The man turned to face her head on, still just outside the reach of the floodlight over the carriage house door. The rain clouds covered the moon, but she could see that his skin was pale—no doubt, she thought, from long hours spent poring over legal briefs or business ledgers. Or perhaps he was one of those guys who still lived in his mother’s basement and had a social life limited only by the reach of the Internet—‘basement dwellers’ she thought they were called. Toni couldn’t make out the colour of his eyes, but in this light they seemed inky black.
She was anxious for him to step within the brighter pool of light. It made her uneasy to only see the most rudimentary features. In this light he seemed like a grainy photocopy from a black-and-white printer. Even in greyscale he was handsome. What struck her most was his moustache. He looked otherwise bedraggled, but that moustache was perfectly trimmed. It framed his lips as if his mouth were a parenthetical phrase, then followed his jaw before turning northward to blend into thick, lamb chop sideburns. His facial hair was so perfect and so utterly old fashioned that Toni wondered if it were another prop, and if so, what kind of glue must he be using for it to hold up under this downpour? If it weren’t, what employer would stand for it?
Toni was about to turn away when the pretend soldier straightened his stance and held her fast with his stare. He appeared to be exhausted and his stand-at-attention posture seemed a struggle. He touched the bill of his cap with a gentlemanly nod. Something about the gesture—the sincerity of it and its courtly nature—moved her. Toni gathered up a hank of sodden skirt in each hand, just below her hips, pulled out the fabric, and curtsied. She dipped her chin down and away, affecting the air of a proper lady. The formality of it centred her. When she straightened, the re-enactor was gone. Toni drew in a deep breath and smiled. She would look for him tomorrow at the re-enactment. With renewed strength, Toni made her way towards a hot bubble bath and dry clothes.
* * * *
Warm and clean and exhausted, she slid between fresh sheets. That night she dreamed of him—the man in the shadows of her alley. In her dream, he was a real soldier, not some twenty-first-century pretender. In her dream she saw him in full colour—not in the greyscale of a stormy night. Her house was not a bed-and-breakfast for privileged historians with overactive imaginations. It was a home. It was her home—and his. In her dream, she stood at the sink, scrubbing a rag against a skillet, trying to loosen the bacon fat left over from the field hands’ breakfast. Suspended, she thought, I am suspended as I wait for him to return.
She closed her eyes as she scrubbed the pan beneath the surface of the greasy wash water. She began humming one of the songs that the workers favoured. Her hands moved to the rhythm of the simple tune. Soon her full hips followed, swaying to the melody. She was glad that no one was near to see the shame of it. The tedious work seemed somehow easier with the music propelling her forward.
She hadn’t heard him, but she felt him. She knew that he was standing behind her as certainly as if he were in her line of sight. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck bristled against her high collar. She stopped scrubbing. Wood fire—she smelt the unmistakable aroma of smoke from a wood fire—smoke that had woven its way into wool fibres. She stopped humming, but she could not move from that spot. The wash water had grown cold and her fingertips were sodden. A chill zipped up her spine.
The first touch caused her to catch her breath. She fought the urge to cry out as his hands rested on her round hips. The touch was so familiar, and still she couldn’t allow herself to believe that it was him—that he’d returned to her after all this time.
His broad hands pulled her hips back and the pommel of his sword dig into the soft flesh of her ass. She felt the steel of his cock make an equally notable impression.
The rasp of his whiskers brushed her jaw. Below the acrid aroma of wood smoke, she detected something even more familiar. She breathed in his scent, the uniquely masculine scent that distinguished him from all others. She kept her eyes closed, but tears of relief breached their inner corners. It was him. He was back. He’d returned to her and she was overjoyed. She longed to swing round and press her body into his and run her hands over him, but she tamped down those urges. She had heard tales of the battles and she knew that he had seen horrors she could only imagine. This moment was his. Whatever victories or defeats he had endured, this conquest was his.
He whispered at her ear, “I’ve missed you so.”
The tenor of his familiar voice and the words that he spoke shook her to the core. Her body thrummed. Her nipples strained against the thin cotton of her dress. Goosebumps broke out over her arms. The place between her legs flared with desire.
His calloused palms rasped across the fabric as they pressed a path from her hips and over the soft rise of her belly. His thick fingers roamed upward over the simple buttons as if he were playing an instrument. She drew in a shuddering breath when his broad hands found their familiar place—cradling her breasts. Her chin fell to her chest and she was scandalised to hear herself cry, “Please.”
She dried her hands with the dish towel, then covered his. She thrilled at the disparity in size. Her smaller fingers could only dance over his, cupping them as they worked free the General-Store buttons. She held her breath as he deftly released the fasteners at her throat. Now her body tingled in anticipation.
“I’ve missed you so,” he repeated and she let out a wanton moan.
When he’d opened every button from collar to waist, he found the string that held closed her shift and yanked it loose. He plunged his right hand in a sweeping diagonal across her chest and gathered up her breast.
He growled into her ear and she couldn’t help but cry out.
“My love!” he breathed.
