porch light burning—she took it as a good sign. He greeted her at the door with a smile, and she was encouraged. But the situation went downhill after that.
He was cordial and talkative, showed her the cupboards he'd been working on and several other new additions he'd made since her last visit, but he was as fidgety as a cricket in a hot skillet. She followed him from room to room and watched as he turned on lights, fiddled with this, moved that, and dillydallied with something else—hardly looking at her and making it absolutely impossible to get within three feet of him.
What was she doing wrong?
“You don't need to wait till you're an old man, Bryce," she said, her voice soft with uncertainty. “Ya can boast all ya want right now. Ya've done a fine job. It's a grand house."
"Ya think so?" His glance flicked her way.
"I do. I'd be proud to call it mine."
"Ya would?" Hellfire! He'd made snappier conversation as a twelve-year-old!
"It's finer than any house I ever saw, 'cept Mr. Johnson's," she said, and then not wanting to detract from the compliment she added, "But his was old, and if it ever held any happiness in it, I never seen it."
Bryce looked at her then, a puzzled frown on his face, his eyes watchful.
"How come ya married that guy?" he asked after a few seconds of mental debate. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, and he was positive that it wasn't any of his business. Her yesterdays were hers. All he wanted was her today, every day for the rest of her life. "Why didn't ya go back to livin' with the old lady ya told me about?"
Granny Yeager. Ellis had gone higher up on the mountainside and deeper into the woods to live with Granny Yeager after Effie Watson had died. The old woman had outlived her entire family and had a hankering to give up the ghost herself—except that she couldn't seem to die at will. She'd taken Ellis in as a favor to Effie, who for many years had been the only soul who'd visit the reclusive old woman.
Granny Yeager had the power. She could heal anything that bled, and what she didn't she ate. Most folks were afraid of her, including Ellis at first. But like those who came to the widow in desperation and fear of losing a loved one, Ellis, too, had found it impossible not to believe in her.
In the three years they spent together, it was Ellis's considered estimation that they spoke fifty words to each another. Still, the woman had fed her, clothed her, kept her warm, and taught her a thousand miracles of nature—including the ones she'd used to break Bryce's fever and cure his cough.
All in all Ellis looked back on those years as being not so bad. She wasn't loved as she had been by Effie, but then she wasn't looked down upon or belittled in those years either.
When she was fourteen, Harlan Johnson had come to Granny's cabin asking for help. His wife was dying, and he didn't know how best to tend her.
Granny, old and set in her ways, was willing to send potions and give verbal instructions, but she wasn't about to leave her cabin for long. When Mr. Johnson pleaded with her, giving no indication of going away until he got what he wanted, she offered Ellis's services, assuring him that she knew enough to tend his wife.
"Granny Yeager didn't want me back," Ellis said simply, feeling no malice toward the old woman. "She told me when I left. I was fourteen. I could hunt and fish as well as she could. I could cook and plow and tend the weak. It was time for me to make my own way."
Bryce looked angry for a moment, opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and remained silent.
He reined back his temper, and in a voice that barely hid it asked, "Why didn't you? Ya coulda left Johnson's house once the wife died, right? Why'd ya stay?"
She waited to speak, vacillating between the truth and anything she could make up quickly that would hold water later.
The truth . . .
"I was afraid," she murmured, lowering her eyes to an unseen spot on the floor. When he didn't speak, and she couldn't stand not seeing his reaction, she looked up at him. His face held no expression. No anger, disappointment, or pity. Nothing. He just stood there, across the room, looking at her.
"I wasn't happy there," she said, the words bursting forth in her need to make him understand and not think less of her. "I wanted to leave. I was plannin' to. I ... In the things Effie saved for me—the things that were my mama's? There was a letter to her from her mama; my gran. I . . . used to read it. Over and over. She sounded like a fine woman, like . . . like I used to think my mama was. I used to . . ." She looked upward as if seeking the courage to admit her most grievous sin. "I used to dream about writin' to 'em one day. See, in this dream I had, I always figured they didn't know 'bout me, that maybe my mama forgot to write and tell 'em, or maybe she was keepin' me for a surprise. . . ." Her dreams sounded insane when spoken aloud. She went silent.
"Ya wrote 'em," he said, knowing her well. She nodded, her eyes downcast. "What happened, Ellis?"
"They didn't want me neither," she said, her voice a bare whisper squeezing past the lump in her throat. "They sent me back a hateful letter, telling me I was doin' a ... a cruel trick on 'em."
"So you stayed with Johnson."
She walked aimlessly beside the counter as if inspecting it, unable to stand still any longer and incapable of meeting his gaze.
