by Pamela Morsi
"I do not talk to fish, young lady," he declared with a mock severity that would have made Esme giggle had her heart not been pounding like a tom-tom. How had she not realized before yesterday how handsome he was? And so smart? And so gentle even the fish weren't afraid of him.
"It's you that feeds the fish and no one else," she told him softly.
There was a fleeting curiosity in his glance, and then he motioned to her. "Come here and you can feed them."
"Me?"
"Sure. It's just the shadow that they see. They don't know the hand that feeds them."
Esme hesitated. "I'm not sure."
For some reason he wanted badly for her to do it. Intuitively he knew she couldn't resist a dare. Glancing down into the food pail, he said, "You have to be willing to put your hand in that bucket of muck." There was more than a hint of challenge to his voice.
She quickly waved away her former objections to the putrid fish food. "A little muck ain't nothing to me," she boasted. "I've limed outhouses plenty of times, and that's a lot worse than this."
Cleav had the good manners to ignore her indelicate comment.
"I'd wash in this stuff if it suited the fish," she told him.
Cleav smiled. "I don't believe that will be necessary, Miss Esme."
Hearing him speak her given name pleased her. She wanted very much to feed the fish now. She wanted to show him that she could do whatever he asked.
"Here, come sit in front of me," he said. "We need to make the fish think that you're just another part of me."
Esme hesitated just an instant. Then she scooted closer to him. Still squatting, he spread his legs a little wider and made a place for her in between them next to the water.
"Get into my shadow," he instructed her. "If the shadow doesn't change, the fish will have nothing to fear."
She felt Cleav's hand at her shoulder, gently coaxing her into the correct position, directly in front of him, as he squatted on the grass. She felt the warmth of him surrounding her as she sat so close to him; his knee was near her now blushing cheek.
Feeling the closeness of her back to his chest, she glanced down at the shadow on the water. She was invisible. Her form had been totally absorbed in his. As the thought crossed her mind, she felt an unusual fluttering in her abdomen. As far as the trout were concerned, Esme Crabb was now a part of Cleavis Rhy. It gave her a dizzying feeling.
"Just take a handful of food," he coached. "They've really had enough, but we'll give them an extra treat today in honor of accepting you."
With his warm smile of encouragement, Esme only made a slight face as she dipped her hand in the bucket. Leaning forward, she felt him right behind her.
"Put your hand just a couple of inches under the water," he told her, "and open it up about halfway."
Esme followed his instructions exactly. She shivered slightly as her hand descended into the cold mountain pool. Stiffening herself against the chill of the water, she tried to tamp down an inexplicable trickle of fear. But she failed, however, to control the sudden jerk of her shoulders when the first big brown brooder greedily grabbed a bite.
"Easy," Cleav cautioned as he laid his hands familiarly on her shoulders. "They won't bite your fingers off," he whispered close to her neck. ''You've got to trust them, just the way you want them to trust you."
Feeling the warmth of his hands as they soothed her, Esme felt herself begin to relax. The big fish pushed each other aside and tickled her fingers with their fins as they vied for their share.
"Come on, Pearly," she coaxed the mole-faced fish. "My hand's not as big as Cleav's, but the food tastes just the same."
Cleav's breathy chuckle raised the hairs on her neck.
"Oh, it's wonderful," Esme whispered, her heart pounding from more than the exhilaration of fish feeding.
Cleav agreed, however neither his thoughts nor his senses were focused on the fish. At Esme's startled quiver, his palms had so naturally found their way to her shoulders to reassure and comfort. Now his hand sought only to caress.
Her firm, square shoulders felt unerringly feminine under his fingers. With a pretense of carelessness, he moved his thumb toward her collar. He felt a warm stab of desire.
Stop it! he ordered himself angrily. The woman had asked to feed the fish, not be fondled by the fish handler.
"Look at this big one!" Esme's quiet whisper bubbled with excitement.