She grasped the cool edge of the sink and pressed her ass into his straining cock.
“My love!” she repeated.
Now both of his rough palms had claimed a breast and he kneaded them furiously.
She pushed her ass into him and her hitching breath—her flowing tears of joy—urged him onwards.
She revelled at the contrast of his battered hands against her smooth flesh.
He closed his fingers around her hardened nipples and pinched them until she was at the tipping point between pleasure and pain. When she thought she could take no more, he roughly spun her to face him. She wrapped her arms around his gritty neck. She combed through his filthy hair, knocking his cap to the floor. She found his mouth with hers and hungrily sucked at his lips. He ripped her dress open further and in the far away distance she heard buttons ting across the floorboards. The edge of the counter jabbed into her back and the sharp pain only added to the thrill. Her hands worked furiously at his uniform and their moans were punctuated by the clatter of his armament as it fell away.
Trembling, they worked together to loosen his sash and the buttons that held his trousers. He hefted up the yards of her skirt and probed her slick divide He buried his whiskers into her neck while he explored the place between her legs. She bit at his hard shoulder muscles and wrapped her fingers around the throbbing rod that she’d longed for all these months.
I’ve missed you so, her mind screamed.
He grasped the soft flesh of her thighs and he pushed them open with his muscular legs.
The moment his cock pushed into her she cried out. The tears flowed in a delicious mélange of pleasure and pain and love and longing. He thrust into her, pressing her mercilessly into the cold, hard sink. Her neglected pussy stretched over his thick cock as he plunged into her again and again—all the while sucking at the tender flesh of her neck.
“Please!” she cried.
“Yes!” he answered.
With each thrust, her desire built and she hurtled towards the place she’d fantasised about since the moment he’d left.
He buried himself in her to the hilt and—when her breath was hitching and her desire at its fullest—he ground himself into her, massaging the centre of her pleasure. She screamed
into the huge, empty house and felt her slick inner walls clamp down on him. A shuddering wave overwhelmed her and she drew up her legs around his narrow waist. She felt herself pulse against him and in response his manhood swelled and surged and then pulsed into her in return. With a final thrust he cried out like an animal and dug his fingers into her ass.
Tears streamed down her face and she shuddered with release. Though they were slick with sweat, she returned his embrace and held on to him as if her life depended on it. Their bodies jerked with the aftershocks of the passion that they’d shared. In the end, they clung to one another until the last wave of desire had subsided. His muscles relaxed under her touch, and his kisses became more tender. She felt that two were—once again—one.
* * * *
Toni was in the twilight between sleep and waking. The sheets were tangled about her legs and her pillow felt lumpy. She kicked at the bedclothes, trying to straighten them, and peered at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was nearly three in the morning. Before she’d turned in she’d cranked up the thermostat but the chill had returned. Toni sat up and pulled up the extra quilt from the foot of the bed, then rolled onto her side and drew up her knees to concentrate her body heat. She became aware that her pussy was wet and tingling and the dream came back to her in exquisite detail. She smiled. Exhausted, she burrowed into the blankets. As she drifted back to sleep, she imagined the faint smell of cap-gun smoke.
Chapter Two
The flickering lights, the sudden blasts of cold air, the unexplained sensation of being touched, the weird sexual dreams—all of those things were disturbing, but it was the incessant channel-flipping that annoyed her the most.
Toni shook the soapy dishwater from her hands and snatched up the TV remote from the windowsill over the sink. She pointed the device at the small flat-screen television on the wall and entered the code for the home improvement show she had been watching before the channel had flipped. It was an episode on plaster repair, and given the chunk of ceiling she’d found on the dining room table this morning, it was a skill she’d need to master.
The host of the home improvement show was demonstrating how to remove the loose plaster, dust and grime from the spot to be repaired.
Toni kept her attention on the screen as she plunged her hands back into the soapy water. She felt around for a plate, sponged it clean, then dipped the plate through the rinse water and turned to place it in the draining rack while keeping an ear tuned to the television.
“…remember, if you want any plaster repair to last you must… Get buns of iron!”
Toni jerked her head towards the television, confirming that the channel had indeed switched again. She spiked the sponge into the wash water and the front of her dress was doused by the resulting splash.
“Oh, c’mon!” she shouted to the empty kitchen.
She grabbed the remote from the windowsill and pointed it towards the TV to once again flip back to the programme she’d been watching. Before she could make the switch, she felt a cushioned jolt to her right shoulder, like she’d been swatted with a bed pillow. The controller flew out of her hand and into the dishwater. She watched it sink beneath the sudsy surface. She spun around, pressed her back against the sink and jerked her gaze over the kitchen. It was empty.
A cold knot formed in Toni’s belly. She’d explained away two weeks’ worth of strange happenings. The lights flickered because the wiring was old. When she walked through a cold spot, it was because the doors and windows were draughty. She was having sexual dreams because she was horny. And the occasional physical sensations really were just tiny muscles contracting beneath her skin.
