by Vanessa Vale
The next morning, when I came to the back door, I saw her in the crowded kitchen. She had dark smudges beneath puffy eyes. She'd either cried all night or cried herself into a fitful sleep—and it had been all my fault. Miss Trudy came to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. The scent of bacon and frying potatoes came through the open doorway.
“Good morning, Jackson. I expect you're here to see about the wagons for town?”
I'd never come up to the house about it before, only hitched the horses to two wagons so that all of the women could get to church. It seemed I had an ally in my attempt to court Hyacinth, for Miss Trudy could have asked me outright if I were here to see Hyacinth. From the way she'd rejected me the night before and how miserable she looked at present, I knew she would meet me only on the porch and solely because she was polite.
“Yes, ma'am.” I removed my hat as I spoke.
“We will need two wagons, please,” she said as she arched an eyebrow, then spoke up so her voice carried. “Hyacinth will remain home from church today.”
I looked around her small frame to catch a glimpse of Hyacinth once again. She was folding napkins and would not meet my gaze.
“Perhaps you will sit with Miss Seabury this morning?” Miss Trudy asked. While she could not see Hyacinth behind her, I saw her visibly stiffen. She was listening intently, for she crushed a cloth napkin in her grip, realized her action and had to smooth it out on the table before folding it again.
“Perhaps,” I replied. When Hyacinth hastily left the kitchen, I knew she was riled. I offered Miss Trudy a small smile of thanks. “Perhaps, I'll stay behind instead as well.”
“Do what you think is best,” she replied.
I widened my eyes at her surprising words. She was giving me her permission, her approval, to claim Hyacinth. To visit her without a chaperone.
I nodded and put my hat back on my head. “I'll have those wagons ready.”
Two hours later, I watched the wagons—and the Lenox women—disappear over the slight rise before turning to look at the house. Somewhere within was Hyacinth. I knocked on the back door as I usually did, but I received no response. I knew she wasn't with the others going to church and I had not seen her leave the house. She was ignoring me.
I opened the door and went into the quiet space of the spotless kitchen. The scent of breakfast lingered, but nothing else. After spending time with the Lenox women, they could easily be their own army platoon. Surely if they'd been in charge Indian negotiations would have gone much more smoothly and with many fewer casualties.
A grandfather clock ticked in the front parlor. I listened intently and no sound came from upstairs. Slowly and quietly I ventured up the steps, never having breached this women-only area of the house. The home was large to accommodate such a big group and it seemed all of the bedroom doors were open. Within, bits of individual feminine touches abound—ribbons, a dress over the back of a chair, a colored quilt, dried flowers hanging on the wall. I walked to the end of the hall and to the only closed door.
I heard something from within, but I couldn't discern the sound. Then I heard a soft moan, as if someone was hurt. Since it was only Hyacinth in the house, I had to assume she was injured. I opened the door without knocking, worried. The knob slammed against the inner wall as I stepped inside. It was the washroom and there, sitting on the side of the tub was Hyacinth, her skirt bunched up about her waist, her hand on her pussy. Her white drawers were on the floor at her feet. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin dewy with sweat as her hand.
I observed all of this from one second to the next. I'd startled Hyacinth and she'd moved her hand away from her pussy—I could see glistening pink lips and dark hair— and stood, her skirt falling back in place.
“Jackson!” she shouted.
Now, instead of being flushed with arousal, she was beet red with mortification, for I'd caught her playing with herself. While she was stunned, I was thrilled and I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face.
“Don't stop on my account. I heard a moan and I worried that you were hurt, but it seems I was completely wrong.”
“I...I'm sorry...you scared...Jackson!”
She was absolutely stunning in her flustered and aroused state.
“You missed our meeting last night. Were you busy in here instead?”
“Of course not,” she replied, her chin raised, as if I asked her if she'd eaten the last of the eggs, not learning how to get her pussy slick and wet.
“Show me, love.”
“Show you?” She tried to work her way around me, but it was easy to block her path. She was not leaving the room until we came to an agreement—that she would be my wife.
“Sit back down and show me your pussy. It was nice and wet and I want to see it.”
“You saw?”
“That you have a cute little mark on the inside of your thigh?”
“Jackson!” she cried again and stomped her foot. I loved hearing my name on her lips, but I longed for it to escape as she found her pleasure.
I closed the distance between us and took her chin in my hand, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Show me, Hyacinth.”
She shook her head even with my hold. “No, I can't.”
“I've heard this before from you. Can't or won't?”
“Won't. Because it's not right.” She looked off to the side, not meeting my gaze. If she looked me in the eye, was she worried I'd see the truth? “Can't because I'm not the one for you.”
“Why, Hyacinth? Why?”
“It doesn't matter,” she cried, her face contorting in pain.
“It doesn't matter? It's everything.” I let her go and she turned her back on me. “It's the only thing keeping us from being together.”
