A Place Called Harmony (23 page)

She smiled and whispered, “And I you, it seems. Will you unbutton my dress again tonight? I liked watching you do that very much. Clint.”

“I will.” He fought the urge to do it right now. The sound of his first name on her lips somehow spoke more than any words of passion. In his mind he was already kissing his way back down to the top of her camisole.

“That would be acceptable.” She turned the handle, opening their door slightly. “And I’m glad I married you. You’re an honorable man. You’ve been good to me and to Danny, but that is not the reason I let you kiss me.”

“Want to tell me what is?” He liked the way she talked, when she talked. A soft voice, gentle words like an educated lady.

“No.”

“Then how about telling me why you cried?” he whispered from just behind her. He found himself drawn to her, but more than that, he wanted to understand her.

“No,” she answered, and slipped into the hallway.

The door closed a moment before he leaned his forehead against it. He now had no doubt that she liked him touching her because the lady had no problem telling him no to any other form of communication.

Hell, he was no good at conversation either. Maybe they should just stick to kissing. They had no trouble there.

He grinned.
His silent wife had a hunger for him.
He felt half drunk and he hadn’t opened a bottle. Karrisa, his Karrisa, was no longer a stranger he could ever think of leaving.

Maybe it was old Granny Gigi’s funeral or maybe Patrick had just stayed up too late the night before building the coffin, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that death was stalking him. At twenty his life was about to end.

The cloudy day did nothing to cheer him as he stepped out on the trading post porch. He tried working for a while, then visiting with the captain about street plans in a town everyone was now calling Harmony, but his mind kept going back to the discussion just before he and Shelly had heard the bell ringing. The fact that he now knew that Shelly was worried about their father coming was no comfort to Patrick.

The fear of death became lead in the pit of his stomach. He could almost feel the life being suffocated out of him or his blood dripping out slowly.

He could think of only one person who probably wanted him dead right now, but surely his father wouldn’t really come. His old man hated traveling, camping out, having to cook his own food. He wouldn’t come. Not after a month. Not now when all was good in Patrick’s life. Only he knew Solomon. Once he got a mission in his mind, there was no turning back.

Patrick heard the door open and footsteps on the porch, but he didn’t turn around.

“You all right?” Annie asked him as she handed him a cup of coffee.

“I’m fine. I thought I’d go out and check on our prisoner.” Patrick didn’t want to talk to his Annie. He was afraid if he did, she’d guess how worried he was. Lifting the cup, he added, “This will help warm me up for the run.”

She smiled. “I’ll have a blanket for you to wrap up in when you get back. Don’t be gone too long, supper will be ready soon.”

Patrick didn’t want to leave her, but he felt like he was moving into a dark place in his mind and he needed to be alone and think. He needed to walk, and if he waited much longer it would be dark. Rain or not, he’d go to the woods and think.

When he passed the barn, he heard Shelly working on a door that would eventually go on Truman’s home. Everyone else seemed to think that because there had been a funeral, no one should work today, but Shelly worked. He always did. Maybe he figured he’d have no family to raise, so he’d leave his mark on the wood.

Jessie was helping him. Maybe the girl would have more talent for working with wood than she did yarn. It was downright hard to compliment her on her knitting when no one had any idea what she’d made.

Patrick walked past the barn and turned off toward the trees when he thought he was out of sight of Shelly and the trading post. The rain was warmer than it had been. Spring was on its way.

He crossed over to where the streams met. The captain kept talking about this place as the heart of the town, and maybe it would be. The water from two streams mixed together for a hundred yards in a raging fight, then broke peacefully in two once again. Ancient rocks held the banks so they couldn’t expand at the middle. Hundreds of years of water had worn the banks smooth as glass, only they still held their post.

This place was starting to grow on him. This town that the old woman had called Harmony. Sitting on the damp grass at high ground, Patrick could see where the streams united. In nature’s dripping watercolors of the rain he saw the reflection of a future town. He wanted to be a part of it. He wanted his children and grandchildren to be the teachers, and bankers, and farmers around this place.

