Untethered (34 page)

She felt him breathe a sigh into her hair. “That’s ’cause I’m the one who helped you girls get away, that’s all,” he mumbled. “That’s all it is.”

Heath was wrong, but Cricket wouldn’t argue with him.

“You are the strong one, sugar,” he said quietly into her hair. “And you’ll be fine. It might take a while, but you’ll be fine.”

“It’s the only reason you chose me,” she whispered. “It’s why you chose me instead of one of the other girls, isn’t it? Just because you knew I was strong. You knew I was the one strong enough to do what you needed done in order to help us. You told me so yourself. That’s the only reason you chose me.”

Cricket’s tears flooded her cheeks. She knew it was true in that moment; she always had. Yet in the depths of her heart—where she hid her most desperate of wishes—she’d hoped he’d chosen her because he’d favored her. But in truth, she’d known all along that Heath Thibodaux had chosen her for her strength.

“You were and are the strongest of all those girls,” Heath confirmed—and Cricket was sure she heard her own heart breaking. “I woulda been a fool to trust all our lives to any of the others.” He brushed her face with his—his hands still encircling her neck—his thumbs still resting beneath her chin.

“But,” Heath continued, “I chose you mainly because I figured…I figured if somethin’ went wrong…if it came down to it and I could only save one of you girls…then it sure as hell was gonna be you, my little blossom bottom.”

As Heath repeated the all-too-familiar gesture of caressing her face with the side of his whiskery jaw, Cricket’s body melted to his. Her mouth began to water at the memory of his hot, moist kiss—began to water for the mad want of it again.

“Do you think the corn out here in Clifford King’s field is sweet, darlin’?” Heath asked in a whisper. When Cricket didn’t respond, he mumbled, “Well, you just give me the chance, and I’ll let you taste somethin’ that’ll put this corn to shame.”

Cricket’s knees buckled as she felt Heath’s thumbs slide up over her chin, tugging it a bit, coaxing her lips to part. As his mouth claimed hers in a smoldering, moist kiss, Cricket’s arms tightly wound about his neck, pulling her body flush with his. Her heart was beating with such a mad rhythm it seemed she could actually feel the blood coursing through her veins. Heath’s kiss was so powerful—so delicious—and so wonderfully familiar! She’d been desperate for it—craving it since the moment their last kiss had ended—starving for his mouth to be melded with hers. And now it was hers once more.

Heath’s hands moved to her waist, his strong fingers and thumbs digging into her ribs as his mouth hungrily ground to hers. He kissed her so vigorously, with such demand of reciprocation, that Cricket gasped a little as she realized she was leaning back so far she was near to losing her balance altogether.

At the sound of her discomfort, Heath instantly broke the seal of their mouths. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, his breathing labored with restraining passion.

“No,” Cricket assured him. She kissed him—took hold of the front of his shirt, fisting it in her hands as she endeavored to pull him to her once more. She kissed him again, slipping her arms around his neck and pulling her body against his as his hands went to her waist—the strength of his arms lifting her off the ground as she drove a wanton kiss to his inviting mouth.

Suddenly, however, Heath set her down again.

Breaking first the seal of their mouths and next their embrace, Cricket smiled when he grumbled, “A man can’t get nothin’ done in a damn cornfield”—and then swept her up in his arms and made his way toward the escape.

“Kiss me,” Heath demanded in a growl as he set Cricket on her feet again, pushing her back against the outer back wall of the Kings’ barn. He gazed at her a moment, his eyes traveling over her face admiringly as he smiled at her. “In those dreams you’ve been havin’,” he mumbled in a low, provocative voice, “do you ever kiss me in those dreams, Magnolia?”

Though she blushed, Cricket couldn’t keep the revealing smile from spreading across her face. “Maybe,” she teased.

Heath smiled, gently caressing her throat with the back of one hand. “Then kiss me the way you kiss me in your dreams, darlin’. Kiss me that way.”

Cricket smiled as she felt a familiar mischief rising. It made her feel strong and happy—brave—as brave as she’d been the night she’d hopped up on the old watering trough, dressed in nothing but her black underwear, to steal a kiss from the brooding ex-Texas Ranger Heathro Thibodaux.

