Perfect Timing (20 page)

Quincy tried to distract himself with thoughts of what he should accomplish today, and for once, the long list of to-dos wasn’t related to ranch work or horses. Grocery shopping was high on his list, a chore he dreaded, because he’d be buying high-fat foods that hadn’t graced his kitchen in years.
No matter
. Ceara was already a little too thin, so if she wanted real cheese, she’d have it. She’d no doubt turn her nose up at his plastic version of butter, and she’d surely like whole milk, preferably with a layer of cream on top, just as it came fresh from a cow. There was a dairy up the road. Quincy could stop there to see about buying a couple of gallons. And clothing! His wife couldn’t go around looking like a participant in some Renaissance fair. He briefly considered enlisting the help of his sister or sisters-in-law, but Loni was the only one with any flair for fashion. Sam, bless her heart, would have Ceara dressed like a ranch hand, and Rainie would deck her out at a thrift store in love-child skirts and peasant blouses.

Quincy’s phone whinnied. Glad for the distraction, he rolled over and sat up to grab the cell. Clint wasted no time on pleasantries. “Loni ate dry toast, Quincy! It’s the first food she’s kept down in over two weeks!”

Quincy grinned, warmth moving through him because he’d played a part in orchestrating Loni’s sudden turnaround. “That’s fabulous, Clint. What better news is there to start my day?”

“None!” In the middle of a joyous laugh, Clint yawned loudly into the mouthpiece. “Oh, man, I’m wiped. I mean, totally and completely wiped.”

“Is Dee Dee still there?” Quincy asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Then lie down next to your wife and get some sleep. Dee Dee can handle the house and kids, and your crew can deal with the ranch for the day. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends for way too long, bro. You need downtime.”

Clint stifled another yawn, mumbled agreement, and disconnected. Quincy stared at his phone for a second, belatedly realizing that his brother hadn’t even said thank you. Ah, well. Loni was on the road to recovery. That was all the reward Quincy needed.

He felt Ceara come awake behind him. He set aside the phone to turn toward her. Wrapped in the top sheet, she’d scooted over to her side of the bed, her rump hugging the edge. With one look into her blue eyes, Quincy realized she still had a bad case of morning-after shyness. This was another first for Quincy. The women he normally slept with didn’t feel uncomfortable afterward.

He grabbed his pants from where they lay crumpled on the carpet.
Hmm.
How did a fellow put on his trousers without mooning the woman behind him? He settled for grabbing a blanket, looping it around his waist, and then twisting himself into pretzel shapes to don his Wranglers, sans boxers. As he worked the zipper with one hand, he clenched his teeth on a curse because a tuft of his pelvic hair got caught.
Ouch, and double ouch
. He’d never in his life understand men who wore no shorts under their jeans. It was downright dangerous.

Decently covered from the waist down, he headed for the bathroom, trying his damnedest not to let on that every step jerked a hair out by the root. When he’d managed to unfasten the pants without bawling like a fresh-branded calf, he carefully pulled the zipper back up.

As he reentered the bedroom, he didn’t miss the death hold Ceara still had on the sheet. Since he’d pretty much seen—or at least touched—almost every part of her during the night, he didn’t quite get what her deal was. He guessed it had to do with men being from Mars and women from Venus. Or was it the other way around? He’d never bothered to read that book.

“So!” He rubbed his hands together, dismayed when she jumped at the sound of his voice. Okay, so when it came to recently deflowered virgins, he was totally out of his element. “We have a big day ahead of us! Grocery shopping, buying some suitable clothing for you, and since my kitchen isn’t stocked to your tastes, I was thinking about hitting a restaurant for breakfast before we do anything else. We should both grab a shower before we head out.” No response. “So, what do you say?”

“’Tis uncertain I am about how to work yer shower. ’Tis different from the one at the clinker.”

“Oh.” Quincy felt like a dunce. He hadn’t even thought to show her how to use the toilet and could only hope she’d figured it out for herself. “Well, there’s a quick remedy for that, honey. Stay wrapped in the sheet, and I’ll give you a grand tour.”

