Frontier Woman (22 page)

“Dir’,” Seth announced proudly, holding out his empty hand to his uncle.

Creed gave the small boy a rueful smile, then reached up to wipe away the dirt.

Cricket stopped him. “Let me,” she said.

It was the first time Cricket had willingly touched Creed, and he wondered what had given her the impetus to do so now, when he felt himself at the farthest edge of his self-control.

Cricket lifted the hem of her skirt and found a clean spot, then cupped Creed’s chin in her hand and turned his face away so she could see to work. The dirt had landed on Creed’s neck below his ear and left a muddy trail in the sweat along his throat to his shoulder and part of his arm and chest. Cricket looked forward to the coming task with an eagerness that was new for her. Amy and Seth might have disappeared for all the notice she took of her audience while she worked on Creed.

In fact, Amy saw the turn events were taking and gathered up her son, discreetly leaving the entranced couple alone.

Cricket’s thin muslin skirt was not enough barrier to contain Creed’s body heat, nor the suppleness of his skin, nor the tautness of the muscles beneath it, but she was nonetheless frustrated because she didn’t want anything between her skin and his. Touching Creed became a need that must be satisfied. And so, when she had wiped away the sweat and grime, her fingertips reached for the ridge of bone along his shoulder and traced the hollow above it and the rippling muscle below.

Creed held his breath, afraid that if he moved he’d break the spell. He didn’t question the miracle that was occurring, he simply enjoyed it. It took all his willpower to remain still when Cricket’s fingertip found the scar that began below his left nipple and traced it across his chest.

The skin was still slick with sweat where Cricket touched now, and she noticed that Creed’s nipple had peaked when she touched him. The tiny bud drew her attention, and her fingertip followed the scar back up again until she caressed him there. Cricket heard Creed’s sharp intake of breath and wondered at the power she had to make him tremble. It was a power that both shocked and delighted her.

Cricket brought both hands flat against Creed’s chest and, sure enough, the muscles tightened beneath her fingertips. She slid her hands down to his belly, and he gasped again. A smile rose on Cricket’s lips. This was . . . fun.

She wondered what his skin tasted like and indulged her curiosity. The tip of her tongue reached tentatively for the sweaty flesh of his shoulder. He was definitely salty. Cricket felt Creed shudder and smiled again. Would that tiny bud on his chest be equally salty? Cricket lowered her head and took Creed’s nipple between her teeth, letting her tongue run across its pebbled surface.

“Brava—”

Creed’s raspy plea brought bubbling laughter from Cricket’s chest, and she released her hold to look up into Creed’s face. What she saw there excited her beyond measure. His narrowed eyes smoldered with avidity, his nostrils flared to bring him the scent of her, his mouth had parted to ease his uneven breathing. His head was tipped down to her, his entire body strung tight as a bowstring with suppressed desire.

She had unleashed the savage in Creed and greeted his primeval need with joy and exultation. The knowledge rose in her that she was capable of matching his passion. She held herself in readiness, waiting for the panther to end its stillness, to commence its hunt. It was the tension of waiting that made her nervous, not the fear of what was to come. A frisson of the first real sexual need she’d ever known raced through her like a wildfire when Creed slowly lifted her up in his strong arms and headed toward the river.

“Where are we going?” Cricket asked breathlessly.

“Somewhere we can be alone.”

“But Amy—”

“Amy’s gone to the house with Seth.”

Cricket’s pulse quickened with anticipation. She could only imagine what Creed intended to do at the river. Would he undress her? Would he undress himself and do with her what husbands did to wives? She only knew she wanted something, needed something, and that only Creed could give it to her.

Cricket was watching Creed’s face closely, so she noticed right away when the burning desire she’d seen in his eyes gave way to a gamut of other emotions—confusion, disgust, frustration—until now his golden gaze reflected something very like . . . was that
regret
she saw?

Suddenly Creed stopped dead in his tracks and let go of his hold on her thighs, standing her upright and placing his hands on her shoulders so she stood facing him on wobbly legs.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Creed said.

“You what?”

“I’ve changed my mind. Doesn’t happen often, but occasionally it does. This is one of those times.”

