Harmony (46 page)

He shook his head. “Let's take one thing at a time.” Raising his hands to her shoulders to keep her steady, he held her gaze with his. “Edwina.”

“Tom?”

“Edwina . . .”

“What . . . ?”

“Spalding makes athletic equipment. Do you know what athletic is?”

“I'm not stupid,” she snapped back.

“Wasn't implying that you were. Just wanted to make sure you and I were talking the same language here before I went on. Do you remember last summer when Kennison's baseball team played the Helena Hornets?”

“I wasn't there. I don't like sports.”

Tom unblinkingly stared at her, his method of explanation—using the story of why Dewey Broderick had crumpled in the outfield from that missed ball smacking into his groin—just shot to hell. Tom would have liked to light a smoke because he really needed one just then.

“What is it? Just tell me. I'm a mature woman. How many times do I have to make that clear? I can handle anything. I'm a—”

“What you had on wasn't an elbow supporter. It was a jockey strap. A piece of cotton and elastic equipment that a man wears on his privates when he's running after
balls, birds, or big game or being in any situation in which he aims not to be flying around in his drawers.”

Edwina choked, her eyes watering and her breath coming in little gasps. “You have to be kidding with me. Aren't you?” Then in a high squeak, “Aren't you!”

“No, sweetheart, I'm not.”

Her lower lip quivered. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Dammit all!” she sobbed, hiding her face in her hands. “I—I—I sold sixteen of them!”

“I appreciate the sales effort, Ed, but that's an item that sells itself out of necessity.”

She wailed all the louder and began to genuinely cry. He didn't want to have to tell her about the deer scent when she was well on her way to major waterworks, but she paused midsob and considered him through spiky, wet lashes. “Why are those dogs after me? What's in that deer scent? Some kind of venison smell?” She hiccuped, looking hopeful.

Ruefully, he shook his head. “No, it's estrus.” Her being a female, he figured she would know what that meant so he wouldn't have to explain.

“What's that?”

Damn.
“A scent a female deer gives off when she's . . .” Tom muttered the rest. “And it's . . .” More muttering. “. . . her water.”

“Water?”

Tom fumbled for his cigarettes, needing the comfort of the pack against his fingers. He didn't bring them out—just kept his hand in his pocket for a second before saying: “Urine.”

Edwina's face paled. “You mean to tell me you sell deer urine in that bottle and I've got it on my skirt?”

“That's the long and short of it.”

Crestfallen, she started in with the crying again.

Tom nudged her legs apart so he could pull her into his arms and hold her close while she sat on the counter. “Sweetheart . . . you didn't know.”

“W-what kind of a man w-would buy a b-bottle of . . . d-deer urine?” she asked in a sobbing voice that was muffled in the collar of his shirt.

Stroking her quivering back and keeping her near his chest, he replied, “A man who wants a buck to think he's a doe, ready and willing.”

“Th-that's—th-that's . . . d-disgusting.”

“Yeah, well, it has been proven to work, and a hunter who wants a six-pointer bad enough will try anything. And for some reason, dogs can smell it a mile away. Barkly must be on the other side of the creek or he would've come running to stick his nose in it. Can't exactly say why dogs like it so much.”

Willowy arms had draped carelessly over his shoulders. Her full breasts softly convulsed against his chest. Warm tears wet the side of his neck. The bleakness of her distress went straight to his heart. He wanted to protect her, make her feel better—love her, kiss her.

“Edwina . . .” He tried to get her to look at him. She wouldn't. She started in with her babbling. She sometimes did that when she was upset.

“. . . I got a letter from Denver. This kind of thing doesn't happen in a big city.” She hiccuped once more and shuddered through tears. Her cheeks rested next to his jaw. “In Denver, they don't bottle deer . . . you know. It's not natural. I don't like this sort of thing. It makes me . . . makes me . . . cry!”

“Ed, it's okay.”

“It's not okay!” she railed, her hysteria increasing. “I had a man's . . . p-private thing on my elbow!” Her shoulders racked and hot tears spilled fresh on his collar, thoroughly wetting it. “Oh . . . help me. How am I going to face Mr. Calhoon . . . ? Mr. Hess? And Chief Officer Conlin . . . and Deputy Faragher . . . and . . . Mr. Elward . . . Mr. Zipp . . . and all the others?”

Even Tom winced at the list. She'd sold them to half the men in the damn town. “Well, honeybaby,” he crooned into the shell of her ear, “if anyone of them says any different than it being an elbow supporter, I'll punch him in the nose.”

“Oh don't go making stupid threats just to save me. It's silly.”

Tom glowered.
Stupid threats? Silly?
He meant it. He'd go after any man who so much as made a single joke on account of Edwina's blunder. He would do anything to protect her because he . . . loved her.

“Denver doesn't have deer. They don't even have sporting goods stores, I'm certain. And if they did,” she complained, “they wouldn't sell bottled deer. They would have the normal things like balls and bats and lawn tennis and hammocks and the round things . . .”

Round things?

“. . . and boxing gloves and bicycles and bicycle bells and . . .”

