Daisies In The Wind

by Jill Gregory

  Of course Billy called for another song after she had finished, but Wolf, taut with a tension from which he could find no relief, adamantly shook his head.

  “When it’s time to get up and do your chores in the morning, you’ll thank me,” he informed his son, and abruptly took Rebeccah by the arm to lead her to the door.

  Caitlin, following, urged Rebeccah to join them for supper again soon.

  “And do think about changing your mind about the dance,” she urged Rebeccah as Wolf held open the front door. “It’s a fine opportunity for you to meet folks here and get to know them at their best. I hope you’ll come, after all.”

  Rebeccah flushed with embarrassment as Wolf glanced at her following these words. She felt exposed, as if he could somehow see that part of the reason she didn’t want to go to the dance at the schoolhouse was because he would be there with that Miss Westerly, and she would have to watch them together. She let him help her onto the wagon seat, and twisted her hands together, praying he would not continue the conversation where Caitlin had left off.

  She needn’t have worried, she reflected bitterly a short time later. Wolf didn’t continue the conversation at all. Silence reigned between them as he drove her home, a taut, tension-filled silence punctuated by the rapid clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, the chirp of crickets, the faint rustle of animals in the unseen brush.

  The September air had grown quite chilly, though thankfully the wind was still. The moon rode low in the star-filled sky, now and then disappearing behind the peaks of the mountains. Rebeccah pulled her shawl close around her shoulders and tried not to shiver with cold as Wolf guided the horses along the grassy, rutted trail. Shivering was a sign of weakness, and she refused to appear weak before him. But Wolf must have noticed something, for he suddenly yanked a woven Navajo blanket out from under the seat and thrust it at her, not saying a word, and never taking his eyes from the road ahead.

  It stopped the shivering, but for some reason her feet began to fidget. Rebeccah concentrated all during the rest of the drive on keeping them still and on keeping at bay the lonely, painful yearning growing ever more strongly inside her.

  There was silence in the wagon until Wolf at last halted the horses in front of Rebeccah’s front porch. The song of crickets filled the starry night, and the fragrance of autumn leaves and pine air drifted with intoxicating sweetness about them. A mosquito swooped before her nose, and she swatted it away, so intensely aware of Wolf’s large, wide-shouldered frame beside her, of his clean, invigorating smell, and of his strong hands holding the reins, that it was all she could do not to tremble with the longing that rose unbidden in the deepest places of her being.

  “Why’d you take the teaching position?” Wolf Bodine asked abruptly, so abruptly, she jerked her head toward him in surprise.

  “It was offered to me,” she replied, her heart thumping at the unusually intent darkness of his eyes.

  Wolf leaned back thoughtfully. He was about to violate all the codes of polite behavior Caitlin had drilled into him for years. But his lawman’s suspicious nature and his curiosity drove him to understand why the daughter of a wealthy and successful outlaw would want to earn a pitiful salary teaching school in a town where folks were leery of her. From outward appearances, and from every reasonable expectation, Rebeccah Rawlings should be rolling in money. Unless ...

  “Did your father gamble away all his loot? Is that it?” Wolf demanded, keeping his tone level, studying her with cold, probing eyes that missed nothing. “Miss Rawlings, do you need this job?”

  Shock whistled through her. He had hit too close to the truth. She couldn’t bear to think about what else he might discover, or about how her own feelings might betray her and make her vulnerable to him, more vulnerable than she was already. She threw the blanket off her lap and crouched to face him, drawing on anger and pride to get her through this.

  “How dare you.” Her shoulders trembled, but no longer from the cold. “You have no right to ask me questions of such a personal nature. Or is this an official investigation, Sheriff? Are you going to lock me up now for wanting to teach school? Are you afraid of what I’ll teach Billy?”

