BODACIOUS

by Sharon Ervin

  She fingered the quilt on the bed, then pulled it up and fluffed both pillows. She wanted to stay here, just a little longer, but he seemed determined to leave. She should quit stalling and get ready.

  She looked around. Except for the clothing salvaged from the box in the shed, she had few belongings. She wouldn’t be needing those shabby castoffs when she got home.

  She removed her hand-me-down outer garments and slipped her own denim dress on over her panties and bra.

  On the straight-backed chair, she noticed her partially finished quilt, amateurish, at best. She’d leave it.

  She spotted her comb in its usual place on the mantle Slowly, she walked to the hearth, picked up the comb and felt a rush of sadness, a feeling of finality. She took two quick breaths, then crumpled into her rocking chair clutching her comb. Her body convulsed with sobs.

  Coming inside, Bo looked at her and frowned. He watched her a moment before he walked over to kneel in front of her, peering up into her face. He ran his warm hands along her dress from her knees to her waist. Then his hands crept beneath the fabric, easing the dress up.

  She didn’t object as he pulled her to her feet and lifted the dress off over her head. She clung to the comb. Bo gathered her close, kissing her, caressing her as he removed her bra and panties.

  Stripped, quivering, she walked to the bed on her own as he peeled out of his clothes without taking his eyes from her.

  She slid under the quilts into their bed, her safe hole, the site of the most important events of her life.

  They made love slowly, Sara painfully aware that this would be their last time together here in this place. But was it she alone who realized it might be their last time together anywhere?

  She didn’t want to think about that.

  She held him so tightly, their bodies seem to meld into a single entity. They touched and fondled each other with gratitude, and patience, and a depth of pleasure even they had not plumbed before.

  As she quickened and came, Sara wondered dreamily if this part of her would survive away from him. Now that she knew something of her own sexual appetite and capability, could she achieve the ecstasy without him? The prospect frightened her.

  At that moment, with that understanding, Sara made a decision. She would sacrifice her pride, her old life, her old friends, maybe even her close relationship with her parents, for Bo. She had to be with him, no matter what the cost to her pride or reputation.

  “Bo?” Sara whispered when she roused, frightened. His arms around her, he grunted a response. It didn’t sound as if he were sleeping. “Mrs. Johnson asked if you were going to marry me.” There. She’d said it, taken the step. She braced herself for whatever came.

  But Bo neither moved nor made a sound. Sara turned in his arms. “Did you hear me?”

  Except for a slight nod, he didn’t move.

  “She asked me if we would be their neighbors.”

  No response. Her stomach knotted. She pulled up on an elbow to see his face more clearly, but it was stoic. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She had a sudden new insight. What if he didn’t want a wife? Didn’t want her?

  She rolled away from him, suddenly furious. She had worried herself into a frenzy willing herself to sacrifice friends and family for him. What woman in her right mind would tie herself to this hairy, uneducated, silent man for the rest of her life? She should be relieved that he didn’t want her. His indifference just made it easier.

  Didn’t it?

  Had they both been pretending, playing a game? Had she fooled herself, pretending he loved her? Had she been a diversion for a hermit mired in his self-imposed solitude?

  He touched her shoulder and she stiffened, fighting the tears. The man had reached into her soul and extracted passion she hadn’t known existed. He probably did the same with all women. She ached with her own argument.

  Possibly he was not the only man who could do that for her. There were probably many men who could. Her eyes stung. Sure, she could probably enjoy sex with other men. Most women did, didn’t they?

  Even Franklin mentioned the promiscuous sex viewers watched every day on television. People read about it in books and magazines. And there were all kinds of stories of celebrities marrying and remarrying, cavorting from bed to bed.

  Sara could join the swarms going to singles clubs, wagging home a different guy every weekend.

  Then she thought of Wesley and Jimmy and their stiff, tortuous little cocks, and she groaned.

  Bo threw back the covers, climbed over her and got out of bed.

