Sunset Embrace (26 page)

"No!" She whirled around and shook the fist that held the money. "I'll take care of him. That's what I'm paid for, isn't it?" She didn't give him time to reply before she marched away.

* * *

Independence Day dawned clear and hot. There was an air of expectancy about the entire camp. Today was a holiday, a time for rest from the grueling hours of travel, a day for baking goodies, a day for laughing, music, and gaiety. If anyone grumbled that it was a Unionist holiday, his mutterings were soon squelched. The Southern states had won their independence from British rule same as the Northern. After long weeks of travel, the immigrants would use any occasion to take a holiday.

Ma had convinced Lydia to buy from the peddler enough of the gold cloth to make herself a dress. Lydia wasn't much of a seamstress, but with Ma's help and a dress pattern borrowed from Mrs. Rigsby, the dress had been cut out. Ma stitched on it nearly every evening. Lydia felt badly about it. Ma insisted that she would rather spend a quiet evening in the Colemans' wagon sewing, than in the chaos that reigned in her own. So, despite Lydia's objections, the dress was ready for her to step into when the time came.

They were camped on the Ouachita River. As a result of a wet spring, the surrounding countryside was green despite the summer heat. The ladies were allowed use of the river first and, as soon as morning chores were done, they trooped down to its grassy banks with towels and bars of soap for one of the few real baths they had taken since leaving home.

The festivities began at sunset. The men came back from the river, having been granted their privacy in the late afternoon while the ladies napped in their wagons. Some of the men were unrecognizable with their hair plastered down, wearing a string tie, a shiny belt buckle, or a Sunday-only pair of suspenders. The womenfolk, too, had added touches of finery to their calico and had taken extra pains with their hairdos.

Ross had bathed in the river and dressed in a pair of black pants, white shirt, and black leather vest. Instead of a tie, he wound a bandanna around his throat. He brushed his hair, leaving off the oil most of the other men had used. He noted that his hair was growing long again. He would have to get Lydia to trim—

He pulled himself up straight and stared at the hairbrush in his hand as though he didn't recognize either it or the man who held it. How easily her name came to his mind now, when Victorias rarely did. How natural it seemed that he would ask her to trim his hair again, an intimacy expected from a woman who lived with a man-Damn!

"Lydia, are you ready?" he called into the wagon.

She surveyed herself in the mirror, wetting her lips and pinching her cheeks as Ma had told her to do. She had dressed with Mas and Anabeth's help, Lee having been turned over to Marynell and Atlanta to watch.

Lydia ran her hands over her skirt to convince herself it was real. The gold broadcloth had been sewn into the most beautiful dress she had ever owned, even nicer than the ones Ross had bought for her in Memphis. The neckline was scooped to reveal her throat and the upper part of her chest. The short sleeves were puffed and barely covered the top of her arm. The bodice buttoned to her waist, where a wide sash, tied in a bow in the back, separated it from the full, gathered skirt. She didn't have enough petticoats to make it stand out far, but it swayed against her ankles nicely.

Ma was determined that she wear her hair "the way nature intended it," which was wild and free and curly. They had decorated it with wild yellow roses found on the riverbank that morning. She had been liberally splashed with cologne.

"Lydia?" Ross let all his frustration go into that summons.

"Coming," she said shyly and stepped out onto the tailgate.

Had Ross not been grinding his teeth in agitation, his mouth would have dropped open when his wife presented herself. Her petite figure had never been so clearly defined as it was in the soft cotton. Her skin was glowing the color of ripe apricots from the suntan she had acquired despite the straw hat she always wore while riding on the wagon seat. Her hair . . . well, it occurred to him that at one time he had been appalled that she would let it go unbound. Now it neither shocked nor offended him. Indeed, he preferred it that way.

He wiped his palms on his pants legs and extended his hand up to hers, guiding her down the steps of the wagon, something she did on her own a hundred times a day. "I think they've already started eating," he said inanely.

"I'm sorry I made you late. You should have gone on. I could have caught up."

"It's all right."

Her brave smile sagged with disappointment. He wasn't going to say anything about how nice she looked, as Ma had promised her he would. Feeling dangerously close to tears, she wanted to return to the wagon, but they were soon caught up in the party. Each woman had contributed to the buffet supper, bringing her specialty dish, and Lydia and Ross were handed plates heaped with food.

