A Touch of Flame

by Jo Goodman

  “Maybe.”

  Ridley did not think he sounded convinced, but then neither had that been her intention. “Animals that sense they’re dying often go off on their own. Perhaps that’s what Doc wanted. Not to be alone precisely, but to be away.” Ben’s gaze held her still, his eyes stark with grief. “What can I do?” she asked, and when he said nothing, merely continued to stare at her, she came to the answer on her own.

  Ridley broke the plane of his gaze by rising to her feet. She moved like a sylph when she skirted the desk and came to his side. She held out her hand. His answer would be there in what happened next. If he slipped his fingers in hers and tugged, she would go where he took her, sit in his lap and curl into him, and she would set her head on his shoulder and cradle his grief in her heart, but if his fingers threaded in hers and he stood, it would be his tacit agreement to follow where she led, and it would be no time at all before he knew she meant to take him to her bed.

  Ben took her hand.

  Ridley held her breath.

  He stood.

  Her heart stuttered. Her smile was wistful; it did not falter. She backed away from the desk and drew him forward. “Bring the lamp,” she said, and he did.

  In her bedroom, she pointed to the nightstand. He set the lamp there. Light flickered and chased shadows on the wall and then was still. Ridley turned back the covers. It seemed the practical thing to do and the movement hid the faint trembling in her fingertips. When she turned away from the bed, she saw he hadn’t moved. He stood there, his arms at his sides, his feet set easily apart, his shoulders relaxed. His head was cocked; the expression in his heavily lidded eyes was unreadable.

  Ridley gestured to the bed. “Why don’t you sit there?”

  Ben sat.

  Ridley inched closer and nudged his knees. This was what he had done when he’d set her on her kitchen table. It seemed so long ago now, and this would be different. She meant it to end differently. When his knees parted, she slipped between them, took him by the wrists, and set his palms against her hips. She released his hands, and when they stayed in place, she took it as a good sign. Ridley cupped his face and tilted it toward her. She lowered her head and brushed his lips. His mouth was warm but not mobile, not at least while her lips were against it. It was when she drew back that she saw them lift, and the shape that defined them now, the expression that she had not been able to read earlier, was amusement.

  Of course it was.

  Ridley started to draw away, but he caught her wrists and held her fast.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t go.”

  She twisted her wrists but not very hard, and he didn’t release her. Her gaze fell away from his. “I wish you weren’t so easily amused. I wish I didn’t so easily entertain you.”

  Ben applied fingertip pressure to the delicate blue webbing on the undersides of her wrists. “You overwhelm me, Ridley. That’s what you do, and if it seems as if I am amused, it’s because that’s all that’s left to me when you take away every other sense, especially the common one.”

  She stole a look at him and murmured something unintelligible between the lips she had pressed closed.

  Ben released her. Without asking permission, he unbelted her robe and opened it enough so that when his hands rested on her hips this time, there was only her thin cotton shift between his palms and her skin. “I could get used to warming my hands here,” he said. His thumbs made passes up and down across the fabric. He did that until she looked at him again. “Are you still itching to cuff me?”

  “Maybe not as much as I was a few moments ago.”

  “That’s something. Will you sit beside me?”

  Ridley stepped out from between his legs and sat. Her hip brushed his when the mattress dipped. She did not move away.

  Ben hoisted his left calf over his right knee and removed a boot. As soon as it hit the floor, he reversed his position and did the same with the other. He bent, took off his socks, and dropped them inside his boots. He didn’t wiggle his toes. He stretched them. They splayed wide and drew Ridley’s attention. “Monkey toes,” he told her as she stared at his feet. “I could climb anything when I was a boy. Doc told me they were unnatural. You have an opinion?”

  “You might be the missing link.”

  “Yeah, he said that, too.” Ben set his bare feet on the cold floor. “Maybe we could lie down.”