  She scrambled to sit upright, pulling the quilts up to cover her nakedness. “Where are you going?”

  Moving gingerly, naked in the chill cabin, he lighted a lantern and tossed two logs on the fire, which brightened the room as much as the lamp light. Watching him, she swallowed a smile. She loved the way he moved. She wished she didn’t. She adored his agile body, his perfect legs with rippling muscular calves and thighs, his tight butt. His shoulders mushroomed upward from the narrow waist. The sight of his naked body stirred tingling pleasure in her nether regions and she squirmed, trying to quell the desire which was warming her again.

  He opened a box of shotgun shells and removed an item before he returned to sit on the side of the bed. He presented his closed fist, fingers up.

  Sara watched quietly as he slowly rolled his fingers open.

  In his palm lay a small, wooden circlet, a ring hand-carved of hickory.

  She regarded the ring closely before raising her eyes to his face in disbelief. Tears gathered and she sniffed.

  He lifted the ring from his palm, took her left hand and started to slip the circlet onto her ring finger. She jerked her hand away, bowed her head and covered her face with both hands.

  Bo stood and hesitated a long moment watching her before he slid the ring onto his pinkie. He skimmed into his long underwear and woolen trousers.

  Sara’s body quaked as she fought for control. Bo eased into his rocking chair as she attempted to speak.

  “I don’t even know you,” she stammered finally without looking at him. She got out of bed and slipped the nightshirt on before she risked a look. Bo appeared bewildered. “I don’t know anything about you.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t even know what you look like, really, under all that hair.”

  She sat tentatively on the edge of the padded rocker facing him and blinked several times, trying to clear her eyesight to be able to see his face, to read his reactions.

  He stared back at her, shaking his head.

  “It does matter, Bo. Oh, I don’t care if you’re homely or scarred. But your expressions matter to me. It’s hard to read the nuances, the changes in your moods, through all that hair. I can never tell what you’re thinking.

  “You read me all the time. You’re always watching me.” She exhaled. “You enjoy looking at me. Allow me the same privilege.”

  Bo allowed a questioning frown.

  “Yes, of course, I enjoy looking at you. Your body should be in the movies.” She looked longingly at his bare chest. “It’s that beautiful.” She took a ragged breath. “But I want to see your face, to be able to read your thoughts in your expressions.”

  Shuddering, she stood and paced to the fireplace. He stood as she did.

  “Bo, I don’t care if your face is disfigured. I don’t think it matters to me what you look like.” She hesitated then lowered her voice. “Will you shave your beard and cut that awful scraggly hair? Will you do it for me? Let me see what you look like?”

  He hesitated a long moment, studying her candidly, then shook his head. No.

  “Surely all that hair is not more important to you than I am.”

  He paced the length of the cabin and sat down in the straight-backed chair in the far corner which was shadowy, in front of the bookcase, and stared down at the floor.

  Sara grimaced. “Won’t you even cut it if I tell you it means the difference between keeping or losing me?”

  There
was a long pause before his dark eyes rose to her face. Pursing his mouth, he shook his head again.

  She regarded him urgently but forced herself to remain standing where she was, by the fireplace. “You can’t be that repulsive. It doesn’t matter, even if you are.

  “Are you a fugitive? Is your face on wanted posters? Are you AWOL from the service? Are you a criminal with bounty hunters after you? What is the awful secret that brought you here?

  He didn’t respond.

  “Do you think you’re ugly? Is that it?”

  She couldn’t see him clearly in the darkened corner but his posture was defiant, not that of a man defeated or even willing to compromise.

  “Bo, do you plan to keep living like this, bury yourself someplace else? Are you going to keep yourself in exile? Is it because you think it’s what you deserve?”

  Still he refused to respond.

  She paced to the bed, their bed, that magical place where marvelous transformations occurred. She sat tentatively and lowered the tone of her voice, trying to sound less desperate.

