Time Tantrums (14 page)

His remark lightened her mood.

* * * *

David tossed his napkin on his empty plate, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. “That was delicious.”

Mariah stood to clear the table. “And you said I couldn’t cook.”

“Before the accident, believe me, you couldn’t... or wouldn’t. Actually, I’m not sure which.”

 
“Like I said, I’ve always liked to cook,” she called over her shoulder as she carried dirty dishes to the sink. “My mother taught me at a very early age. Frank thinks I’m the best cook around.”

“Frank again!
Always Frank!”
David’s voice boomed.

Mariah shuddered at his sudden change of attitude, but his tone of voice mellowed as he walked into the kitchen. “Well, whoever he is, I have to agree with him. You
are
a great cook.”

She turned on the water to fill the sink.

David came over, turned off the tap and picked up the dirty dishes. “Here, let’s put these in the dishwasher.”

“Dishwasher?”
She shrugged her shoulders.

He lowered the front of the machine, pulled out a rack and placed the dishes, silverware and dirty pot in slots and pushed them all inside. From the door beneath the basin, he removed a box of powder which he poured into a receptacle in the door. He put the machine back together and turned a dial.

The immediate whirring sound surprised her. “This washes the dishes?”

Curious as to what went on inside, she bent and put her ear to the dishwasher door. She straightened and asked, “What happens if I open it?”

David grinned. “Honey, I can’t believe how clueless you’ve become about so many things. Sometimes it’s really annoying and sometimes it’s just downright cute.”

She ignored his remark. “So, what will happen?”

“Okay, Miss Curious. It will stop until you close it again.” David wandered into the living room leaving her to ponder yet another miracle.

“My heaven’s, what will they think of next? Cars, televisions, dishwashers...” She hung the dishtowel on the sink and followed him. A resounding ‘thunk’ drew her attention back to the kitchen. She took a step backwards and glanced from side to side, but saw nothing. “David,” she called out, “I heard a very loud noise in here. It sounded like something falling.”

He peeked around the bathroom door. “Check the freezer. I’m sure it’s only the icemaker.”

Mariah drew back, her mouth agape. “Icemaker?” she mumbled. “I don’t even want to know.”

Chapter Seventeen

Taylor opened her eyes. Recollections of last night flooded her mind. She remained perfectly still and cast a sidelong glance to see if Frank still lay beside her. The bed was empty. She rolled over and pulled the extra pillow to her chest. His heady scent lingered. Evidence thrown about the room proved it hadn’t been a dream. Her chemise hung haphazardly on the water pitcher and, on the floor, her dress still crumpled on the floor where she’d stepped out it.

She crushed the pillow to her face.

 
Taylor, Taylor how could you?
Why?

 
But she knew why—loneliness. Her breasts still tingled from his caress, and she remembered distinctly his kisses mapping a trail across her body. His lovemaking rivaled David’s in every way, but that didn’t ease her mind. She sighed and rolled to the other side of the bed.

 
Get up, Taylor. You have to face him sometime.

She plucked her chemise from the pitcher and sat on the bed. The memory of his calloused hands, so different to David’s soft white palms, jerking the fragile ribbons of her chemise loose haunted her, taunted her. She shook her head to chase away the vivid images, walked to the armoire and tried to decide which of the horrendous dresses to wear today.

 
God, I can’t believe these are my choices. Where’s a Macys when you need one?

* * * *

In the barn, Frank held three long nails between his teeth and fought to keep the mare’s hoof still. His mind wasn’t on his work—maybe that was the problem. Visions of Mariah, crushed beneath him in their downy feather bed, rolled through his mind. Last night was perfect. Hell, it was better than perfect. Never had she responded with such…such passion.

He brought the hammer crashing down on his thumb. “Hell’s bells!” He clenched his teeth. “Pay attention or you’ll nail your hand to a hoof.”

When he finished shoeing the mare, he slapped her on the rump and sent her trotting back into the corral. He washed his hands in the water bucket then wiped them on his pants. Movement caught his attention and he glanced toward the house. Mariah sat on the porch, a coffee cup in her hand. He ambled in her direction, hoping last night had spurred her memory. The experience had certainly stirred something within him. Doubts niggled at him.

He stepped up and removed his hat. Holding the brim with one hand, he ran the other through his matted hair and cleared his throat. “Good morning, pretty lady. Did you sleep well?”

Her head jerked around. A blush colored her neck and blossomed onto her cheeks. “Ah…quite well, thank you.”
 
Her neck quivered with a hard swallow. “We need to talk. Care to join me?”

Frank plopped down in the other rocker and crossed his legs. He placed his hat on the table between them. “Whadda we need to talk about?”

She took a deep breath. “About last night... it can’t happen again.”

Disappointment stabbed at his heart.
“Why not?
I thought you enjoyed it. I know I did.”

“It was wonderful, but that’s not the point. I still believe I’m married to someone else and I don’t care to feel like a cheating slut.”

Frank shook his head. “I’m sorry if last night made you feel cheap. That certainly wasn’t my intent. I thought I’d given you enough time, but evidently I was wrong. I’ll try to respect your wishes.”