Cleav leaned forward to follow her gaze. His chest eased up against the back of the worn wool of her coat. His chin was so close to her neck, he could have counted the tiny trickles of errant curls that had escaped the thick blond braid. He took a much-needed breath, only to be assailed by the sweet scent of her. Plain brown soap and woman; it was a combination he'd never fully appreciated before.
Quite naturally his hands slid down to her waist—only to steady her, he swore to himself. He couldn't allow the young woman to fall into the water. That the water was no more than three feet deep and that she was seated firmly on the shoreline were facts he didn't bother to consider.
Her waist was not the tiny handspan that was still the rage of fashion, nor was it bound with the usual corsets that both disguised and protected it from men. Cleavis could feel the gentle give of real flesh. And it lay beneath his hands, thinly separated by her coat, dress, and chemise. His fingers tingled with the wish to dispose of those few garments. He knew he should take his hands from her person, but she felt too good.
Her charges fed and her palm empty, Esme took her hand out of the cold water. The warm comfortable feel of Cleav's fingers at her waist so captured her attention that, glancing to the side, she was startled to find his face so close. How could such pale blue eyes appear so hot, so deep?
It was desire. Desire, the same as in those well-remembered fleeting moments in the store.
But then she had felt power, control. Now, surrounded by him, his hands touching her so firmly yet so tenderly, his mouth, his lips so close, she was entranced, not entrancing. Gathering her courage, she forced herself to speak. "Should I feed them more?" she asked him, her voice trembling with its whisper.
"No." His answer was brief, but the sound of it continued to linger in her breast.
She met his gaze but couldn't hold it as, time and time again, his focus dropped to her lips, which warmed so quickly under his perusal that, without thought, her tongue snaked out to dampen them.
His eyes widened perceptibly, and the grip on her waist tightened. "Esme…" The word was a tortured whisper.
She was trembling now. The nearness of him, the desire, the fear all warred together inside her. Would he kiss her? When would he kiss her? What would she do if he kissed her? Should she scream? Should she run? Oh, how she wanted him to kiss her.
He had turned his head slightly to the side. Save to graces, Cleavis Rhy was going to kiss her! Those long, muscled arms were going to hold her. That beautiful mouth was going to press against hers. Those long slender fingers were going to touch her, caress her. It was going to happen. He moved closer, only so slightly. Yes, it was going to be a kiss. She was sure of it. Any second now his lips would touch hers. Any second now. Any second. Now! Now!
She couldn't wait any longer.
Esme threw herself at Cleavis Rhy. Clasping her arms tightly around his neck, she slammed her warm wet lips against his.
At her sudden lurch, Cleav lost his balance and fell back against the ground. Esme sprawled on top of him, wiggling closer by the minute. Her fingers grasped his dark hair by the handfuls. Her lips stuck to his tighter than a tick on a stray dog.
She heard a strangled exclamation from his throat and felt the strength of him as gently but firmly he tried to roll her off of him.
The feel of his long, strong body against hers and the spicy scent of his skin was more pleasurable than Esme had expected. That ball of tingling anxiety that lay low in her abdomen dropped within her, and the craving it triggered robbed the young woman of the last vestiges of her good judgment.
&nb
sp; Instinctively Esme wrapped her strong, work-muscled legs around him and held on for blue blazes. As he rolled her to the ground, she rolled him atop her.
The fight went out of him for one shocked second as Cleav felt the soft feminine curves of her pressed so intimately against him. Then with his masculine strength he thrust her from him. Rolling to his feet, he crouched before her warily like a wrestler preparing for the next fall.
Esme sat on the grass, a look of stunned surprise on her face. Her dark serge was hiked up practically to her waist and gave much more than a cursory glimpse of her long fine limbs. One black wool stocking dangled unheeded about the ankle of her work shoe, the other clung precariously to her knee. The legs of her unadorned cotton drawers were diaphanously thin from much washing and wearing.