He’d build each building carefully, using all the skill he had. There would be no shacks with painted storefronts like he’d seen in other towns. He’d make sure there was a harmony in the buildings.

Only all he planned might not come true if his father rode in with his disciples ready to strike down the son who’d gone to the devil. There would be no reasoning with the man. Patrick knew what he had to do. The one thing he could do to protect Annie and Shelly.

He had to face his father alone. Even if Solomon killed him, Annie and Shelly would be safe. They would want to be at his side when he stood before his father, but Patrick couldn’t, wouldn’t let them.

To carry out his plan, he’d have to lie to Annie. The one thing he’d sworn he’d never do. The one thing she said she’d never forgive. But even if it cost him her love, he had to face his father alone.

Slowly a plan took shape. His father wouldn’t show up by himself. He’d always been able to draw followers to help him do what he called “the Lord’s work.” Solomon would want to confront Patrick without anyone around who might be on Patrick’s side. After years of lectures, he knew how his father would rage. Solomon might never listen to reason, but he wasn’t a fool. He’d wait and watch until he could catch Patrick by himself, and then he’d bring his wrath down on his youngest son with no mercy. Patrick would pay for the abandonment of the other sons. In Solomon’s mind they’d betrayed him and there would be only one punishment. Death.

All Patrick had to do was make sure that he was alone at different times of the day or night. Which wouldn’t be easy. Either Shelly or Annie always accompanied him along with Truman and Matheson on work days.

He didn’t want to think about dying, but even more than dying, he didn’t want to be responsible for Shelly or Annie getting hurt protecting him. The thought was unbearable.

He’d face Solomon on his own and, if it came down to it, he’d die fighting. Patrick had briefly thought of strapping on a gun like Truman did, but in truth, he knew he could never fire at his father.

If he died, the only saving grace would be that he’d die alone.

Much as he would have liked to take Karrisa up to their room after supper, Clint stayed to talk with Matheson. Gillian had recovered from his head wound and ideas seemed to be dribbling out faster than anyone could write them down.

Clint had to remind the captain several times that he wasn’t under his command. Captain Gillian Matheson always apologized in his formal way. In truth, it was hard to get mad at the man when he was right most of the time. Patrick McAllen might fly off into some wild idea now and then, but Matheson seemed to have a master plan for the town in his head.

Several times during the rainy evening talk, Clint had wondered why he was even here. He wasn’t a great carpenter like Patrick or Shelly or an organizer like Matheson. Hell, until the sheriff made him head north, Clint had no plan for his own life, much less anyone else’s. He really wasn’t skilled at anything. He was good with a gun, but he didn’t see that as any great talent. Once a doctor told him that his vision was far better than most folks. That probably explained the accuracy with a weapon. That and his steady hand. He rarely got nervous or excited or even afraid. Angry and bored seemed the range of his emotions.

Friends in another lifetime used to tell Clint that his first wife would never have married him if she hadn’t known him since birth. They were probably right. She’d lived down the road from his parents. When he came home, she’d been widowed in the war. Their friendship kind of flowed into an accepting kind of love. She used to mock his grumpiness like it was an act. When she died, he settled into it as his personality.

The more he thought about how useless he was around the future town, the more determined he was to stay and find his place. He was tired of drifting.

Karrisa passed by and refilled his coffee for the fourth time. She rarely met his stare and never showed any affection, but he found he liked just knowing she was near. As long as she was in his sight, he knew she was safe.

While Gillian talked, Clint tried for the hundredth time to think of what she had done to be put in prison. If it was murder, he hoped she’d killed the bastard who’d raped her. What kind of man would do that terrible thing? What kind of family would put shy Karrisa to work in a factory?

Maybe they were all dead. That was why she’d walked out of prison alone. But when the sheriff had asked her if she had family to go to, she’d replied,
None that I’d want to see again or who would welcome me
. So somewhere she must have kin still living.

When Clint finally decided to pay attention to the conversation, the men were talking over the likelihood that Clint had to go back with the wagons. Not just for their protection but to deliver the outlaw to jail. If Harry Woolsey and the Romas didn’t return, they wouldn’t get paid. With empty wagons, the trip would be faster, but not much safer. Thanks to the rain, accidents would be more likely on muddy roads.

