Preacher's In-Name-Only Wife

by Mindy Neff

  This was a first.

  He grinned down at her. “Very responsive.”

  She would have attempted to turn the tables on him, to show him she knew a trick or two to make him respond as well, but his lips were busy again, cruising over her body, lingering here, toying there.

  His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her legs, and then he was kissing her in the most intimate way a man could kiss a woman. Again there was a fleeting shiver of perplexity. She was out of control, and that frightened her. She wanted to object, to tell him it was too much.

  She was on fire, burning from the inside out. She didn’t have breath enough to speak, could only feel, respond.

  She gripped the sheets, screamed his name, had a moment of lucidity wondering if she’d wake the baby.

  Then he was moving up her body, entering her, turning her mind to mush.

  She was brought down to earth with a jolt when he jerked out of her, hissed a word that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Confused, she watched him fumble with the drawer at the bedside, heard something bounce against the floor.

  Oh, she thought, when she saw the foil packet he was ripping open with his teeth. A condom. What in the world was he doing with condoms in his bedside drawer?

  She could have told him she was on the pill. It kept her regular—every twenty-eight days without fail. It took the guesswork out of her body’s time clock, assured her she’d be prepared, wouldn’t have an accident when she was in the middle of an assignment, possibly blowing the opportunity for a perfect photo.

  “Sorry about that,” he murmured.

  As though worried that the interruption had drenched the mood, he stroked her body again. She tried to tell him she was already as aroused as she could get, but he silenced her protests with his lips, showed her how wrong she was.

  Her own hands were feverish now, touching him where she could, urging him to give her what she desperately wanted, the feel of him inside her, all of him.

  At last, he slid inside her once more, slowly, watching her. In and out. Once, twice. She lost count. It could have been hours or minutes, as time lost all meaning. Then he thrust hard and high, and Amy, barely aware, screamed again.

  Her body convulsed and she felt him grow incredibly hard inside her, felt him swell, go rigid, murmur her name as he found his own release.

  For endless moments, he stayed where he was, allowing them both to wring every glorious drop of pleasure from the pulsating aftermath of their union. Then he rolled off her and shifted her until she was lying against his side, his arms around her, holding her safe.

  With the edge of desire sated, rational thoughts returned.

  Oh, my gosh. What had they done? By encouraging him, lusting after him, letting their relationship progress to this explosive conclusion, she’d put him in a terrible position.

  He could probably still get an annulment based on the fact that the marriage would only last for three months. She wasn’t sure, but she thought those were grounds.

  Still, he’d also be in a position of having to lie to a lawyer or judge, telling them they didn’t have carnal knowledge of each other when they did. And if he didn’t fudge, and she was wrong about the three-month time limit being good enough grounds for an annulment, she’d just sentenced him to the stigma of divorce.

  She ought to be strung up by her fingernails. Never mind that it had taken both of them to do what they’d just done in this bed.

  She wanted to apologize. Didn’t know how. Tears burned at the back of her eyes, and all she could do was wrap her arms around his chest and hold him close.

  Chapter Eleven

  When the phone rang in the middle of the night, this time, Amy was with him.

  She rolled over, realized she was naked and felt a moment of self-consciousness. The tone of Dan’s voice banished any remnants of sleep or thoughts of herself.

  “How bad is it?” he asked, his voice tight, worried. “Okay. I’m on my way.”

  He hung up the phone and got out of bed. Holding the sheet to her breast, she reached over and switched on the lamp, not wanting him to stub his toe. The hula dancer put out enough light to see by, but no sense in him straining his eyes when she was already awake.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A fire on the reservation. Three homes are involved so far, and it’s spreading. The rec center is in danger of going up next. I’m part of the volunteer fire department. Cheyenne and Chance are already on their way out there. I’ll meet up with Stony, Wyatt and the Callahans and be right behind them.”

  Since his back was turned as he was getting dressed, she found her shirt and shrugged into it. The tails came down to midthigh, so she was perfectly modest.

