Untethered (40 page)

“H-Heath,” she breathed. “
Ada
says I don’t know as much as I think I do about…about…”

His mouth covered hers, coaxing her, stirring her, exhilarating her until at last she relaxed against him.

“You only need to know that I love you,” Heath mumbled against her mouth. “Know that I love you…and love me back, Magnolia. That’s all you need to know.”

As Heath continued to share loving, impassioned kisses with his wife—as he gently pushed her—gently laid her on the comfortable quilts on his bed—the tender rain cooled the serene summer evening, the fire in the hearth burned tranquil and warming, and Magnolia “Cricket” Thibodaux knew a wonderment in loving that few who walk the earth ever do.

Heath had been lying awake for over an hour—reveling in the feel of having the woman he loved sleeping in his arms. He felt freer than he could ever remember having felt before—as if he’d been tied up somehow and Cricket had come along and untethered him. But his body tensed, and his protective instincts leapt in his chest when
he
heard a hor
se whinny and a wagon brake set outside.

Gently slipping his arms from around Cricket’s soft, warm body, Heath didn’t even pause to gaze at her peaceful, contented expression. Memories of Reverend Righteous and his rifle-toting toadies were too fresh in his mind. Quickly slipping on his boots, Heath went to the window, peering out between the curtains as he buckled his gun belt over his underdrawers.

Just outside was a wagon and team that he well recognized, but he wasn’t relieved yet. It was Zeke Cranford’s team and wagon, and Heath couldn’t be certain whether Zeke had come to talk to him or shoot him where he stood.

Glancing back to where Cricket still slept, Heath grinned, figuring she was worth fighting to the death to keep. And so quietly he opened the door and crossed the threshold to meet his fate.

“Mornin’ there, Zeke,” Heath greeted his father-in-law as he watched Zeke climb down from the wagon seat.

“Mornin’, Heath,” Zeke greeted with a smile. Zeke chuckled. “I hear you had one hell of a day yesterday, boy!”

Heath puffed a sigh of relief. It didn’t look like Cricket’s daddy intended to shoot him at least.

“Yeah. A hell of day,” Heath agreed.

Zeke studied Heath from head to toe for a moment. Then smiling, he added, “It looks like you had yourself one heavenly night though.”

“Z-Zeke…I-I…I want you to know—” Heath began.

“Ooo-weee, boy! You look as weak-kneed as a new fawn on a rowboat!” Zeke interrupted, laughing.

Heath felt himself flush—raked a hand through his hair in an effort to appear more rugged. “Yes, sir…I suppose I do,” he sighed with his own chuckle.

Cricket sighed as the sound of laughter intruded on her blissful dreams. She didn’t want to wake up—fought it with everything she could. Her dreams had been the stuff of pure fantasy! She’d been dreaming of Heath—dreaming of being kissed by him, held by him, wrapped in his arms as he…

Instantly Cricket’s eyes popped wide open. As she stared at the ceiling—at the very unfamiliar ceiling—she realized that she hadn’t been dreaming at all! Her mind had only been wistfully reminiscing on what had transpired between her and Heath during the night.

She blushed as she thought about their first night together—as she thought about how deeply she loved him and how entirely he loved her in return.

But as Cricket lay in her wedding bed, resplendent over having married the man she loved, she heard the sound of low laughter again—of her daddy’s laughter!

Leaping out of bed quick as a mouse, Cricket crept to the window, peering out through the curtains. Heath was standing outside in nothing but his underdrawers, boots, and gun belt. Her daddy was saying something to Heath, and Cricket breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the smile on her father’s face—heard him laugh at something Heath had said.

She puffed another sigh of reprieve as she turned around to face her first morning as Mrs. Heathro Thibodaux.

“Oh no!” she squeaked as she caught her reflection in the mirror across the room. There she stood, wearing nothing but Heath’s best Sunday shirt. Her hair was a wild tangle of passion evidence as well. What if Heath invited her father in for breakfast?

