“My home?”
That got to him, since his face flushed red and his body stiffened. “I was under the impression it was our home. But maybe I was mistaken. Perhaps I’m only an employee, rather than a husband.”
She raised her chin. “Yes. An employee. That was our bargain, I would remain sole owner of the farm and you would be there to keep Rupert away.”
“Calliope, this is not the place to have this conversation. We’re drawing attention, and if you want to keep up this ‘pretend’ marriage, we need to stop bickering. Now.”
Of course he was right. If she wanted everyone to believe theirs was a love match, then she had to get her anger under control. She drew in a deep breath and offered him a slight smile. All that she could manage at the time with her heart thumping with anger. She refused to have another man take over her farm and her life. If she had wanted that, all she had to do was marry Rupert and be done with it.
Except there was more to it than that. The thought of Rupert’s hands on her naked body was enough to bring up the breakfast she’d eaten hours ago. Stephen had, indeed, saved her from that nastiness.
But it was still her farm, and he needed to know that.
The rest of the afternoon passed in relative peace. They avoided Rupert, who also avoided them, although he did glare at Stephen every once in a while. Based on what she knew about her neighbor, he wouldn’t give up so easily. He wanted her and he wanted her farm. He was the sort of man who got what he wanted. She shivered once again thinking about his hands on her.
“Are you cold?” Stephen regarded her from where he sat on the ground, leaning against a tree, his arms resting on his bent knees. They’d finished their plates of food and sat watching the children running around, enjoying the spring air.
One day she could have her own children enjoying the church picnic. However, in order to be a mother, she first had to become a true wife. If Stephen’s kisses were any indication on how skilled he would be in bed, her determination to keep him from her bed might not be so very wise.
“I am a little chilly.” She checked the tiny watch pinned to her dress. “It is getting late. We still have some chores to finish before bed.”
Why had she mentioned ‘bed?’ All that dwelling on it while she’d watched the children play had softened her brain. The look on her husband’s face told her he still planned on joining her there one night. So far he’d been sleeping on the small sofa in her bedroom. Each morning she shook out the sheets, blanket, and pillow he’d used, and stored them in the closet before Bertha entered her room to clean.
He rose and offered his hand for her to stand. Whether by accident or on purpose, he tugged a little bit too hard and she landed pressed against his chest. She licked her suddenly dry lips and looked into his shuddered eyes. Oh, dear. Surely he wouldn’t kiss her right here in front of everyone? She would be scandalized. Pulling back, she smoothed her hair back. “I need to fetch my basket from the table.”
Almost as if he’d read her thoughts, he tucked a curl behind her ear, then cast her a slow smile and nodded. “I’ll go with you.” He reached out and took her hand.
She was still seething, but would finish this difference of opinion on her farm at home.
The ride from town was uneventful, with both of them quiet with their own thoughts. She had to decide what she really wanted from Stephen. She’d jumped into this without much forethought and now she had a husband who wanted to take her to bed, who wanted to have a say in decisions, and gave her the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to take over.
That had not been her plan when she fled the very same situation with Rupert.
Her honest side chastised her for expecting the man to be no more than a puppet. He was a flesh and blood man, with feelings, wants, and desires of his own. She’d been so busy thinking about what she needed and wanted that she ignored the fact that Stephen McCoy was, in the eyes of man and God, her husband. With certain rights, whether she liked that or not.
She viewed him from underneath lowered eyelashes. A handsome, strong man, it would be no sacrifice to allow him to bed her. Especially based on the few kisses they’d shared. Just thinking of those kisses had her face heating.
But then would her feelings change? Would she fall over like a simpering female and allow him to rule her life? She’d often though her mother allowed her father to rule with such an iron hand because she was so in love with the man.
Once they arrived home, Stephen jumped down from the wagon bench and strode to the other side. Clasping her waist in his hands, he lifted her and slowly slid her down his body, all the time gazing into her eyes, almost as if challenging her. She knew her face reflected her uneasiness at his closeness.
“If you think I’m going to forget our discussion, you’re wrong.” She pulled back. “I’ll meet you in the parlor after you’ve put the wagon away.” She grabbed the basket from the back of the wagon and hurried to the house. He would not use kisses and smoldering looks to control her, either.
She stood staring out the window when he entered the parlor. He walked up behind her and placed his hands on her arms. “I don’t like to see you upset.” His soft words whispered near her ear sent goose bumps racing along her skin.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You agreed to allow me to keep the farm in my name, only.”
He turned her so she faced him in the circle of his arms. “I did. And isn’t that what happened? Have I asked you to change that?”
It was very hard to concentrate when he was so close. The scent of something spicy and warm that always surrounded him. The warmth of his body radiating out to hers. The softness of his much washed shirt underneath her palms where she held onto his arms. Strong muscled arms. She pulled away.
“Yes. You haven’t asked me to add you to the deed. But you are taking over. You never told me about the creek being dammed up.”
“It probably slipped my mind. I only thought of it again once I saw Melrose at the church.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “And you referred to John as ‘my man.’”