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  He pulled a thermal shirt over his head, tucked it into his jeans, then added a flannel shirt on top of that. “Just hold down the fort here with Shayna. I’ll call if I get a chance.” Tying a bandanna around his neck, he stepped into his boots and grabbed his coat and gloves and jammed his hat on his head.

  “All right. Dan?”

  He turned at the doorway.

  “Be careful.”

  “Yeah.” He winked. “I’ve got a little extra protection on my side.”

  Amy couldn’t go back to sleep. Her mind insisted on creating all sorts of horrible scenarios of what might be going on. She’d met the people on the reservation, bonded with them, laughed with them and listened as they lovingly complained about their husbands, bragged on their children, gossiped and told wonderful stories about ancient legends.

  As the hours ticked by in slow motion and still Dan hadn’t called, she worried over what had burned, who had lost their home, if anyone was hurt. She needed to do something, take action.

  By the time the sun rose over the horizon, she’d already drunk a whole pot of coffee. Dressing, she paced, waiting for Shayna to wake up. Wouldn’t you know? She spent so much time trying to coax the baby into sleep, and now she was wearing a hole in the hallway carpet, making enough noise to jar pecans off a tree.

  Impatience winning out, she went into the nursery. “Shayna,” she called softly. “Wake up, baby girl.”

  The baby turned her head, her eyes blinking open like a tiny owl. “You possum. You were already awake, weren’t you?”

  Shayna gave such a sweet smile Amy felt her heart clinch. “Up we go, sugar. We have to get you dressed and fed. We’ve a rescue mission to organize.” Holding the child’s warm body to her chest for a moment, just to please herself, she kissed Shayna’s pudgy cheek, then laid her on the bed to change a soggy diaper and dress her in a little bitty sweats outfit. A blue one.

  “I’m not messing with a bow, so you can just deal with the color, okay?”

  An hour later, Amy was waiting outside Tillis’s General store for Vern or Vera to arrive. Chances were Vern might have gone out to the reservation to fight the fire.

  Vera drove up, and Iris Brewer was right behind her.

  “Amy. You’re up and out early. How’s the baby?”

  “Fine. You heard about the fire at the reservation, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Vern and Lloyd went out to help. They both got home about an hour ago. Some of the men are still there, but the fire is out. One of the homes is a total loss, but they were able to save the other two.”

  “And the rec center?”

  “The fire didn’t make it that far, thank the Lord.”

  “Do they know what happened?”

  “A propane explosion.”

  “Oh, my gosh. Was anyone hurt?”

  “That I don’t know, dear. Vern didn’t say.”

  Amy nodded. “Listen. I’m pretty sure Dan’s still out there. I’d like to go check on things for myself, take out some supplies. If people have lost their homes, they’ll need food and blankets and toiletries. And…I need a sitter for Shayna.”

  “Of course, dear. Iris and I will be happy to mind her for you.”

  “Thank you. I’ve got a diape
r bag packed, but I also left the house open. If you need anything, or want to sit with her over there, just go on in.”

  “We’ll be fine. Now let’s gather up the supplies so you can get out to the reservation.”

  “Let me just get my checkbook out of the diaper bag.”

  “Don’t be silly. This is on us. Neighbors always help neighbors.”

  “Well, since I’m a neighbor, also, I’d like to contribute.”

  Vera patted Amy’s hand. “We’re very lucky to have you with us, dear.”

  SHE SAW DAN’S TRUCK at the reservation, but no sight of him.

  She was dismayed to see that the fire had leveled the very home she’d been to the other day when she’d joined the weaving circle. The charred remnants of the loom rested in the rubble of ashes and water. Amazingly enough, a lone spool of orange yarn spared by the licks of flame rested among the destruction like a misshapen Halloween pumpkin grinning over the trick.

  More than the home, the loss of that loom bothered her. It was a purely selfish thought that shamed her.

