Spring Blossom

by Jill Metcalf

  She was so engrossed with teasing and tickling little Sarah, in fact, that she didn’t notice Hunter’s approach until he was beside her.

  “Let me take her for a moment,” he said, reaching out with both hands. The child immediately went to him, grinning. “Hello, Sarah, my darling,” he said softly, as he gently poked a finger into the rounded tummy, making the child giggle before she planted a quick kiss on his lips. “Maggie, let me introduce you to Feddler before I leave to help the men.” He balanced Sarah in the crook of one arm while he helped Margaret up from her chair. “How do you like this little mite?” he asked her.

  “I think she’s wonderful,” Margaret said happily, and then a chill went through her as Hunter turned those intense, black eyes her way. “Do you think we could share one of these one day?” he asked quietly.

  CHAPTER 19

  That evening, after they had returned home, Margaret and Marie-Louise shared the kitchen duties, the beginning of what would prove to be an easy routine. While Margaret set the table and prepared water and towels in preparation for the men coming up from their chores, Marie-Louise cooked. Once the meal had been enjoyed, the two women talked quietly with each other as Margaret washed the supper dishes and Marie-Louise dried.

  The men remained at the table, but Hunter found his attention drifting away from the talk of farming, his gaze returning again and again to his young wife. Margaret was standing with her back to him, and Hunter caught only a glimpse of her face as occasionally she turned to her companion. He found himself wishing that they could be alone, that he could share the kitchen chores with her, just to have her turn her attention toward him. He was suddenly, selfishly, impatient to be alone with her.

  When at last Margaret turned away from the dry sink to remove her apron, Hunter took a last sip of coffee, ground out his cigar, and moved to her side. Taking her hand in his, he said to Marie-Louise, “You’ll forgive me if I take her away for awhile?”

  Marie-Louise’s eyes twinkled. “I don’t know if I should let you,” she said saucily.

  Hunter laughed and pointedly ignored the remark as he pulled Margaret toward the door.

  “Where are we going?” Margaret asked, as they stepped out into the sultry evening air.

  “I want to show you that little mare,” he said.

  The full moon lit their way as Hunter slowly led her toward the barn. He was in no hurry. It was pleasant to walk with her, her small hand tucked snuggly, warmly, into his.

  “The air is sweet,” she said, taking a deep breath.

  “Honeysuckle.”

  Margaret didn’t know what to say after that. Hunter seemed to be in one of his quiet moods and he was certainly taking his time in getting to the barn.

  “I like to walk,” he said as he tipped his head back and searched the starlit sky. “Especially at night,” he added softly. And then he smiled down at her. “Do you like to walk, little one?”

  Margaret remembered walking with him years ago, when she was an innocent girl, falling madly into first love with the most handsome, the most considerate man she had ever known. They had not held hands then, as they did this night, but she could remember wanting to walk with him forever. “I like to walk sometimes,” she said at last.

  “And will you walk out with me,” he teased, lightly squeezing her hand.

  She turned her head and stared at him, puzzled. “As if we were courting?”

  “Of course. Don’t you think I’m courting you, Maggie?”

  “But we’re married,” she returned, as if the idea of being courted now was outlandish.

  “I think a beautiful woman deserves to be courted, even by her husband. Particularly by her husband.”

  Uneasy, she turned slightly away. “Hunter, I wish you wouldn’t keep referring to me as a beautiful woman. We both know I’m not. It seems…”

  Margaret stopped in mid-sentence when Hunter pulled up short and turned her to face him.

  “That’s another reason why I could kill that man from your past,” he said evenly. “He stole your confidence along with so much more that is vital. You have no understanding of how truly lovely you are,” he breathed as he cupped her face with his hands, his thumb lightly stroking the soft skin around the scar. “I told you once before this doesn’t detract from your rare beauty or what I see when I look at you,” he added, his anger easing. “I’m scarred, too, but I think I’m still beautiful,” he teased.

  Margaret stared, incredulous, before a slow smile crept across her lips. “You’re crazy!” she said with a laugh. “You are not scarred.”

  “I am, too,” he insisted, grinning at her. “Remind me to show you my scar sometime when we’re alone.”

  He took her hand again, and they entered the dark barn. Margaret stood just inside the doors while Hunter lit the lantern that was hanging on the wall nearby.

  “She’s down here,” he said, then led the way, holding the lamp high when he stopped at the door of a large box stall. “This is her royal highness.”

  Margaret peeked through the steel bars of the stall. “Is that her name?” she asked as her tutored gaze roamed over the filly.

  “No.” Hunter hung the lantern on a hook above their heads. “I just like to think she’ll eventually be the queen of my stables. Her name is Fancy That.”

  She laughed softly. “Really?”

  “Think we should change it?”

  “No. I think it’s cute. She’s a lovely mare, Hunter; fine bones, but good structure and strength. She should do well for you.” After a moment Margaret turned and pressed her back to the door of the stall. Hunter was standing very close, his dark eye staring down at her.

  “I think she’ll do well,” he said. And it was clear that he was not talking about the mare. His eyes moved upward, closely examining her hair before he touched a soft curl at her shoulder. “Do you know why I had to bring you out here?” he asked as he braced his free hand against a bar near her shoulder. “I found myself sitting in that kitchen resenting the presence of my own friends.”

