Cheryl St.John - [Neubauer Brothers 01]

by Heaven Can Wait

  His knees bracketed her hips and he pressed himself along her back, tugging her hair aside and touching his face to the curve of her neck.

  Lydia closed her eyes and concentrated on every inch where his skin touched hers. She had never been touched, had never known this closeness, this satisfaction. Nothing had ever felt so good, had ever captured her attention so intently that the rest of the world ceased to exist.

  With a hesitant palm, she reached over her shoulder and touched his face, then laced her fingers in his hair. He turned and pressed his mouth against her fingers, took the tip of one between his searing lips, and her stomach quivered.

  She turned from the waist and met his mouth with her own. He kissed her eagerly, intent on his purpose.

  "Turn now," he said against her lips, and she did, lying back against the pillow at his urging. He flowed down over her, his weight a solid pleasure. Sweet, pulsing desire overbalanced thought and reason, and Lydia welcomed him into her body.

  His kiss was prayerful, crushing, his body graceful, deliberate. As though she were a long-sought-after treasure, he bracketed first her face, then her hips. Hot and greedy, Jakob's fervor burst with a groan and an all-over shudder.

  He buried his damp forehead in the V of her neck and shoulder and struggled for air, his heart pounding against her breast. Minutes later, he pushed himself away, not meeting her eyes. "I didn't mean for that to happen."

  Puzzled, she tried to read his face. "Are you sorry again?"

  "Are you?" he asked, instead of answering.

  What had seemed so lovely and natural only moments before now made her uncomfortable. She'd grown too confused to sort out any of her feelings. She only knew she felt robbed and baffled. "I'm sick of sorries," she replied.

  Jakob stood and tugged on his dungarees and shirt. Without a backward glance at her or the mirror, he picked up his boots and stalked from the room.

  Lydia pulled the sheet from its moorings and wrapped it around her before stepping to the washstand.

  Her reflection shocked her. In total disarray, her hair fell in a tangle over her shoulders, pins protruding here and there. Her lips were a deep rose, swollen from his kisses. Pink patches of abraded skin dotted her neck and chest. What had just happened?

  Through the bedroom window drifted the bellows of the cows coming near the barn for milking. It was broad daylight, and she'd behaved like a... like a what? Was that what displeased Jakob? Should she be setting standards of proper behavior?

  Shameless, that's what she was. Lydia applied herself to her hairbrush with purging strokes, and tortured her hair into a severe knot. He was disappointed with her, and she with herself. The marriage bed was one thing, used for the purpose intended, but lust was quite another. No doubt he was shocked that she'd allowed him such liberties, and in broad daylight!

  She pressed a wet cloth against her flushed face and ran her thumbnail over the bristles of his ebony-handled hairbrush, some undefinable yearning still shimmying through her veins.

  But still she would miss him. Oh, how she would miss him...

  Lydia lay staring into the darkness overhead. Even in his absence, she could almost hear Jakob's boots hitting the floor. The rustle of his clothing was nearly audible. The bed ropes would creak as they took his weight. The scent of firewood would be in his hair. Where did he sleep tonight? What did he eat? Did he miss her?

  The first week had been unbearable. At the dinner table, Lydia's gaze had raked over Jakob's empty place as a tongue sought a sore tooth.

  She'd taken his place at milking, though the brothers' eyebrows had shot up dubiously the first night she appeared with her sleeves rolled back. But when her buckets were filled as quickly and efficiently as theirs, they'd shared a contrite expression. She'd appointed herself the job of feeding the chickens and hogs each morning.

  Today had been exhausting, and she should have been able to fall asleep. She and Annette had picked apples and peaches, peeled and sliced them and strung them on long, heavy lengths of thread, draping them over one entire side of the porch to dry. After milking, the evenings stretched before her, and she often wished she could sew or embroider like Annette. Instead, she used Annette's recipes, putting up pickles, relishes—anything to occupy herself. Anything to fill the minutes and hours. And still she missed him.

  Every night, she recalled each detail of their intimate encounters. The night Jakob had spread her hair over her shoulders and coaxed her onto this bed, and she'd been determined to fulfill her marital obligations. The afternoon he'd soothed her with salve and inflamed her with kisses and touches.

