by Ruth Wind
Heather paused just inside the threshold, feeling a catch in her throat. It was utterly, completely different from her own, staid living room. Here, rubbed and varnished light pine covered the walls, and a series of woven rugs in muted, Southwestern colors dotted the wooden floor. At one corner, two large multipaned windows opened to a view of pines and sky. The furniture was low, upholstered in shades of blue and lavender and clay, and unadorned small tables rested nearby the chairs and couches. Along the walls, shelves held collections of an odd variety of items. One group caught Heather's eye and she crossed the room to take a better look. "What are these?" she asked, picking up an old bottle with a clear brownish liquid inside. The label read Sloan's Linament and showed a line drawing of a man in an old-fashioned suit.
Ben had gone ahead to the kitchen and he appeared in the doorway, grinning. "Patent medicine. I found that one, believe it or not, in a ghost town when I was a kid."
"I'll bet a few of them really pack a punch," she said, and put it down. A little farther away sat a cluster of carved ivory figurines. "And these?" she asked.
"Mementos."
She looked at him. "Of Vietnam?"
He nodded.
"I wouldn't think you'd want reminders."
Ben crossed the room and picked out one of the carvings, an exquisitely detailed elephant. "Nothing's ever all bad, Heather," he said. "When I get tempted to feel sorry for myself, these help me to remember some of the things I learned there."
"Like what?"
He put the figurine in her palm and closed her fingers over it. When he spoke again, his eyes shone with a soft, pulsing energy. "Like there must be something good about a culture that invented a word for 'beautiful beyond description.'"
Heather dropped her gaze, feeling the trunk of the elephant against her fingers. At that moment, her stomach growled loudly. "I think I'd better see what your kitchen has before I start eating these," she warned playfully. "Sorry about that."
He laughed. "Perfectly natural."
The kitchen, too, was beautiful, showing foresight and planning. "Did you build this house?" Heather asked, sweeping a hand over the smooth counter of the center island. Above it hung a variety of cast-iron pots and spatulas, whisks and spoons.
"No, I bought it from an old couple who used it as a summer home." He glanced up from his survey of the refrigerator shelves. "Great kitchen, isn't it?"
"It is," she agreed. "Are you a good cook?"
The warm dark eyes glinted. "Pretty good. Are you?"
"Absolutely terrible. I hate cooking with all my heart."
"That's why you eat all that good-for-you food." As if to push the point home, he pulled out a pitcher of red Kool-Aid. "Want some?"
Heather raised her eyebrows. "Do you have anything else?"
"Sure. Tea, coffee, water. Probably some pop—John likes pop." He swiveled toward a bank of cupboards on the wall and drew out a glass. As he poured the jewel-colored liquid he asked, "How long as it been since you had a glass of Kool-Aid?"
She smiled. "Oh, a hundred years or so."
"Try some."
She inclined her head.
"Come on. One sip." His eyes glittered in their frame of laugh lines and he leaned casually against the counter, his long legs emphasized by the easy cross of his ankles. He'd removed his coat and tie, and at the collar of his shirt, a triangle of golden skin showed. His inky hair had been mussed in the car and curled around his ears and neck in a boyish way. Heather found herself moving toward him and accepting the glass.
She really had forgotten how wonderful cold, cold Kool-Aid could taste; how well it soothed dry throat tissues and how it landed with a delicious, icy splash in her stomach. "Not bad," she said, and drank again. "Black cherry."
With a grin, Ben poured himself another glass. "You keep that one. And let's see what else I can rustle up around here."
He pulled tomatoes, celery and a green pepper from the crisper and gave them to Heather. "You can slice stuff, can't you?"
"I'm not that bad in the kitchen."
"Glad to hear it." He dipped back into the fridge and pulled out a banana pudding, obviously fresh, made of layers of cookies and topped with floating circles of banana. Heather groaned softly. "I haven't had banana pudding in a hundred years, either."
