Sunset Embrace (18 page)

Not wanting to appear a coward, she inched closer to the edge of the craft. Frantically she tried to catch sight of Ross, but he had seemingly disappeared. Though she executed a shaky smile for the children's sake, the apple crate riding in the ferry's wake did little to rid her of her fear. All she truly saw were the unfathomable depths, the swirling patterns of currents, the foamy water licking the sides of the boat. She began to shiver. She could feel that dark water closing over her head again, could feel her lungs burning.

Panic engulfing her as surely as she imagined the water to be, she whirled away and searched out a haven. She ran, heedless of knocking the astounded Langston children out of her way, toward the wagon. Nostrils flared, eyes wide, her lungs pumping like a bellows, she scrambled up the wheel of the wagon and worked her way around to the back, climbed over the raised tailgate, and fell inside, panting laboriously.

Ma had seen the whole thing and began shouting to her children, who were chasing after Lydia like scattering baby chicks, to stand where they were. "Go get Mr. Coleman, Atlanta. Tell him to turn his horses over to Luke." Bubba was holding the lead horse of Ross's team as his father was doing to their own.

Within seconds Ross was running over the rough planks of the ferry. Out of habit his hand was on the holster strapped to his thigh. "What is it?"

"Lydia. In your wagon."

"Lee?"

"Is fine. See to your wife, Mr. Coleman."

Ma caught his eyes and held them for one telling moment before he bounded toward the wagon. When he flung his long leg over the tailgate and stepped inside he saw her huddled in a corner, her head covered with her arms. She was weeping hysterically.

"Lydia!" he barked. "What the hell—" Taking off his hat and tossing it aside, he pulled the rest of his body through the opening and crossed the floor to crouch down in front of her. He extended his hands, intending to place them on her comfortingly. But they hovered for a moment before he withdrew them.

"Lydia," he said more gently. The weeping was bitter, from the soul, from hell. "You've scared the stuffing out of everyone. What's the matter with you?"

As with most men, tears without a logical explanation were beyond his ken. And as with most men, he became angry when no explanation was forthcoming. "Lydia, for godsake, tell me what's wrong. Are you hurt? In pain?" Had she bumped her head? Why was she covering it that way? He tried to prize her hands away, but her arms were as rigid as death.

Desperate, he gripped her shoulders and began to shake her hard until she brought her arms down. Dazed, she looked at him with unfocused eyes and clutched handfuls of his shirtfront between numb fingers. "Don't push me ... in the . . . water . . . the river. Please, don't . . . push ..."

Ross stared at her in mute dismay. He had seen men about to die, staring down the barrel of a pistol, seconds away from having their brains blown to smithereens, and he had never seen such stark terror on any face. The pupils of her eyes were so drastically dilated that only a ring of amber encircled them. Her lips were chalky. There seemed to be not one drop of blood left in her face.

"Lydia, Lydia." His voice was a soothing purr and he never remembered lifting his hands to cup her face between his palms. "What are you talking about?"

"The river, the river," she said deliriously, clutching the fabric of his shirt tighter.

"No one is going to push you in the river. You're safe."

She swallowed. He could see her forcing the knot of fear down her throat. Her tongue came out to wet her lips. Her chest rose and fell dramatically with each rasping breath. "Ross?" His name was a question. She peered deeply into his eyes as though trying to identify him.

"Yes."

Her body sagged with relief and her head fell forward to thump against his breastbone. Because his hands were still pressed to her cheeks, he drew her closer until she rested against his chest. They remained motionless until her breathing returned to normal. "Why would anyone want to push you in the river?" he asked at last in
&
rough whisper.

She lifted her eyes to his, but she didn't speak, only stared back at him in that habit he found both irritating and captivating. "We were all right there ..." His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, ridding them of remnant tears. "Ma. . ." He watched her eyes fill again, but this time the tears weren't terror induced. Her whiskey eyes were cleansing themselves of the nightmare she had just relived. "Ma wouldn't let . . ." His thumbs alternated as they skimmed her lips. They were damp from the recent licking she had given them. The moisture collected on the pads of his thumbs. ". . . anything happen to you."