Even before they were finished eating, those who could fiddle, including Moses, were rosining their bows and applying them to the strings.

By the time the leftover food was stored away and the dishes cleared, several of the less self-conscious couples were whirling to the lively tunes being played on fiddles and harmonicas. Ma, clapping her hands in time to the music and watching fondly as Zeke dipped his cup again into the barrel of beer somebody 'had brought from the nearest town, said, "You two go on and dance. I can keep an eye on Lee."

Lydia looked up at her husband, who had a long, slender cigar clamped between his teeth. She had never danced, but it looked like fun.

"I never learned how to dance," Ross said dismissively.

Ma, wishing she could give him a good swift kick in the seat of the pants, was undaunted. "It don't matter none.

"Them's not experts out there. Just take your lady on your arm and start movin' to the music."

"I don't know how to dance, either, Ross," Lydia said, hoping that her own lack of experience would encourage him to try it.

He gazed down at her face, at her body, and knew that he couldn't put his arms around her, looking as beautiful as she did, and keep the vow he had made to himself not to make love to her. "Then there's no call for us both to make fools of ourselves, is there?" He strolled off in the direction of the beer barrel.

"Well," Ma said huffily. "I seen stupid, pigheaded men in my day, but that one takes the cake."

Lydia, humiliated, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment, was staring at the ground when the toes of two polished boots came into her range of vision. "May I have the honor of dancin' with you, Lydia?"

Her eyes came up to meet the warm, open, appreciative gaze of Winston Hill. He scanned her face, not with the open hostility or the frightening intensity Ross often did, but with an unqualified liking for what he saw.

Ma, smiling once again, urged her. "Go on, Lydia. The gentleman asked you to dance."

"I don't know how," she muttered. On the one hand she wanted to, but she knew it would incur Ross's wrath.

Winston laughed and swept his hand wide to indicate the enthusiastically bobbing couples who were keeping time to the music without worrying about form. "I don't think anyone does." He extended his hand to her. "Dance with me, Lydia."

He spoke so urgently, so compellingly, that without thinking of the consequences, she thrust her hands into his and let him lead her into the melee. He curved one arm around her waist and, lifting her hand with the other, began to move in the circular pattern of the other dancers.

At first Lydia felt like she had six feet, all lame and unable to go in the same direction. But Winston was patient and instructive. Soon she relaxed and began to get the hang of it. By the time they had made the circle four times, she felt like she was flying and never wanted to stop.

When Ross spotted his wife in the arms of another man, especially Winston Hill, who was dressed fit to kill in a white linen suit and soft brown leather boots, his fingers automatically tensed around the tin cup he was bringing to his lips.

Without even realizing that his eyes had narrowed dangerously, becoming green slits, he watched their move-ments like a hawk. He made cursory responses to the conversation going on around him. But Lydia, with her skirts flying, her mouth smiling, her hair swirling, had his undivided attention. Each time she whirled past him, oblivious to him, laughing up into Hill's face, Ross's fingers squeezed his cup. He tossed down another draught of beer, and the coil inside his gut wound a little bit tighter.

* * *

"Come on, you silly boy," Priscilla giggled, tripping through the darkness on the far side of the wagons. "I tell you no one saw you steal that beer."

"We'd be in a passel of trouble if anyone had," Bubba said, cautiously glancing over his shoulder,

"Shoot! No one was paying us any mind. They're all having too good a time at their stupid party." She leaned against a tree, making sure her breasts thrust forward beguilingly. "I had in mind a private little party just for us, Bubba," she drawled, drawing him close. "Give me a sip of beer."

She had been anticipating the dancing all week. Then Scout had informed her that he wasn't going to spend his Fourth of July with a bunch of sod busters and had gone in to town, leaving her alone. She would show him, the sonofabitch. Did he think he was the only man in the world? Not by a long shot.

"Stand close in front of me now, Bubba, so no one can see." She positioned him where she wanted him, then raised his hand that held the cup of beer to her mouth. She tilted it, sipping some, but letting most dribble down her chin and chest. "Oh, Bubba, give me a handkerchief, quick. If my ma smells beer on me, no telling what she's liable to do."