As panic washed over her, Cricket clumsily found the hairbrush she’d used the night before and began tearing the knots out of her hair. Once she had it to a manageable, albeit questionably presentable state, she quickly poured water from the pitcher into the basin and refreshed her face. She hurriedly poured water into a glass sitting on the wash table, taking a large mouthful and swishing it awhile before gulping it down and chasing it with another mouthful.

Cricket was just about to check her skirt and shirtwaist (to see if they had dried sufficiently during the night to be worn again) when she heard the door open behind her. Whirling around expecting to see her father, she exhaled a relieved and delighted sigh when she saw only Heath had stepped in.

“That was your daddy,” he said, closing the door behind him. “He brought over a trunk of your things that
Ada
figured you might need.”

“Oh,” Cricket breathed, suddenly very nervous for some reason. Oh, it was dreamy and marvelous—even comfortable—to imagine herself as Heathro Thibodaux’s lover and wife when the moon was out and the fire was crackling warm in the hearth. But there, in the bright light of day, Cricket found herself still wondering if maybe she hadn’t just dreamed it all. “Well, that was thoughtful,” she added. She nervously cleared her throat, unable to meet Heath’s gaze once it had traveled the length of her and caused him to smile. “
Ada
is so very thoughtful, you know,” she added.

Heath chuckled. “Are you nervous, honey?” he asked as he strode toward her.

Cricket bumped up against the wall in trying to step back. “Well…no. I just thought maybe Daddy might be comin’ in for a visit with you and…and…”

Heath had her cornered, however. Placing his hands on either side of her head on the wall at her back, he said, “Oh, he ain’t stupid, sugar.”

Cricket’s heart was beating like a rabbit’s! Her arms and legs covered in goose bumps.

“He’s not?” she breathed.

“Nope. And aren’t you glad he didn’t shoot me?” he asked, placing a soft kiss to her mouth.

Instantly Cricket’s jitters began to subside. “Oh yes!” she breathed. “I’m ever so glad he didn’t shoot you, Heath.”

Heath smiled and backed away—only a little. “He did beat the tar outta Reverend Righteous though…and Wyatt too.
Looks like Pike’s Creek will
be lookin’ for a new preacher.
 
Wyatt and his daddy are already packin’ up to move.
”

“He did?” Cricket asked.

“He did,” Heath confirmed. “Seems
Ada
sent him a telegram over in Lyman, and he rode home late last night, marched right into Edgar Stanley’s house, and beat the horse…manure outta father and son. Vilma was already gone. Her mother and her left…moved up to Thistle. Seems Vilma’s been correspondin’ with some wigmaker up there or some such thing.”

Cricket smiled—allowed her arms to encircle Heath’s neck. “Is that so?” she asked.

“Yep,” Heath answered. “Seems Hudson Oliver and Cooper Keel are tired of all this nonsense too. There’s gonna be a double weddin’ next week in Pike’s Creek. And we’re invited.”

It was all very wonderful—everything
!
Vilma escaping
her prison of sorts
, Hudson and Marie pushing up their wedding date
,
Mr. Keel and Ann deciding not to fiddle around anymore
and join them
.
All of it was wonderful
, just wonderful! B
ut not
nearly
as wonderful as Heathro Thibodaux.

“So,” Cricket began, studying Heath’s lips as her mouth began to water for want of his kiss. “A double weddin’ next week, is it?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Heath affirmed.

“So…what do you want to do until then, Mr. Thibodaux?” Cricket flirted with her handsome, oh so handsome husband.

“Kiss you, Mrs. Thibodaux,” Heath breathed, pressing a soft kiss to her mouth. “Kiss you and hold you…sleep with you in my arms.”

“Then kiss me, Heath,” Cricket whispered, her violet eyes brimming with happy tears. “Because sometimes I’m still afraid I’m dreamin’.”