  Wolf’s muscles coiled with tension. Moonglow illuminated her heart-shaped face, bringing alive the passionate anger flaring in her magnificent violet eyes, revealing her dainty cheeks flushed the shade of wild roses. He couldn’t help noticing the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the clinging calico gown. “Hold on,” he growled, almost more to himself than to her. “I only asked a simple question—”

  “Maybe I’ll teach him to rob stagecoaches,” Rebeccah rushed on, too incensed to stop now. Her emotions were galloping away with her, and her voice took on a taunting note. “Is that what you’re afraid of? Or maybe you’re worried that I’ll teach him how to blow open a bank vault with a stick or two of dynamite, or how to lose a posse by covering his tracks so well, not even an Apache scout could find him, or—?”

  Wolf grabbed her. Her shoulders felt narrow and vulnerable beneath his taut fingers. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you when to shut up?” he exploded.

  And suddenly his mouth crushed down on hers with a violent heat that seared away all the words and thoughts that had been bubbling inside of her. Wolf’s arms snaked around her, pinioning her against him with brute force, and a rush of jangling feelings tore through her, feelings that overwhelmed her as powerfully as the physical sensations of his ravishing mouth and knowing, gliding hands.

  Wolf didn’t understand why in hell he was kissing her. It sure wasn’t the way he kissed Nel Westerly or Lorelie Simpson—or even Molly Duke. He’d been banging heads and tempers with Rebeccah Rawlings for long enough now and he ought to be staying away from her—she was trouble—but instead of keeping his distance he just kept grabbing her and pulling her close ... closer ...

  She tasted sweet as daisies and every bit as wild as one. Wolf’s insides seemed to be crunching up like twigs on fire. His hand slid up her back, cupped the delicate nape of her neck, and brushed the tightly coiled fluff of her hair. Then his tongue found its way inside her honey-warm mouth, and Wolf felt his loins grow heavy with a fierce yearning. He groaned and held her tighter, kissed her harder.

  Rebeccah’s senses surrendered to the onslaught of kissing and touching. A light-as-a-butterfly joy winged through her, and instinctively her hands slid up his broad shoulders and around his neck. It was so strong, corded with muscle. She kissed him back, welcoming his tongue, savoring his taste, and the groaning need she sensed in him. Fire and musk consumed her. He was bringing out all those feelings in her, feelings she had kept hidden and secret for so long, making her whole, aware, alive.

  She gave a low moan as his hand cupped the nipple of her breast beneath her gown, rubbing it until tears ached at her eyes. His lips grazed her soft neck, burned along the hollow of her cheek, and nibbled at the seashell curve of her ear, drawing forth sensations of delight.

  But then, as Wolf pressed her back against the wagon seat and his powerful body leaned against hers, the panic came.

  It cut her like an old rusty razor. It drove away the pleasure and the sweetness and the fire. It roused her like a bucket of stinging cold water. “No!” she begged, tearing her mouth from his.

  In terror she pulled back, flailing wildly at his massive strength.

  Wolf stopped, his brain struggling to take in her cries and the blows she was raining futilely at his chest. “Rebeccah,” he said sharply, his voice hoarse, and then he saw that same look of panic in her eyes that he had seen before.

  He straightened, pulling back. His hands fell away. He let her pummel him, saying nothing, until the fear died out of her eyes and she realized he was no longer holding her, no longer even touching her. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Both hands flew to her throat.

  “Don’t!” she said tremblingly, and started to hurl herself miserably out of the wagon. “Don’t ever touch me again!”

  He caught her before she could get out. His
fingers closed around her arm and yanked her back. Rebeccah gave a startled scream.

  “It’s all right, Rebeccah. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I want to go inside.”

  “That’s fine. But let me help you down. It’s dark, and you could lose your footing. And let me scout out your cabin and make sure there’s no unwelcome visitors waiting for you.”

  His quiet words penetrated the anguished confusion in her brain. Suddenly she glanced at the cabin in trepidation. “Do you really think ... ?”

  “You would know more about that than I would. But after Fess Jones, I reckon we can’t be too careful.”

  His hands felt so protectively strong and comforting around her waist that the last shreds of Rebeccah’s panic faded as he set her down on the ground as carefully as a china doll. She looked into his handsome face, so intent, so serious. He’s a lawman, he won’t rape you, she told herself and her mind knew it was true. There was no resemblance at all between Wolf Bodine and Neely Stoner—he would never do such awful things, but when he’d leaned across her that way, the memories had taken over, as they always did, and she had slipped into that deep, black well of fear.