Her words lost all meaning to his ears.
I love her.
She didn't want his love, but she had it nonetheless. He'd never been in love before. He had no clue as to how it would feel or when or what it would feel like when he did have a woman in mind to love. He couldn't explain the way he suddenly felt. Just that in his mind and body . . . and soul, Edwina had just snuggled in without her being aware of how profoundly she affected him.

The helplessness she displayed had set it off, had made him know. He'd had a sense that he was falling in love with her. That desire to be with her every waking hour had been with him for days . . . weeks. But did that mean love? He had nothing to go by. Nothing with which to compare.

But the more she prattled and cried and plied her soft body against his, he let himself get used to the idea.

He loved her.

Telling her would be out of the question. Not yet. Not now. She wouldn't be receptive to the idea. She would tell him he was mistaken. He wasn't. He knew it. This was that real and guarded thing that few men readily spoke about among themselves. Tom felt like shouting it.

He loved Edwina Huntington.

But she didn't love him.

That was a dismal fact. . . . He wanted to change her
mind. Edwina did things in her own way and time. If he pushed, she would run. So he would hold the thought in his head. For now.

“. . . Mr. Healy,” she continued, in no apparent connection to anything he'd heard. “And those papers of yours for you to . . . do something. Sign? I don't know. They're under your cashbox and . . . at least I didn't sell him a jockey strap.” Tears came anew, just when he thought she might be dried out.

Tom held her at arm's length. “Edwina.” He gave her a very slight shake. “Pull yourself together.”

Dismally, she gazed at him, her eyes red and her lips full and moist. “I sold sixteen Spaldings.”

“Yes, I know. So what?”

“So . . . I'm ruined.”

“Dammit, you've said that before. Buck up.”

She sniffed, rubbing the underside of her nose with her forefinger. “I don't want to buck up yet. Give me five more minutes.”

“I'll give you five seconds.”

Then Tom moved in and kissed the mouth that looked so sweet. She tasted of salt and spent dejection. At first she just sat there. Then he built the kiss into one more of passion than comfort. He couldn't help himself. She aroused him like no other woman had. After long minutes of kissing, her arms came around his neck and he settled in between her legs.

Their mouths joined. Her breasts pressed against his chest. The mood changed completely, from gentleness to fervor. She held him with her thighs, entwining her legs around him.

The kiss turned frantic, ardent. Their hands made urgent explorations. He filled his palms with her breasts. She grazed her fingernails across his shirt back, bringing his skin alive with pleasurable tingles beneath the fabric. Kissing wasn't enough. Their clothing had to be rearranged. Her shirtwaist came untucked; his hands roamed over the fullness of her breasts pushing up from the lace edge of her corset. His own shirt hem came
loose from his pants at her eager tug. Her fingers trembling played over his chest, bringing forth a moan from his throat. Tom bunched her skirt and petticoats and brought them to her waist. She undid his buckle; denim and cotton dropped to his ankles. Then her fancy drawers slid down her silky legs.

Their lips fused and their breath mingled as their bodies came together as one.

Edwina hung onto him. Her backside felt like satin against his hands as he cupped her and brought her close for a deep and consuming thrust. She wound her legs around his waist as he pushed into her, over and over. The rhythm took over as they rode on a wave of euphoria.

Tom felt the building tension inside her. He waited for her to come to completion, and then he let his own hot abandon take over. He plunged one last time. In that flash of pure desire, he gave way to his own shuddering release.

Panting and spent, he kissed her mouth. She kissed him back, lightly, a brief meeting of lips and breath. Then he kissed the curve of her neck. Her arms came around his shoulder, and she pressed her cheek next to his. He felt her heartbeat thrumming against his, the climactic tempos matching.

They clung together, arms wrapped tightly. Tom held onto Edwina like he never wanted to let her go. And he didn't.

Tomorrow he'd have to make her face reality. This affair wasn't going to work. Because it wasn't enough for him.

18

E
dwina stoked the heater in the school, stood back, and held out her hands to the warmth that poured from the grate. The cold lingered in the air, and the windowpanes dripped condensation. In less than ten minutes, the students would arrive. If Edwina hadn't overslept, the classroom would have been heated and very pleasant for the beginning of lessons. But she had come in late. . . .

For most of the night, Edwina had lain awake. Thoughts of Tom had prevented sleep from taking her even though a full day had passed since they had seen one another. Sundays were difficult to be together; yesterday had been no different. The Ladies' Aid Society had had a meeting after services that she and the girls had had to attend to present the decorated jelly jars. By the time she'd returned home, any chance for an encounter with Tom had been nonexistent.

So she had eaten her dinner and gone to bed. She had recalled her tears in the store and the way Tom had comforted her, the way they'd made love. On the counter. It was unfathomable that she had done such a thing. But she had—shamelessly.

There was only one explanation. Only one reason why
she would risk being with him in such a way. And without precautions . . .

She was in love with him.

Hopelessly and utterly, madly and mindlessly in love. The feelings hadn't crept up on her. She'd suspected for a while. But last night had proven that she wasn't so guarded with her heart. She'd let him in. She'd taken him in completely.

But what to do about it?

Could she—should she—tell him? What purpose would it serve? He'd made no serious declarations that he loved her. Why would he? She'd told him not to, told him that she was her own woman and would make her own way through life without him. What kind of man would love her in spite of that?