  Opening the back door of her Jeep, she hoisted out a box of supplies, jolting when a man appeared beside her, unsmiling and serious. He was tall, moved silently, with gray hair tied back with a leather band. The way he carried himself, she had an idea he was some sort of leader in this community.

  “I am John White Cloud,” he said, his voice quiet. “You would be the holy man’s wife.”

  It momentarily took her aback to be identified as such. “Amy,” she corrected, needing to retain her own identity. “I wasn’t sure what was needed, but I brought some supplies.”

  He nodded and relieved her of the box she held. “They will be appreciated.”

  Since her hands were free, she reached back in the Jeep for the second carton, then followed him into a modest home where Jenny White Cloud was already sorting through her own belongings, clothes and linens separated into piles, evidently to offer to whoever was rendered homeless by the fire.

  “Amy. It is good of you to come.” Jenny abandoned her task to envelop Amy in a warm hug. “It is sad that your visit has caught us in a position of impaired hospitality.”

  “Don’t be silly. I didn’t come to be entertained. I brought some things I hope you can use. Tell me what happened. Is everyone all right?”

  “Yes, thank Ma’heo’o. The child of my sister put flame to a lantern and left it sitting by the propane tank.”

  “Was she injured?”

  “No. John, my husband, sensed something would happen. He has a gift, you see. He was out walking the streets, as was my cousin, Joe Little Coyote. It was Joe who went into the flames to rescue the family. We were very lucky.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Your gifts are plenty. The men will clear the mess, begin to rebuild.”

  “Then I won’t keep you or get in your way. Please convey my condolences to your sister’s family.”

  It would take more than mere supplies to set things right, Amy realized as she let herself out of the house. Her eyes strayed once more to that weaving loom on the ruined porch.

  She sat on the steps, took out her checkbook and wrote a check, leaving the payee blank. John White Cloud sat down beside her, startling her. How did such a big man move so silently?

  “That is not necessary. We will rebuild the loom.”

  How had he known what was on her mind? His steady, knowing eyes gave her an eerie feeling.

  “Then use the money for the materials, or however you see fit.”

  He nodded, folded the check and put it in his pocket. “You have a generous and giving heart. You were chosen, I believe. And Ma’heo’o has chosen well. You are on a journey of discovery. Answers will not come in faraway places, but inside yourself. You will remember that I told you this.”

  Leaving her dazed and confused, he stood and walked away. Cryin’ all night. Had she just had her fortune told?

  Shaking her head, she stood and walked back to her Jeep, pausing as the lure of destruction called to her. Like a passing motorist at a freeway crash, she couldn’t help but stare.

  The acrid smell of smoke and charred wood permeated the brisk winter air. The high winds they’d had last night must have whipped the fire into a frenzy, causing it to sweep by the neighbors’ homes, as well.

  A child’s stuffed toy lay in the rubble, blackened across the belly as though a renegade flame had merely needed a single lick to quench its craving.

  Too bad the craving hadn’t stopped there. Destruction created images of helplessness.

  She’d sat on that porch mere weeks ago, learning to weave. There had been laughter and silliness and women-talk. Now there was sorrow. The family who’d lived here would be taken in by neighbors, but cherished, irreplaceable heirlooms would be forever lost.

  She retrieved her camera, noticed an old man squatting by the brick fireplace left standing, picking through the ravaged debris, his bandaged hands covered in soot.

  Joe Little Coyote. The medicine man who pined for his wife, had lost hope.

  She wondered if saving a child’s life had restored a portion of that hope.

  She raised her camera, took a single picture, then covered the lens and turned. Dan stood right behind her.

  “Dan.” Giddiness shot a warm glow through her at the sight of him. She’d been worried about him.

  “I might have known.”

  Her smile faded. She’d never heard anger in his tone before, seen it on his face. Disgust. Disappointment.

  It was there, vibrating in the air like static from a vicious lightning bolt.