It was harder to explain away the sensation of being tripped every time she started to climb the stairs, but she’d never been particularly graceful. She’d wondered about the little house repairs that seemed to complete themselves overnight. She would often take a walk around the grounds and see that a swinging shutter had been secured or a leaning fencepost righted. The mysterious maintenance had been going on since the rainy night she’d seen the re-enactor in the alleyway. She’d awoken the next morning and found the carriage house door repaired and the handle reattached. She’d yet to identify the Good Samaritan, but she’d convinced herself that it probably was just a neighbour performing a random act of kindness. Who else could it be? But now the doubt that she’d been suppressing twisted inside her.
Toni smelt cap-gun smoke. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. She couldn’t explain away the blow that had caused her to drop the remote into the sink. Most of the other invisible touches she’d experienced had been as gentle as the brush of a cobweb against the skin, light enough to make her wonder if they’d been imagined. This time, there was no confusion. This time, she’d been pushed. Of that she was certain.
Toni wished she weren’t alone in the big old house. The re-enactors had all left immediately after breakfast to take part in the annual John Buckman Poker Tournament. They’d roll in well after dark and would undoubtedly be stumbling drunk. Not that any of those desk jockeys would provide much muscle. Toni realised that she was on her own. But, she’d grown up with five brothers. How tough could this be?
Toni drew in air until her lungs were full to bursting, then pushed away from the counter and balled her hands into fists.
“Okay!” she shouted to the empty kitchen. “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?”
The television crackled with static and she turned towards it. The Buns of Iron exercise video commercial ended with a toll-free number to call if one, in fact, wanted to spend one’s hard-earned cash to attain a forged-metal ass. The screen faded to black before the regularly scheduled programme filled the screen.
The episode of Paranormal Research Team was just wrapping up. The handsome star of the show was sitting in a modest kitchen across the table from a bedraggled housewife. They were both fixated on a tiny monitor at one end of the table.
“Keep a close eye on the curtain near the head of the bed,” the handsome host said.
They both leaned in.
“There!” he shouted. The woman jumped. “Right there. Did you see how the curtain puffed out? Was it a draught?” The host drew in a dramatic breath and looked into the camera, stretching out the melodramatic pause. “Or”—yet another long pause—“was it something else? Was it something”—he dipped his square chin and raised one eyebrow—“paranormal?”
A discordant collection of musical notes played ominously as the credits rolled. Toni’s skin prickled as she stared at the little television. The announcer’s theatrical voice boomed into the kitchen.
“If you, or someone you know, have experienced something unexplained, contact the Paranormal Research Team at…”
A static crackle issued from the television speaker and Toni watched as the horizontal green line that indicated the volume level travelled from left to right across the screen. She winced at the blaring sound of the announcer’s voice reciting the toll-free number to call.
Toni was shaking. She uncurled her fingers from the edge of the countertop and tried to recall where she kept her pens and notepaper. She turned towards the corner drawer that served as a catchall for the flotsam and jetsam that had no other obvious home. Her trembling hand was on the drawer knob when the cordless phone on the counter began to bleat at an unexpectedly rapid tempo. The rings were amplified far beyond their normal level and they came closer together until it was just one long, shrill tone.
She fought the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, cover her ears, and stumble blindly out of the kitchen. Instead, Toni turned towards the sound. Her mouth dropped open and when she inhaled, her breath shuddered. Her eyelids ached as she stretched them open to their limit.
A scream threatened to burst from her chest, but she was dumbstruck while she watched the phone’s display screen glow orange as it was activated. The television muted itself and the sound of a dial tone filled the kitchen as the cordless switched over to speaker. Toni felt cemented to the
floor and silently watched the line of numbers fill the telephone display screen, each digit appearing with its assigned digital music note.
Toni’s entire body was now trembling. She crossed her arms under her breasts, trying to stop herself from shaking, then inched on unsteady legs towards the phone. She could hear the recipient line ringing through the speaker. She wasn’t sure if she could find her voice to speak when the voice on the other end answered, “Paranormal Research Team. How can we help you today?”
* * * *
Thomas Becker glanced at the dashboard GPS. The Paranormal Research Team was less than ten miles from their destination.
“What’s the deal with this one?” he asked the doe-eyed redhead in the passenger seat.
Bridget O’Malley flipped through the notebook pages attached to the clipboard on her lap. “Okay, Soldiers Orchard, Iowa—home of Civil War soldier John Buckman, one of about seventy-five thousand that the state sent to fight on the Union side. Came home from the war without a scratch. Died a year later from an infection after stepping on a rusty nail on his front porch. Supposedly haunts the house and grounds.”
Thomas didn’t mind that Bridget didn’t always speak in complete sentences. In fact, he kind of appreciated the shorthand. It took less effort than trying to engage her in conversation. The team had been researching paranormal activity—PA—for four seasons and the show had become the highest rated in the network’s history. At least part of that popularity could be attributed to his attractive sidekick.
Bridget continued, “No actual battle took place here but the town does a booming tourist trade with historic re-enactment buffs.”
Soldier of Love Page 2