Part 8 (1/2)
”Tell me what happened to the flour,” he urged, more to hear the music of her voice than from any burning curiosity.
”You'll think I'm hopeless.”
Using his thumb, he brushed away a smudge of flour from her chin and felt her tremble. Her skin was supple and warm, her milk-white flesh rose-petal soft. Beneath the plain blue skirt that hid all but the toes of her shoes, her thighs were sleek and delectably plump, her calves perfectly formed, her ankles trim. Tonight, when the lamp was turned low and the door locked, he would lap every inch of her with his tongue, and she would make that little growling sound in her throat again.
His body swelled against the fly of his jeans. ”I think you're adorable.”
”No, I'm not. I'm clumsy and nearsighted and I can't sew a straight seam.”
”You just need your gla.s.ses and a little practice, that's all.”
Rachel felt a little flutter in the vicinity of her heart. Though it hurt to admit it, even to herself, she craved Clint's approval. Almost as much as she craved his love.
Even so, she forced herself to be honest. Despite the fact that their marriage had been precipitated by trickery, or perhaps because it had, she desperately wanted their life together to be based on mutual trust. Still, it took her three gulping deep breaths before she was able to blurt out, ”I tripped over the train you carved for Cody and, uh...dropped the flour crock.”
”It broke?”
She nodded and said, ”It took me an hour to get the flour swept out of the floor cracks. And while I was busy doing that, Useless stole the chicken Daniel plucked for tonight's dinner.”
”You let Daniel kill a chicken?”
”Oh, no. The poor thing died of old age. That's why it's so awful that Useless stole it. I mean, it's probably not very often that a chicken just up and dies like that.”
”Probably more often than you think. Every spring we buy batches of chicks, all at the same time, so when they get old and start keelin' over, they tend to go one right after another. I wouldn't be surprised if another one isn't breathin' its last right this minute. We might have chicken for supper yet.”
”Only if I don't let Useless steal the meat!”
”Heaven help us,” Clint drawled, his eyes taking on a sudden twinkle within the frame of his sin-black lashes.
”That's just it, Clint. I'm beginning to think that not even Gabriel and all his archangels can make me into the kind of wife you deserve.”
His firm mouth twitched at the corners. Then it curved slowly into a lopsided, boyish grin. The look in his eyes, however, was hot enough to heat her blood.
”Far as I'm concerned you can burn gingerbread from now till doomsday, Rachel, and I'll not offer one word of complaint,” he said in that gravelly voice she had come to love. ”Not so long as you keep snugglin' that nice little f.a.n.n.y of yours up against me of a night.”
He skimmed a hand up her side to her breast. His fingers were hard, his touch gentle as he cupped her flesh. ”As for the d.a.m.ned flour, it isn't your fault Cody left his train layin' out.”
Though two layers of clothing prevented skin from caressing skin, she began to burn where his hand pressed. ”Mmm,” was all she could manage as a response.
”As for the stolen chicken, I guess I could shoot Useless,” he offered.
Unable to restrain herself, Rachel arched toward him and at the same time encircled his strong brown neck with her arms. ”Just kiss me,” she whispered, drawing him down to her.
His groan shuddered against her parted lips a split second before his mouth closed over hers. His lips were hot, his breath moist, his tongue arrogantly demanding.
Rachel felt her heart begin to race and a dull roaring filled her ears, as eagerly, desperately, she arched against him, her body responding as though driven by a will of its own. She exulted in the harsh rasp of his breathing.
When his hands tugged her s.h.i.+rtwaist free, she gasped. When his fingertips sought her breast again, she moaned. Between hard, eager kisses, she tore at the b.u.t.tons of the chambray s.h.i.+rt he'd plucked straight from the ironing basket that morning.
Just as her s.h.i.+rtwaist fell open, she heard a sound. A voice, calling Clint's name. A woman's voice. He jerked free, his hands instinctively drawing her against the protection of his big chest, even as he turned toward the sound.
Heart thundering, and lungs starved for air, Clint fought to clear his head. He knew that voice....
”Clinton? Is that you?”
”Aunt Hester?” he said in stunned disbelief, a split second before his aunf s rotund form filled the doorway.
Like a plump blackbird spreading its wings, his aunt, dressed head to toe in mourning, held her arms out at her sides. ”I got your letter, and here I am, come to keep your house and help raise those dear great-nephews of mine!”