He’d already figured out he’d be going, so he saw no need to jump in the conversation.

However, the last place he ever wanted to go again was Dallas. If Dollar Holt hadn’t died from being hit that night, he was probably back in Dallas waiting—no, hoping that Clint would show up.

Clint suggested they wait a few days to leave. Maybe the Roma boys would help out with the building, giving their mother time to grieve.

Captain Matheson agreed. If they waited for one of the wagon trains that hauled lumber up to the fort to come by heading back to Dallas for another load, maybe they could join in. Army wagons always traveled with guards.

Patrick and Annie had given up their room for Momma Roma and her little boy. Her older boys agreed to sleep in the room where their grandmother had died. They claimed that if her ghost was there, it would be only to bless them. A few days’ rest would probably do them all good.

An hour after dark, Annie picked up a few extra blankets for the night. Patrick swept her up in his arms and Shelly held the lamp. They made a run for the barn, yelling back that they planned to bore the prisoner to death by talking all night.

Watching them, Clint realized he never remembered being that young. He’d been twenty-one when he started drifting after the war. He’d felt scared and old even then. If he hadn’t met his Mary a year later when he visited his parents, he wasn’t sure he would have ever settled down. She’d been in mourning for a husband she’d married three days before he left for war. Clint remembered telling her that he’d wear black the rest of his life if she died before him. They’d been good friends. They’d understood each other. He’d forever miss the peace she’d given him those few years they’d been married.

Clint remained on the porch for a while, wishing the rain would stop. He’d be glad when his house was finished. The trading post was a beehive, with people moving and talking everywhere. He could hear Daisy putting her boys to bed and Momma Roma yelling something in Italian upstairs. Harry and Ely had passed out from a day of drinking. No one had bothered to pull them from their chairs. Everyone simply stepped over their outstretched legs when they walked through the store.

Clint thought he heard Danny crying and guessed Karrisa would be feeding the baby about now.

Leaning back against the porch railing, Clint wondered how he could be in the middle of so much life and feel so dead inside.

He grinned. Well, not completely dead. There for a while earlier today, he’d felt very much alive when he was kissing Karrisa. Only, passion didn’t mean love. If it did, half the cowboys who walked into saloons and saw a half-dressed barmaid would be falling in love daily.

With Karrisa it was simply a surprising passion. It had to be. The only problem was he wasn’t sure how to handle it. From the beginning he’d wanted to protect her, take care of her, cause her no more sadness. Now he wanted to touch her, but somehow it didn’t seem fair when he knew he’d never love her.

Only, she obviously didn’t mind just sharing the passion. In fact, in her shy way she’d encouraged it.

She hadn’t cared when he’d said he had no love to give her. It was like she wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. Maybe all she wanted was to be safe, and the passion was just a bonus they’d both discovered by accident. He would never settle for gratitude, but a little more touching from her was something he could handle.

Only he swore she’d get as much pleasure out of this passion as he took. That seemed only fair.

If all she wanted was to feel passion, he could give her that. In fact, it would make their life quite satisfactory. They wouldn’t have to talk or argue during the day, and at night he’d hold her without words. He wasn’t sure how far she wanted this new thing between them to go, but even if it just stayed where it was, he wouldn’t complain. He might have to start dunking himself in the cold stream every night, but he wouldn’t complain.

And if she didn’t mind if it went further, he definitely wouldn’t argue.

Tossing the last of his cigar into the rain, he went inside, stepped over Harry and Ely snoring in unison, and went upstairs.

Karrisa stood by the window watching the night when he opened their bedroom door. The baby was asleep in his basket close to the bed. She looked so alone and he wondered what she was thinking. If a thought could be bought for a penny, he’d give all he owned to understand this silent woman.

Clint couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt like he’d been either talking or listening all day, and tonight all he wanted to do was feel.

