Clay (13 page)

“Now squeeze,” he said, applying pressure to her hands.

She ducked the tail, and Clay caught the blow in the face.

“This is a mean cow,” he pointed out.

He resumed his position. “The trick is to do it with rhythm. Squeeze, yank, squeeze, yank. Let’s hear you say it.”

“Squeeze, yank. Squeeze, yank,” she muttered. She was sorry she had decided to cook the potatoes in cream sauce; beans would have been just as satisfactory. He never appeared to care one way or another what she cooked.

“Now try milking rhythmically,” he said.

His closeness made it so hard for her to concentrate, she just wanted to get the whole thing over with. She shot to her feet. “Show me.”

“Sure.” Clay sat down on the stool. Matching the words of the song to his motions, he began to sing, “For I—wish I—was in—Dix-ie—Squeeze-yank—Squeezeyank—In Dixie—land I‘ll—take my—stand to—live or—die in—Dix-ie—A-way,—a-way—”

He stopped singing and stared, dumbfounded, into the empty milk bucket. “That’s sure odd.”

“Maybe you yanked when you should have squeezed,” she said. “But I think I understand. If you’ll move aside, Maestro.”

Rebecca sat down on the stool. She took a firm hold and began to sing, “The U-nion—for—ever—Hurrah boys—hur-rah—Down with—the traitor—and up— with the star—We will—ral-ly—round the—flag, boys—ral-ly—round the flag.—Shout—ing—the battle—cry of—free—dom.” Every squeeze-yank produced a solid squirt of milk.

Clay shoved his hat to the top of his forehead and stared at the quarter-filled bucket. “I’ll be damned! I don’t understand that.”

Pleased as punch, Rebecca picked up the bucket and camp stool. “I do. Admit you were an
udder
failure.” She broke into giggles.

Grinning, he said, “That is
udderly
the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s obvious to me, Captain Cavalry, what the real problem is. The VonDiemans were from Pennsylvania. Clementine’s a Yankee.” Rebecca walked away, swinging the bucket.

Chuckling in amusement, Clay followed behind.

“Becky, this pie is delicious,” Clay said.

Rebecca giggled. “Then I’d be
udderly
devastated if you didn’t eat this last piece.” She scooped the last slice of the berry pie onto his plate.

Garth looked from one to the other. “ ‘Udderly devastated?’ Okay, what’s the joke?”

“Just a private thing between me and my wife, Little Brother.”

Clay went back to where he’d been sitting with his back against a tree. As he ate, he listened to Garth and Becky’s good-humored bantering. Garth seemed to get a lot of pleasure out of teasing her, and Becky’s spirits always perked up when he was around. This time his brother was accusing her of substituting flour for face powder. Clay, too, had noticed the flour smear on her nose; and he’d been tempted to wipe it off when he saw it. But it looked kind of cute, so he hadn’t said anything. Leave it to Garth, though; he loved flirting with women.

Their conversation shifted to the dinner she had cooked, which once again had been exceptional. Give her a jar of tomatoes, an onion, and then a rabbit, a hunk of antelope, or a buffalo steak, and she could perform miracles. She also made the best cup of coffee he’d ever tasted. If the woman had any vanity, it was over her cooking. Clearly she embraced the task with passion—and she must have read the letters off the pages of that cookbook of hers, by now.

Her cooking ability was an unanticipated bonus on the trip. It was clear Garth held the same opinion, because he complimented her plenty on it.

Clay popped the last bite of pie into his mouth. He figured they had to be the best-fed men on the wagon train.

Etta came running over, her bright eyes glowing with excitement. Grabbing Becky by the hand, she cried, “Come on, you people, we’re going to have a hoedown.”

She didn’t have to ask Garth twice. When Clay hesitated, Etta cajoled, “Come on, Mr. Fraser. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

Clay had been considering going to bed because he had guard duty later that night. But a spoilsport he wasn’t, so he followed reluctantly.

The camp was in a jovial mood, the tragedies and hardships of the past six weeks put behind them. The makeshift band had already been formed by the time they joined the group. Clay was pleased to see there was no sign of Jake Fallon among the crowd. Since their confrontation, the shifty-eyed little weasel had avoided him, which was fine with Clay. He was glad the bastard wasn’t there to spoil everybody’s pleasure.

Fiddles sawed, banjos strummed, feet stomped, and hands clapped as the dancers do-si-doed and swung their partners to the lively music. Becky’s smile was contagious as she weaved from partner to partner during the dance. Clay found himself partnered with her as the fiddler finished the call with “Now the dance is over and I insist, you fellas give them little gals a thank you kiss.”

For the briefest moment Clay hesitated, then he dipped his head and pressed a light kiss on her lips. They felt soft and tasted like sweet wine, and he would have liked a much longer drink from them.