11.
Rachel poked her fork forlornly at the stewed turnips remaining on her plate, unable to force another bite past the bitter lump lodged in her throat. To her right, Cody was busily gnawing the last few shreds of meat from his second chicken leg. To her left, Matt was shoveling down his third piece of sour lemon pie. Rachel had to admit that prior to Aunt Hester's arrival two days ago, the boys had never eaten so heartily nor praised the food more fulsomely. Even Clint had taken to coming to the table with an eager glint in his eyes.
Oh, he never came right out and said he preferred Aunt Hester's cooking to the pathetic offerings she'd put on the table, but the signs of his newfound contentment were so obvious that even she, blind as she was without her spectacles, could see them.
Take this morning, for example, she thought, stabbing her fork at another perfectly cooked turnip slice. Why, the man had actually waxed poetic over his portly aunt's b.u.t.termilk biscuits. His brothers had been too busy to comment in kind, engaged as they had been, slathering on strawberry jam that Hester had brought with her from Ohio. The mound of biscuits had disappeared from the basket in a trice-unlike her biscuits, which generally lasted a good three days.
”There's more pie, boys,” Aunt Hester sung out from her place to Clint's right.
”I'll have another piece,” Cole said eagerly, shoving his plate forward.
”Me, too, Aunt Hester,” Cody shouted. ”I ain't never tasted anything so good.”
Aunt Hester beamed as she slid huge slabs of pie onto each of their plates. ”Clint? There's one last piece of pie here with your name on it.”
”No, thanks, Aunt Hester.” Clint put down his fork and leaned back. ”But like Cody said, that's about as good as pie gets.”
”Why thank you, Nephew. That's just about the nicest compliment a lady can get from a gentleman.”
At that, Matt leaned close to Rachel's ear to whisper, ”Remind me to use that line on Dora Faye next time I'm in the Golden Goose.”
Rachel gave his booted foot a good kick, which only served to widen his wicked grin. ”Careful, Sis,” he whispered, offering her a broad wink. ”That there's the foot I use to prop up the bar of a Sat.u.r.day night.”
Seeing his brother cozying up to Rachel like a stallion sniffing heat would normally put Clint into a foul mood, but with his belly full of his aunt's good cooking he was too mellow to do more than scowl a warning in Matt's direction.
For some reason he couldn't fathom, Rachel seemed different since Aunt Hester's sudden arrival. Though he wasn't partial to a.n.a.lyzing emotions-his or anyone else's-he couldn't help noticing how quiet she'd turned, like an uns.h.i.+elded lamp suddenly extinguished by an unexpected gust of wind.
Rubbing a hand across his belly, he thought back to the scolding Aunt Hester had given him her first night on the place. ”Why, the poor girl is plumb worn to a nub,” she'd chastized. ”Trying to handle a house full of rowdy men and deal with all their trappings is more than a new bride should have to do.”
Maybe Aunt Hester was right, Clint thought, staring the length of the table at his wife's bowed head. Unlike other nights when she'd been slaving over steaming pots, her s.h.i.+ny brown hair was neatly tied back by a plain black ribbon, and her white s.h.i.+rtwaist was crisp with fresh starch and neatly tucked. d.a.m.ned if she didn't look as young and innocent as a school girl, he thought, covertly eyeing the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s under the modest attire.
Guilt stabbed him hard, reminding him of all that he and his brothers had demanded of her these past weeks. h.e.l.l, he'd brought her home to a pigsty and all but insisted she turn it into a home. And without much help, if truth were told. At least, not much from him.
But that was about to change. Now that Aunt Hester had a good hold on the running of the house, Rachel would have more time for fun. In a day or two, the branding would be done and he'd be able to take some time off. If he got a decent price for the beef this year, he might be able to treat Rachel to a few days in San Francisco. He'd heard tell of some right fancy hotels, with beds soft enough even for her delicate skin.
Just thinking about the two of them stealing off alone had his blood heating. Aunt Hester's arrival had put a crimp in his lovemaking, no doubt about it. This winter, he would build on another bedroom for himself and Rachel that would afford them a little more privacy, but for now he couldn't help worrying about making noise. The boys had all moved into two of the sleeping areas upstairs, leaving the third empty for Aunt Hester. But that didn't put the woman far enough away to suit Clint. Those d.a.m.ned corn husks! They crinkled every time a man so much as wiggled a toe.