  “Look what happens to people who live like this. Look at Mrs. Johnson, Bo, trying to manage without electricity or running water or any of the conveniences that make life bearable. Do you want me to commit to sharing that? Do you want to punish me, make me old before my time washing for ten kids in kettles in the yard? Is that what you want from me?”

  He didn’t move.

  She wrung her hands, stared at them, then folded her arms in front of her and rocked forward and back as if easing a belly ache. She groaned as she spoke.

  “I have a college education, Bo. I can support myself, make a decent living. I don’t have to cower in the back woods someplace, hiding from life.”

  She looked at him. Still, he didn’t move.

  She drew another deep breath. Her whole body hurt. What kind of choice was this? Living a primitive life with him, or comfortably back in the Twenty-first Century, but without him.

  “Bo.” Her voice was a husky whisper. “I’m willing to try to support both of us, back in civilization.” She gave him a pleading look. “I’m at least willing to try to do it. Are you?”

  One eyebrow arched as he held up the ring.

  She felt her mouth twist as she continued struggling for control. “I can’t marry you.” She shuddered. Moments passed and a haunting gloom fell over the room.

  Finally, gritting her teeth, she stood.

  “Live however you have to, with no one to bug you--or to love you either.” She squinted. “Or maybe you can go back to your hot tamale, convince her to forgive you for having a fling with me.”

  Bo’s face remained stoic, unreadable.

  Her mouth quivered. “Is that what I’ve been to you? A fling? A diversion from your usual fare?”

  He glowered at her from beneath his dark, furrowed brows and, risking a quick glance, she saw something glistening in his eyes, something that encouraged her to strike again.

  “You’re a bold man physically, Bo, but I think you’re a social coward. I’m not. I’m not afraid to face life head on; responsibilities, a job, people. I’m at least brave enough to face up to challenges of real life and overcome them. I certainly don’t hide from them.”

  His jaw clenched, Bo stood. Walking casually, moving without any apparent malice, he tossed the wooden ring into the fireplace, turned, stuffed loose items into the knapsack and secured it.

  After he put on a T-shirt, he buttoned a flannel one over it, stepped into his boots, threw on his coat, picked up the guns, the knapsack and the satchel, and strode straight out the door.

  Hugging her nightshirt around her, Sara darted from their bed to the fireplace peering frantically to locate the ring. It was off to one side, away from the flames.

  She got a piece of stove wood and scratched at the ring, pulling it to her.

  Picking it up, she blew the ashes off of it and clenched it tightly in one fist. Wrapping that fist with her other hand, she hugged both hands to her throat. She stood wide-eyed, gasping, embracing the ring, trying to think.

  Finally, opening her hand, Sara studied the circlet.

  Hickory was a hard, stubborn wood. It did not yield easily to a whittler’s blade. How long had Bo worked on this perfect little item, polishing, smoothing it to its flawless shape, free of any nick or blemish?

  She examined it then slid it tentatively onto her ring finger. It fit. How had he crafted it exactly the right size?

  She removed the ring, tore the long, narrow hem from her nightshirt, ran the strip through the ring and tied it around her neck. It would hang there, concealed under her clothing. She fingered it beneath the fabric of her nightshirt. She would wear it hidden. She alone would know it was there, a reminder that, for a brief time, someone had known her intimately, had evoked responses from her which she had not thought possible, and that that someone had loved her. It didn’t matter who he was, what he looked like, how much education he had, or how well regarded he was in society, only that he loved her. She would believe that always, whether she could prove it, or not.

  Sara bit her lips to keep the tears at bay as she dressed.

  Other than her own clothing, her comb and the ring were the only possessions she would take away from the cabin. Any other mementos, she would carry in her heart.

  It was early afternoon. As she stepped outside, she was startled to hear the motorcycle's engine rev to life.

  She stood at the cabin door, speechless, and watched as Bo, without looking back, rode off into the woods, without her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I thought you’d left me.” Sara hurried outside talking when Bo returned a short while later with neither the guns nor the knapsack--only the satchel.