Garth claimed Becky for the next dance, and Clay sat down to watch. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had never looked lovelier. Her face was flushed with pleasure and her green eyes had an excited glow. She had tied back her hair, and the long blond strands bouncing bewitchingly on her shoulders glistened like gold in the glow from the campfire as she circled around. Her movements were unintentionally sensuous; she had no idea the effect they had on a male.

Howard Garson came over, sat down beside him, and lit his pipe. “Feels good to see people having fun,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s well earned.”

“Long trail ahead yet. You figuring on going back to Virginia as soon as you find your sister?” he asked.

“Yeah. We no sooner got home than we headed out here. It will feel good when we finally get settled down.”

“Ever think of staying in California?” Howard asked.

Clay chuckled. “Virginia’s in my blood; I can’t imagine living anywhere else. What got you to leave Ohio? War shouldn’t have made any difference there.”

“Been thinking about it ever since ’62, when the government passed that Homestead Act. Finally made up my mind that if I made it through the war, I’d apply for a parcel of that free land. A hundred and sixty acres will set us up real fine. It’s in a place called Napa Valley, a mite southeast of Sacramento. Supposed to be fine country. You ought to give it some thought, Clay. Supposed to be lots of land available. And we’d sure like to have you and Becky for neighbors.”

“You know that those who fought for the Confederacy don’t qualify for any free land, Howard,” Clay said.

“Yeah, but I heard tell land’s pretty cheap.”

“Even so, I don’t have money to buy land. And besides, Virginia’s my home.”

The dance ended, and Rebecca squealed with delighted laughter when Garth grasped her by the waist and swung her off her feet. Now, exhausted, the dancers collapsed around the fire.

The musicians began to play familiar songs, and the crowd raised their voices in an enthusiastic rendition of “The Old Gray Mare.” Laughter reigned when they followed it with “Listen to the Mocking Bird.”

Clay wasn’t much of a singer, but his enthusiasm was as great as anyone’s. He drew special enjoyment in watching Rebecca laughing and singing, her radiance an irresistible beacon to his gaze.

When the musicians had exhausted their repertoire of popular songs, they changed to patriotic songs and religious hymns. All were enjoying the fellowship too much to want to leave. The singers’ voices rose in such songs as “America” and “Rock of Ages.”

A cry went up for Tom Davis to sing a solo, and the young man’s pleasing tenor began the romantic “Beautiful Dreamer,” directed to a blushing Etta.

A few of the couples got up and began to dance or sway slowly to the nostalgic song. Helena Garson nudged Clay to do the same with Rebecca.

Clay would rather have walked barefoot on hot coals. He tried to ignore Helena, but the gregarious woman was persistent. Rather than make a scene, he took Becky’s hand and they joined the other couples.

The feel of her in his arms was becoming a familiar warmth to him. The sweet fragrance of her was pleasing. He relaxed and let the music guide him. Funny, from the first time they’d waltzed together in Independence, their steps had flowed together as if they’d shared many dances before. And she moved as smoothly on this surface as she had on the wooden floor.

Day by day, he discovered more and more appealing qualities about her. Her compassion for others, a bright mind, and a sense of humor. And she sure wasn’t a quitter. Under all that feistiness was steadfast courage and determination.

Deep in thought, he unconsciously drew her closer. Day by day, his physical desire for her was growing. She always maintained femininity, no matter what she was doing, smelled like an intoxicating combination of cinnamon and jasmine, and fit in his arms like she’d been made for them. And the feel of her was so damn good, too.

When the song ended, he discovered they were in the shadows. Becky raised her head and smiled up at him. Stars gleamed in the emerald depths of her eyes. God knows he tried to resist the temptation, but his desire for her swirled through him in a floodtide, drowning out everything except his hunger for this woman.

He lowered his head to drink from the wine of her lips again.

For an instant he felt her stiffen with hesitation, and then she parted her lips and their mouths found a fit.

When she slid her arms around his neck, passion shattered the wall of reserve he had fought so long to maintain. He drew her closer, molding her soft curves to his angles, feeling the hammering of her heart against his chest.

Rebecca suddenly broke the kiss, and it took him several seconds to accept the loss of her lips. Then he became aware of the cheers and whistles. He opened his eyes.

The crowd was watching them, clapping their approval as jokes about newlyweds circled among them. Releasing her, Clay offered a stiff grin to the spectators. He felt like an ass.

Garth’s look was as perplexed as it was amused when Clay sat down next to him. Leaning over, he whispered, “Isn’t that overcorrecting, Brother Clay?”

The singing continued, but Clay didn’t join in. He and Rebecca sat stiffly, avoiding any chance of contact with one another, yet he sensed she was as physically aware of him as he was of her. He stole a glance at her and saw she wasn’t singing, either. As if sensing his gaze, she turned her head and looked at him. It was obvious that she was as shaken as he, and he wondered if she desired him as much as he did her. She had responded to his kiss, and he was still aroused.