"You probably haven't had a lot of things you should have had in a long time," Ben commented. Since Heather couldn't tell if there was a double meaning implied, she let it slide, and went on slicing vegetables.
The spread he assembled on a tray included the pudding and the vegetables, a pair of apples, crackers, and a pepperoni. "Come on, let's eat in the other room where we can turn on some music."
Ben lit a fire and turned on the stereo. "Go ahead. I'm going to take these boots off."
The fire, expertly built, began to flicker as the kindling took hold, and soft bluegrass music drifted from the stereo. Heather kicked off her own shoes and sat down on the rug before the fire. By the time Ben returned, she'd dug into her second helping of pudding, completely ignoring the fresh vegetables that would, under any other circumstances, have been her only choice. Vegetables and water.
"This is wonderful, Ben," she said as he sat down. "Thank you."
"I'm glad you like it. Is this the kind of food your mother made?"
"Yes. Banana pudding on Sundays, to top off the pot roast. Meat loaf on Mondays, chicken Tuesdays, pork chops on Wednesdays…" She shifted, remembering. "I hated dinner."
Ben laughed. "I guess you would. Why did she always make the same thing?"
"That's how they did things. My father came home from work at five on the dot, drank a Scotch and water and dozed while my mother set the table. We ate at five-thirty, went to bed right after the seven o'clock news." Heather savored the taste of a vanilla wafer before continuing. "It's still like that in my mother's house. I get claustrophobic every time I go there."
Ben sliced the pepperoni. "My folks weren't like that at all." He laughed a little. "Too many of us, for one thing, and everybody busy all the time—this kid here, that kid there. My mom used to make a lot of soups and stews and stuff that you could eat on the run. And she baked a lot."
"How many of you?"
"Seven. Three girls and four boys."
"Where are you? Oldest, youngest, what?"
"Exactly the middle." His mustache wiggled under his grin. "That's why I'm such a loving fellow."
Heather considered him. "All that family doesn't hurt. It must have been wonderful to be surrounded by so much noise and energy. I hated being an only child."
Woody joined them, laying his head on Heather's lap. The conversation turned to pets and childhood escapades. Heather found herself telling him about her sixth-grade best friend and the way they'd folded their notes to one another, about her love of the Mississippi River and the history of her home city, about books she'd read in high-school English class and her suspension from school for smoking in the washroom.
She relaxed in a way she'd forgotten she could. With her stomach full, she leaned back on one arm and let the fire toast one side of her body and then the other. The tray of food was pushed out of the way, and Ben made cups of tea.
In turn, he shared stories of his life on a ranch amid noise and confusion and love; told her about each of his siblings—all married and settled in careers or marriages all over the western United States. His parents had moved to Arizona with one of their daughters after the cold winters became too much for his mother's arthritis.
When their tea had grown cold, Heather heard herself ask, "What about Vietnam? How did you end up going?"
He sighed softly, and in a gesture Heather knew was unconscious, grabbed his bad ankle. "I just went. It seemed like the thing to do at the time."
"Do you ever regret it?"
His gaze was serious. "I try not to regret anything I've ever done." He looked at the fire. The light sharpened the straight bridge of his nose and set his mustache alight with red tints. "I think everybody does
the best they can. Most people." He looked at her. "Good people."
"I guess so."
He stood. "I know so." He held out a hand to help Heather up and pulled her into a soft embrace. In the flickering light his eyes were gentle, and Heather wondered, as she had on the train, what made a face seem kind. For if there had ever been a kind face, he had one. There was no trace of weakness—the chin and jaw and the firm set of the mouth were too determined for that—but something made it gentle nonetheless. He bent to kiss her lightly. "I'm going to send you to bed now, Titania. I really meant it when I said I wanted to get to know you." He grinned ruefully. "Not that I wouldn't like a little different end to the evening, but you still aren't ready for that." He kissed her again. "I have lots of time."
The touch of his lips, however gentle, hinted at a sensuality held in check by sheer force of will; and Heather felt a like response. She wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed when he firmly set her away from him and led her to a bedroom.
