Holm, Stef Ann (34 page)

Looking
over her shoulder, Camille bit her lip. The group was still at the field beyond
the plaza listening to Miss Appleby. None of the players would see her if she
and Alex kept to the back streets and she took only a short ride.

She
turned her attention back to Alex and the bicycle. Then she gave a soft sigh
and grabbed her skirt and petticoats in her hand. That done, she stared at the
handlebars and the large wheel just under them. What was she supposed to do
now?

"Straddle
it." Alex motioned to the tire. "Back up over it and then hop
up."

If
she was supposed to straddle a tire, she have to do more than hike her
petticoat up. She'd practically have to bunch it to her waist. Lifting the fine
blue fabric higher, and then even a smidgen higher, she gazed at the bottom
edge of her pantalets. Gingerly, she backed up over the wheel, standing on
tiptoe so she'd clear the rubber. Her skirt dragged over the sides of the wheel
and caught on a spoke. She managed to free the hem.

"A
little higher."

She
shot Alex a dark frown, then inched her skirt higher.

"More."

She
moved it up a tad more.

"More."

Exasperated,
she blurted, "I might as well take my dress off."

"You
could do that. But wait until we're alone."

She
didn't comment on that as she stood taller and clutched the hand grips so that
she could hoist herself up. "We'll go only down that street and back. All
right?"

"Yeah,
sure."

"You
promise." She gazed at him. "Just right over there, then back here
and you'll let me get off."

His
inky hair fell over his collar, his ears, and his forehead. She never tired of
looking at his face, the way he smiled. Even when she doubted his sincerity.
"Absolutely."

"You
promise?"

"I
do." His eyes held hers. He was quite convincing.

She
nodded, then faced forward and gave a bouncing leap so that she sat between the
grips, where her hands held on with a death-clutch. The bicycle momentarily
wobbled under her weight, but true to his word, Alex kept them from tipping
over. Her backside wasn't very comfortable at all on the thin tube, but when
she leaned back a little and got her balance, she felt all right.

"Okay.
Just down there and back," she repeated in a shaky voice. Her skirt and
petticoat were stuffed into the shallow dip of her lap, and her legs were open
too immodestly. But if she brought them in any farther, her clothing would wind
up in the spokes and then they'd certainly crash.

"I'm
going to bring my foot up now, just hold on."

As
if she'd let go.

His
voice was deep and reassuring as he said, "Don't lean left and don't lean
right."

"I
won't."

He
pushed off, bringing his feet to the pedals. In a matter of seconds, they were
rolling smoothly down the street. Alex aimed them toward the end of the block,
pushing hard on the pedals and gaining them speed. A breeze tickling her
cheeks, her hat ribbons making fluttering noises on top of her head, and a
smile on her mouth she was unable to contain, Camille laughed. Her voice held a
giddy quality that was uncharacteristic of her. She was acting ridiculously
unrefined.

But
she didn't care.

Once
at the juncture of the road where it forked east and west, Alex didn't turn
around. He veered right.

Camille
had let herself have fun because she knew the ride would be short. Now it
didn't look that way and a quiver of panic made her elbows ache. "Where
are you going?"

"Down
here. Over there. A little of everywhere."

"But
you said we'd go back."

A
rich rumble of laughter came from his chest and rose to her ears. "I
lied."

Camille
opened her mouth in dismay as the bicycle sped on.
"Well, unlie.
Take me back."

Alex
only chuckled as the scenery rolled by.

"But—"

"I
don't think so" was all he said as he pedaled them past the
closed-for-the-holiday buildings on Main Street. The boardwalks were empty, no horses
at hitching posts. They passed a white-spired church and weathered buildings. The
dwellings went by in a soft blur of grays and browns—red brick for the
firehouse. At the end of the street, the road turned into a lane marked by
wildflowers on either side.

Alex
turned the bicycle into a meadow of black-eyed Susans. The trail was narrow,
only about a foot wide, as if it was used for horses. As the bicycle cut
through the meadow, the hip-high flowers waved, their petals orange-yellow and
their centers dark purple, lending a light fragrance to the air.

The
wheels hit a rock and the bicycle bumped and rattled. A squeal left Camille's
throat. Surely she was going to fall off.

"I
think we ought to turn around," she suggested. "It's too rocky."

"Sorry.
No place to turn around."

There
would be if they both got off the bicycle and faced it the right way—back to
town. "We could—"

"Nope.
Don't think so."

Camille
adjusted her death grip on the handlebars, too scared to worry that her skirt
might slip down her knees. "Are we going much farther?"

"Just
a ways."

"How
much of a ways?"

"See
that barn over there?"

Tilting
her head so that the brim of her hat kept the last remnants of blinding sun
from her eyes, she viewed a red-and-white barn surrounded by outbuildings and a
fenced pasture that held cows.

"That
looks like private property."

"It
is."

"But
we—" Another bump jarred the two-wheeler, this time strong enough to
loosen the pin from Camille's hat. "Oh, my hat's falling off! We have to
go back."

"Yeah,
looks like it's going to take flight."

Holding
tightly for fear of falling into a rut, she felt her hairpins in her hair begin
to slip. "I don't think you meant that very nicely."

"I
didn't."

The
fact that he wouldn't deny it proved he was the wrong type of man for her. A
gentleman would have begged her pardon. A gentleman would be respectful of her
wishes to turn around. A gentleman... would have been a lump of boring
stuffiness.

Black-eyed
Susans thinned out, taken over by rolling hills alight with warm orange color
and rich greens. There was a hay pasture and sporadic sunflowers. Alex turned
onto a wagon wheel-grooved road and steered them to the barn's drive. At the
top of the incline, he stopped the bicycle. She quickly hopped off.