Cricket’s body quivered with need. The knowledge that her need wasn’t going to be assuaged channeled all that energy into anger. “We’re not going to the river?”

“You’re going back to the house to tell Amy that Tom will be late getting home for supper tonight. His work at the gin is taking longer than he thought it would.”

“Where are you going?”

Cricket watched Creed take several deep breaths, but the sexual sparks that flew between them singed them both, smoldering, burning, threatening to become a raging inferno. Then he drew himself upright and blew a breath of air from his mouth as though to put out the fire . . . but it only fanned the flames.

“I’m going down to the river and cool off,” he bit out at last. “Then I’m going to go help Tom finish up. Will you relay Tom’s message to Amy for me?”

“I’ll be glad to give her the message.”

Creed sighed gustily again before he said, “Thanks, Brava, I—”

“As soon as I take a swim in the river. Why should you be the only one who gets to cool off?” Cricket sauntered away from Creed, unbuttoning her dress as she went.

“You stop that, Brava. Do you hear me? Stop what you’re doing right now.”

Cricket ignored Creed’s panicked shouts and kept walking. He caught up to her seconds later and grabbed her arm, spinning her around. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Cricket wasn’t sure of that herself. It had only been an enjoyable game tempting Creed, making him tremble, making him gasp and shudder. But the desperate need she felt now wasn’t amusing. She couldn’t let Creed stop playing, because she wanted to know how the game ended. She smiled at Creed, a provocative smile that invited and promised more than she could possibly know she was inviting or promising.

Creed’s lips flattened in an angry line, and his entire body tensed as he sought to gather control of his wayward senses.

Cricket felt a sense of the inevitable when he scooped her up in his arms once more and headed for the river as fast as he could go. She didn’t have time to say anything before they reached the steep banks shaded by several giant cypress trees. Her heart galloped with excitement, as she imagined what would happen next.

“You sure you want to do this?” Creed said.

“Yes.”

“Then enjoy your swim.” With that, Creed threw her out into the deepest part of the river.

Cricket came up sputtering, furious and humiliated. “You . . . you . . .” Her entire bullwhacking vocabulary deserted her in the face of his rejection.

Creed fought the urge to go in after her. “I’m going to rinse off at the house and join Tom. I’ll see you at supper.” With that, he turned and walked away.

Cricket slapped her palms on the surface of the cool water in frustration. Of course, once he’d gone she recalled several quite colorful names to call him, but she was quickly forced to abandon her tantrum to concentrate on staying afloat. Her skirt puffed up around her like a balloon, and her shoes felt like anchors. With the extra effort required by her waterlogged shoes and the long dress, Cricket was hot and tired by the time she finally swam to the edge of the river and dragged herself up its steep, muddy bank.

Cricket squished her way back to the garden, where she found Amy working by herself.

“My goodness! What happened to you?” Amy asked as she rose to greet the bedraggled Cricket.

Cricket wrung out the skirt of her soggy dress, making a mud puddle on the ground in front of Amy. “I decided to take a swim.”

“With all your clothes on?”

“Creed threw me in,” she snapped back. “I thought he was going to—” Cricket stopped, realizing what she’d been about to admit.

“Let’s get you changed, and we can talk,” Amy said, urging Cricket toward the house.

“I don’t have anything else to wear.”

“We’ll find something, don’t worry.”

What Amy found was one of her calico short gowns and a pair of Creed’s osnaburg trousers. Cricket was delighted to be back in pants. Creed was going to be upset she wasn’t in a dress, and it served him right for throwing her in the river. While she was dressing, Cricket remembered to tell Amy that Tom would be late for supper.

“That’ll work out fine,” Amy said, “because I still have a lot of work to do myself. Would you mind if we walked outside while we talk? I need to check on my fruit trees.”

Cricket didn’t question why Amy was responsible for the trees; she simply followed her out the back door of the house and down toward the river where peach, quince, fig, and plum trees grew. Then Amy led Cricket to another garden where grapes, watermelon, and strawberries had been planted.