It was his room, as it turned out, and he assured her with a grin that the sheets were clean before he turned to go. "See you in the morning, Heather."
She stopped him. "Thank you, Ben. I've had a really wonderful time tonight."
He grinned and left her to what he hoped would be a good night's sleep.
* * *
As the fire burned to embers in the dark living room, Ben smoked meditatively, far too aware of the woman in the other room to sleep. All evening he had wrestled with himself. His emotions and heart had urged him to make love with her, knowing she wouldn't resist. It was his head that had insisted she wasn't ready; that if they made love, she would run.
All evening, he'd watched the fire play over her pale yellow braid and leap in her eyes, had admired the lean curve of her hips and slender shoulders. She had a mobile mouth, a mouth that expressed every thought in her mind with frowns and pouts and tiny tremblings, or smiles and quirky corners; a mouth as sweet and tender as June strawberries.
He took a long drag from the cigarette and exhaled slowly. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told her he was obsessed. No woman had ever crawled under his skin to lay her palm on his soul in this way. The night he'd met her, he'd got a full-blown idea for a new novel and the damn thing was almost completely written. Two weeks. He usually labored several months, at least, to get the scenes and words and people right.
Not this time. He was up at the crack of dawn unable to resist the lure of the typewriter, after nights of characters whispering to him while he slept. He wrote for hours without pause and finished the day about suppertime, as exhilarated as he had ever been on the back of a bucking stallion.
The novel's concept was a complete departure for him, as well. It was still the Old West, but the similarity stopped there. The main character wasn't a soldier or a ranch hand or an Indian. It was a little girl, growing and observing the West as it grew—a curious and friendly little girl, a character he loved, who'd been inspired by the grown woman in the other room.
He couldn't pinpoint what it was about Heather that so caught his imagination and heart and soul. He liked women—always had—and he'd fancied himself in love a few times. But it had never been like this.
Tonight when she'd played her steel-mill piece, Ben had been riveted, seeing clearly the cycle of the mill as he'd grown up: the cocky confidence of the millworkers with their full pockets; their despair when foreign steel beat American; the bad, bad days when the state had been certain that Pueblo would dry up and blow away.
He wondered at the elusive quality of music that could capture something like emotions without using words to draw the pictures. To him, it was unfathomable that she could do it, as amazing as if she could weave spells to make it rain. The last movement of the piece told of the gathering of resources and the sturdiness of a people, proud and unbreakable, realigning their priorities and finding something else they would be good at. He'd felt a catch in his throat, a deep pride in the people of the city, a city that tended to be dismissed as backward in the cosmopolitan state of Colorado. Pueblo didn't quite fit in with the image of snowy Rockies and glittering resorts that the rest of the state wanted to portray. Like an uncle from the Old Country, Pueblo remained stubbornly set in its ways, clinging to values of home and family and marriage forever.
Heather—a woman from another city, a lonely child finding home in the lap of that kindly old uncle—had made it all seem noble with her guitar. He'd almost been overcome as he'd listened, as his pride in the city mingled with his pride for Heather.
He stubbed out his cigarette. He intended to see that she got that piece published. He wanted to see it played all over Colorado. She would have to pushed, he figured, but he'd be damned if he would let her hide that incredible light of talent under a bushel.
Comforted by the thought, he slipped down under the heavy quilt on the couch and slept as deeply as he ever had, with visions of Heather dancing in his head.
* * *
Heather awoke to a pale gray morning, and when she peeked out the window, saw thick, heavy snowflakes falling to a pristine landscape. The rich odor of percolating coffee told her Ben was up before her, and she hurried through her morning ablutions, dressing and washing her face, then freeing her hair from the braid that had mercifully kept it tangle free through the night.
Ben, hearing the noises of her stirring, called through the bathroom door, "There's a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet."
Again she was struck by his thoughtfulness—a simple awareness of human needs beyond his own. She brushed her teeth and joined him in the warm kitchen. "Good morning."