  The memory of those encounters robbed her of sleep. The scents. His own blend of man and musk and bay rum. The sights. Corded, flexing muscles, hair-dusted limbs, chest, belly...

  The sounds. Oh, yes, the sounds. Frustrated groans, the intimate, slick sounds of ravenous mouths and slippery—warmth other than that left over from the sweltering day burned a hungry yearning straight to her core.

  Lydia couldn't have said which plagued her more—the sultry heat of the night, or her lonely aching for Jakob.

  Jakob turned on his side, the bedroll offering scant cushioning between his hips and the hard ground. He threw an arm over his ear, hoping to block out the snores of the other men in the enormous tent, and tried not to think about his soft bed and his softly rounded, lavender-scented wife. He hadn't grown accustomed to the smell of his own sweat and that of fifty-odd men. That day he'd stood in mud up to his knees for nearly ten hours, unloading steel girders. Every muscle in his body burned, and his shoulders were sun-scorched, but the work was worth it.

  He would return with enough money to purchase the supplies needed to build their house. Once they had their own home, things between them would work out.

  The morning he left, an awkward silence had stretched between them as he carried his bags out to the springboard.

  "If you need anything just ask Annette or Franz. I left money in the top drawer. It's yours to do whatever you like."

  Holding herself straight and tall, she'd nodded.

  "Don't take up with one of the other fiddle players while I'm gone." Two were in their sixties, and the other was a happily married father of seven.

  She'd managed a smile. "I think not."

  Her hair had been caught up in a roll on the back of her head, yet loose wisps had already framed her face. She hadn't worn the white cap that morning. He'd watched her expression as she struggled for composure, and wished he knew what to say to reassure her that everything would be all right.

  "It won't be long. I'll be back before you know it." He'd kissed her then, quick and hard, and she'd felt the lump of steel beneath his jacket.

  Her dark eyes had widened. "A gun, Jakob? A gun you are taking?"

  "Just a precaution, nothing to worry over." But her betraying expression had told him she would. She was probably imagining bandits, train robbers, muggers and wild animals right now. He reached across the short space to his belongings and touched the small bag of dried apples she'd sent with him. He'd eaten her loaf of bread the first day.

  He rolled onto his back and tucked his palms under his head, experiencing the now-familiar reaction of his body to thoughts of her. He stifled a groan. There was nothing wrong with him. He was a normal man with a healthy desire for his wife. Now he knew the feel of her skin, knew her scents and textures, knew the dark color of her nipples and how they pebbled when he brushed them with his face. He savored the memory of her perched on the bed, her upper body exposed to his senses, and remembered the exquisite feel of burying himself deep within her and appeasing his years of loneliness and denial.

  He tortured himself, remembering her kisses, her body. But it was such sweet torture. He pressed his knuckles into his eyes and erased the image. He was selfish.

  Instead of behaving like a rutting schoolboy, he should stifle his own desires and think of her pleasure and her needs. Perhaps if he took a little time... made her want him as much as he wanted her...


  Someone on the other side of the tent grunted and rolled over on his hard pallet. Jakob closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. It wouldn't be much longer. If he hung on a little longer, he'd be home with his wife. And when he was, he'd start over again. He'd show her how caring and gentle he could be. He hadn't done so great this far. He'd rushed her and probably frightened her, but he'd learn. He had to.

  With Johann's help, Lydia's riding lessons continued. Mounting got easier, though she had to stack crates near the corral fence to step from. After each lesson, she walked and groomed Freida, and gave her carefully measured portions of feed and water.

  "You're a good rider, Lydia!" Emily called as Lydia returned from the barn one Saturday afternoon. Lydia shaded her eyes with a hand and spotted Emily in a shady corner of the porch. Nikolaus was playing with wooden blocks at her feet.

  "Ja?"

  "You're every bit as good as the men."

  Lydia perched on the railing and gazed out across the door-yard, toward the corral. "It's an enjoyable freedom. I can go as fast or as slow as I like, turn Freida in any direction I choose.... I like riding."