  “In a moment.” Ridley took off her robe. She helped Ben remove his jacket and then his vest. He tossed each of them at the rocker. The jacket landed on the seat. The vest overshot the mark and landed on the floor. Smiling, Ridley raised the covers, lifted and curled her legs to one side, and slipped under them. She scooted sideways to make room for him but not so far that she would have to stretch to reach him.

  He unbuckled his gun belt, handling it with considerably more care than his clothes, and slid it under the bed. He stood, slipped his suspenders over his shoulders, dropped his trousers, and kicked them away. When he turned, Ridley was watching him. She looked interested, not embarrassed.

  Ben shifted his weight from side to side. “I suppose you’ve seen a lot of . . . well, I figure there won’t be any surprises.”

  Now it was Ridley who was amused. “The toes were surprising.” She removed her spectacles, carefully folded the stems, and handed them to him. “Nightstand, please.”

  Ben put them aside and crawled in beside her when she held up the covers for him. The mattress depressed again, this time toward the middle, and they both rolled toward the center of this gravity.

  Ridley raised her head and then rested it on his shoulder. The curve felt right. With her ear against him, she could hear the steady beat of his heart. It was the most natural thing to slide an arm across his chest. In time she would finger the buttons on his shirt, but not just now.

  Ben’s hand found her braid. He unwound the loose plait and threaded through the heavy strands. Her hair was lustrous in the lamplight. “What color do you call this?” he asked.

  “Brown.”

  “No. I’m serious.”

  “It’s brown, Ben. There’s no dressing it up. It doesn’t have enough red in it to be auburn, not enough polish to be chestnut, not dark enough to be coffee or cocoa. It’s brown.”

  “Russet,” he said.

  “Yes, exactly like a potato.”

  He continued to sift her hair. “You don’t think much of your looks, do you?”

  “I’m not vain, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, you’re not that, though when you stepped off the train, the hat made me wonder.”

  Without any hint of rancor, she explained, “My mother chose it. She said it would keep men from staring at my face and finding me wanting.” She felt more than heard Ben’s sharp intake of air. “That’s who she is, Ben. Who she always will be.”

  “But—”

  “I appreciate that you might want to flatter me, but it’s not necessary. I am going to sleep with you regardless.”

  “Jesus,” he said softly.

  Ridley shrugged. “I know I’m not as ugly as the proverbial mud fence, but I also accept that I am not more than the sum of my parts. So, my hair is brown. My eyes are—”

  “Intense,” he said. “The color is the least interesting thing about them.”

  “Well, yes, because they’re brown. My nose is—”

  “Aristocratic,” he said.

  “Narrow. I was going to say that it’s narrow.” She touched the bridge. “And I have a bump that ruins the line in profile. My mouth is—”

  “Splendid,” he said. “I thought so from the first.”

  “It’s too wide. There is barely room for it on my face.”

  “So you say.” He turned his head. “Is that why I have to surprise a smile out of you?”

  “I look like a clown when I smile.”

  “Your mama tol
d you that. I’m beginning to know her voice.”

  Ridley fell quiet for a time, then, “I thought I was going to comfort you.”

  “You have. You are.”

  “I’m glad of that, but it seems to me that you are returning more than I’m giving.”

  “Comfort can be mutual. It probably should be.”

  “Mm.” She slid her hand to the middle of his chest, found his shirt buttons, and idly began to follow the line of them with her fingertip. “You didn’t kiss me back,” she said. “Earlier. You were sitting on the bed and I was standing, and when I kissed you, you didn’t kiss me back.”

  “I have every intention of making up for that lapse.”

  “But why was there a lapse?” She felt his chest rise and fall and then she heard him sigh. “I did something wrong, didn’t I? And you don’t want to tell me.”

  Ben stopped her from fiddling with his buttons by laying his hand over hers. “It wasn’t like that at all. I told you, you overwhelm me.”

  “No, there was something else.”

