The Hunter's Prey (8 page)

I did notice the weather though. It was hot, humid and still. Skies were clear, at least in the morning. The light turned a bit green in the afternoon but I thought that was just the angle of the sun.
 

It wasn’t until I went out to take down the dry clothes that I really thought about a storm. The wind slammed the screen door behind me and I looked up at the sky, trying to see the full moon rising. Big black clouds were boiling up, racing overhead like armies in a battlefield. It seemed like they could fall on top of me at any minute, crushing me into the ground. The wind pushed me back against the house. The sky was dark, growing blacker every minute.
 

That was when I heard the noise for the first time. It seemed like every bit of air clamored and rumbled. I’d never heard that sound before but I knew what it meant. There was a twister close by—real close by. I might not have time to get to the storm cellar…

Thank you, Mary. Coffee is good for putting heart into a person, even when she’s just reliving old scares. Now, where was I?

The wind howled louder and suddenly I could move. I had to reach the storm cellar on the other side of the barn before the tornado caught me. Normally I was afraid of that dark hole and the bugs inside but not now. There was no time to be scared of anything except this storm.
 

I picked up my skirts and ran as fast as I could. The demons of hell grabbed at my heels as I went. All my hairpins were lost before I passed the barn. But I reached the top of the bank and slid down the other side on my fanny to the storm cellar. Then I grabbed the trap doors and tried to pull them open. But the winds kept whipping the doors shut.
 

Suddenly a man’s arm came over mine on the handle. Together we pulled it open. He pushed me in and I fell down the steps. I shouted at him to get in. Moments later, he was on the steps, fighting the tornado for the doors.

I caught one glimpse of him in the little bit of light. He looked Mexican but he was a big man, taller even than Betty’s husband. He had a harsh profile, with an eagle beak nose that stood out against the sky. Black hair, black eyes against that olive skin. He was dressed all in black, too; fine gentleman’s clothing. Then he shouted something and the doors fell into place, closing out the light and the storm beyond.

The tornado still raged outside, trying to break into our hiding place. I screamed when something banged into the doors. I couldn’t hear myself think over the noise. Then he was on his knees beside me.
 

I went into his arms like a homing pigeon. I hid my face against his shoulder and cried, trembling like a cobweb. He tried to calm me, saying that we were safe and the tornado wouldn’t hurt the ranch. He told me not to think about the storm but I kept on crying. Finally the flood of tears was gone and I calmed down.
 

It was dark down there and the wind was quieter, although I could still hear things crashing in it. He released me carefully and I took a deep breath. He moved away and I heard a match strike.

Soft golden lantern light lit the cellar. It both softened and emphasized his face’s harshness and reminded me of how the green light had outlined the washing hung out to dry before the storm.
 

I stared at him, seeing an attractive man but not one that my family would ever approve of. He watched me with equal intensity and I began to feel enticing, as long-dormant emotions began to stir. His eyes were a mite reserved though, like clouds in a blue sky that hint of a storm but cause no problems for the moment. A coil of heat flickered in my belly. The cellar doors rattled but I paid little heed.
 

I blinked at my own thoughts. Then I looked at him again, openly studying his magnificent body under the fine clothing. My stomach clenched again and I felt a little damp between my legs.
 

His nostrils flared and heat burned in his eyes under my stare. He looked at me as if I were the most desirable woman he had ever seen. I ran my tongue over my lips, moistening them. His dark gaze followed the movement and I became wetter.
 

He walked toward me slowly, the beams brushing his hair. He glided like a cougar, arrogant in his own masculinity and confident of his welcome. I trembled before his strut but lifted my chin proudly, my eyes locked to his.
 

I put out a hand to him and he took it. He lifted it slowly to his mouth. He kissed each finger and then the back of my hand. Then his fingers shifted and his mouth tasted my palm. I could feel his lips caressing me before his tongue moved to the pulse in my wrist. My hand stroked his scarred cheek and I moaned. He smiled slightly and repeated the caress on my other hand. The wind outside howled louder and my blood raced faster.
 

He fondled my cheek with his other hand and I rubbed against it, treasuring the touch. My nipples hardened like rose buds as I shivered. His hand slipped under my chin and lifted my head. I felt like a moonflower seed, buried in the earth but waiting for the first touch of rain to start sprouting.
 

Then his mouth touched mine. I opened my mouth and his tongue took advantage of the opportunity. He tasted sweet, like fresh water from a deep well. Our mouths explored each other slowly, gradually moving closer and closer, until finally our tongues were entwined like sweet pea vines.
 

His hands slipped over my shoulders and down my arms, smoothing away my clothes. I trembled and leaned into his touch, enjoying the damp air on my skin. Then he leaned back and looked at me. I stood proud and tall under his hot gaze, like a sunflower reaching for the sky. He smiled at me and traced my nipple. He murmured something about honey before his lips took possession of my breast. A jolt of fire ran through my body and I arched back against his arm.
 