  "Annette said you'd be visiting your grandmother soon. You must miss your family," Emily said.

  "I do." More and more she thought of the old woman's dark, pain-filled eyes. A lump filled her throat. Her grandmother had been so frail last time she'd seen her. "What about you? Where is your family?"

  "There's no one except my mother, and she's in a sanitarium in Pittsburgh."

  "Do you visit her?"

  Emily shook her head. "She doesn't know me."

  How sad. Even though she'd never shared a close relationship with her own mother, she missed her. Her mother would never break the rules though. Lydia wouldn't put her in the position to choose. But she needed to see her grandmother again before—before any more time passed.

  She gazed toward the eastern horizon. "I'm not certain of the way. When Jakob brought me here, we came through Butler, but I know there's a direct route."

  "We have the map."

  The thought of visiting Accord was frightening and exhilarating at the same time. "Ja."

  They were in the kitchen, their heads bent over the unfolded piece of paper when Charlotte Simms poked her head in the door. "I brought my piece bag."

  Annette removed a basket of apples from the table. "We'll teach Lydia to sew!"

  Lydia smiled. "I can make a pretty dress."

  Emily backed away from the table, and a few minutes later Lydia noted her watching as though she didn't want to intrude.

  "Will you help, Emily?"

  "You want my help?"

  "Yes, of course. There is much to be done, and I know not the first thing about sewing or fashionable styles. I will appreciate your advice."

  Emily gave her a grateful smile and joined the ladies.

  "We'll make you a dress that knocks Jakob's socks off," Charlotte said.

  Lydia looked at her with a puzzled frown.

  Annette laughed. "He will love it, is what she means."

  "Yes," Lydia agreed. "A sock-knocking dress will be perfect."

  The ladies looked at one another with amusement.

  "I'll make us a pot of tea," Emily suggested.

  Chapter 15

  Alone. Lydia had never been so alone or so far from civilization in her life. She glanced down at the saddle holster bearing the rifle Johann had forced her to bring.

  The dusty road had taken her an alarmingly long way before she reached the fork. Knowing nothing of the measurement of miles, she watched for landmarks and took the fork to the right, studying the trail behind her so it would look familiar on the return trip. She'd felt oddly alone ever since she'd reached the end of the long drive and looked back on the homestead, laid out as she'd seen it the day she'd ridden in on the springboard next to Jakob.

  Elation overpowered anxiety at the prospect of seeing Grandmother. In the fields to her right, the corn stood tall, its husks rasping in the pleasant, dry wind. It was nearly harvest-time, and almost time for Jakob's return. It seemed he'd been gone forever. Grasshoppers sprang from the stalks into the air as the horse disturbed them. Determinedly Freida cantered on, oblivious of their agitation. The sun rose higher in the morning sky, and a lazy warmth soaked into Lydia's skin and bones. Freedom was a heady sensation.

  On the other side of the stream, she dismounted, stretched her legs and allowed Freida a drink. Once down, she knew she'd made a mistake; she'd never get back on the horse without help.

  Taking the reins, she walked, chastising herself with every step. After ten minutes, a weathered stump presented itself. Lydia glanced toward heaven and gave thanks. She would remember the lesson.

  The ride had taken so much longer than she'd thought it should. Grass, trees and sky looked the same for miles and miles—everywhere, for all she knew. She could easily have veered off in the wrong direction and become hopelessly lost.

  The sun grew hot. Lydia dabbed nervous perspiration from her face and neck. She was almost regretting her rash decision by the time she recognized the stand of beech trees, several of which had been blown over in a storm and lay decaying against the ground. Relief flooded her, and she exhaled her pent-up anxiety in a whoosh. Allegheny County.

  At the hill's crest, a warm familiarity suffused her breast. Lydia filled her gaze with the straight streets, the perfect, boxlike blocks of buildings and trees.

  The beast beneath Lydia shifted her footing. The church bell pealed across the countryside, and an involuntary shiver ran up her spine. Vater. Inwardly she cringed at the thought of him discovering her. Her eyes sought the church, where he was at this moment. Where he was every morning, cosseted in his study. She counted ten bells. Two hours until dinner.