He knew then he was going to kiss her and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. The choice had been taken away from him long ago. The moment had been ordained, predestined, and he would be jousting with fate to resist it. So he submitted his will and let the gods dictate that his head move slowly downward toward her waiting mouth.

At first he merely touched his lips to hers. Her fingers curled tighter into his chest. He waited until he could deny himself no longer. Then, tilting her head farther back to accommodatehim, he nibbed his lips against hers, dusting them with his moustache, applying more pressure until they parted.

His heart was pounding erratically, but he didn't rush. He hesitated, taking time to breathe in the flavor of her breath and anticipate what he would find beyond this first soft portal.

He touched her upper lip with the tip of his tongue, lightly, so very lightly he wasn't even sure he had made contact until he heard the soft, choppy rush of air that escaped her lips and feathered his.

The wake of another boat on the river caused the ferry to wobble. They lost their balance. Ross was on his knees, and when she fell back against a pile of bedding, his body followed hers down. Hot emerald eyes roved her face, her hair, down her throat, over her chest, then back up to her mouth that he hadn't gotten near enough of. She lay motionless, soundless, sacrificial.

The fingers of one hand tunneled through her hair to settle on her scalp. His other hand cradled her jaw. He eased himself down until his chest touched the gentle slopes of her breasts in repose.

When his mouth aligned with hers again, instinct took over. He had been taught to kiss at thirteen by one of his mothers friends in the brothel. The whore had taken the boy into her room on a boring afternoon and had teased him mercilessly even as she demonstrated the finer points of kissing. She instructed him on how to apply just the right amount of suction to seal two mouths together, on how to swirl his tongue as though gathering honey with it, and how to thrust and parry with it in ever-changing tempos. Her pupil was brilliant. He had a natural talent for it and before the afternoon was out, he had perfected the art. The whore had learned a few things too.

Ross applied that knowledge and years of practice to this kiss, for never had he dreaded or anticipated one more.

Only, his anticipation hadn't prepared him for the soul-jolting thrill of it. The reality far exceeded his imagination. She had a marvelous mouth. It was a sweet, wet chasm he explored thoroughly. He tasted it all because he had been so consummately hungry for it. He dragged his tongue along the straight ridge other teeth. He touched the roof of her mouth, investigated the slick lining of her lips, playfully prodded the tip of her tongue with his. And he applied that sweet, sweet suction that intimated he would draw all of her into himself if he could.

He wasn't aware of the low rumbles of arousal that issued out of his throat, not until the ferry bumped into the dock on the Arkansas side of the river. That animal growl reached his ears and for a moment he wondered where it had come from.

When he realized its source, he pushed himself off her. Her eyes were just as large, just as inquiring as before he had kissed her. But they were less afraid. Her mouth was red and wet, shiny with his kiss. The skin around her lips was abraded by his moustache.

He had been totally lost in the kiss, in her. She had made him forget everything—who he was, who she was . . . who Victoria was.

He shoved himself to his feet and retrieved his hat. Crushing it onto his head and not daring to look back at Lydia, he stepped through the wagon's opening and dropped to the deck of the ferry just as Ma came bustling.

"Well?" she demanded.

"She's fine," he said crossly before he stamped off.

Ma smiled broadly.

There was a celebration in camp that night. They had reached a landmark and everyone was glad it was behind them. Fiddles were taken out of cases and played. Songs were sung. A jug of whiskey was passed around for the men who imbibed. Few refused that night. Children were allowed to stay up later than usual. The long trek would began again tomorrow, but tonight there was call to celebrate this momentous day.

It had been a momentous day for Lydia too. Ross's kiss had taught her that not all kisses were loathsome, that some intimacies between a man and a woman could be wonderful.

She would also remember the day for another reason. It was the day her milk stopped coming.

A
t first Lydia thought Lee was fussy because of the unusual commotion in the camp. It wasn't until later, when she was nursing him before putting him to bed, that she realized he was hungry. He wasn't getting enough milk. She squeezed what milk she could out of her breasts and he finally fell asleep against her chest. Too tired and emotionally frazzled after what had happened on the ferry, she fell asleep holding him on her pallet, not even garnering enough wherewithal to put him in his crib or to undress herself.