“I'm not worthy!” She went to the window and looked out. With the sunlight streaming through, I could see the tears on her cheeks. While I'd said I'd spank her the next time she belittled herself, I wanted to pull her into my arms and comfort her instead, but this was not the time for either.
I thought she was worthy, more than worthy. I was the lucky one that she even glanced my way. I employed her own tactic and remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
“I don't deserve to be happy. You make me happy and so I shouldn't be able to have you.”
Her words gave me hope, but their underlying pain made me want to throttle her and hug her close in equal measure. “What did you do?” I kept my voice low and calm.
When she didn't respond, I prodded once more. “Hyacinth Lenox, what did you do?” This time my voice was deep and stern. If I was to be the one in control, then she had to know it.
She turned to look at me. “I...I killed my friend Jane.”
This was not what I'd expected. Perhaps she'd been a little wild when she was young and cut off one of her sister's braids. That's what I thought was the depth of her actions, but not this.
“What do you mean you killed your friend?”
She crossed her arms over her chest in a show of defiance and perhaps personal protection. “We were swimming in the creek, at the bathing spot where it's a little deeper.”
I knew the spot, for I'd gone there myself.
“There must have been some kind of thunderstorm further upstream. The weather was fine; hot and clear. That's why we went in the water, because we wanted to cool off. While we were playing, a rush of water came at us. It was muddy and filled with branches and logs and it washed us downstream. It came out of nowhere, Jackson!”
I'd seen a flash flood before, the way it took out everything in it's path. It was destructive and deadly and if caught unawares, a person would be doomed. With what she described, how had Hyacinth survived? I went to her then, took her in my arms as I'd longed to do for so long. She fit perfectly against me so I rested my chin on the top her head. Her breath fanned my neck. I could feel her breasts mold to my chest. She was warm and lush and soft and...perfect.
After a few calming breaths, she continued. “As I said, we were
“And Jane?” I knew the answer, but I had to ask.
“I'd been slammed into the branch while she was carried past it. The last I saw of her, a log had spun around and hit her in the head. She went under. I don't know if she came back up for air, but...but I never saw her again. She was found a mile downstream. Dead.”
A shudder went through her and I held her close. I'd gotten her in my arms and I wasn't letting her go now.
“It was a flash flood, Hyacinth. You didn't kill her.”
She shook her head against the front of my shirt. “I wanted to go in the water. She couldn't swim, but I talked her into it.”
“It didn't matter if you could swim or not. The water wasn't deep there. No one could survive something like that if luck or God didn't intervene.”
“Luck? It's luck I survived?” She didn't sound as if she believed me.
“You could have died just as easily. Hell, I'm surprised you didn't.” I didn't like that idea one bit. “You were lucky. There's no other explanation.”
“And Jane?”
I sighed and stroked up and down her back. “Bad things happen, love, all the time. You've shut yourself off from the world because you're guilty you survived?”
She pressed against my chest for me to let her go, but I refused. “If I hadn't talked her into it, she would still be here.”
“She could have fallen from a horse, eaten tainted meat, gotten pneumonia. Anything could have killed her if it weren't the flood. Would you blame yourself if one of those things had befallen her?”
“No,” she replied.
I pushed her back from me with hands on her shoulders, forced her to look at me. Not over my shoulder, not at my shirt, but directly in my eyes. “It's not your fault.”
She shook her head.
“It's not your fault,” I repeated. “What if it had been reversed? What would Jane think now if she survived and you'd died instead? Would she think it had been her fault?”
“No, of course not. She was the nicest and sweetest person,” she added.
“And you're not? You're not kind to your sisters even though they poke fun? You're not kind to me by bringing me and my father coffee and biscuits if we've been up late with a foaling mare? You're not kind to Chance and the ladies in town and everyone you meet?”
“It doesn't matter. It was my choice.”
“This morning, the wheel on one of the wagons was loose, but I fixed it. What happens if it breaks and the wagon tips on the way to church? Your sisters could be hurt or killed beneath the weight of it. You remained behind at your choice. Would it be your fault then that you survived and they didn't?”
Her mouth fell open at my words. “No, but….”
“Think, love. Would Jane blame you for the flash flood? Was the weather upstream your fault?”
“No.”
“Then why are you blaming yourself?”
Tears welled in her eyes, then overflowed, coursing down her cheeks. I rubbed them away with my thumbs. “You deserve happiness, Hyacinth Lenox, and I vow to give it to you.”
She cried against my shirtfront and I just stood there and held her, stroked her back.
“All right,” she said eventually.
It was my turn to pause and set her away from me. My heart rolled over in my chest. “Did you say 'all right'?”
She offered a watery smile and she nodded her head. “Yes.”
I grabbed her and pulled her in for a kiss. With the eagerness and surprise and anticipation of our first kiss, I should have mauled her mouth, our teeth clacking, my tongue plundering immediately, but I didn't. I lowered my head slowly and watched as her eyes dropped to my lips, then fell closed as I brushed the lightest of kisses upon her mouth. She gasped at the contact. While I seized the moment and let my tongue dip into her mouth, I did it gently, tenderly, licking into her, learning her. She melted into me, her body going soft and relaxed, her hands gripping my biceps. I could have kissed her all day, but I couldn't. Not yet.