  Her defensive shield immediately went up. Dan Lucas had a temper. Well hallelujah, call out the dogs. The man was human.

  “Where’s Shayna?” he asked.

  “Vera and Iris are watching her.” She noted that his hands were fisted at his side, his clothes streaked with soot. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  “Did you pawn her off so you could attend to your own needs? Prey on these people’s misfortune for your own gain? Come out here and snap pictures like a ghoul? Is this what your life is about, Amy?”

  With each terse question, her heart pounded harder, words crowding her throat. She wanted to scream in her own defense.

  But pride kept her silent. Just as pride had kept her silent when Gramps had cut her to the quick by making a snap judgment when he’d seen her working at the bar. It still hurt that he’d died being disappointed in her. She’d wanted his approval.

  And, she realized, she wanted Dan Lucas’s approval. Where the hell was her rebel alter ego when she needed it? The one that snubbed convention, convinced her that what others thought of her didn’t matter a hill of beans.

  The problem was, it mattered a lot.

  Her heart stung as though swarmed by a thousand angry wasps. Salty tears burned at the back of her nose and eyes.

  She lifted her chin. Her first instinct was to rip the film out of the camera and throw it in his face. She checked the impulse. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  Instead, she merely turned without speaking and walked away.

  DAN WATCHED HER DRIVE AWAY, suddenly ashamed of his behavior, surprised at the white-hot anger that had swept him when he’d come around the corner and seen her taking pictures.

  He hadn’t lashed out at another person like that in a long time. And why had he? Because she’d left Shayna with a sitter? There was nothing wrong with that.

  It was the reminder that photography would take her away. She would leave, in search of opportunities just like this.

  John White Cloud walked across the street, stood silently for a moment, staring at the charred homes that Dan’s unseeing eye was trained on.

  “We will rebuild,” he said quietly. “The donations are appreciated. I will send a letter of gratitude that you will read to your church.”

  “Yes,” he said automatically. Then his fuzzy brain focused on the words. What donation?

  “You will convey once again my tha
nks to your wife.” John pulled a check from his shirt pocket.

  Dan frowned.

  “It is for a new weaving loom,” John said. “I told your wife we could build a replacement, that the gift of money was too large. She has pride and a good heart. A pride I recognize and did not want to bruise. So, I accept your gift, with many thanks.”

  Dan looked at the check. That was a huge chunk of her savings, he was sure. Her travel fund.

  He felt like a jerk for jumping to conclusions.

  He imagined that was exactly what John White Cloud was attempting to show him.

  “The gift is from Amy. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I know.”

  Dan sighed. “I’m a fool.”

  “As we all are at times. Even holy men make mistakes.” Refolding the check and returning it to his pocket, he walked away, leaving Dan standing in the middle of the street.

  The last time he’d stood nearly in this same spot, watching Amy take pictures, play with the children, interact with the local women, he’d been thinking she was acting just like a minister’s wife would.

  Today, she really had been. In the true spirit of giving, without expecting recognition or praise.

  AMY HAD PLENTY OF TIME to lick her wounds, to replay the conversation in her mind, to realize that Dan was tired, to see things from his angle.

  She sat in the rocking chair, cuddling Shayna, even though the child slept. Dan’s anger made her feel vulnerable. Holding on to Shayna seemed to lessen the breathlessness. She couldn’t say why.

  Did she equate anger with loss?

  Gramps had been angry and she’d lost him. Would she lose this baby, and Dan, too?

  Her thoughts were unreasonable. Of course she would lose both. Not to death. But by her own leaving. This wasn’t for keeps. Why did she keep forgetting that lately?

  Her heart lurched when she heard the front door open, then saw Dan a moment later. He paused by the door to the living room, as though unsure of his welcome.

  For pity’s sake. It was his home.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She wasn’t prepared for the immediate apology. When she and Doyle had fought, he’d turned it around on her, would have eaten a live worm before he’d utter those two words.