With only one candle burning, the room seemed to dance in shadows. He walked across the room and stood just behind her, lightly placing his hands on her waist and loving the idea that she’d have no objection to the touch. A pale, watery moon sparkled silver into her dark hair as she turned. Her blue eyes were still hauntingly sad, but he saw the slight smile on the lips he’d grown quite fond of lately.

Tightening his hands on her waist, he drew her to him, liking the way she came to him without hesitation. When they were almost touching he lifted her up until her head was above his, and then he pulled her closer and let her body slide down against his. The feel of her was intoxicating.

When she reached his mouth, he kissed her with all the gentleness he could muster as he lowered her until her feet touched the floor. His hands tugged into her hair and pulled her face close so that the kiss could continue. The hunger for her was there once more, and the simple fact that she welcomed his kiss made him feel light-headed.

When he finally stopped, he held her away from him and watched her lean back on his arm as if floating. Her head remained back and her eyes stayed closed while his hands at her waist turned her. He loved watching her move as he pulled her close, then let her drift away only to come close once more. They moved in a private dance that their bodies were learning.

Finally, he picked her up and carried her away from the window.

Setting her gently on the edge of the bed, he knelt down in front of her. Without a word, he began untying her shoes. The leather was so thin that the shoes almost fell apart as he tugged them off.

She watched him silently, the gentle smile on her lips encouraging him to continue.

“I brought you something from Dallas.” He pulled the box out from under the bed.

For a moment, he just held her slender foot in his hand. The stockings she wore had been mended in several places.

He pulled the finely made kid boots from the box and slipped the first one on her foot. The soft leather hugged her ankle and calf. They fit perfectly. Handing her the other boot to look at, he tugged off the one he’d put on. “They’ll wear well in this country life.”

“Thank you,” she said, brushing her fingers along the soft leather. “It’s been years since I’ve had new boots.”

“No, Karrisa, don’t thank me for what I should do for my wife. If you need anything, just put it on account here or tell me to get it for you. Only thank me if I ever give you something that wasn’t needed.”

He sat back and looked up at her as he handed her the box. “It looks like I’m going back to Dallas, so if you’ll make a list of what we’ll need for the house that you can’t get here, I’ll see that it either comes back with me or gets shipped on the first load headed this direction.”

She slid off the bed and into his arms. “Don’t go, Clint,” she whispered as she kissed him.

When she straightened, Clint laughed. “That’s the first time you’ve kissed me first, dear, and the second time you’ve called me anything but Truman. I find I like knowing that my first name is now resting easy on your tongue.”

He cradled her against him. “I have to go, but I will return as soon as possible. I want you to remember to eat and take care of Danny.” He liked holding her so close. “And I’ll expect more kissing when I get back if you’re still like-minded to the idea.”

The little smile was back on her mouth. He knew his advance would be welcome.

“Now lean back while I unbutton your dress, dear.” He guessed there were probably other words he should be saying, but he couldn’t think of them now with her so close.

She leaned against his folded leg and remained perfectly still as he slowly unbuttoned the front of her dress. This time he didn’t stop until he reached her waist.

She remained still as a statue while he slipped his hand around her back to undo the waistband of her skirt so the top would pull easily aside. Once he drew the fabric free, he pushed the straps of the camisole off her shoulders. When he touched the first tie of her underwear, he whispered, “I’ve seen you undressed before, but tonight I’d like to touch you.”

He could feel the rise and fall of her quick breaths, but she didn’t move.

Slowly, one tie at a time, he opened her undergarment and touched her soft flesh. She remained silent and after he’d warmed her with his light touch, he tugged her closer and kissed her tenderly.

She responded to the kiss, opening her mouth, but he kept the kiss light as his fingers brushed along her shoulder, then dipped to cup her breasts.

“You like this?”

She made a little sound of pleasure and he lifted her so her back rested against his chest. Moving his chin against her hair, he began to explore. His hand spread out, pushing material aside as he brushed over her waist and down to her tummy. There he stopped, letting his hand rest in the spot where her child had grown.

The thought of just how much he’d like to feel his child growing there surprised him. “Relax, dear, I only want to touch you tonight.”