  “Sometimes it’s better if you just give up the bone.”

  Far from being offended, laughter sputtered on Ridley’s lips. “It’s been said that I am stubborn to a fault.”

  Ben’s mouth lifted in a wry twist. “No. Really?” He held her hand still when her fingers scrabbled at his shirt. “Shh. If you must know, and it seems you must, then I didn’t kiss you back because I recalled what a good student you said you were and how hard you worked and applied yourself, and it occurred to me that I might be the subject of new experimentation. I couldn’t decide whether I should be flattered or frightened.”

  Ridley slipped off Ben’s shoulder and raised herself on an elbow. She waited until he turned his head. “I only wanted to give you ease.”

  “I know that,” he said. “It’s what I wanted, what I still want, but I needed to be sure I wasn’t taking advantage.”

  “I’m twenty-eight years old, Ben, and a doctor. You can hardly take advantage.”

  “I can, and the fact that you don’t understand that proves my point.”

  “Now you’re speaking nonsense.”

  “Nonsense,” he repeated. “That sounds about right. The one sense you didn’t steal from me.” He patted her shoulder and invited her to return.

  She did. “You’re restful,” she said. “Have I told you that? You make it easy for me to clear my head, slow my mind. I didn’t expect that would be true of a man who wears a badge and carries a gun. It’s nice.”

  “Doc said something similar once. Told me it was the only reason he tolerated me.”

  Ridley smiled. “Sometimes I can’t quite get a sense of who he was day to day. I think he must have led a quiet life. I know he helped others outside of what he did for them as patients and accepted no accolades for it. As far as I can tell, his intimates were you, Ellie, and his companion at cards, Mr. Mangold. I’m not sure that Mary Cherry belongs in that small circle, though I believe she wishes she might have been.”

  “I guess no one’s told you that Doc was a curmudgeon.”

  “He was?”

  “Yep. It got worse as he got older, and it was no secret that he didn’t suffer fools. You have to understand that sainthood was not conferred until word got around that he was leaving.”

  “A curmudgeon,” she said quietly. “Imagine that.”

  “You didn’t get a hint of it in his letters?”

  Ridley shook her head. “I can’t recall that he ever complained. I suppose the person I knew the most about was Mary Cherry, although he wrote primarily about her responsibilities and not much about her.”

  “They fought regularly,” said Ben. “But don’t think they didn’t enjoy it. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what Mary Cherry misses most. She liked to think she could order him around. He liked to prove she couldn’t. Did he tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “He probably didn’t want to scare you off.”

  “He couldn’t have, but he didn’t know that.” Ridley’s palm settled over Ben’s heart. The steady beat comforted. “I want to be here.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do. I want to be here.” The corners of her mouth lifted a fraction when she felt his heart thump once. It immediately resumed its steady rhythm, but that thump was telling. “Uh-huh,” she said softly. “This would probably be a good time for you to kiss me. You won’t be taking advantage. I swear.”

  Ben circled her wrist with his fingers, squeezed. When she turned from her side to lie on her back, he rolled with her. His face hovered above hers. Ridley’s eyes were wide and watchful. The dark centers were growing but there was nothing vague about her focus. She was taking all of him in, and when he began to lower his head, she did not close her eyes.

  He was not surprised when she lifted her head to meet him. Her lips parted on a soft exhalation as his mouth touched hers. The pressure of the kiss pushed her back against the pillow. She freed her hands. They came to rest again at the base of his spine. Her fingers splayed. Through the fabric of his shirt, he felt the tips of every one of them make small impressions against his skin.

  She tasted like tea and sugar. Or he imagined she did. Her mouth was warm and moist and it moved under his. He did not imagine that. She was not in the least tentative. If she had made a study of kissing, then she had learned her subject well.

  He raised his head only that distance necessary to see her face. Her eyes were still open. One of his eyebrows kicked up. He didn’t have to ask the question.

  “I don’t want to miss anything,” she whispered.