Lately their water fight, the backgammon games, and such had only heightened his growing desire for her.

He glanced at her again and met her confused stare.

What must she be thinking?

What must he think of me?

Rebecca felt the hot flush creeping throughout her. He seemed to be able to probe her soul with that piercing gaze of his. Had she been so blatant that he’d guessed she wanted him to kiss her? Had she encouraged him to?

Surely he’d only intended to kiss her lightly, as he’d done during the dance. Why had he even kissed her in the first place? Maybe he didn’t have as much aversion to her as she thought… or was he continuing to play the devoted husband because of the audience watching them?

Of course she had to go and throw her arms around his neck, encouraging the kiss to deepen. There was an undeniable excitement in being around Clay. Be it the thrill of his kiss, or the casual gesture of clasping her hand, she responded instantly to the masculinity. His kiss, his touch, the scent of him—the mere nearness of him. She loved the warmth that carried to his eyes when he laughed, and the delightful huskiness in his chuckle. They were such contradictions to those cold scowls he’d showered on her. Even the sparring between them was becoming more of an aphrodisiac than a deterrent.

When had she gone from abhorring the sight of him to missing him when he was gone? From loathing him for being a Rebel to admiring his sense of honor? Duty and honor were the tenets he lived by; deceit and treachery were abominations to him. Which was why they could never have a future together, why the marriage had to be annulled.

Once they reached California, they’d never see each other again.

When the crowd finally dispersed, Garth walked back with them to the wagon, enabling Clay and Rebecca to avoid talking to each other. It was just as well; she wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.

Rebecca was laying out her fur pelt when Clay came up to her as he was leaving to stand guard.

“Becky, about tonight, I—”

“I had a good time, didn’t you?” she said, hoping she sounded casual.

“Yes, I enjoyed myself. About the kiss—”

“Oh, that? I think we convinced everybody that we’re a devoted couple, wouldn’t you say? We’re such good actors, we ought to go on the stage.”

He was silent for a moment. “Yeah… a great acting job on both our parts. Good night.”

“Good night.” Rebecca sank down on the pallet and watched him walk away. She brushed aside the teardrop sliding down her cheek.
Why are you crying?
You’re the one who set this whole thing in motion, Rebecca, so stop feeling sorry for yourself.

Rebecca had made up her mind earlier that the only way to survive the hardships of this trip was to always put the previous day’s problems behind her. So today, last night’s kiss was ancient history.

Clay disappeared after breakfast and Etta had wandered off with Tom, so Rebecca cut up a couple apples and headed for the meadow where the stock was corralled.

All except Brutus were together. After feeding them the apple slices, she looked around for the missing mule. She spied him in the shade of a tree and, as she moved nearer, she was suprised to see that Brutus was tethered there. And Clay was squatted down by the animal’s front leg.

Strands of dark hair had tumbled over his forehead, and he looked appealingly boyish. Perspiration dotted his forehead, and he paused at his task to wipe his brow on his shirtsleeve.

Rebecca hurried over to them. “What’s wrong with Brutus?” she asked worriedly.

“He must have scraped his leg. I noticed it was festering, so I’ve put a poultice on it. It should make him more comfortable.”

“I hadn’t noticed it. Thank you, Clay, that’s very thoughtful of you. I didn’t think you even liked Brutus.”

“I don’t. I just don’t like to see a dumb animal in pain.” He finished tying a bandage around the mule’s leg, and then stood and untethered him.

“Say thank you to the nice man, Brutus,” Rebecca said, as she fed the mule the remaining apple slices. The mule swished its tail, then wandered toward its harness-mates.

Rebecca followed Clay away from the corral, and sat down in the shade of an ash tree while he washed off his hands in one of the many pools in the hollow.

He returned and sat beside her.

“It was very thoughtful, Clay. Thank you again.”

“My preference would have been to shoot the damn mule.”

“I swear you enjoy arguing. Just accept the compliment, and don’t spoil it by being nasty.”

“Nasty!” He chuckled. “Now, is that a nice thing for a woman to say to her husband? I thought you didn’t want to argue.”

“I don’t. It’s too lovely a day, and this place is so beautiful. It’s like a Garden of Eden. I wish we could stay here forever.”

“Speaking of Eden.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a couple of apples. “Here,” he said, tossing her one.

“I didn’t have to use these after all.”

They sat in silence as they ate the apples, then Clay stretched out with his hands tucked under his head. The distant lilt of Etta’s laughter carried to their ears.

“What do you suppose those two are up to?” Clay said.

“They’re pretty smitten with each other, aren’t they?”

Rebecca smiled. “Yes, I think so. I guess I was the same way at their age.”

“And now?”

“I’ve learned you can’t put your trust in love. I prefer my independence.”