He stood by the stove, cooking bacon. He wore a clean green corduroy shirt that pointed up the warm tones of his skin and the darkness of his hair. He smiled at her. "Mornin'. Cup of coffee?"
"Sure. I can get it."
"Allow me." He poured a mug full of the steamy brew and crossed the room to give it to her. "Gives me a chance to steal a kiss."
His lips touched hers lightly and as he pulled back, he lifted a handful of her hair in his fist to let it fail, strand by stand, back into place. "You look like an angel with all this hair."
"Thank you," she said quietly, thinking he looked rather wonderful himself.
He returned to the stove. "Do you know how to ride a horse?"
"No. I've never even been close to one, believe it or not. I've never had the chance."
"I've got two out in my barn. Are you in the mood to try something new?"
Heather shrugged, feeling uncertain. "I guess."
"I think you're the kind of person who would like horses. I know they'll like you."
"What makes you think so?" Heather asked skeptically. "I'm not known for my hardy outdoorsiness."
That elicited a grin. "You're not the namby-pamby you make yourself out to be, either. You've got plenty of heart. Horses know heart and they like it, just like big dogs do." He fished out strips of bacon and drained them on a paper towel, then opened the oven, and she glimpsed a tray of almost golden biscuits before he closed it again. "Almost done. You like scrambled eggs?"
"Sure. I'm more interested in those biscuits, however. Did you make them from scratch?"
"One of my specialties." He glanced over his shoulder at her, a twinkle sparkling in his eyes.
Heather responded with a laugh, throaty and warm, and as it emerged, she thought she was getting used to the sound. "No man ever cooked breakfast for me."
"Their loss."
He took the biscuits out and put Heather to work buttering them while he finished the eggs. A pitcher of orange juice completed the meal and they both ate like wolverines, utterly concentrating upon their food, taking little time for even the politest of conversation. Heather couldn't remember the last time a meal had tasted so wonderful. Must be the mountain air, she decided.
After breakfast, Ben disappeared into one of the back rooms and returned wearing a duster—a knee-length, split-back coat made for riding. In his hand he carried
one for Heather. "This is John's. You'll have to roll up the sleeves, but it'll keep your legs from freezing."
She tried it on and laughed. It fell nearly to her ankles and the shoulders dwarfed her. But she had to admit it was warm. Ben wrapped a scarf around her neck and gave her a cowboy hat of soft suede to wear.
The barn was a weathered old building west of the house. It nestled against the bosom of the mountain behind it like a small child against its mother. Inside it smelled of animals, hay and wet wood, and Heather breathed deeply as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
Ben led her to a cream-colored horse that calmly munched some kind of grain. Heather felt herself holding back, afraid despite her best intentions. Ben paused. "This is Sugar. She's been my horse for a long time." He nickered and the animal moved slowly toward them, her big nose nuzzling Ben's pockets.
Although Heather had shrunk close to Ben's side, she noted with fascination the velvety appearance of that nose, noticed the flare of her nostrils as Sugar breathed. Heather reached out a hand to touch the long nose, only to draw back in giddy terror when the horse lifted her head.
Ben laughed low in his throat and slipped an arm around her in comfort. "Go ahead. She doesn't bite."
Heather, reassured by his confidence around the animal, tried again. This time her finger encountered the nose and found it to be as soft as it looked. She moved her fingers up and down, touching the spray of white hair mingled in with the tan between the horse's eyes, and was entranced by the warmth and size of the muzzle. Sugar endured it for a moment, then snorted. Heather jerked her hand back.
"She wants something to eat." Ben reached into his pocket and put a sugar cube in Heather's hand. "Hold it out."
She reached toward the horse with a trembling palm, giggling when Sugar's soft mouth lifted the cube.
"Would you like to ride her?"
"Boy, you don't believe in taking it easy, do you?"
"Not about horses." His eyes took on the smoldering look she'd grown to recognize and Heather swallowed at the instant response that leaped within her. If it hadn't been for his control… Well, he was right. As much as she wanted him, she wasn't ready.