“So what?” He ran his fingers through his hair and placed his hands on his slim hips. “My man, your man, our man, it’s just a figure of speech.”
“No. It’s not just a figure of speech. You assume too much.”
“I’m your husband. Even if I don’t have my name on your precious deed, I still have a say. I can’t expect to work with these people if they think everything I want to do has to be approved by you first.”
“Why not? It was that way before you came.”
“But I’m here now. And I have some rights. I intend to help you make this farm bigger and better. Maybe even expand to a horse farm sometime in the future.”
She gasped. “I never said I wanted a horse farm.”
“That’s not something I want to discuss now. I just want to make it clear that I need your backing when I deal with people.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. From here on out you will consider yourself my employee.” With that she flounced away and raced up the stairs to the bedroom.
6
Stephen stood with his mouth agape as Calliope hurried from the room and ran up the stairs. The sound of the bedroom door slamming knocked a picture of a field of daisies from the wall in the parlor, to land on the floor.
An employee?
What the hell had he gotten himself into? The woman was beyond frustrating. When he didn’t want to grab her and kiss her senseless, he wanted to shake her senseless. He’d never met someone who was able to tie him into knots like she had the ability to do. He ran his hand down his face and picked up the basket she’d left on the parlor floor to return it to the kitchen
Two weeks later
Stephen dipped his head into the bucket of clean water and rubbed his face, then grabbed the bar of soap and lathered up to wash his face and hands. He was tired to the bone after having spent days walking one of the workhor
ses back and forth at the end of the field, dragging a log that would create a dust barrier between fields that crawling bugs would not cross. The entire process seemed fruitless, since the bugs had already badly damaged one field and were headed for another.
One more reason why he would prefer a horse farm. Sure, there were problems with those as well, but on a regular farm a good hailstorm could wipe out months of work in just a few minutes. The work on his farm—ha! he had to remember this was not his farm, he was an employee—was labor intensive. He and John did as much as they could with hiring a few of the older boys from town when the needed additional help. Stephen had so many ideas to make the farm better, more productive and more financially stable, but Calliope had apparently taken up her father’s habit of not listening to anyone else’s ideas except her own.
Frustrating woman.
More than her being so very afraid to release the least amount of control was his frustration in the bedroom. They’d shared a few kisses, and even a few intimate touches, but she always drew back and reminded him theirs was not ‘that sort of a marriage.’ And he would promptly remind her she agreed to allow him his martial rights once she was comfortable. Hell, she might say she was uncomfortable for the next ten years.
He dried his face on the towel hanging on the hook by the back door and entered the kitchen. Wonderful smells greeted him, but what got his attention more was Calliope standing over the stove, her face flushed, curls from her bun drooping around her face. Steam from the pot she stirred had saturated the bodice of her dress which clung to every lovely curve of her breasts.
Blowing out a breath of air from his tightened lungs, he continued across the room to stand behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he leaned his chin on her shoulder. “Where’s Bertha?” Whatever she was cooking in no way compared to the scent of lilacs that always surrounded her. He leaned in a bit and kissed the side of her neck.
“Stop.” She tried to pull away, but he held firm, sucking lightly on the soft skin under her ear. He was pleased to see her drop the cooking spoon and lean into him. “Don’t. Do. That.” There was absolutely no strength in her words.
“Are you sure,” he murmured in her ear. “I’ll bet it feels good.” He nuzzled her neck, then brought his hands up to cup her breasts. So soft, so warm. She gave a little whimper and pushed forward into his hands. His thumbs grazed her nipples, bringing a hitch to her breathing.
“Let’s forget about supper and go upstairs.” He nipped her earlobe and moved one hand down to cup her sex through her skirt. She reached out and braced herself on the stove. “No. Don’t do that.”
The woman was driving him crazy. He’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her. And she was his wife. They should right now be upstairs enjoying each other’s bodies, sharing the desire he knew smoldered beneath her cool exterior. She might have said she wanted a marriage in name only, but there was far too much passion in her waiting to be set free.
And he intended to be the one to do it.
Suddenly she wrenched herself free, and turned to him leaning back over the stove. He yanked her forward.
“Stop.” She panted, and leaned further back.
“Foolish woman. You’re about to set yourself on fire.” He pulled her into his arms.
“Oh.”
He moved her a few steps from the stove, released her, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Is supper ready?”
“Yes. You can sit down.” She patted her hair and turned back to the stove, picking up the cooking spoon.
He pulled out a chair and plopped into it. “Where’s Bertha?” Not that he cared where the cook was, he just wanted to have some inane conversation to calm his body down. If such a thing were possible after touching her the way he had.
“She had to visit her mother for a few days. She’s sick with the flu.”
So they had the house to themselves. Instead of calming down, he now had visions of stripping Calliope right there in the kitchen and taking her on the table. Or laying her down on the carpet near the fireplace and making slow, tender love to her in front of the roaring flames. Perhaps he would grab hold of her on their way upstairs later and brace her against the wall, taking her fast and hard.