She stirred when Ross came in much later. In that netherland between sleep and wakefulness, she noticed only that he smelled of whiskey. The next morning he complained of a splitting headache when Lee set up a hungry howl.

"Get him fed, for godsakes," he said as he tugged on his boots.

Lydia didn't think she had any milk, but she unbuttoned her shirtwaist and offered Lee her breast anyway. Fearful of what Ross would do if her milk had dried up, she self-defensively lashed out at him.

"Your head wouldn't be hurting if you hadn't gotten j drunk last night."

He stood, blinking his squinted eyes against the pain as he wavered toward the wagons opening. "I didn't get drunk. But I sure as hell tried," he grumbled as he went out.

Within minutes Lee was wailing lustily out of a beet-red face, thrashing his arms and legs in frustration and hunger. Lydia didn't know what to do. She knew nothing of babies except her short experience with Lee. What did a mother do when her milk stopped coming? Cow's milk? Yes, but how would she get that without Ross's finding out?

Sitting on the Boor holding Lee to her chest, she rocked him soothingly, singing him what few songs she knew. For a while he would doze fitfully, then instinct would send him rutting for her nipple, reminding him that he was hungry, and his crying would start again.

"What's the matter with him this morning?" Ross asked, stepping into the wagon after he had shaved.

"I don't know," Lydia lied. "Maybe a tummy ache. Or maybe all the excitement yesterday got him out of sorts."

Their eyes met briefly, each remembering the kiss. Then both looked away guiltily.

"Don't bother with breakfast," Ross said. "I'm not hungry. I'll just make coffee. You take care of Lee."

Lee's problem couldn't be solved with time. Indeed, the longer the morning stretched out, the worse his crying became. While Bubba drove, Lydia sat in the stuffy wagon with the baby, trying to soothe him the best she could and knowing that nothing she was doing would eliminate his problem.

At the noon break, Ma came lumbering over to the wagon. "That young'un's been cryin' all morain'. What's the matter with him?"

Ross was adjusting the harnesses on the team. Lydia spoke in a frantic whisper, tears rushing to her eyes. "Ma, you've got to help me. My milk is gone. He's hungry."

Ma stared at the girl, for once at a loss for anything to say. "Ya sure? When did ya notice?"

"Last night. He didn't get enough before he finally went to sleep. This morning he's had nothing. What am I going to do?"

Ma saw Lydias worried glance toward the front of the wagon where Ross was chatting with Mr Cox. The girl was right to be concerned, but Ma didn't want her to fret any more than she already was. "I'll get some milk from the Norwood's cow and we'll get it into young Lee if we have to ladle it down his throat. Don't you worry now, or you'll be in as bad a shape as he is. You just keep calm, keep talkin' quiet-like to him. He can sense that you're upset and that don't help none."

"You won't tell—"

"No. Not right now," Ma said, leaving.

She came back just as everyone was rolling out.

"I'm staying back here with Lydia and Lee this afternoon to see if we can get him to feelin' better."

"Thanks, Ma," Ross said over his shoulder. He had relieved Bubba. "Is he sick?"

Worry furrowed a deep groove between his dark brows and Ma smiled gently at the vulnerability of the man who tried so hard to be cold and indifferent. "No, just fussy. I spect he's gonna feel better real soon."

It took some doing, but Lydia finally managed, by holding Lee against her as though he were nursing, to get him to suck on the nipple Ma had tried to get him to take the day after he was born. It was fashioned out of an oilskin glove and stretched over the mouth of a small Mason jar.

After much sputtering and choking and coughing, Lee and the contraption seemed to come to a meeting of the minds and he sucked hungrily until his stomach was at last full and he fell peacefully asleep.

Ma and Lydia worked out a schedule. Ma would bring fresh milk every morning when Ross went to tend his horses. If Lee awoke and began fussing before that, he would just have to fuss. Another bottle would be brought at noon and two in the evening. Somehow Ma would smuggle them to Lydia.

The first morning while Ross was shaving and Lydia was getting his breakfast and ignoring Lee's bellows, he commented on it.