by Sharon Ervin
She stared at the ceiling reflecting on the way Bo moved, his motion beautifully fluid, despite his size. His certainly didn’t appear to be the body of a man over thirty-five.
All that hair covering his face and head was deceiving, straggling everywhere, veiling his features. Why all the camouflage?
Maybe he was a fugitive hiding from the law. Mrs. Johnson said he arrived in military clothing. Maybe he was AWOL, a deserter.
Obviously, the man was no coward. She had seen his character tested and had heard Mrs. Johnson’s stories. Bo was not the kind of a man who abandoned his responsibilities, real or imagined. She discarded the AWOL theory.
It could be that he was homely or scarred, his face terribly disfigured. Or maybe he had been ravaged in another way. Maybe he had a physical defect, a sexual limitation. Maybe he was intentionally celibate or a eunuch, castrated, or worse. Or maybe he had been abused as a child or mistreated by women and driven to become a recluse to avoid them.
Maybe.
Sara’s bladder begged attention. She needed to get up, and dress, and force herself to trek down to the outhouse. Putting it off was only delaying the inevitable. Normally she was not given to procrastination; however, since she had been in the Ozarks, she had become less obsessive about things.
Once she assumed hillbillies talked and moved slowly because they had no where to go and little news to report when they arrived. After a week in residence, she had revised that thinking.
In the city, time dictated a person’s pace, but in the mountains, time lost its dictatorial power, tamed to human whim. Those time considerations caused a peculiar, subtle difference in lifestyles. Without a clock dictating terms, life was more leisurely, or it seemed that way to her.
Still she was reminded, again prodded by her needful bladder, bodily functions must have their way.
She groaned as she pulled to a sitting position. Every joint, every muscle in her body shouted obstreperous objections. The top of her head and the soles of her feet were sore. She dabbed at her hair with her fingers, trying to assess the damage to losing fistfuls of the stuff. Except for being tender, her scalp seemed to be okay. She hoped the hair would grow back.
Raising her arms to feel her head, however, Sara became fully aware of peculiar aches between her collarbones and her shoulder blades, places she never realized had muscles or nerves of their own.
Her stomach grumbled, roiling to be fed, while the outside of her midsection quivered, threatening to knot itself again.
Bo knocked twice before he entered the cabin carrying a bucket of water which he placed near the hearth. He filled the kettle and swung it into position over the newly resurrected fire then turned and allowed his eyes to survey the woman still in his bed.
He strode to the steamer trunk beneath the window near his desk, piquing Sara’s curiosity. He lifted out a large, decorative, lidded urn.
A chamber pot?
He placed the vessel at the side of the bed, glanced at Sara, pulled his coat tightly about him and tromped back out into the dismal day.
“I can’t use that.” Sara glowered at the wide-mouthed porcelain container. “It’s too awful to even consider; too gross, too demeaning. What is he thinking?
“He’s thinking of you,” she answered herself, “thinking you don’t relish the idea of going to the outhouse. He’s trying to make things easier for you.
“Why?
“Don’t ask,” she said, still speaking aloud.
“But what if he comes back while I’m using it?”
Still undecided, Sara gritted her teeth and eased her legs over the side of the bed, grimacing with the pain. Her stomach spasmed and she rubbed it briskly with both hands.
“Oh. I’ve gotta get in shape.”
She lay down again, prone on her back across the bed. She gazed at the ceiling listening to the sleet for a moment before she shimmied back under the covers. She breathed in the lingering aroma of the man, which wafted up from beneath the quilts, smiled, then gritted her teeth against her bladder’s insistent appeal.
“I’ve got to do something.” She groaned, keeping her hands on her stomach. “He’ll be back.”
She could wrap a quilt around her and use the chamber pot, put the lid on, then empty it herself later. Would he wait and let her dispose of the waste? She winced. She certainly hoped so.
The percolating coffee emitted comforting sounds and smells as it brewed in the old metal pot. The ham sizzled, encouraging her. Sara rolled onto her side and eased up on an elbow.