Good Lord. What the devil was wrong with him? She was his wife, not some whore from the local saloon. He stared at her as her bottom moved back and forth as she stirred whatever it was in the pot. No longer hungry for food, he popped up from his chair. “I think I’ll skip supper. I have a few more chores to finish.”
With that idiotic statement he fled the kitchen and the house, running like some pimply youth who was confronted with his first prostitute.
Calliope stood with her hands fisted on her hips, gravy dripping from the cooking spoon onto the floor. Well, what was that all about? Two minutes ago he was starving and now he decided he didn’t want supper.
She turned back to the stove and moved the pot over. Since she’d grown up with a housekeeper and cook she wasn’t much of a cook herself. But since Bertha had to leave she’d made the effort. The least he could have done was eat the blasted thing. Whatever the thing was that she’d made. It started out as stew, but looked more like soup.
Sighing, she sat at the table and thought about her husband. The very reason she wanted to have a marriage in name only was because she didn’t want to fall hopelessly in love with the man and then turn into her mother who allowed her father to run every part of her life. Intimacy with a man did that. Made you fall in love. She didn’t want love. She wanted a nice, normal life with a partner more than a husband.
Although, truth be known, she was having some problems with the partner idea. Not that Stephen didn’t have good plans, but if she allowed him too much freedom the farm would no longer be hers and she would be right where her mother had been all her life.
Feeling weary all of a sudden, she ladled out a bowl of stew-soup and grabbed a piece of bread. Not really tasting her food, she finished her meal and washed out the bowl and spoon. After leaving a full bowl on the stove to stay warm, she put the rest of the stew-soup in the cooler and left the kitchen.
Two hours later she dimmed the oil lamp in the parlor and headed to bed. Stephen had stayed away all evening. Doing what, she had no idea. There certainly hadn’t been that much in the way of chores to finish up. She brushed her hair, fixed a long braid for sleep and slipped into a nightgown. White and virginal. Just like her.
Did she really intend to remain untouched her whole life? Would Stephen even stay if she insisted on it? Once again her face heated up when she thought about what they’d shared in the kitchen before he fled. She would be lying to herself to pretend she hadn’t been affected by his touch. Much too affected, in fact. It had taken all of her resolve to push him away when she was more than ready for him to strip off her clothes right there and introduce her to the mysteries of married love.
Love? No. She didn’t love him, didn’t want to love him, and did not want his love in return.
Admit it. I’m afraid.
She doused the lamp and climbed into bed. Alone. The way she’d gone to bed all her life. Having a husband hadn’t changed that. She slept here, he slept on the sofa in her bedroom.
Where is he?
After a good hour of tossing and turning, she fell into a troubled sleep, her body aching in places she’d never been aware of before.
Calliope sat up abruptly in bed, her head cocked at whatever the noise was that had awakened her. For a minute she was muddle-headed as she tried to clear her brain. Then she heard it again. A wolf’s cry. The damned wolf was back to attack her chickens.
She scurried out of bed, raced down the stairs and grabbed the shotgun from the wall over the fireplace. She burst outside, slipping a bit on the wet mud. It had started to rain, but she didn’t have time to go back for a slicker and shoes. The annoying animal had killed two of her chickens last week. She couldn’t afford to lose any more.
In the darkness, all she could see was a steal
th animal slowly circling the chickens who squawked enough to wake the dead. She moved closer, using the sleeve of her nightgown to wipe the water from her eyes. The rain had turned heavier, but it hadn’t deterred the wolf, so it wouldn’t deter her, either.
She cocked the shotgun and raised it to her shoulder. The blast rang out, but instead of dropping on the spot, the wolf raced away.
“Damn.” She set the butt of the shotgun into the mud.
“Calliope!” Stephen’s voice rang through the night. She wiped her eyes once more and stared in the direction of the voice. He came through the wall of water and grabbed her to his soaked body. He wore only his trousers, no socks or shoes or shirt. “What the hell are you doing, woman?”
“The chickens. The wolf was going to get more chickens.” She shouted over the downpour and shoved back the hair plastered on her forehead.
He shook his head and leaned back to look her in the eyes. “I heard it. I was coming out. But you need to get back into the house.”
She turned to take a step and slipped in the mud. Before she had barely righted herself, strong arms scooped her up. “Hold onto the shotgun.”
Stephen strode to the house with her huddled against him, the end of the shotgun stock fisted in her hand. She was soaked to the skin and had begun to shiver by the time he reached the front door. He reached under her and opened the door, pushing it closed with his foot.
Once they reached the parlor, he paced her on her feet and grabbed the gun from her. He placed it back onto the rack and turned. His eyes grew wide and his lips parted.
All the blood in Stephen’s body raced to his groin and within a matter of seconds he was hard as a rock. The rain had plastered Calliope’s nightgown to her body, revealing every inch, curve and dip. He swallowed and whispered, “My God, you’re beautiful.”
Seeing where his eyes led, she looked down at herself and squeaked. She pulled the gown out, but the weight of the water drew it back so it was plastered to her once more. She crossed her arms over her breasts, then re-considering, placed her hand at the juncture of her thighs.
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