Entranced as his eyes tracked the rivulets of beer disappearing into Priscillas bodice, Bubba whipped a handkerchief out of his back pocket and handed it to her. He watched, stupified, as she unbuttoned her top.

"Mercy me," she said. "It's run clear down to my waist. I'm going to unbutton my camisole, but you're not to do anything you'll be ashamed of later. You hear, Bubba?"

He nodded dumbly. Every word of caution his mother had drilled into him slipped from his mind as easily as the buttons of Priscillas camisole slipped through their holes.

Eyeing him slyly, Priscilla dragged the handkerchief over her bared breasts, lifting them, moving them, rubbing the nipples until they hardened, wiping away the imaginary spilled beer.

When the handkerchief slid over her one last time and then left her completely bare as she lifted it away, Bubba groaned. It was a sound that originated in his loins and worked its way up into his throat and out his body.

"Priscilla, you're beautiful," he rasped.

"I'll bet you're just saying that," she crooned, arching, her back and lifting her breasts for his closer inspection.

"No, no, Priscilla. I love you. I told you that."

"If you loved me, you'd kiss me and . . . stuff."

Bubba looked at her in wordless wonder before he moved in closer. He pressed his body against hers and touched her mouth with his. Priscilla adjusted herself, curling upward to rub her mound against the swelling in his pants. Bubba cried out softly and ground against her. He put his hands on her naked breasts and caressed them gently.

"Oh, Bubba, that feels so nice." She flicked her tongue along his lips. The boy pulled back quickly. He was shocked, but he saw her sultry eyes and felt her hand pulling him back to her breasts. With a hopeless moan, he sealed their mouths together again.

This time his mouth was open, too, and following her lead, he pushed his tongue into her mouth. He plucked at her nipples with fingers acting strictly on instinct. Not much finesse was employed. Priscilla didn't want gentleness. She writhed between him and the tree, moaning her pleasure.

"I've got something to show you," she said breathlessly, pushing him away.

His blood boiling, Bubba wasn't ready to stop. He tried to recapture her mouth, but she dodged him, laughing softly and batting his hands away when they reached for her breasts again. "Bubba Langston, you behave," she said with mock severity. "Promise not to tell a soul. I been hiding these from my ma." She lifted her skirt and petticoats and raised her knee to prop against his thigh. "I bought these red satin garters from that peddlerman. Can you see them? Aren't they beautiful?"

He didn't look at the gaudy garters. He gaped at the smooth expanse of white thigh above them. "Yeah, I see 'em," he said thickly. He touched the garter with his finger, then trailed it up to touch her thigh.

"Shame on you, Bubba," she said on a gust of rushing breath, but she didn't try to stop him.

Encouraged, Bubba explored higher, his breath soughing loudly through his lips when his fingertips encountered fleecy hair. "Priscilla, you don't have on any—"

"It was
so
hot today I wanted to feel cool. Oh, Bubba, you shouldn't, oh, God, are you touching me
there?"

"Let me, Priscilla," he begged. "I won't hurt you. Am I hurting you? I'll stop."

"No!" He made to withdraw, but the arching of her body urged him back. "I mean, a man can get violent if a lady lets him go so far and then . . . Oh, right there, Bubba." She shuddered. "Yes."

"Priscilla," he sighed, burying his mouth in her neck. "Feel how wet you're making me, Bubba." "I'm so hard I hurt," he mumbled into her breasts. "Let me help you." She groped at the front of his pants and encircled him with knowing fingers. She stroked.

"Jesus, Jesus," he groaned. He was going to die and his ma and everybody else would know how he had died and he didn't even care. He sent his fingers delving into her warmth.

"Oh, Bubba, that's good," she sighed. "But not here. Down by the river. Come on. Hurry."

Dazed, he withdrew his hand and stepped back. She lowered her leg and pulled her bodice together. Then, looking at him with dreamy promise, she took his hand and turned toward the river. They both came to a reeling halt when they saw Luke Langston lounging on a nearby tree stump. Seemingly indifferent to them, he was whittling down a stick with his pocketknife.