On
firm ground, she looked around. The knoll on which the farm stood was just high
enough so she could see over the rooftops of Dorothy. They'd gone away from the
crowd, but occasionally, Camille could hear a shout or laughter as it drifted
up from the flatlands. Horses grazed on alfalfa in one pasture while tan cows
did in another. A house was tucked behind a copse of cottonwoods. The barn had
been freshly painted and a sign hung above its high double doors.

E. WHIPPY FARM

RENTALS: BUGGY,
SURREY, BICYCLES

STUD SERVICE

Alex
laid the bicycle on its side and came to stand beside her. His gaze followed
hers to the sign. "You think he's talking about himself?"

She
fought the urge to roll her eyes. "No, I don't think so. I saw him in town
and he didn't look like a ladies' man."

He
tucked a wisp of fallen hair behind her ear, sending an avalanche of tingles
across her skin. "What does a ladies' man look like?"

With
him this close, she could hardly think. She could fib, but there was no point.
He knew it. She knew it. The cows probably knew it. Conceding, she said,
"You."

"Is
that so?"

The
way he looked at her, he might as well have kissed her. She didn't know why he
was doing this to her. "Do you want me to write it down?"

"Maybe
you already have in that notebook you keep." He left her side and went to
the bicycle's basket and undid the straps. "You say it's just for lineups
and stuff. But there might be some good reading in there."

"I
can assure you, there's not." Her mind quickly raced. Had she not once
doodled a heart on one of the pages and put Alex's name in it? Or did she dream
that she did that? Either way, it was mortifying that he'd come close to the
truth. "What's that?" she asked as he revealed a small canvas bag.
She hoped to distract him from the topic.

"Dinner."

"Dinner?"
she blurted.

"Yeah.
Come on."

"But
I... that is, we can't just barge in here and make ourselves at home."

"Sure
we can." Alex started up to the barn—more precisely, to the ladder
anchored on its side. "I paid for the use."

"Paid
for it?"

"I
rented the bicycle for the night. And the barn."

"The
barn?"

"Vantage
point."

"For
what?"

He
paused, foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. "Fireworks." With a
hand on one section of the rail, he extended his other. "Come on. You go
up first. I'll be right behind you."

She
took his hand, noting the calluses that had formed from months of holding the
shaft of a pine-tarred bat in his grasp. "Afraid I'll run away?"

"Thought
about it."

She
ascended the ladder, wondering if he was looking at her ankles as she rose...
or worse, at her underclothes. But he'd once seen them both in plain view. And
more.

Once
at the top, she stood on firmly planted feet. The roof was quartered, each
section with its own pitch. Alex came up behind her and motioned to a flat
section just below a weathervane. She went to it and sat.

She
tucked her knees level with her breasts and looked out at the view. She had to
admit, it was inspiring. The sun was setting, its orb of yellow like a burst of
summer dahlias. She didn't mind that some of her hairpins had given way,
leaving curls to dangle loose in places. This was nice. Quite thoughtful. Very
sweet.

It
was her first kidnapping. A shivaree without the fuss and noise. Or wedding
license...

Alex
opened the bag. She realized now that she was hungry for dinner after such a
long day on the train. "What did you bring?" she asked.

"Cornflakes
and beer." He came up with a box of Kellogg's cornflakes and two amber
bottles of crown-capped beer.

"Cornflakes
and beer?"

"It
travels well on a bicycle." Running his finger beneath the fold of the
box, he opened it. "Cereal's good. Do you eat it?"

"Yes.
With milk and strawberries. In a bowl. For breakfast." She lowered her
legs when he tapped her knee to indicate that he wanted to pour cornflakes into
her lap. "I don't drink beer, though."

"Have
you ever?"

"Well,
no. But I've had sipping whiskey before." She remembered the time she'd
snuck a splash of her father's when he hadn't been home—just to see the appeal
in the liquor. She'd found none, although she'd definitely felt the whiskey go
right to her head, along with a shiver of revulsion up her spine. "I got a
little glow from it."

"Glow?"

"A
lady of character doesn't refer to overindulgence as being drunk. The better
word is
glow,
which indicates a combination being tipsy and not being
oneself."

A
side of his mouth lifted in amusement. "I never knew that."

"Now
you do. Whiskey made me feel like a lightning bug, glowing from the inside. All
dewy-eyed and warm."

He
smiled. "Well, beer's entirely different from any kind of whiskey. But you
can warm up to me anytime you like."

"I'm
not altogether certain I want to chance beer. I don't believe I'm cut out for
alcoholic refreshments. Not to mention," she added, giving him a stern
frown filled with reprobation, "I have instituted restrictions against
liquor, you know."

"And
I have the day off honey." Using an opener, he removed the cap and a soft
burst of air came from the top. Handing her the beer, he opened the other one;
his knuckle cracked as he did so.

She
didn't immediately take a taste of the beer. She stared at his hand. His
fingers. His knuckles, which seemed swollen.

"Every
finger in my right hand has been broken at least twice. You just put adhesive
tape on them and keep on playing. Two fingers together make the good one work
the bad."

"Have
you hurt yourself a lot while playing?"

"As
much as any player."

"Do
you get aches and pains?"

"A
guy like Cy would say no." Alex took a long, slow drink of beer. The
slight swell of his Adam's apple intrigued her as he swallowed, then lowered
the bottle. "I'll admit to having them. Right now, I've got a tightness in
the knob of my pitching shoulder. I could use a good rubdown at Bruiser's
Gymnasium back home."