Cringing, moving very slowly, she coaxed her body out of bed, lifted the nightshirt, pulled down the briefs, squatted and relieved herself in the vessel. It was a lot easier than she thought and, despite her need, her output only covered the bottom of the container.
She smiled at how much better she felt, and at Bo’s thoughtfulness as she straightened her clothing and put the lid on the pot. Gingerly, she lifted the urn by its two little handles, carried it, shuffling across the room, and placed it near the outside door.
She crept back to the fireplace and poured warm water from the kettle into the enamel basin. She washed her face and hands, scrubbed her teeth with her finger and rinsed her mouth.
She located her hand-crafted comb on the mantle and worked it through her tangled hair carefully, repeating the effort until the dark curls tousled free.
Feeling recovered, she pulled on an old pair of denim work pants, which were only a little big on her, and quickly replaced the sleep shirt with a cotton T-shirt also salvaged from the box in the shed.
Moving about seemed to work out some of the stiffness. Gaining confidence and freedom of movement, she sliced bread from the loaf in the larder and knifed butter over the slices.
She heard the usual rap and delay before the door opened then closed again quickly. She looked around.
Bo was not there.
Nor was the chamber pot. Drat!
He was back in a minute. Without looking at her, he placed the pot beside the fireplace, removed his coat and hung it on the peg on the door. Next he spread the oilcloth he used for cleaning game, opened the door again briefly to bring in a recently dispatched rabbit he must have left there earlier.
After breakfast, Sara refused to allow Bo to help wash up.
“Finish dressing the rabbit. Clean your gun.”
He nodded with a slight smile. He cut up the rabbit, wrapped the meat and placed it in the larder, then cleaned his gun.
Resting in her rocking chair later, Sara realized that she hadn’t heard a shot fired. He must have caught the rabbit in one of his snares. He hadn’t used the gun, yet he was cleaning it--because she’d told him to. Was he trying to appease her? To what extent would he go to keep her emotions in check? She smiled to herself shamefacedly, opening and closing her hands to ease the soreness.
There’s a lot to be said for a man who doesn’t argue, doesn’t complain, doesn’t talk. Sara stared into the fire. Some women would probably give a lot to have a man like that around, one who was so easy to look at, too.
Plus, he warms the bed but doesn’t insist on sex. He’d be an ideal mate for some lucky...
What was she thinking?
She stopped rocking and stared into the fire.
She did enjoy watching him move. He had such natural coordination, such grace. She cast a quick glance at him as he whittled, working on a tiny item of some kind. She wouldn’t ask what it was. Didn’t care to know.
He has a beautiful body, she mused. She’d like to see him without clothes.
Naked?
She was horrified at even having such a thought.
Embarrassed, Sara glanced at him again. This time Bo’s eyes met hers. She felt the heat of a blush and his eyebrows furrowed with unasked questions. She forced her gaze back to the fire crackling beyond the hearth. Did he guess what she was thinking?
No. He just looked up when he felt her looking at him, that’s all.
Unbidden, the thought recurred. How did h
is naked body look, right this moment, as he rocked almost imperceptively, his legs and hips flexing, the muscles rippling slightly. The image troubled her but she couldn’t seem to banish it. She had definitely been there too long.
Still, he nearly always complied with her requests. She could ask him to take off his shirt. The next time he stoked the fire, she might. She could tell him she wanted to study his muscles.
Don’t be ridiculous. She couldn’t make such a wanton request. Any man would misinterpret a suggestion like that.
Would Bo?
Probably.
Therefore, she shouldn’t ask.
Still, she might.
Chapter Thirteen
Sleet peppered the cabin all day long.
Sara was dejected. She’d wakened excited at the prospect of going home, not counting on the weather interfering.
“I guess we have to wait another day.”
Bo nodded mute agreement.
She supposed the ordeal in Franklin’s custody had left her weaker than she realized. She dozed in her chair and catnapped on the bed off and on through the dismal day. She was barely aware of Bo as he came and went like a shadow, keeping the fire stoked.