  “Why?” she asked, her blue eyes searching his for an answer that should have been obvious.

  He smiled. “You really don’t understand, do you? I’m a grown man, but I feel like a lovesick boy. I want to be alone with you all the time. I find myself resenting my work and your work and anyone or anything that takes you away from me for a single moment of each day.” His hand caressed her face, her neck, and skimmed slowly down the length of her arm as he spoke. And Margaret found herself, not afraid, but awestruck by what he was saying. “I want to be with you, kissing you and touching you, and when I can’t, I think about you.”

  He dipped his head and Margaret knew she was about to be kissed. But she was so stunned by what he had just revealed that she could offer no resistance. Did these things mean that he really did love her, she wondered? With her next thought, she dismissed the notion. He merely wanted her. One had nothing to do with the other; that much she did know. And he certainly didn’t know her well enough to love her.

  Hunter put his arms around her and pulled her lightly against him. “This will be a real kiss, little one,” he breathed. “No peck on the cheek,” he added before slanting his lips softly against hers, pulling her closer against his chest. The kiss, indeed, was not a simple peck. Hunter struggled with longing and impatience, not wanting to frighten her, knowing he had to wait upon her adjustment. She would be worth the wait, he knew, but the strain of keeping his hands off her would soon be telling. His kiss was firm, but not threatening and, eventually, he could feel her relax somewhat against him. He could only hope that his coaxing, teasing, assault was, somehow, having a positive effect on her.

  He moved his lips slowly over hers, breathing in the freshness of her, filling his mind with the softness of her. “Oh, God, little one,” he murmured, raising his head a fraction, only to return and trail velvety kisses over her face. He carefully held his lower body away from her, but when he lowered his head to pay passionate attention to the
soft tender spot beneath her ear, he dared to place his hand just below her left breast.

  Margaret could feel her heart thundering in her chest, the sound echoing in her ears. A rush of new sensations roared through her system that she did not understand. While the feelings were not threatening, they were worrisome because she did not know how to respond or what would relieve the building of this strange force within her. It was the warm and teasing things he was doing to her that caused the turmoil and she could feel the heat of him even through the stuff of their clothes. Something was happening to her that would never bring her back to before this moment, and she knew that instinctively. It was similar, and yet greater, than when she had shared the brandy with him; liquid fire was consuming her.

  But then, in a natural protective motion, she flinched away from him when his hand eased up and cupped her breast. Alarmed, Margaret reached up and clamped her hand around his wrist, her pale blue eyes pleading with him as she attempted to break his hold on her.

  “Don’t," he whispered. “Just let me touch. Just let yourself feel, Maggie.”

  Her fingers remained around his wrist, but she ceased her attempts to remove his hand from her. She was watching him as he stared down at her, his gaze following the slow, circular motion of his thumb, raising her tender nipple to a hardened peak.

  “You’re lovely here, too,” he whispered. “See how you respond to me, little one?” he asked. He raised his eyes to her and smiled the smile of one drunk on passion. “I think we had better stop now,” he added huskily. “And I think I had better head for the creek for a swim in the cold water.”

  He left her standing there, chagrined over having allowed his hands to be on her and confused by his hasty retreat. What did one say after moments like those just past?

  *

  They went on for days and weeks. Hunter was relentless in his pursuit of her, sexually and otherwise. He teased, he cajoled, and he became bolder each time he touched her. Margaret soon became a quaking mass of nervous tension. A kind of tension that was completely foreign to her. And it was driving her mad!

  “What the devil is wrong with you?” Marie-Louise asked as they worked in the heat of a noonday sun over a steaming caldron of wash water.

  Margaret straightened up from stirring the heavy clothes to brush a lock of hair back from her damp face.

  “Have you got the curse or some other problem?” Marie-Louise snapped. “I’d like to know so when you boss me around I can either sympathize with you or tell you to go to hell!”

  That caught Margaret’s full attention and she seemed to wilt as she stroked her damp brow with the palm of one hand “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “It?” Marie-Louise returned. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Margaret merely shook her head and stared at her new friend in such hopeless misery that Mare-Louise was forced to relent. “I’m sorry,” she sighed, dropping a dripping bed sheet back into the tub. “Let's get something cool to drink.” She placed a damp hand on Margaret’s shoulder and guided her toward the kitchen door.

  A pitcher of chilled lemonade appeared magically from the root cellar, and Marie-Louise dampened two small cloths before they sat down at the table. “Now tell me what this is all about,” she muttered around the cool cloth as she slowly stroked her face.

  Margaret did likewise, feeling relieved of a great deal of grime as she took the cloth away. “There’s nothing to tell,” she said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, presenting what she thought was a firm mien; she wasn’t talking and that was that.

  Her companion sat upright in the facing chair. “There is, too,” Marie-Louise said forcefully. “And don’t you lie, Maggie Maguire, or you’ll turn into a toad!”

  Margaret couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Where do you get such notions?”

  “Never you mind where I get them,” the other woman said sternly, reaching for her glass. “You’d best unload your mind before you pop a blood vessel.”