Shocked, Cleav turned away, as much for the sake of his own modesty as for her own.
Still stunned by her actions, Cleav struggled to regain his self-control. One minute they were feeding the fish and the next… It didn't bear close scrutiny.
How could he have… It was impossible. A gentleman did not sprawl on the ground with a young woman. And young women did not throw themselves into the arms of a gentleman they hardly knew. What was this woman up to?
The memory came back in a rush. You wanna marry me? Good God, did this little hill girl intend to seduce him?
As his pulse finally returned to normal and his breathing quieted, so did his thoughts. The young woman was obviously too innocent and unsophisticated to formulate such a plan. Cleav reminded himself that in indelicate situations—and this was as indelicate as anything Cleav could recall in recent memory—it was always the gentleman at fault.
With that in mind, he turned to Esme, but his apology died on his lips.
Esme was standing before him, looking proud, controlled, and not even the slightest bit put out by the impropriety that she had just suffered. "Cleavis Rhy," she said, her voice strong, "I'm really sorry about that. Truth to tell, it's the first time I ever kissed anybody."
If a blush stained her cheek, it appeared more a fear of a loss of her pride than her virtue.
"I'm a quick learner," she told him. "I suspect if you give me another chance, well, I can be kissing better than most any girl before you know it."
He stood silent and staring. No experience in his life with women had prepared him for Esmeralda Crabb. How could he react as a gentleman if she knew nothing of the behavior of a lady?
Esme took an eager step toward him. One step was enough.
He held up one hand as if to ward her off, as if to say stay away from me, Esme Crabb.
But of course, staying away was not part of her plan.
Chapter Four
The sweet morning call of doves was joined by the splash of warm water filling the washbasin in the south bedroom of Rhy's big white house. It was still too dark to shave. Finding a match, Cleav lit the coal-oil lamp beside the dresser, which brought a warm orange glow to the silver light of dawn.
Carefully opening the tin of Fulton Brothers Fine Shaving Soap, he dipped a pinch into the mug and vigorously stirred it with his brush. Leaning forward, he examined the thick blanket of dark prickles that had appeared on his cheeks and chin. Yawning, he bent his head over the basin and splashed the water over his whiskers. With brisk, swirling strokes he painted the white lather like a crown mask on his lower face.
When the soap was distributed to his satisfaction, Cleav opened his razor and casually stropped it against the long piece of thick brown leather that hung next to the mirror. Testing the edge of it with the end of his thumb, he determined it sharp enough. He leaned toward the mirror again, holding his flesh taut at the earlobe, and began the first long stroke down the jawline.
His mind was blank. Or at least it was as blank as a man's mind ever gets. The day stretched out before him in the vaguest terms, the chores, the store, the fish. Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, adding to the serenade of wild birds that stirred along the fish ponds in search of breakfast.
From the corner of his eye he saw a movement outside the window. "Damn!" He flinched as he nicked himself.
She was back again.
In the gray light of the Tennessee dawn, Esme Crabb stood down by the sycamore tree gazing up at Cleav's window.
His first thought was to douse the light. The young woman could undoubtedly see right into the room, and he stood shirtless, his suspenderless pants hanging loosely at his waist. But he stayed his hand. If she saw something she shouldn't see, then she could damn well avert her eyes.
In the past few days Cleav had already learned that Miss Esme Crabb was a good deal like gnats in the springtime, a constant annoyance, difficult to avoid.
Leaning once more toward the mirror, Cleav continued his shaving, albeit somewhat self-consciously. He could feel her eyes on him.
"This nonsense has to stop!" he declared aloud as he rinsed a line of lather and whiskers in the water.
Yesterday she had actually been waiting for him on the path when he came back from the privy!
"Nice morning," she'd said conversationally. As if she had a perfect right to be on his privy path at sunup!
Esme Crabb apparently thought she had a perfect right to act however she pleased, modesty and convention be damned.