* * *

Ceara had seen women at the jail use the toilets in their cells, and she’d sneaked away three times to use Quincy’s or Clint’s, but this shower worked differently than the one she’d seen. Quincy joined her in the large stall, which in her opinion was big enough for three, but being in there with Quincy gave her a crowded feeling. She was covered only by the sheet, he wore no léine—no, he called it a shirt—and she was acutely aware of the muscles that roped his brown arms, the breadth of his shoulders, and the triangle of black hair that furred his flat lower belly and disappeared under the waist of his trews. He patiently showed her how to set the water temperature for the shower nozzle and how to pull on what he called the faucet handle to make water come out.

“Where does it come from?” she asked.

He gave her a bewildered look. “Where does what come from?”

“The water.”

“Oh! It comes from my well.”

Ceara had guessed that much. “But how do ye get it from the well into yer walls, pray?”

He explained about an electric pump, a water heater, and pipes, all of which only confused her more. Then, exiting the stall, he led her to what she’d already concluded was a bathing tub. He pointed out a thermostat on one side, quickly explaining that the red numbers on it would tell her how hot the water was.

“Aim for anywhere between ninety-seven and a hundred. Anything over a hundred is too hot for me. Not to say it’ll be your preference. I just feel like a slug when I get out.”

Then he indicated several round holes covered with knobby glass that he said were mood lights, and some open holes that he called jets.

“It’s a Jacuzzi whirlpool tub.” He arched a dark brow at her. “Do you like baths, or do you prefer to take a shower?”

“At home, we take baths.”

“Well, then, a bath it’ll be.” He pushed a bronze stopper at the bottom of the rounded enclosure, turned the handles, which she now knew were called faucet handles or levers, and soon steam drifted up from the rising water. From a cupboard under one washbasin, he fetched a bar of soap wrapped in fancy paper, and two large bottles with odd push nozzles on top. “Shampoo,” he said, as he set the one with the white nozzle on the slate skirt surrounding the tub. “This one with the black cap is conditioner.”

“And what is shampoo?” she asked.

His expression went from bewildered to startled. “Um, it’s stuff to wash your hair, sort of like soap, only it’s in liquid form and has all kinds of nice stuff in it to . . .” He sighed and pushed on the white nozzle to squirt a creamy blob onto his hand. “Once you’re in the water and have wet your hair, you rub this in until it lathers up.” He glanced at her tresses. “You’ll need a lot of it. Once you’ve lathered, you rinse, and then you use the conditioner the same way, rinsing thoroughly afterward.”

Ceara nodded. “’Tis a chore to dry me hair. It takes hours.”

“Not with a blower, it won’t.”

“What is a blower?”

“Never mind, I’ll help.” He left her by the tub to exit what he called the bathroom, then returned moments later with a robe that looked as if it were made of towels. “You can wear this when you get out. It’ll cover you better than the sheet.” He saw that the water level had risen and leaned over to shut off the faucets. Gesturing over his shoulder, he said, “That towel on the hook is clean.” He stepped to another cupboard. “And here’s another one for your hair. Oh, and a washcloth. You’ll be needing one of those.”

Ceara felt the sheet slip slightly, and his gaze followed the descent. ’Twas silly of her, she knew, but memories of the intimacies they’d shared last night had her feeling skittish and more than a little embarrassed. He’d suckled the breast she was now so determined to keep covered, he’d caressed her in places she’d never dreamed a man might, and unless he truly was dumber than a sheep, he must know she’d liked it. That being the case, why had he insisted earlier that he wouldn’t consider touching her again until she made it clear that she wanted him to? Surely her moans of pleasure last night had conveyed that to him. She didn’t understand why he insisted that she say it with words. ’Twas unseemly for a lady to speak of such things. Mayhap married women were allowed to be more direct with their husbands, but if that was the case, Ceara’s mum had failed to tell her so.

“If you want the jets on,” he said, indicating the button to push, “the control is right there. Same for the lights. One punch gives you one color; two gives you rotating color. To turn something off, just punch it again.”

Ceara nodded even though she didn’t completely understand. He moved back to the door. “If you need anything, I’ve turned on the intercom system, so just yell, and I’ll be here lickety-split.”

“’Tis fine I shall be,” she assured him, wondering what an intercom system was. She’d been taking baths her whole life long and doubted she would need help. “Thank ye. I’ll be about me business, then.”

* * *

After the door closed, Ceara fiddled with the knob until she figured out how to work the lock. The last thing she wanted was for Quincy to make an unexpected appearance when she was stark naked. Once she felt certain the lock would hold, she sighed, dropped the sheet, and stepped into the lovely warm water. As she sat and slid low, heat enveloped her, and she sighed again. At home, the tub was small, and she could wet only parts of herself at a time, using a dipper. To sink as deeply as she liked into hot water was a luxury she’d never experienced or even imagined.