  Looking at Wolf now, standing tall and quiet beside her, her insides turned into a puddle of jelly. She fought the very strong urge to slide her fingers through the burnished curls falling lankly across his forehead, to touch that wonderful, sensuous mouth that had done such indecent things to her own ...

  “Come in, then—for a moment,” Rebeccah Rawlings said with all the composure she could muster under the circumstances—and turned away before she lost what little was left of her resolve and her dignity.

  No one was hiding in the cabin. She followed Wolf through the parlor, the kitchen, and finally the bedroom. All was as she had left it, down to the camisole and lace drawers she had left tumbled anyhow on the bed when she had changed into fresh clothes earlier. She noticed his gaze fix on the wispy lace garments, and immediately color seeped into her cheeks.

  “Do you mind,” she snapped, recovering her composure. She slammed the bedroom door. “I think you should leave now before you overstay your welcome—Sheriff!”

  He shot her a look full of amusement, but obediently followed her back to the cabin door, admiring the gentle sway of her hips and rounded bottom beneath that soft cherry-and-white gown.

  “You never answered my question,” he said as she held open the door for him and left no doubt that she wanted him to leave.

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “Then I’ll try another. Do you intend to go to the schoolhouse dance?”

  Rebeccah’s blood tingled. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “As I already told your mother earlier this evening, I don’t care for dances.”

  “Ah-huh.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I never met a woman who didn’t care to dance.”

  “You have now. And besides, it’s my understanding you already have a companion for that evening, so I can’t imagine why you care about my plans. Good night, Sheriff Bodine.”

  She banged the door in his face and leaned against it, eyes closed, breathing hard.

  Wolf turned slowly away, his expression thoughtful in the pale glint of moonlight. Rebeccah Rawlings changed moods quicker than any female he’d ever met, he decided. One minute she was flinty as stone, the next she was like melting candle wax in his arms—and then the next moment she was as terrified as a beaten pup, and then, quick as the gleam of a firefly, a stone princess in a thorny girdle once more.

  She wasn’t at all like Clarissa, he realized suddenly as he got back into the wagon and turned the horses for home. Clarissa had a one-track mind: Clarissa. Clarissa’s pleasure, Clarissa’s schemes.

  This woman was a jumble of complicated thoughts and emotions. Hard to read, impossible to figure out. But Wolf was coming to understand something about her: She wasn’t anywhere near as tough as she tried to appear. Every once in a while that rawhide veneer of hers slipped. It had with Billy and Joey, the night she’d saved their skins and fixed them tea with peppermint and kept them warm and dry by her fire. It had slipped tonight when she’d chatted with Caitlin and Billy, and played the piano, and sang, with a thousand emotions flitting over her face. And again tonight when he’d kissed her and for a time she’d responded with such red-hot passionate need.

  Hell, that stubborn, dark-haired angel was simmering right full of passion. But every time he caught a glimpse of the tender woman beneath the surface, she yanked that tough coat of rawhide back over her shoulders again.

  She’s probably loco. And possibly dishonest. And definitely the wrong woman for you, he told himself, but something made him glance back as the wagon neared the rise, and he saw her slender silhouette framed in the window of the cabin for a brief moment, and it looked like her face was pressed against the glass. When she saw him look back, she moved quickly away, leaving a dark, blank square in her place.

  He grinned to himself. Loco. Trouble. Think about Nel Westerly and her delicious blueberry pies. Think about Lorelie Simpson and that brandy-laced chocolate cake specialty of hers. Rebeccah Rawlings can’t even cook! Unless you call heating beans and brewing coffee cooking.

  Wolf made up his mind. He would stay away from Rebeccah Rawlings. Being around her stirred up feelings that were just plain uncomfortable, and he couldn’t be bothered with them or with her. If Caitlin and Billy wanted to be her friends, that was fine. Of course Billy was fast developing a case of calf love for her, but that was harmless so long as Rebeccah didn’t laugh at him over it.