“You ain’t dreamin’, honey,” Heath assured her with another kiss. “Nope. You ain’t dreamin’ at all…my little blossom-bottomed…” He kissed her. “Barefooted.” He kissed her. “Black underwear-wearin’, stranger-welcomin’ kiss-stealer,” he finished as he kissed her with an incontestable assurance of endless kisses to come. “We ain’t dreamin’,” Heath promised as he gathered Cricket into his arms and kissed her again…and again…and again…

Okay, at the risk of having to endure a backlash like I’ve never endured before, I’m just going to admit something. I’m just going to come right out and say it: I
like
“ly”
adverbs! I do! I think the world is missing too may “ly” words these days. And do you know what else I’m going to confess? I like wordy descriptions of things! I like descriptions of nature and physical features of people and places. And I like descriptions of deep emotions and passionate, blissful kisses! I also like exclamation points! A friend once told me that I was like a walking exclamation point—and at first I thought she meant it as a put-down. But then I considered it and thought to myself, “Would I rather be a walking exclamation point? Or a boring old period?” I’d totally rather be an exclamation point!

By now you’re probably sitting there going, “What in the world does all this have to do with the price of potatoes in
Idaho
or
this book?”

Well, here’s the deal—a lot! Over the past year, I’ve been reevaluating myself. (We middle-aged chicks do that pretty often, you know.) Without boring you with my blah
-
blah
-
blah that could go on forever, I simply tell you that one of things I discovered I didn’t like about not necessarily myself but my life was the fact that I wasn’t enjoying writing the way I used to.

My thoughts began to travel back to a romance novelist I did a book signing with years and years ago. I remember how worn out she was, how stressed and overwhelmed. She didn’t enjoy writing anymore—not at all. She had many reasons, but the one that popped out at me during this most recent reevaluation of myself was that she was unhappy because she wasn’t writing what she wanted to write! She didn’t have the freedoms I’ve been blessed with. She had a conference room full of editors telling her what to add to her book, what characters to kill off, and so on. But I began to realize that too many times while I’m writing, I start to worry about who I’m going to offend with one of the swear words that aren’t even considered swear words when you grow up on a farm—or who’s going to be angry because a hero and heroine were kissing while they were standing in a lake. I don’t like to disappoint people; it hurts me, worries me, and haunts me like you can never imagine. And yet what I realized was that by not writing true to myself, I was disappointing
me
! And in disappointing me, I disappointed those closest to me—those who love me most, depend on me most, encourage me most, and are the truest definition of family and friends!

Well, as you can imagine, this was kind of a big deal! And it held me up where writing was concerned. I stalled out—totally stalled out. I began to wonder if I ever wanted to write another book. And if I did,
could
I write another book?

To make matters worse, while I was stalled and doubting myself, so many stressful things were going on—some of them wonderful, some of them tragic, but all of them incredibly draining both physically and emotionally.

And so I shelved
Untethered
for a good eight months. I wanted to write
Untethered
the way I wanted to write it because, in the end, it is my story, and I wanted to feel good about it.

Blah blah blah…let’s skip ahead. Drama, drama and stress, stress, stress aside, one day I just sat down and decided I was going to finish
Untethered
. Sounds easy enough, right? But not when you sit down, open your master document (which you
thought
was four or five solid chapters) only to discover that all you really had was an outline and one great kissing scene. So what well of motivation do you draw from when that happens? What do you find in your heart to make it fun again? To make you want to write and create and entertain your friends—which is why you started writing in the first place?

So there I was—one great kissing scene and an outline to go on—and nothing coming to me as far as a motivator to write.

I had the characters there—they’d been there from the beginning! There was Cricket, the little do-gooding, barefooted heroine. And of course there was Heathro Thibodaux—whose first name is indeed a conglomeration of some things I adore, such as Lee Majors portraying Heath Barkley in the old TV series
The Big Valley
, Heath candy bars (who can’t love that chocolate and toffee number?), and the last name of a good friend, that being “Heath.” Heathro Thibodaux was firmly in my mind—as were his uncanny kissing skills.