“Now then, love, show me what you were doing when I came in.”
Her eyes opened at my words. “Jackson, it's not appropriate.” Her voice was soft and sultry and I liked it very much.
“You can show me now or after we go into town and get married.”
CHAPTER SIX
HYACINTH
I gasped and shook my head. The tears returned, but this time for a different reason entirely. I wasn't sad or guilty or heartbroken. I was happy.
“Am I always going to make you cry?” he asked, his voice more tender than I'd ever heard it.
I smiled at him, and then laughed. The hard glint to his eye, the stiffness in his shoulders was now gone. All I had to do was agree with him that I wanted to be happy—with him—for the real Jackson I knew to return. I'd made him hard and reticent, a fighter working to claim the prize. Me.
Sharing the horrible incident that happened to Jane and me had been liberating. Freeing. Looking back, I'd only seen it one way, through the eyes of a fourteen-year-old girl, and I'd kept that view as I grew older. What Jackson had urged me to consider made sense. I hadn't been at fault. It had been a tragedy that I would never forget, but Jane wouldn't want me to continue to go through life without actually living it.
I hadn't even known there could be more until Jackson arrived. Then, only then, did I wake up, like a princess from a fairy tale. The joy in that made tears fill my eyes. I rarely cried, or I’d never cried until Jackson came along. It seemed he was able to bring about all of the emotions I'd tamped down all this time. “I think I'm almost done.”
He reached out and tugged me to him once again; this time instead of keeping his hands at my waist, they moved lower to cup my bottom, his fingers working the long fabric of my skirt up my legs one inch at a time.
“What are you doing?” My eyes widened the further up the skirt went. I felt the cool air on my calves, then the back of my knees, then higher still.
“You were pleasuring yourself. I want to watch.”
The idea had the heat returning to my skin, my nipples tightening as I once again grew aware of the slickness on my thighs. “As I said, it's not right.”
“There's nothing wrong with learning your body, love, and finding out what makes you feel good. I'm to make you happy, right?”
I frowned, but nodded, for that was true.
“What's wrong with letting me see? I need to know what you like so I can make you happy. You were playing with your pussy. I loved how your legs were splayed open and I saw a flush to your cheeks. Was your clit hard?”
I didn't respond, but he didn't seem to mind, but just kept on talking even as his hands continued to lift my skirt. His voice was almost mesmerizing, his words tantalizing, and even though I shouldn't be allowing him these kinds of liberties, my body didn't seem to mind.
“I saw your fingers were wet, your thighs coated in your arousal. You were so wet I could hear it.”
His hands had the back of the skirt bunched up about my waist, my bottom and my legs completely exposed. Bringing his hands around, they moved to the front and he tossed the long swath of fabric over his lower arm.
“I don't have the honor of touching your pussy. Yet. You can and you will. Sit back down on the side of the tub, spread your legs and show me.”
I wanted to please him. I really did. I also wanted to feel that good again. I had found how to pleasure myself, how by touching between my legs my body became soft and pliant and I was wet...there. Just as Jackson had said when we stood out in the field. I hadn't expected it to be addictive, the feelings just touching myself elicited.
“You liked it, didn't you, love? I could see it on your face. You've done it more than once, touching your pussy.”
I'd been good and caught and I couldn't deny it. My drawers were on the floor at our feet. “I did like it. I never knew.”
“It was my words that directed you to touch yourself to begin with.”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Have you made yourself come?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
He grinned then, broadly. “Good, I get to watch your first pleasure. Don't worry, I'll tell you how.”
My curiosity and the interest in feeling so good again outweighed the debate. Jackson would get his way in this, for he hadn't done anything truly untoward, only steered me toward pleasure. We were in private, very much alone, and instead of tugging me off to the nearest bed; he'd only kissed me. Nothing more.
This was decadent, but it was Jackson, and for some reason that made all the difference in the world. My body had been well primed before he'd interrupted and I was eager to continue. Because of this, I stepped away from him and sat on the side of the tub again. I had to tilt my head to look up at him, so he moved before me and came down to his knees. Taking the front hem of my skirt, he lifted it again, tossing it so that while the fabric wrapped about my waist, the length of it fell into the tub on either side of me, allowing it to remain up and out of the way.
“I love seeing you bare for me beneath your skirt,” he breathed. “I don't think you should wear drawers ever again.”
My legs were together, but the dark curls were visible. Jackson's eyes were on that thatch and he slowly, very gently, placed his hands on my knees and began to spread them apart, inch by inch. My breath caught in my throat, as I knew my womanhood was being truly exposed to his gaze for the first time. I was embarrassed by being thusly seen, but perhaps the time before the mirror had made me adjust to being naked and open. It was the look on his face—dark desire—that had my legs becoming pliant. This was Jackson.
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