Uncertain as to what sleeping arrangements might be, Sara put the bear rug in front of the hearth when she was ready for bed that night. She knew she should return to the shed but dreaded the prospect of trying to keep warm in the drafty little enclosure with no fire.
Bo stopped rocking and growled when he saw her spread the rug. He shook his head and pointed to his bed.
“I can’t keep imposing on you, Bo. I’ll be fine on the floor. It would be better if I went back to the shed but...”
He shook his head again, stood, walked to the bed and pulled back the covers, indicating she should lie there.
“Bo, both of us sleeping in one bed isn’t proper.” She sounded as if she were Miss Manners lecturing a child. “It’s not socially acceptable behavior.”
Exaggerating, he surveyed the empty cabin and returned his gaze to her face. She smiled, feeling sheepish.
“Okay, so we have kind of a closed society here. And it’s not that I don’t feel safe, you understand. You’ve made it clear you have no interest in me, that way.” She looked to him for agreement or denial but got only what appeared to be annoyed indifference.
“Don’t I crowd you?”
He shook his head and flapped the corner of the covers, indicating she should get into the bed. Reluctantly, she complied.
Later, when he had banked the fire and turned out the lantern, he got his coat off the back of the door and brought it to the bed. Without undressing, he again stepped over her. Fully clothed, he remained atop the quilts and covered himself with his coat.
Sara felt a pang of conscience that she had even voiced those stupid, puritanical concerns that kept him from being comfortable in his own bed. What did it matter what anyone else thought? Who would ever know, anyway? And she had been marvelously cozy sleeping in his arms, feeling his heartbeat, clasped safely, firmly against his chest. And, with luck, this would be their last night together before he took her home.
She moved closer to him once, then again. Finally, when he was practically pinned against the wall, he draped the massive arm over her. Relaxing, she again fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
Another day passed with no change in the weather as sleet and ice kept the road impassable.
Day 9: Restless, generally recovered, Sara rummaged through Bo’s desk and found a manuscript of some sort. She picked up several pages but Bo was beside her immediately, swept the sheets out of her hands, shoved them back inside the desk, closed the drawer and locked it.
“I was just looking for a piece of paper.”
He unlocked the desk, gave her a blank sheet of paper and again secured the drawers and their contents with one turn of the key, then removed and dropped the key into his pants pocket.
Although Sara’s curiosity was piqued, she forgot the manuscript as she concentrated on drawing a checkerboard on the piece of paper, shading alternate squares.
“We can use burned matches for one player and unburned for the other. Kings can be broken match sticks.”
Bo grinned when she presented the setup and challenged him, then he proceeded to trounce her, five games in a row.
“I went to a lot of trouble to make this board and the game pieces.” Her complaint was about half serious. “Have you no grace? Would it be too hard for you to let me win one time?”
With a heartless smirk and a shrug, Bo went outside to feed the stock and to bring in a new supply of firewood.
Sara strolled to the cupboard, pinched off a piece of rabbit left from breakfast and began nibbling. It was getting late. Bo had cooked rabbit, yams and greens for breakfast. She would do ham and eggs and biscuits for supper, the second of their two meals each day, the one they took late in the afternoon.
She filled the coffee pot, put it over a burner and stoked the fire in the cook stove. She slapped a piece of ham from the larder into the iron skillet and sifted flour into the biscuit bowl, adding the other dry ingredients.
When she heard Bo coming, she popped the last bit of rabbit meat into her mouth and darted across the room to hold the door for him as he carried in an armload of wood.
He dumped the logs beside the fireplace, helter skelter, removed his coat and tossed it onto his rocking chair, then hunkered beside the wood, sorting pieces and stacking them with his usual efficiency.
Still chewing the bit of rabbit, watching him, Sara cleared her throat, uncertain if she could say what she was thinking.
“Would you take off your shirts while you’re doing that?”
Had she actually said it? She thought so. She hoped she had kept her voice modulated well enough to reflect a certain indifference. She dusted her hands, pretending to ignore him.