  She wore the clothes she’d had on when she was kidnapped, the denim dress, underthings, and the now heel-less Cappezios. Over her dress, to ward off the chill of the afternoon, she had layered an extra shirt, a flannel jacket and a wool sweater, the most decent clothing from the box. The only thing she carried was the comb. The ring dangled hidden beneath the dress, between her breasts.

  Bo regarded her oddly.

  “But you came back. You’re taking me home. We’re leaving together. Is that right?”

  He shrugged. Obviously her guess was not quite on target. He stood, still straddling the motorcycle and motioned her forward. When she got close, he put the helmet on her, snapped it and motioned her onto the machine behind him. She didn’t move.

  “What did the ring mean, Bo?”

  He glared at her.

  “Was it a friendship ring?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “An engagement ring, then?”

  Still nothing.

  She lowered her voice. “Were you asking me to marry you?”

  He gave her one brusque nod.

  “I assume by your anger, you’ve withdrawn the offer.”

  He looked at the ground and shook his head.

  “You do want to marry me?”

  A single nod.

  “What are you offering? A life in the mountains, isolated, cut off from my family and friends and everything else that’s important to me?”

  His eyes shot to her face. Her chin quivered. Every word she spoke seemed to inflict injury on them both. There were no more words to say anyway. Tears blistered behind her eyes and her throat ached.

  Unable to guess what he was thinking, she stepped up and threw her leg over the seat behind him. It took her a moment to get situated. He showed her where to put her feet. With no more secure handle, she put her hands on his waist as the engine roared to life.

  They raced along the ridge in shale and loose rock, the wind ripping. When he slowed, she removed the helmet, wrapped her arms around him, and buried her face in his bearskin coat. Breathing between his shoulder blades, she shook as she sobbed. He seemed oblivious to her grief.

  Beyond the ridge, they turned onto a dirt trail which plunged to a gravel road and fed onto an asphalt highway. The two lanes
looked expansive compared to the narrow trails earlier.

  Sara looked around, wondering that civilization lurked so close to Bo’s rustic little homestead.

  Miles later, they came to a small store and service station. A sign over the door read, “Bus Depot.”

  Bo pulled in. Without cutting the engine, he indicated she should get off. When she did, her legs wobbled, and he offered a hand to steady her.

  Standing, straddling the motorcycle, Bo opened his coat, took out his wallet, counted out several bills, and handed them to her. She took the money, trying to read his face, but he avoided looking at her.

  “Is this it then?” She fought to dismiss the heaviness in her heart.

  He turned the key and the engine’s murmur stopped.

  The silence of the mountains swallowed all other sound. The sun dashed in and out of gathering clouds. Sara looked around before settling her eyes on his face. “Is this the end of us, of you and me? Are we finished?”

  Gazing at the road ahead, he shrugged.

  “Bo, I need you.” Her voice broke and dropped to a husky whisper. “How will I find you?”

  His dark eyes were hard when they met hers, as indifferent as they had been that first night when he fastened the shackle on her wrist and secured her to the tree.

  “What if I can't live without you?” She cleared her throat. “What will I do when I need to touch you? When I have nightmares or can’t sleep, without you?”

  She tried to control the emotional stampede inside, to hang onto some shred of dignity in the face of his cold dismissal, but her body quaked, and tears trickled over her face.

  He sank onto the motorcycle seat and bowed his head. Finally he braced the bike, stepped off and opened his arms. She flung herself into his embrace and clung to him, pressing herself against him. The reserved city girl who shunned scenes tried to control herself and think. She had lived for years without him, but he had shown her a facet of herself she did not know. She owed him but, again, she realized the raw feelings were more than gratitude. She revered this man; respected his kindness; admired his patience, his strength, his courage. She loved the way he looked, the way he laughed and teased her. Most of all, she loved the way he loved her.