  It was extraordinarily uncomplicated to her. That worried him some. Knowledge, the kind she gleaned from books, did not make her worldly. She would disagree with him if only for the sake of advancing her argument. That didn’t bother him because he knew he was right, and that made him responsible.

  Equally quiet, he said, “Don’t be afraid to feel.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  In some ways she was predictable and Ben had counted on that. When she closed her eyes to prove her point, he swooped. He kissed the space between her eyebrows where the vertical crease often appeared when she was worried. It was there for an infinitesimal moment; he erased it with his lips.

  He kissed her temple. His breath stirred her hair, and fine strands of it tickled his mouth. She hummed her pleasure. “You like that?” He gave her no opportunity to answer. His lips slanted across hers. Her mouth parted. He traced the ridge of her teeth with the tip of his tongue. She bit down gently and then sipped. His tongue was in her mouth, swirling, teasing, licking. She might have shivered, but Ben knew that he did. He was undone before her fingers plucked at the buttons of his shirt, but it was when she slipped her hands beneath his fleece-lined undershirt and placed her palms flat against his naked chest that he forgot to breathe.

  Did she know? It seemed that she might have because the roar of blood in his ears was not enough to mute her wicked laughter.

  He called her a witch, and when he kissed her again, it was because he wanted to enjoy her splendidly smug smile. She had earned the right to it.

  Ridley’s fingers walked the length of his spine as if she were practicing piano scales. She stopped when she reached the back of his neck, that place he often massaged when he was deep in thought or just pretending to be, and it was here that she could feel the contradiction in his skin. A fine web of scar tissue lay like a veil across oddly smooth flesh.

  “It must have hurt horribly,” she said against his mouth. Her fingertips stopped their exploration when he sat up suddenly. He moved too quickly for her to stop him. “What are you—” She didn’t finish because it became clear what he was doing. He shrugged out of his shirt and then pulled his undershirt over his head. He tossed them both in the direction of the rocker. Neither made it.

&nb
sp; He sat motionless, waiting for her verdict. His shoulders and back were exposed to the lamplight. He let her see the extent of the damage. The worst was at the back of his neck where his hair had literally been on fire. The flames had licked him under his collar and spread across his shoulders. His skin was taut and shiny and unnaturally pink almost as far as his shoulder blades. Ben knew it could have been so much worse, but did she?

  He would always remember the whore who retched into a chamber pot when she saw the scars. Ben had to remind himself that it had been early days yet when the scars were still tender and angrier looking than they were now. That had described him as well. Tender and angry.

  He felt her move behind him. She was sitting up. One of her hands alighted on his shoulder. A moment later her lips were at the crook of his neck.

  “Do you want to tell me?” she asked.

  Ben didn’t know how it was possible, but her breath felt as cool as aloe against his skin. Her touch was a healing balm. “Not now,” he said. “Later.”

  “Of course,” she whispered and kissed him again. “Whenever you like.” She kissed him at the hollow behind his ear. The skin was tight there as well. Was he aware that he often rubbed that spot when he was in full consideration of a problem? Probably not, but it made her smile because she suspected that she was often the problem he was considering. She put her lips to his ear. “Lie with me.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Ben took her down with his mouth against hers. It was a mutual surrender except that Ridley’s idea of giving in was pushing back. She pressed against him, wound her legs around his, tangled the blankets until they were trapped in a chrysalis of cotton and wool. She marked her territory with kisses, planting them like flags along his jaw, his neck, and his shoulders. She had the subtlety of a marauder, and Ben was fine with that.

  Ridley’s nightgown was rucked up around her thighs. A niggling sense of modesty prompted her to try to push the hem to her knees. Ben stopped her, made her laugh at herself, and then she was helping raise the hem higher. His palm curved around her inner thigh. It struck her how nicely it fit there. She was not a believer in fate, but it seemed to her that this was meant to be.