“The watermelon and strawberries will be ripe in July. I have the most delicious recipe for watermelon preserves. You cut the rind in chunks and put it in brine until . . .” Amy stopped her enthusiastic recitation when she saw Cricket’s eyebrows had nearly reached the top of her forehead. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to remember any of this, but with the cloves and ginger and . . .” Amy smiled and stopped herself. “You simply must come back again to visit when all this fruit is ripe.”

“I’d like that. I have a passion for strawberries,” Cricket admitted. Which, she thought to herself, she’d eat fresh. Preserves sounded entirely too complicated.

“You tell Jarrett to bring you, then. I’m sure you can get him to do anything you’d like, he’s so much in love with you.”

Cricket snickered in disbelief. “From what I’ve seen, it’s the husbands who do the ordering around.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Wives are just servants who do what they’re told. Look at you, grubbing away on your knees like some slave—”

“Oh, Cricket, no! It’s not like that at all. I work because I like to work, because life would be empty of meaning for me if I weren’t helping Tom in every way I can. He works so hard to make a home for us that’s everything we want and need. And he loves me, Cricket. He cares for me and makes me feel needed, like Jarrett needs you and—”

“Creed married me because he had to,” Cricket said flatly, “and for no other reason.”

The admission was so unexpected that Amy stood with her mouth open, unable to continue. At last she asked, “Are you expecting Creed’s child, Cricket?”

Cricket blushed. She didn’t know if she was pregnant or not.

Amy drew her own conclusions from Cricket’s silence and enfolded Cricket in her arms. “Oh, you poor dear. I’m so sorry. So sorry. What can that man be thinking to throw you into the river like that,” she muttered under her breath. “And with you in your condition.”

Cricket pulled herself from Amy’s embrace, aware Amy had put the wrong construction on the fact Creed had been forced to marry her. The temptation was there to explain to Amy the strange events that had made her a wife, despite her deep reservations about becoming one. But Cricket had held her own counsel for too many years, and the longstanding barriers didn’t fall.

“I know Jarrett cares for you,” Amy said, “but I think the more important question right now is how you feel about him.”

“What?”

“How do you feel about Jarrett? Do you love him?”

“Of course not!”

“Why ‘of course not’?”

Cricket struggled to explain. “I’m not like other girls. Before Creed came along I . . . I never felt anything like the things I feel now.”

“And now?”

They’d wandered back to the orchard, and Cricket sat down and leaned her head against the bark of a peach tree. Amy sat down across from her in the shade.

Cricket needed to talk to someone about the strange things she’d been feeling, and Sloan wasn’t available. She let down the walls a little and admitted reluctantly to Amy, “It’s confusing. Sometimes I want Creed to touch me . . . and sometimes I want to touch him.”

“What you’re feeling is what any woman feels with a man she loves,” Amy explained.

“I told you I don’t love Creed.”

“Then how do you explain these feelings that never happened before?”

“I don’t,” Cricket replied stubbornly. “They don’t mean anything.”

“Have it your way,” Amy said. “Only remember the next time you’re having those special feelings that they have to come from somewhere, and usually they arise from loving and caring. It’s about time we start back to the house, so we’ll both have time to clean up before supper.”

Cricket followed Amy back to the house in silence, her forehead wrinkled in a pensive frown. Was it possible she loved Jarrett Creed? The thought was so unbelievable as to be laughable. Yet how could she explain the feelings that he elicited in her? How could she explain why she let him touch her and kiss her, when she found the prospect of kissing any other man intolerable? How could she explain why she found such pleasure in the feel of his flesh under her fingertips?

“Tomorrow I want to spend some time working on my ornamental gardens. Would you like to join me?”

Cricket was startled from her reverie. “What?”

“I asked if you’d like to work in my flower gardens with me tomorrow?”

“Yes. Yes, I would,” Cricket said. “I’d like that very much.”

Amy looped her arm through Cricket’s as they walked back to the house together. Cricket was surprised by how easy it was to talk with Amy, almost as easy as talking with Sloan.

“Amy?”

“What, Cricket?”

“How do you know when you’re in love?”

Amy smiled. “You’ll know.”

Cricket grimaced. “That’s no help.”