by Sandra Hill
“Ya shouldn’t speak of a church man thataway, Caleb.”
“Even a jackass churchman?”
“Jah,” Jonas said, a smile twitching at his lips. Bishop Lapp was hard to take sometimes. “Anyways, it’s not what ya did but what they think you’re gonna do.”
“Spit it out, Jonas.”
“They think you’ve got the devil in ya and that you’ve returned here to spread evil among the People. They think the work you’re doing with the cavern is Satan’s work, that you’re engaged in some kinda rituals in there. The teenagers are talkin’ ’bout you, in an admiring way, and they fear more of the young ones will leave for the English world.”
“Why would they admire me?”
Jonas’s heart ached to hear his brother doubt his own worth. “Because ya left and didn’t come back with your tail between your legs. Most folks do, ya know. They admire your bravery.”
“Bullshit!”
Jonas winced at his language. “I admire you.”
Caleb made a pff-ing sound of disbelief.
“I wanted to leave, same as you, when the shunnin’ started, but I didn’t have the courage like you did. It’s hard being raised in such a close-knit community, where family is everything, ta suddenly find yourself alone in a strange world.”
“Tell me about it. I lived in a homeless shelter for three weeks.” His brow creased. “Where did you go when you first left?”
“I hid in the barn of some English folks over near Belleville for a week, eatin’ berries and nuts. I wanted to find ya, but I had no idea where to start, and ya had already been gone two months by then.” Even today, Jonas remembered vividly how lost he’d felt. Alone in the world.
“Ah, Jonas!” His brother squeezed his hand.
“It’s hard for the English to understand how good and strong family is in the Amish community, and how bereft one can be without it. All they see is inbreeding, which we never had.”
Caleb agreed. “Some people think the Amish are like a cult. That their people have been brainwashed from a young age to accept the beliefs. Mind control.”
“Maybe some are, but family ties are one of the goot things about the Amish. I give them that. And stern as he was at times, Dat was a goot father . . . before the shunnings.”
They both nodded.
“Remember when Dat usta take us fly fishing?” Jonas asked.
“I do. Those were good days, weren’t they?”
“Anyways, you should know, Dat defended you tonight.”
“What?”
Jonas could see Caleb reel with shock. He was still reeling himself.
“Dat defied the elders, said the only thing you was guilty of was leavin’ the community and even then, you was falsely accused. He said that instead of condemning you, Bishop Lapp should be makin’ every effort to bring ya back inta the fold.”
“No way!”
“Jah. He defended me, too. Said they was too harsh with both of us.” Jonas was thirty-four years old, but he’d had tears in his eyes tonight, just like one of his children when they was over-sad.
“Are you going back?”
“No!” For sure, Dat’s defying the elders had touched Jonas. Being touched was one thing. Being touched in the head was quite another. There had been too much water under the dam.
“Who told you all this?”
“Mam.” And what a shock and wonder it was to see her walking into his house after all these years.
“She defied the Ordnung and talked to you?”
“Jah. Amazin’, ain’t it?” His mother had been bawling as much as talking. He’d felt like bawling himself.
Caleb shook his head with disbelief. “Why did you need to tell me all this tonight?”
“Because Mam fears the rigid ones might do somethin’ to harm ya.” Warn Caleb, Mam had said. They’s mighty angry.
“Huh? These are nonviolent people.”
“In the name of God, people does crazy things. Jist be careful, that’s what Mam wanted me ta tell ya.”
“What a mess we’ve made of things! Well, not you. You found a way to stay Plain, and you married and had kids. Me? I’m still screwed up.”
“I don’t think so. I’m thinkin’ ya landed where ya were supposed to.”
“That’s debatable.”
“I been thinkin’ on what ya said yesterday, Caleb, about me bein’ a pacifist and you servin’ in the military. I’m thinkin’ maybe it’s easier ta be goot and noble when ya never been tested, like us Amish and Mennonites. I’m thinkin’ it’s wrong ta judge.”