Taking hold of the front of his shirt, she pulled, maneuvering Heath so that he stood against the wall and she stood before him. He smiled, and Cricket giggled. Quickly she glanced around, her attention falling to an old crate abandoned nearby. Quickly she pulled the crate over, placing it in front of Heath and stepping up onto it.

Taking his face between her hands, Cricket stoked the soft whiskers that formed the handsome goatee surrounding his mouth. Heathro Thibodaux was purely the stuff of fantasy—of dreams and myth and miracle.

“Are you gonna stand there and stare at me like I’m just a lemon drop in the candy jar in the general store?” he asked as his strong hands settled at her waist. “Or are you gonna kiss me the way you’ve been dreamin’ of kissin’ me?”

“Hold still, and I’ll show you,” Cricket whispered.

Oh, Cricket may well have started the kiss—she may well have been the one to press her mouth to Heath’s, endeavoring to affect him as he’d never been affected before—but it wasn’t long until Cricket was back against the barn wall once more as Heathro Thibodaux bathed her in such a passion that it threatened to set Clifford King’s barn on fire.

Wyatt Stanley frowned as he watched the Texas Ranger enjoying his fill of Cricket Cranford’s affections. There they were—right there at the back of the King barn—so wrapped in each other’s arms it was difficult to discern whether there was one body or two lingering in the cover of darkness.

When he’d seen Heathro Thibodaux carrying Cricket out of the cornfield and toward the privacy of the barn back, he’d initially feared Cricket had been hurt. But it didn’t take long for him to discern what was really transpiring, and it infuriated him—because Wyatt Stanley wanted Cricket for himself. Not that he had any profound passion for her—not that he even loved her to any degree. But it was for a different reason he found himself constantly seeking out Cricket—dreaming of owning her.

The day the abducted girls had returned—the moment he’d seen Cricket Cranford slap his father not once but twice—scream at him, spit on him—Wyatt knew he had to have her. Reverend Edgar Stanley hated nothing more than being disrespected, and Cricket had certainly disrespected him. Thus, Wyatt wanted her. He planned to marry her—have
her
, the woman his father loathed more than any other in the world. Wyatt wanted
her
to bear his father’s grandchildren.

Yet there was more to the anger that was igniting in him as he watched Heathro Thibodaux drink himself to intoxication on Cricket’s no doubt ambrosial kisses. Wyatt knew that his sister, Vilma, had herself been in love with the young Texas Ranger for months. If Cricket Cranford were to win Heathro Thibodaux, then Vilma could not.

Still, Wyatt knew he must be wise—even as sly as a fox stalking its pray. If he wanted Cricket, if Vilma wanted Heathro, then he must be clever—very clever.

Silently Wyatt slipped back into the cornfield. He would honor several fortunate young ladies with his very adept kisses and then return to the barn with all other players of the Cornfield Chase for refreshments. The rest would wait until tomorrow. Nothing would change before tomorrow. After all, it wasn’t like Heathro Thibodaux could entirely have his way with Cricket there behind Clifford King’s barn—could he?

“You’ll never guess who I saw sparkin’ out behind Clifford King’s barn last night durin’ the Cornfield Chase,” Wyatt began.

Vilma rolled her eyes with exasperation. She loved Wyatt because he was her brother, but most of the time, she didn’t really like him very much. For one thing, he was the worst gossip in town—always embellishing things as well. It was bad enough listening to him when he was telling the whole truth, but it was plain annoying to have to listen to him when he was making up things to add into his tales. But since Vilma was up to her elbows in kneading bread dough, she was trapped.

Therefore, with a heavy sigh, she asked, “Who, Wyatt? Marie and Hudson? That’s nothin’ special. They spend half the day sparkin’ and the other half just gazing into each other’s eyes like a couple of lovesick calves.”

But Wyatt’s smile was more than just triumphant: it was arrogant too. Vilma shook her head, knowing that he really must’ve caught somebody in a compromising situation this time.

“Nope,” he said proudly.

Vilma rolled her eyes once more and unwillingly asked, “Who then?”

Wyatt leaned forward in his chair and, lowering his voice, answered, “Cricket Cranford and Heathro Thibodaux.”