She crushed her knuckles to her lip then lowered them. “You aren’t the cause of my feelings. I’m punishing myself. You didn’t force yourself on me. Honestly, I needed you. I’ve always been a sexual being... I drive David crazy. But, like I said, let’s chalk it up to a mistake and know it
won’t
happen again.”

Frank stood, picked up his hat and slapped it against his leg. A flurry of dust sifted through the air. He stared down at her. “You can call it a mistake if you want, but it wasn’t for me. I’ve made love to you a thousand times, and last night was one of the most memorable. You’ve never been so willing and free with your body. Nothing that wonderful could be wrong.”

He stomped back to the barn and began mucking the stalls. His neck muscles corded and his jaw ached from clenching his teeth since his discussion with Mariah. With a sigh, he stopped shoveling, wiped the sweat from his brow on his shirtsleeve then leaned on the spade handle. The stench of manure hung heavy in the air.

 
What a turn his life had taken. His wife had changed in so many ways since the accident. Although she looked the same, he wondered if maybe she
was
somebody else. Thoughts of last night kept flashing through his mind. It was Mariah’s body he made love to, but she’d never reacted with such passion and wanton lust. She always acted the proper lady, even in bed. Last night was definitely different. He shook the silly notions from his head, threw down the shovel and filled his arms with fresh straw.

~ * ~

Taylor watched him swagger across the yard. The man had a sexy walk. She took a deep breath and fought her building desire for him and tipped her coffee to her lips. It’d gone cold. She set the cup on the table and pulled her legs up under her. Resting her chin on her hand, she pondered how long she could be strong.

 
It won’t happen again, Taylor... it won’t.

She rose and went into the house, wandering through the rooms, snooping through drawers and cupboards. Nothing struck a familiar chord. Being in limbo grew tiresome. She walked into the parlor and perched on the edge of the settee. Before, she’d only stood in the doorway, but now she sat with hands primly folded in her lap and scanned the room, hoping something would jump out at her. The quaint furnishings and handmade doilies gave the room a homey feel. Lovely though it was, her shoulders sagged. There was nothing in the room that smacked of her personality in the least.

She glanced at the picture above the fireplace. Mariah’s face—her own face—stared down at her. Moving to the hearth for a closer look, she leaned on the wooden mantel, rested her chin on her hands and stared up at the portrait. She sensed absolutely no connection, even when she closed her eyes and searched her memory.

When she opened her eyes, she noticed the imprints her hands and elbows left in the dust on the wood. It occurred to her the house was in dire need of a good cleaning.

 
I haven’t made a move to clean anything since my accident. If I’m going to be the lady of the house, and it looks like everyone but me believes I am, I’d better get busy.

 
She went into the pantry and found a flour sack. The printing on it had long ago faded and the material had grown soft, most likely from countless washings. On the way back to the parlor, she realized there was probably a pile of dirty laundry somewhere. She shook her head. It could wait. She had no interest in mimicking the old westerns she’d seen and
spend
time stooping over a washboard. It was hard enough for her to believe she suddenly found dusting an interesting pastime.

Without the thick layer of silt, the dark mahogany tables shone brightly. She wiped away her prints from the mantel and straightened the pillows on the settee. Amazingly, she enjoyed herself, even hummed a cheerful tune.

* * * *

She knelt on hands and knees, washing the floor when Frank came inside. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Whoops! Guess I’d better not track up what you’ve just washed.”

An unpleasant odor hung on him like a fog and his boots bore evidence of mucking the stalls. He backed out the door, removed them and left them outside, then stood in the doorway in his stocking feet. “Is it dry enough for me to come in?”

Taylor struggled to get up. “Damn long dresses,” she murmured under her breath, surprised that Frank didn’t seem angry anymore. She wiped her brow and smiled. “Yes, it should be dry over there.”

He tiptoed across the floor, into the dining room. “I’m getting hungry. How about you? I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

Taylor’s stomach growled at the mention of food. “I haven’t had anything but coffee. I sure would like something.”

She felt a slight pang of guilt that Frank had done all the cooking, but she eyed the big, old stove with curled lip. She had no idea how to cook on something so archaic, and besides, she abhorred kitchen chores.

Chapter Eighteen

Mariah never knew something as marvelous as a shower existed. She stood under the pelting spray until the warm water turned cold,
then
dried off with a downy bath towel. Even the large ‘M’ displayed on the material felt soft against her skin. She stood in her bathrobe and flushed the toilet for a second time, still amazed at how the water swirled around the bowl and disappeared.

A person could really get used to all these modern conveniences.

She turned on the tap to brush her teeth, and glancing in the mirror, pondered the strange image staring back at her.

 
Why do I believe so strongly this isn’t my face? Where did I go?
Could I be wrong? Am I really Taylor Morgan?

 
She ran her fingers through unfamiliar thick hair and tucked it behind her ears. She sighed as she put away her toothpaste and brush, closed the wall cabinet, and took one last glimpse of her reflection.

 
It isn’t really such a bad one.

The miracle she hoped for was slow in coming. The dream she kept waiting to awaken from lingered on and on. Frank couldn’t possibly be a product of her imagination. She missed him too much for him not to be real. But how did she make David believe her?

As she came out of the bathroom, she collided with him in the hallway. He wore a white robe matching hers. She averted her gaze from his bare chest. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I should watch where I’m going.”