“There was a philosopher, John Milton, who talked about something called cloistered virtue. He said it’s easy to be good when you’re cut off from the world, but the real virtue comes when you live in the world, are tested, and still remain good. Not that I’m claiming to be good.”
Jonas grinned. His brother might not realize it, but he was good of heart, and that was the most important thing.
“Enough of that. What’re we gonna to do about Lizzie?”
“I think she should come home with me tonight. Just till things settle down. That way, if word gets back to the community that Lizzie was here, I can try to explain.”
“Good idea! It’s called damage control,” Caleb told him.
“Jah. I agree.” Now if only heartbreak control could be so easy.
Chapter 9
Parting was never such sweet sorrow . . .
After Jonas and Lizzie left, with Caleb promising to meet them both tomorrow to iron things out, Caleb scanned the bar and realized that he, LeDeux, and Claire were the only ones of the gang left. He walked over to where the two of them were dancing. “I’d say it’s time we hit the road. What do you say?”
“Yeah,” Claire agreed.
“I’m gonna stick around a while longer,” LeDeux said, eyeing a pretty brown-haired girl on the other side of the room with a Brass Balls Saloon T-shirt and a come-and-get-me smile.
After paying his tab, he and Claire headed out to the parking lot. He walked Claire to her car.
“It was fun tonight,” Claire said. “Thanks.”
This must be one of those fun-is-in-the-eyes-of-the-beholder kind of things. To him it had seemed like a goat fuck. Except for Claire’s promise of a kiss . . . a topless kiss.
“What are you smiling about?”
“My winnings.”
“Oh. The kiss?”
“The topless kiss.”
“Do you want it now?”
“Here, in a parking lot? Hardly! Nah, I can wait. Too bad Tante Lulu and Lizzie are sleeping at your place . . . well, Tante Lulu tonight.”
She didn’t disagree with him, which he took for a good sign. Must mean she would have invited him home if she were alone.
“It’s gonna be a big day tomorrow.” He brushed his lips lightly over hers. No way was he going to do more than that. Otherwise he’d be jumping her in the backseat of her station wagon like an oversexed teenager. As compared to an oversexed adult male.
“Hopefully we’ll uncover the pearls by day’s end. And maybe even the outlaw’s loot, as well.” She brushed her lips across his, too.
“See you early, then.”
“If I get there by six, can I run with you?”
He grinned. “Think you can keep up with me?”
She grinned back, not missing the innuendo. “Baby, the question is, can you keep up with me?”
Reluctantly, he let her go.
Well, hallelujah . . . finally! . . .
He was back at the B & B. The house was quiet, everyone in bed. In the kitchen, he was pouring himself a glass of ice water when he heard a rustle behind him. It was Tante Lulu in a flowered muumuu, or whatever the hell you called those loose Hawaiian-style gowns, her hair in pink foam rollers, a bunch of gunk on her face, and Donald Duck slippers on her feet. What a sight!
“Damn! You scared me.”
“I forgot ta take my blood-pressure pill,” she said, coming up next to him and taking a prescription bottle off the count
er. “And I had lots of cause to raise my blood pressure tonight, if ya know what I mean.”
He did, and it wasn’t something he wanted to discuss.
“Did ya see my friend Amos tonight?”
He nodded.
“I’ve allus had the hots fer Richard Simmons, and he looks jist like Richard Simmons, dontcha think?”
Huh? In what world? He decided no answer was the best answer, especially when he was trying to avoid thinking of this octogenarian having the hots. Not a pretty picture.
“Yer hope chest should arrive tomorrow, iffen ya was worried about that.”
He wasn’t, but thank God for the change of subject. “That’s great.”
“Ya been prayin’ to St. Jude?”
“Not lately.”
“Ya should, honey. He kin help ya.”
He was about to tell her that he didn’t need any help. But then he realized that maybe he did. “Thanks.”