After a moment, she began staring at the buttons. What were jets? Her long hair floating all around her, she leaned forward to punch the button Quincy had shown her. At first she heard only a gurgling sound, but it was soon followed by a muted roar, and water suddenly surged around her as if it had come alive. She was so startled she nearly shrieked. Then, as the whirling streams began to pummel her body, she groaned in delight, sank low in the tub, and closed her eyes. How wonderful! She liked a whirlpool bath even more than champagne.

Something tugged on her hair. Ceara’s eyes snapped open. When she tried to sit erect, the pull on her scalp grew sharper. Following the tautness of the strands with her fingers, she discovered that her hair was being sucked into a hole. She jerked and pulled, to no avail. She imagined being drawn under as the tub slowly gobbled her tresses.

“Holy Mother of God!” she screamed. “Help! Quincy, help me! ’Tis drowning I am!”

* * *

Quincy had his head in the refrigerator, looking for anything he might fix as a prebreakfast snack for Ceara, when her screams came over the intercom. Drowning? His heart felt as if it dropped like a rock to bounce off his bare toes. He tore for the hallway, took the stairs three at a time, ran into the bedroom, and reached the closed bathroom door. Locked?

“Jesus H. Christ!” He could hear Ceara shrieking and splashing around in the tub. There was terror in those shrieks. He put his shoulder to the wood. It didn’t give. He backed up, wishing he had boots on so he could give the damned thing a solid kick. No such luck. He charged forward to ram the thick panel with his shoulder again. A crack as loud as a rifle shot rang out, and the thick ash portal gave way, rocking off the hinges for a moment before it fell to the stone floor with another explosion of sound.

Quincy ran to the tub. Ceara was down on one hip and elbow in the whirling water, pulling frantically on her hair, which seemed to be stuck in the outtake valve.

“What the frigging hell?”

Regaining his senses, Quincy jabbed the jet control, the water stopped churning, and Ceara, braced against the current, fell back against the opposite wall of porcelain, her face whiter than the glossy surface behind her. She was sobbing, clearly terrified. Quincy grabbed the discarded sheet, threw it over her, and then, despite the odd angle, lifted her, sopping wet, into his arms. No major feat of strength—she weighed little more than a child.

Shaking uncontrollably, she locked her slender arms around his neck, buried her face against his now soaked shoulder, and jerkily cried, “’Twas . . . eating . . . me hair, pulling me down. I couldna . . . get away.”

Quincy’s legs felt as if they’d turned to rubber. He dropped onto the toilet, vaguely glad the lid was down, and angled his wife across his spread thighs. Now that it was too late, he recalled having to tug washcloths loose from the outtake valve. He doubted that Ceara’s hair would have been pulled past the grate guard. There was surely a safety feature to prevent that, which he’d check out later. But he knew the experience had frightened her half to death, all the same.

“It’s okay, honey; it’s okay. It wasn’t eating your hair; truly it wasn’t. I’m pretty sure it only felt that way.”

She jerked and gulped, trying to regain control, but the violent shudders that racked her body told him she still hadn’t recovered from her fright. Quincy whispered to her, uncertain what he said, and just held her close. When she finally lay still against him, her sobs dwindling to soft twitches of her shoulders, he shifted his gaze to the destroyed door and added another chore to his to-do list for the day. He’d need to call his contractor and schedule repairs.

When he felt that Ceara had calmed down enough to entertain the thought of another try at bathing, he said, “How about we forget turning on the jets, and I stay to help you get washed up?”

“’Tis naked I am!” she protested thinly.

“Yeah, well, you can keep yourself covered with the sheet so I won’t see anything. It won’t be so bad; I promise.”

* * *

Two hours later, Quincy felt as if he’d put in a half day of hard work. Drying Ceara’s hair, even with a hair blower, had turned out to be a challenging task, and after getting her all finished up, he’d had to take a shower, wipe up puddles of water, fill the washer with sopping sheets and towels, and then try to think of something to feed his wife before he dragged her off to town. Not much, he decided. Just a bit of nourishment to bolster her strength for the drive, her first visit to a restaurant, and then shopping.