  Wolf sensed that she wouldn’t. Rebeccah Rawlings had dealt with Billy naturally, effortlessly. Something told him she would handle the boy’s sensitive feelings with care.

  She’d better, he thought, his mouth thinning as the wagon lurched toward home. Or I’ll have to step in and set her straight. The thought of anyone hurting Billy the way Clarissa had hurt him made his eyes narrow and the anger deep inside him start to flare.

  His life was finally in order again, he told himself. The last thing he needed was an ornery, loco woman. The last thing he needed was to get tangled up in any way with Miss Rebeccah Rawlings.

  * * *

  No photograph of his dead wife, Rebeccah mused as she sat on her bed a few moments later brushing her hair. I wonder why.

  Perhaps the memories were too painful. Perhaps she was so beautiful, so sweet and beloved, that even looking at her face brought grief freshly to the surface.

  She sighed. Well, perhaps Wolf Bodine was finally getting over his grief. After all, he was squiring that Westerly woman to that damned dance. And she gathered from what Caitlin had said that he had the young Widow Simpson dangling on a string as well.

  So why does he keep kissing me?

  More to the point, she asked herself as she tossed the brush down, blew out the candle, and crawled beneath the soft eiderdown quilt, why do I keep letting him?

  12

  During the next weeks Rebeccah’s life in Powder Creek settled into a surprisingly pleasant routine. She began teaching school at the clapboard-roofed schoolhouse, learning the children’s names gradually and their ways more quickly. Her students ranged in age from tiny five-year-old Laura Adams to strapping sixteen-year-old Toby Pritchard, Waylon’s younger brother. Some could read and count, others could do neither well enough to mention. Some were friendly and eager to please her, others stared at her rebelliously as if waiting for the new teacher to do or say something wrong so they could try to get her fired.

  Rebeccah found that teaching the young people of Powder Creek was completely different from teaching the arrogant young women at Miss Wright’s Academy. She actually enjoyed it.

  She quickly became fond of the little ones with their trusting baby faces and eagerness to learn, the way they chanted out the alphabet and brought her shiny apples and cut-out paper hearts. She also took a fancy to the middle children, like Billy and Joey, and young Ma
ry Adams, who was one of six children and worked at the Bodine house before and after school helping Caitlin. At this age the youngsters had a great many questions about the world outside of Powder Creek, and their minds were still young enough to imagine great adventures. And the older ones were strangely dear to her too—serious and uncertain about the lives awaiting them as they reached the threshold of adulthood. They absorbed her enthusiasm for the novels of Dickens and Cooper, for Byron’s poems, and for the fascinating picture book she had found at a Boston book shop containing photographs from all over the world. She planned spelling bees and geography bees; she had every student writing stories about their hopes for the future and the places they’d like to visit; she told about the cities and rivers and lakes she pointed to on the large map of the United States at the front of the classroom, listened to endless recitations of multiplication tables, and answered every question as thoroughly as she could.

  Her days were full and busy and stimulating. And at night she returned alone to the cabin, fixed herself a simple supper, and prepared the next day’s lessons, always keeping her guns loaded and handy in case another desperado after the silver mine paid her a visit.

  She had accomplished much to make the cabin homier, but there was still more to do. With the help of the Pritchards’ hired hand she had weeded out her yard and prepared the way for a spring flower and vegetable garden. Everything was swept and scoured and spotless. The porch steps had been repaired and painted, as well as the barn, and Rebeccah had used a portion of her first week’s teacher’s salary to buy fabric from Koppel’s General Store. She’d sewn new curtains for all the windows, lovely blue lace curtains to match the blue rag rug she’d splurged on for the parlor floor. And she was working on a pretty blue-and-white floral slipcover for that old horsehair sofa—when that was completed, the parlor would have an entirely fresh, new look. With her watercolors brightening the walls, her piano music and a bowl of wildflowers displayed on a crate she’d covered with a doily and was using as a tea table, and a few other homey touches, she had actually made the bleak little cabin quite comfortable.