After the old lady went to bed, he stood in the kitchen, staring out the window. A sudden thought occurred to him. He felt like knocking himself upside the head for his stupidity.
Tante Lulu was here. He didn’t know why, but she wasn’t sleeping at Claire’s tonight. And neither was Lizzie.
Maybe St. Jude was watching out for him, after all.
It was a merry Christmas in July . . .
Nude, except for a pair of silk panties, in her bathroom, and still slightly buzzed, Claire leaned against the sink and loosened her braid, then finger combed her hair, about to tie it into a high ponytail before entering the shower. As tired as she was, she hated to go to bed with the barroom smell that permeated her skin . . . cigarette smoke and stale beer.
But then she heard Boney start barking, the five cats meowing, the caged crow with the broken wing squawking, and the caged porcupine squeaking, followed by a knock on the back door.
She’d never been skittish about living alone, but she knew to be careful, with her home being so close to a public road. Pulling a nightshirt over her head, she picked up a fireplace iron and her cordless phone, preset to 911, as she made her way through the dark living room and kitchen.
It took her only a second to make out the large shape on her deck, framed through her sliding glass door. It was Caleb. She opened the door.
“I thought you went back to Abbie’s.”
He arched an eyebrow at the poker and the phone. “Which were you planning to hit me with?”
“Both,” she said.
He surveyed her disheveled hair and short nightshirt that proclaimed “Make Me Purr” under the picture of a grinning calico cat. She thought she heard him murmur, “Gladly.”
Meanwhile, Boney was yipping and nipping at his ankles, and the five cats, including Priscella, who could very well be dropping her kittens tonight, were arching their backs and rubbing against his pants legs. He was standing in a puddle of pets. Luckily, the crow and porcupine had settled down. Without comment, he picked up Boney and walked away. The five cats followed him in a single file. Soon, he had them all locked in her small laundry room, indignantly yipping and meowing with displeasure.
On return, he just leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching her with a slight smile on his lips. No words were necessary. The man had plans.
Flustered, which was a novelty for her, she blurted out, “I was about to take a shower. My clothes and my hair smell like smoke and beer. Why don’t you sit down? I think there’s still some coffee in the pot.”
He sniffed his T-shirt. “Me, too.”
“What?”
“I need to take a shower, too.”
Okaay. He probably didn’t mean that the way it sounded. She pointed to the coffeemaker.
He shook his head. “I don’t want any coffee.”
No need for her to ask him what he did want. It was clear in his smoldering eyes. In fact, he already had his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. Then he toed off his shoes and socks, leaving him in a pair of low-hung jeans, and that was all.
She was about to protest his being barefoot, which had not been a concession in their agreement, but she knew how silly she would sound and that she would be revealing just how sexy she considered his big, high-arched feet. “Whoa! What’s going on here?” Is that really my voice, sounding so squeaky?
“I’m here to collect my debt.”
I like his short hair. How odd! I never liked short hair before. Especially military short. Must be hormones. Or oyster shooters.
“Did you hear me, Claire?” His lips twitched with amusement. “I’m here to collect my debt.”
“What debt? Oh, the kiss.” Holy moly! Look at his body! Is he on steroids, or an exercise fanatic? Maybe it’s just good genes. Amish hunk genes? Ha, ha, ha! But wait. He wants to kiss me. Now. With what have to be the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen.
He gave said lips a quick lick of his tongue, as if he knew what she’d been thinking.
There was a lurching at the jointure of her thighs. How embarrassing!
“The topless kiss.”
More lurching. “This really isn’t a good time.” If you come within a foot of me now, I’ll probably knock you down and have my way with you. “As I said, I’m about to take a shower.” Could I sound any more lame? And good Lord, is that really a bulge in his jeans? Yes, it is. I’m not looking. Whoo-boy, I am not looking.
“I’m game.”
“Huh?”
He grinned.
The lout knew exactly what effect he was having on her. “I’m game for a shower.”