"He talked to me about it, even before his wife passed on. He said he'd be needin' a body to keep the house and tend his family. He said that he didn't think he could rightly keep me, once his wife was gone, if he didn't make me his legal wife," she said, pausing, wondering how much of her married life she should tell him about. "I put him off for a while, hopin' my mama's people would . . ." She shrugged. "But then it didn't seem like I had much choice. I ... I was afraid I'd starve to death or ... or die in the cold. I—"
Suddenly she couldn't breathe, crushed in a bearlike hug with her nose pressed tightly against Bryce's chest.
"I want ya, Ellis. And I won't let ya starve or die in the cold. I won't let ya be lonely or sad. I won't let anyone hurt ya ever again." He took her face in his hand and said, "I don't want ya to leave me, Ellis. I want this to be your home. And I want ya to let me share it with ya."
He covered her mouth with his and kissed her hard, long, and thoroughly. He gasped for air and was about to do it again when he felt her lips moving against his, saying, “I reckon havin' a baby ain't so bad, compared to goin' insane."
"What?" he asked, his eyes still closed, his mouth still eager to join with hers.
"My plans," she murmured, her lips tickling his. "I wasn't plannin' on havin' a baby, but I can't take no more of this."
His head came back, and he frowned at her. "What are you talkin' about?"
She frowned back at him. "Babies."
"Well? What about 'em?"
<
br /> "Well, I wasn't planning on havin' none for a while, if ever. I . . ." She was about to tell him why, when he interrupted, a bit surprised and very amused.
'Well, I wasn't plannin' on havin' any right this minute either," he said, chuckling. "And we don't need to talk about 'if ever' right this second, do we?"
She groaned in misery and let her forehead fall dejectedly to his chest.
"I can't take no more of this," she complained. Effie had been right. Womanly urges were overpowering. They made her feel weak all over and were threatening to consume her mind in total darkness. "I got the commotion inside my body. I'll go insane for sure if I can't have ya."
He laughed and pulled her close. "I know the commotion. I got it myself." He raised her face to meet his. He kissed her. "I'm yours for the askin'."
"Now."
He grinned with joy at her impatience.
"You run upstairs, and I'll turn some of these lights off down here," he said, turning her toward the railless staircase and his bedroom on the second floor. He placed a string of kisses along the back of her neck, and when he felt her limbs go loose and jerky, he whispered in her ear. "I bet I can turn out all the lights and still beat ya to the bed."
He chuckled when she simply nodded and shuffled off. He didn't wait to watch her, but enthusiastically set about his task. In semidarkness, with a single light at the top of the stairs to guide him, he bounded up the steps two at a time and into his bedroom. He stopped cold at the door.
The light shown in on Ellis. She was stretched out on the bed, fully clothed except for her boots, and laid out . . . hell, like one of those sacrificial maidens he'd seen in books. Stiff, stoic, prepared for the slaughter— not exactly the zealous lover he'd been expecting.
"Ellis?" She turned her head to look at him. “You okay?" He saw her slight nod. "Nothin's wrong?"
"You're takin' a bit too long, is all."
Her bold words came out on a tremor of nerves and made him wary. He crossed to the bed and looked down at her. It was too dark to see into her eyes, and the rest of her face showed no signs of stress, only its soft smooth lines, the curve of her chin, and her sweet, sweet mouth.
He sat on the edge of the bed and reached out for her. He jumped back startled. She was as rigid and hard as stone.
"For crissake, Ellis, what's wrong with you?" he asked, gruff in his concern. He felt instant regret, and in a softer tone he asked, "Are ya scared of me?"
"No."
"Well, then . . ." This could get tricky. What if she thought younger men were bigger than older men? Or more aggressive, more ferocious in their lovemaking? And were they? he wondered, feeling incredibly warm all of a sudden. "... are ya afraid I'll hurt ya?"
She answered with a slow, "No."
"Can ya tell me what's botherin' ya, Ellis?"
"Ain't nothin' botherin' me," she said, growing testy with his delay. "I'm waitin' for ya to get at it."
At what? The sacrificial ceremony? He sat for a minute to ponder the situation, then finally got up and turned on the lights.
"I think we should have a little talk before ... I get at it," he said, none too sure of himself. He'd never had to explore a woman's sexual history before or, heaven forbid, explain the act to her.
She groaned, chafing with intolerance. There she was, freely offering herself to a man for the first time, and he wanted to talk!
He sat beside her once more. His palms were sweating, and his mouth felt as if it were stuffed full of cotton. "I wanna . . ." He cleared his throat. "I need to know how it was with you and . . . Johnson. You and your husband." Lord, he thought he'd never get it said. "Did he . . . did he hurt you?"
"Just the one time," she said, taking a closer look at him. Seeing his worry and distress, her frustration shifted toward curiosity.
"Which time?" he asked, filled with dread.
"That one time."
"Which one?"
"The only one."
She could have hit him in the face with a bag full of stones, and he wouldn't have been more floored.
"In five years? He only had you once in five years?" He stared at her in disbelief. How could anyone resist her that long?
"Only 'cuz he had to."