  Heart hammering, Lydia rode into Accord, opposite Church Street, turned into the livery and slid from the saddle, glad she'd chosen to dress like an Outsider. Herr Grunewald greeted her without interest.

  "I'll be stayin' about two hours. Please care for my horse until I return from shoppin'," she said, head averted, adopting the Neubauers' clipped speech. From the reticule Emily had loaned her, she withdrew two of the coins Jakob had left and instructed the livery man on precise amounts of food and water. She handed the coins to him. "Thank you."

  "Danke."

  She passed the common quickly. Not a brick had changed, not a blade of the carefully cut grass, not a flower or herb. No weeds grew in the bed she had planted beside the house. Just as she'd expected, there was no outward sign of her absence.

  At the door of her childhood home, she hesitated, listening for voices, then pushed open the door. From long habit, she removed her shoes. The kitchen of the two-story brick house was cool and dim, and spotlessly clean. Chairs stood at attention around the empty table. Though the room was painfully familiar, its lack of furnishings and utensils now seemed odd and... somehow lonely. The oppressive lack of life and laughter hit her squarely for the first time.

  Lydia hurried along the hallway, her heart pounding in anticipation and her silky green skirts rustling in the silence of the house. The disturbing scent of cedar from her parents' room triggered memories of her quiet, nondescript childhood. Gray memories. Bland memories, like food with no salt or spice. Nothing like her new memories.

  Grandmother's door stood open. Lydia peered inside. Her grandmother, small and pale atop the colorful bridal quilt, stared back at her. Dark eyes met, and a dawning smile creased the old woman's face.

  "Dearest child,"she said softly.

  Tears stinging her eyes, Lydia knelt at her grandmother's side. They embraced before she drew back to look into her wrinkled, well-loved face. With gnarled fingers, her grandmother untied the bow beneath Lydia's chin. Lydia removed the bonnet and tossed it and the reticule on the floor.

  "You look different—Your hair..." Her grandmother's voice trailed away.

  She looked exactly the same. A little thinner, perhaps. The ever-present shawl was wrapped around her bony shoul
ders, and the thick gray braid lay across her chest. Acute regret tinged Lydia's voice. "I wish you didn't have to be alone all day."

  "When you have lived as long as I, you appreciate peace and quiet."

  The comment was for her benefit. The colony offered immeasurable solitude, no matter what age one was. Her strength and selflessness roused Lydia's admiration.

  "Rachael comes at noon," Grandmother added in a subtle warning. "What is life like on your farm?"

  Lydia's gaze took in the modest, uncarpeted room, and her mind insisted on making comparisons. No hatboxes stacked as high as the ceiling, no beaded collars or feminine scents. Not one picture of Grandmother's beloved husband.

  "It's good, but sometimes I'm so frightened that I'll never fit in." She described her new relatives, the house, the friends she'd met, and told of her learning experiences with chores, cooking and sewing. Rose chuckled.

  "Tell me," the old woman asked, eyes dancing with animation. "Do you plan your own days?"

  "Basically, yes. Annette has shown me the chores and how to do them, but I work in any order I wish."

  "If it suited you to put off a chore until the next day, you could?"

  "Ja."

  Grandmother gave her a satisfied smile. "And Meier Neubauer, child? What is it like being his wife?"

  Lydia straightened and sat on the edge of the cot. What was it like being Jakob's wife? She took a deep breath. "I have made it sound like I'm learning self-assurance, but it's not so. I'm afraid I'll never learn to please Jakob."

  "He is a demanding husband?"

  "No! No, he is kind and patient, but he should have married someone who knew how to dance to the quadrille, how to dress in lovely clothes, how to sew... Someone who learned to plan meals and iron clothing from her mother, like Annette, not a wife he has to instruct in every facet of the most simple functions."

  Grandmother rested her frail hand on Lydia's arm and fixed a probing gaze on her. "Has he said this is an inconvenience to him?"

  "Nein."

  "Do you think your background had never entered his mind before he asked you to marry him?"