“I never said anything about the kiss taking place in a shower.” That is just great. Plant an idea like that in my hormone-overloaded brain.
“Agreements can always be amended.” He batted his eyelashes at her innocently.
Claire suspected she’d been set up, bigtime. But frankly, Rhett, I can’t seem to give a damn. “I need a shower . . . a cold shower . . . before the kiss,” she muttered and made her way to the bathroom.
“Bad idea,” he said, getting to the door ahead of her. Then, in true Rhett Butler style, he picked her up and carried her back to the living room. Easing himself down into a low, armless rocking chair, he arranged her so that she straddled his lap, her bare feet on the floor.
“This feels like Christmas,” he said in a low, silky voice.
“How so?” Her voice was low, too, but raspy with a hair-trigger arousal caused by the crotch of her panties being aligned just so with the ridge of his erection. For a second, she saw stars behind her closed lids.
Claire was no kid. She’d been around the block. She knew what was what. But dammit, every second she’d been around Caleb the past two days had felt like foreplay. She was more than ready.
“What does Christmas have to do with this?” She wiggled on his lap, adjusting herself, to show what she referred to. And yeah, to assert a little control of the situation.
His groan was her reward. “The best part is unwrapping a present,” he explained, lifting the hem of her T-shirt. He raised it over her head and tossed it to the floor.
He smiled then, showing just how much he liked his “present,” and flicked one of her feather earrings.
And that old adage “It is better to give than to receive” was proved true when he began to rock. And rock. And rock.
Without ever actually touching her, he caused her to climax against him, arching her back, spreading her legs wider. Keening, for heaven’s sake!
“Oh, baby,” he murmured as he pulled her closer.
And the kiss hadn’t even begun.
Who knew begging could be so sweet? . . .
Caleb was so hard he could barely breathe, and it felt hot-damn painfully fantastic.
She had come for him. While he watched. Without his ever actually touching her. How amazing was that?
“I’m not embarrassed by what just happened,” she said.
Huh? Did I say you were? Why should you be? “Neither am I.”
They gazed at each other, waitin
g. Even the waiting was arousing.
Claire’s auburn hair was a wild, wonderful mess, spread down her back and over her creamy-smooth bare shoulders. Her lips were parted with arousal. Glancing lower, he feasted on full, pink-tipped breasts that seemed larger than they were because of her slim frame. Narrow waist, slightly flaring hips, and long, long legs.
“I’m not perfect,” she said under his scrutiny.
“Neither am I.”
Both of them had a few years on them. Small, not unattractive, lines bracketed her eyes and lips, mirroring his own. Her breasts were firm, but not as high as they once were, he suspected. Who the hell cared?
“Don’t get hung up on age or body issues,” he advised. “You make me breathless, and most twenty-year-olds can’t do that to me anymore.”
He could tell she liked his words.
Still studying her, he noted her freckles. Not too many, but enough that he recalled his earlier fantasy about connecting the dots. He wondered idly if she had any washable markers. No, no, no. A soft artist’s brush and melted chocolate would do better.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked.
Because maybe . . . just maybe . . . I’m about to get lucky. “Your freckles.”
“You think my freckles are funny?”
“No. I think they’re erogenous zones, and I’m smiling because of what I’d like to do with those freckles.”
“I have fantasies, too.”
Hallelujah! I’ve landed in hottie heaven! “Oh?”
She pointed at his chain tattoo.
He frowned, unable to imagine what she could do with that tattoo, but then shrugged. He liked surprises as much as the next guy. Sexual surprises, that was.
“We should probably talk.”
No, no, no! Talk was a buzzkill to sex, Caleb knew from past experience. A bucket of ice water on a raging erection. Women always wanted to discuss things to death, most of it boiling down to the question “What are you thinking?” And she wouldn’t like it one damn bit if he told her that his thinking at the moment was centered not on what her tongue had to say but on what he’d like her tongue to do. “No, Claire, we should definitely not talk.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to trap you into anything.”
“Do I look trapped?”