"What?"
"Well, he had to make the marriage legal, didn't he?" She was beginning to wonder if he was acting stupid on purpose. Was he stonewalling her? Didn't he want her the way she wanted him? "It was frightenin', and it hurt like the dickens for a while after he left, but once he got at it, it was over soon enough and he never did it again, not even ..."
"What? Not even what?"
"He'd been drinkin’ that night, and sometimes . . . when he was drinkin' he'd look at me strangelike, like he hated me more'n usual, like he wanted to hurt me again. I took to hidin' when he started drinkin', but he never did come lookin' for me again."
"Never . . . again." It wasn't sinking in.
"I told ya. He only married me in the first place so I could stay in his house and tend him without every livin' mother in the hollow ayakkin' ‘bout it. He didn't want me for bearin' children, just for doin' chores. He had sons that were grown and married already."
"There were two, right? And they all lived together," he recalled from previous discussions. "They needed three women to care for the house? How big was it?"
"Little bigger than your other one. Anne and Buck's place," she said, coming to a sitting position when she realized their little talk was going to take a while. "But Jewel and Patty—the other Mrs. Johnsons besides me—they always acted like they were born tired and never got rested. They just sorta followed the shade 'round the house and left the chores to me."
The picture of her marriage to Harlan Johnson was developing a little too clearly for him. Bryce didn't want to hear anymore. He wanted to love her so hard and so long that her years in the Johnson house would seem a five-second nightmare, done and gone. Trouble was, he needed to hear more.
"That night, Ellis, the one night . . . Can you tell me what happened?"
"What happened?" she asked, thinking it a queer question from a man who had an outstanding reputation with the ladies of Webster—if bathroom gossip was any indicator. She shrugged uncertainly, saying, "What always happens, I guess."
"Did he kiss you?"
"No. Not like you do," she said, trying to remember a dull, faded memory. "He smelled somethin' fierce, so I kept my face turned away. He slobbered on my neck a bit, but he was pretty loaded, it might not of been a kiss. Why are ya askin' all these questions?"
He studied her angel face, her clear blue eyes, and saw only her innocence and purity. She was a virgin-widow. Harlan Johnson had touched her body, but not her heart or her soul. Whatever the old man had done to her that night so long ago, she had perceived as a natural act in her mind. It had been unpleasant, even painful, but he had presented it to her as something expected of her, of all married women. He'd left her with misconceptions, not emotional scars.
Suddenly inspired, Bryce grinned at her.
"Let's try a new angle on this," he said. Showing was always better than telling. And seeing was believing.
"What?" she eyed him suspiciously, frowning at his strange behavior. Though she didn't know why she was frowning—his behavior was strange to her a great deal of the time. "What kinda new angle?"
He laughed softly as he stood and extended his hand to her.
“You laughin' at me again?" she asked, ready to feel hurt and insulted.
"No." Taking her hand, he brought her to stand before him. "I'm laughin' 'cuz you're in for a big surprise." Holding both her hands, he shook the still tense muscles in her arms. "Relax."
"I don't like surprises, Bryce."
“You'll like this one," he said. "I promise. And all you have to do is relax and trust me. Can you do that?"
She was dubious. "I'll try."
"That's my Ellis," he said, his voice low and throaty as he slid his fingers along her neck and into her hair, lifting her face to his. W
ithout a shred of fear in them, her eyes closed. His lips grazed hers.
She pulled back suddenly. "We're gonna do it standin' up?"
Green eyes met blue. His smile was debonair. "We're goin' to do it standin' up and layin' down. Hell, before we're done, we might do it upside down. Just tell me what ya like best. This ..." He kissed her neck below her ear and littered several more along her throat while he released the first two buttons on her cotton shirt. Dropping kisses low inside the opening, he asked, ". . . or this?"
'”Yes," she whispered, her breath short and gaspy. She liked it all. His every touch hit her like a brick of utter delight. Wild tickling sensations ran amok through her body, gathering and multiplying in her breasts.
"Good," he said. "What about this . . ." He opened his mouth over hers, plundering with his tongue, teasing and enticing. He pulled the tail of her shirt from the waistband of her jeans and pinched the rest of the buttons free. He lifted his head and waited for her to look at him.
The passion in his eyes was heart-stopping. Air caught in her throat like a solid object. Mesmerized by the strength of his desire, in awe of the potency of her own emotions, she lowered her eyes and simply watched as he pushed her blouse back over her shoulders.
". . . and this?" he murmured, his hands at her bra straps, stretching them low on her arms before he bent to taste the lush valley between her breasts again and again.
Her eyes were glazed with yearning; her lips were wet, kiss-swollen, ready to be taken again; her bare chest heaved with excitement.
He wanted to teach her about lovemaking. Not just the sexual act, but more. The careful building of trust and devotion. The painstaking construction of a relationship between two people that would endure until the end of eternity.
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