Bo swiveled on his feet without standing, tilted his head and, keeping his mouth concealed behind his shoulder, regarded her as if uncertain he had heard correctly.
When their eyes met, she flushed. “I sketch people sometimes.” That sounded lame. “It’s strictly artistic interest. When you move, I can see the tendons and muscles in your back flex and relax but it’s hard to get a good look when they’re underneath your shirt and your T-shirt.” Was she babbling? It sounded like it to her. “I just wanted to see exactly how they look when they’re functioning. It’s strictly an artist’s interest.” She was repeating herself. “I could see them better if your shirts were off, that’s all.”
He stood and turned toward her, soberly studying her face.
Had he bought that pathetic explanation? It even sounded phony to her. He might not be very astute but she didn’t believe even Cappy, the dolt, would go for a line like that.
Narrowing his eyes, which were focused on her face, Bo unbuttoned the flannel shirt, pulled the shirttail out of his jeans, slipped it off and tossed it on top of his coat. Averting his eyes, he grabbed the neck of his T-shirt behind his head, pulled it up and off and discarded it as well.
Sara’s breath caught.
His upper body was perfect. Except for the hair under his arms and a little trailing from his belly button into his pants, his torso was completely hairless, a stark contrast to his face and head. His shoulders and chest were still slightly bronzed, the last vestiges of a suntan from working shirtless in the summer, she supposed. His skin was taut, his abs flat and hard. As she studied him from his shoulders to the waist of his jeans, her hands grew clammy and she developed an odd weakness inside her elbows and behind her knees. Her earlobes burned.
Looking down at his body, Bo flexed his pectoral muscles, then pumped both biceps. The muscles in his upper arms rounded. Sara risked a look, did a double-take and stared, mesmerized by his movements.
“Are you showing off?” She felt terribly self conscious, smiling and frowning uncertainly, scarcely able to breathe, embarrassed and excited at the same time.
He turne
d his back to her and bent from side to side. Muscles flexed and relaxed, rippling up and down, shoulders to waist.
She rubbed the moist palms of her hands together before she clasped them tightly and frowned at him. “You know you really do brag a lot, for a guy who doesn’t talk.”
He snorted and turned to face her, a question in his dark eyes. She gave him a wry look.
“I thought you were supposed to be an old guy. You’re not old at all, are you?”
He shrugged.
“You’re not over thirty-five, are you?”
He shook his head.
“Are you under thirty?”
Another head shake.
“Thirty-four?” Another shake of his head. “Thirty-three? Thirty-two? Thirty-one...” A nod. He pointed his index finger at her and nodded again.
“I’ll be twenty-seven in January.” She hesitated. Her smile dwindled to concern. She gazed at his bare chest, then back at his face. “Could I touch you?” Her own words surprised her.
He narrowed his eyes again and took two steps forward, placing himself squarely in front of her. He seemed to freeze in a flexed state, standing straight as if he were at attention, his arms at his sides, his hands fisted, so still she wasn’t sure he was breathing. He raised his chin and looked down his nose at her, his body motionless. She inhaled the scent of him. Excitement sizzled through her like electric current.
Timidly Sara pressed her fingers against his right forearm. The muscle tensed. Reaching up, she patted his biceps with the flat of her hand. It was like patting a rock.
“Thanks.” She withdrew her hand, yielded a crooked smile, and lowered her eyes. “You can stand at ease now.” Her throat felt dry; her mouth, tinny.
He continued looking at her. She glanced up and swallowed. He flexed his chest muscles again and nodded indicating she should touch him there as well. She wanted to, but hesitated, more concerned about the effect touching him would have on her than on him.
He nodded encouragement again and shuffled forward another half step, narrowing the slight distance between them.
Sara stared hard at his bare chest, at his stomach latticed with muscle. She allowed her eyes to wander down to the fastener straining against his jeans and drew a shallow breath. She was afraid to inhale normally, fearful that their bodies might touch.