  Margaret stared at her friend, whom she had often secretly envied in the weeks past, and took a long sip of lemonade. Marie-Louise always seemed so free and easy with her Jeffrey, never concerned if others were around when they stared at each other with longing or touched or even kissed quickly. Hunter stared and touched, but it only made Margaret want to jump right out of her skin.

  Finally Margaret conceded that she did need to talk with someone and if not this young woman who had become her friend, then who? Hunter? Hardly. Finally she asked, “Do you mind making love with Jeffrey?” She lowered her head to hide the slow creeping warmth that spread from her neck upward and studied her glass.

  “Mind?” Marie-Louise laughed, clearly taken aback. “What a funny question.”

  Margaret was now mortified that she had posed such a question. When a soft moan of distress escaped her, Marie-Louise immediately sobered, sensing the issue was causing serious turmoil for her friend. She reached across the table and placed her hand gently on Margaret’s forearm. “What is it, Maggie? Can you tell me?”

  Margaret took a deep breath and straightened in her chair. Her eyes then sought out those of her companion were deeply troubled. “I…do you like Jeffrey’s lovemaking?” she finally sputtered.

  “Very much,” Marie-Louise responded, at the same time her mind was wondering what could be wrong with Hunter’s lovemaking; surely nothing! “I like it very much.”

  “Don’t you ever resent that a man can make such demands on you at his whim?”

  Marie-Louise blinked in surprise. “Demands?” This situation was turning around; she began to suspect the problem was not with Hunter Maguire.

  Margaret was now nodding her head, insistently. “Yes, demands. It’s all they want, after all.”

  “Oh, my God, Maggie,” Marie-Louise breathed. “What has happened to you? How did you come to think this way?”

  “Nothing has happened,” she lied. “And, my way of thinking only makes sense if women only knew.”

  ‘If women only knew’, was a key indicator to Marie-Louise that something in Maggie’s history was very wrong. “If women only knew,” she whispered. “Maggie, why would I resent my husband showing me how much he loves me? Why would I resent feeling special every time he touches me? Demands? There are no demands between lovers. If Jeffrey ever made demands that were not to my liking, I would simply say ‘no’ and he would respect that. And he would respect my wishes because he loves me.”

  Margaret, however, had latched onto just one word; “Special?”

  “Every time,” Marie-Louise admitted. “As many times as he wants me, I want him, too. And he always makes me feel special.”

  Margaret frowned at that, staring down at the hand the covered hers now. “But that’s all men want,” she said again. “How can you not resent that?”

  “Do you really believe that’s all Mr. Maguire wants from you?”

  Margaret nodded her head.

  “I think you’ve lost your faculties,” Marie-Louise said at last. “That man is crazy about you.”

  “And that is precisely what I mean.”

  “And I’ll throw in stupid,” Marie-Louise exclaimed for good measure. “That man loves you.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Why is that impossible?” Then she watched for the next several breaths as a myriad of emotions stole across Margaret’s face. “So,” she whispered, confirming her previous suspicions. “The problem isn’t with him.” She took a drink of lemonade and then studied a trickle of condensation as it ran down the glass, before adding, “The problem is with you.”

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “My problem is him.”

  “I don’t think so,” Marie-Louise returned thoughtfully. “The problem seems to be that you don’t like what he does to you. Is that it?”

  “As I said, I resent the control he has over me.”

  Marie-Louise thought that one statement contained more information than a grammar school textb
ook. “So you resent him, and you think all he wants from you is sex. You can’t believe he loves you,” she added, warming to her topic. “’As I said’, that man is so much in love with you he’s walking around bumping into doors. You know, I like you Maggie, but you can be a hard woman sometimes. Now, I figure you don’t like being that way ‘cause I’ve seen you moping around and thinking deep thoughts, and I guess you haven’t been very happy. But if you resent him so much, you answer me this; how would you feel if something happened to Mr. Maguire? How would you feel if he got sick and died and you didn’t have him anymore? How would you feel if he stopped loving you and he went looking for someone else? What would you do then? How would you feel? You answer me those questions and I’ll tell you just how much you resent him.”

  The two women stared at each other, both troubled but for very different reasons. When she could no longer hide her anxiety, Margaret covered her face with both hands. “I don’t know what to do,” she chocked.

  “He’s a fine man, Maggie.”

  “Yes.”

  “You like him?”

  Margaret nodded her head.

  “You respect him?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “And all this talk about resentment…?”

  Lowering her hands to the table, Margaret worried the damp cloth with her fingers, bowing her head as she organized her thoughts. “I didn’t want to marry him, you see. I didn’t want to leave my home. And then he and my father…well, they controlled my destiny. I didn’t want to like Hunter, or any man for that matter, but my mind keeps playing tricks and I find myself looking to him for…I don’t know…all kinds of things. I haven’t wanted him to make love to me.” She darted a glance at the other women then.

  Stunned, Marie-Louise leaned forward and whispered, “You haven’t wanted him to? You’re not telling me that he hasn’t?”

  Margaret nodded her head briefly and found she suddenly could not look into her friend’s eyes.