All at once, Vilma wasn’t so disappointed in Wyatt’s information after all. As a truly happy smile spread across her face, she exclaimed, “Really? Oh, that’s wonderful! That’s wonderful!” Vilma was so glad inside, she was sure her heart was swollen up to the size of a harvest pumpkin.

But Wyatt frowned. “You’re happy about that? What’s wrong with you, Vilma? I thought you were sweeter than sugared honey on Heathro Thibodaux!”

Vilma shrugged. “I am…or was,” she admitted. “But not anymore. I’m free of a lot of things now, Wyatt. I have a better idea of who I am…or at least, who I want to be.”

Wyatt was perturbed; his scowl was proof of it. “So you ain’t the least bit jealous that it was Cricket that ol’ Texas Ranger chose to go sparkin’, rather than you?”

“Not at all,” Vilma assured him. “I’m just glad the two of them finally got around to it again. Why, they’ve both been so miserable since…”

Vilma stopped herself, however. She’d revealed too much. What had happened between Heathro Thibodaux and Cricket the day Heath had stayed behind to defend them from the coming onslaught of outlaws—what Vilma and the other girls had witnessed of the passion that erupted between Cricket and Heath—it was private, a secret. Though Vilma didn’t know exactly what had gone on between their hero and her friend each time Heath had drug Cricket away, telling Heck Alford that he meant to make her more cooperative, she did suspect there was a bit of intensity sparking between them. Vilma felt that her suspicions were well justified when she’d witnessed the way Heathro Thibodaux had nearly devoured Cricket right there in front of all of them. And she was glad. Cricket was the kindest, most caring woman Vilma had ever known—and Heath was the most heroic and handsome. It made sense they should be together.

“Since what, Vilma?” Wyatt asked. “Since what?”

Vilma silently scolded herself for speaking so unguardedly to Wyatt. She’d opened a jar of mustard this time—she knew it!

“Since what?” Wyatt pressed again. His eyes narrowed. “Somethin’ went on between them while you all were captive, didn’t it? Before he saved you all, he had himself a taste of what them men in New Orleans would be missin’ out on by way of Cricket Cranford, didn’t he?”

“Heavens no!” Vilma exclaimed. “Pull your mind outta the saloon, Wyatt Stanley.”

Wyatt shrugged. “Then tell me what went on,” he demanded. “If you don’t…then my imagination will make up what I don’t know.”

Vilma was frightened now, truly frightened. Wyatt was an imp sometimes—an imp not to be trusted. And yet she couldn’t have him strutting all over town, spreading half-truths and rumors.

“If I tell you,” she began, “you have to swear that it won’t leave this room, Wyatt.”

“I swear,” Wyatt agreed—but she didn’t trust the naughty smile on his face.

“I mean it, Wyatt,” Vilma reiterated. “If I confide in you the details of our horrid, terrifyin’ ordeal…if you ever speak a word of it to anyone…”

“I won’t, Vilma,” Wyatt assured her. “I swear it. It’ll be between me and you only. Always, Vilma.”

Vilma inhaled a deep breath. She still didn’t trust her brother, but she knew it would be worse to allow his imagination to run wild.

“When Heathro came for us,” she began, tears filling her eyes at the memories of the horror of her captivity, “when he came, he had to pretend he worked for a man in New Orleans…a man who buys women in order to…to keep money comin’ into his brothels.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Wyatt prodded.

“Heath was able to infiltrate the band of outlaws…figurin’ the posse from Pike’s Creek would catch up with us soon enough.”

Wyatt frowned. “But it didn’t…because our father is a fool.”

“Yes,” Vilma said. “Anyway, Heath infiltrated the gang…explained that in order to make us girls more cooperative, he needed to win over Cricket…because he suspected she was our leader of sorts.”

“Win her over?” Wyatt asked, quirking one eyebrow.

“Yes,” Vilma continued. “Heck Alford believed Heath…probably because Heath handed him six hundred dollars as a promise that Jacques Cheval would buy us when we reached
New Orleans
.”

“Six hundred dollars?” Wyatt exclaimed. He whistled with admiration. “Where does an ex-Texas Ranger get money like that?”

“Anyway,” Vilma continued, already wishing she hadn’t told Wyatt about the money, “Heath began takin’ Cricket with him to a secluded place several times a day. And when he returned to us, she always looked a little more ruffled…and as if she’d been…been…”