It had started the day after that unfortunate encounter by the brooding pond. He had hoped that upon further reflection, she would be scared off, but first thing the next morning she showed up at the store as bold as brass.
"Just came for some of those peach preserves," she told him, sashaying to the back of the store with the provocative loose-hipped walk that she'd affected of late.
He'd tried not to watch her as she fixed herself a cracker with jelly. When she then seated herself by the stove facing him, he had no choice but to look away.
She'd leave in a minute, he'd promised himself. But he'd been wrong. That young woman had stayed virtually the whole day. She was sitting in his chair, munching on his food, visiting with his customers, and every so often, when they were alone, edging up her skirts to adjust those ragged stockings of hers, and although slightly less noticeably than that first time, he'd gotten several good glimpses of her shapely calves and ankles.
It was beyond all human understanding.
If that had been the last of it, maybe he could have just laughed it off. But night after night she stood on the hill and longingly watched him tend the fish. She followed him at a distance wherever he went. And now she even peeped at him in his own house!
Washing off the last of his shaving soap, Cleav determined that he would have it out with her today. What in the name of heaven was she up to anyway?
The memory of those words, "You wanna marry me?" continued to haunt him. It was just a foolish crush, he assured himself. Surely the young woman was not so ignorant that she didn't realize how unsuited she was to be his wife.
Wiping his face and head with a clean white towel, Cleav made a quick perusal of his features. Maybe the girl really did fancy herself in love with him.
Running a comb through the damp brown tangles on his head, he wondered how he appeared to her. She seemed very young, and he had never noticed her in the store until a few days before. Maybe he was the first man she'd taken notice of.
Feminine sensibilities were strange and irrational. He'd heard stories about young women who placed their affections on poets and actors, men with whom there was no possibility of reciprocation. Perhaps her sudden preoccupation with him was a similar species of feminine hysteria. Whatever, it was deuced disconcerting.
Esme stood near the edge of the front path to the big white house. A little shiver ran through her as the north wind blew through the thin material of her coat. Winter was not quite gone. But now, staring at the big white house that belonged to Cleavis Rhy, she was warmed by thoughts of her future.
It should be blue, she thought to herself as she eyed the stately two-story edifice sitting in the little gap between the mountains. Vader had a sh
ortage of sky, Esme thought, so the house should be blue, like a piece of heaven brought down to earth.
Her imagination conjured the sight of the big blue house trimmed in white like summer clouds. She could almost see Pa sitting in a slat-back chair on that wide wraparound porch. He'd be playing the fiddle: a soft and sweet tune. The twins would be sitting in the swing, of course, in matching dresses of white lawn. They'd make a sight so pretty no man could resist. And herself… Somehow she could not quite place herself in the picture. She'd be wherever Cleav was.
Leaning tiredly against the sturdy sycamore, she strained her eyes to make out Cleav's form through the window. He was washing up, she suspected, and he'd notice her soon, if he hadn't already.
In the past week, she'd learned a lot about Cleavis Rhy: things that Esme was sure a young wife should know about a man if she was hoping to help him. The first thing she'd learned was that he worked hard. He was up every day before dawn and started up his own fire in the kitchen. He took care of the chores and had the store open by six o'clock. Except for an hour or so in the afternoon when he went to the ponds, he worked stocking, helping customers, or doing paperwork until six in the evening. The second thing she'd learned was that he didn't seem to have enough company. After supper, with his mother, he'd sit alone in the back parlor reading until way into the night. Esme knew that for sure, since she'd sat and watched him read the previous evening.
"Where in tarnation have you been!" her father had hollered at her when she'd finally returned home near midnight
"I been down the mountain, Pa," she told him with a tired sigh. "Don't worry about me, I told you, I'm going to be out and about for a while."
"You told me you was going courting," her father corrected angrily. "What kind of man keeps you out half the night and then don't show up here talking marriage proposal?"
Esme had rubbed her head and yawned tiredly. "He didn't keep me out," she clarified. "I kept myself out."