Somewhere the wind was shrieking beyond the cellar. I was hot and wet at the same time, shuddering as life flowed through my body in response to him…

Sorry, honey. I guess I must have lost track of my story for a moment.

That man’s touch sent devils dancing through my body like the tornado whipping the earth beyond the doors. I burst into life like the first green plants in spring. He brought sounds out of me to match the wind’s voice—low moans, solid groans, even shrieks of astonishment. I could feel my blood surging through my veins, like sap rising through a tree in the spring. The man built my excitement and yet I felt safe. I could laugh at the storm pounding outside while the dance of life raged behind the cellar doors, sheltering us from the tempest.
 

He fed my pleasure for a long time, there in the dark. His hands were magical, coaxing and urging me onwards, while his voice crooned of the delights offered by my body. He said I was fairer than lilies, sweeter than roses, softer than camellias. I tumbled time and time again into rapture.

I could sense his excitement as his voice became uneven and his hands harsher. I could barely hear him over the wind’s noise, thundering like a freight train above us. But I was braver now, anxious to taste a stronger possession, like a summer thunderstorm after the gentle rains of spring. I begged him to give us both completion.
 

Finally his mouth moved over my neck and he drank my blood, as the life he’d given me flowed back into him. My cries of rapture were drowned by the tornado above us, as it burst from earth to sky…

* * * * *

The two women sat silently on the porch together, watching the rain fall softly from the afternoon storm.

“Would you like some more coffee, Gran?” Mary asked, finally breaking the quiet.

“Thank you, Mary. A little warm-up for my coffee would be nice.” Elizabeth studied Mary’s face before asking her question. “Did I scandalize you, honey? The story is a mite racy.”

Mary smiled, her face settling awkwardly but willingly into the almost forgotten expression. “Oh no, Gran, you didn’t upset me. I think I feel more jealous than embarrassed.” She gave Elizabeth a quick hug and the two women clung to each other briefly.
 

“And I do enjoy your stories, whether or not they’re perfectly true,” Mary whispered against Elizabeth’s hair before going inside, whistling a radio tune.
 

Elizabeth heard the timer ring, followed by the smell of fresh peach pies set out to cool. Mary returned with fresh coffee for both of them, which the women settled back into the rockers to enjoy.

“What happened after that, Gran?”

“Ma and Pa found me the next morning, asleep in the storm cellar. We laughed and cried together, the tears flowing freely in the joy of reunion. We didn’t say much though, especially not with so much work to be done helping the neighbors rebuild. The tornado had turned away from our place at the last minute, just before our storm cellar. The two red marks on my neck were gone within a couple days.”

Elizabeth touched the place where the marks had once shown, her eyes absent. She didn’t notice Mary’s eyes widen at the confirming gesture. Elizabeth shook herself briefly to come back to the present and went on.

“I met your great-grandfather at church the following Sunday. You know that part of the story, how he’d come down to help his cousin rebuild, how I walked out with him as soon as he asked. I knew what I wanted as soon as I saw him. I knew he brought the deep springs of life to set roots in.”

The phone’s peremptory squall broke their peace. Mary bolted upright and then froze. She stared at Elizabeth, frozen by equal parts of hope and doubt. Elizabeth released her to act.

“Would you answer that for me, honey? It might be a call for you…”

Mary ran inside, slamming the door against the wall in her haste. Elizabeth listened unabashedly to the one-sided conversation, which quickly brought her hands up in gladness.

“Joe’s alive! Thanks be to the Almighty, he’s coming back to Mary,” Elizabeth praised and bent her head to give thanks.
 

Mary came out of the house a few minutes after she’d hung up. Her face was streaming with tears, shining like the roses in the garden under the storm.
 

“Did you hear, Gran? Joe’s coming home,” Mary whispered, her voice breaking on the words. She gulped and then dropped to her knees in front of Elizabeth.
 

Elizabeth stroked the shining hair lovingly.

“That’s all right, Mary; you just go ahead and cry. Sometimes it’s good to remember how life can come back from where it’s hiding in the dark.”
 

A Tale Of Jean-Marie St. Just

It feels so good to be back at your house, Joan! I know these banquets are important but high heels always kill my feet. Thanks for the wine; I really appreciate you taking the time to find me some pink wine.

You’re right: I don’t know who shot J.R. Ewing and I don’t care. Even if that does make me the most out-of-touch person in America! My daughters watch that show every week, which gives me time to read cases.
 

Yup, I do like being a judge and I do like reading the law… And I don’t like giving speeches any more than I ever did, although it’s easier when it’s for a gaggle of female law students.
 

Yes, I’m stalling! But I’ll tell you the real story of how I fell in love with the law.
 

It was back when I first came to Austin from West Texas. I’d grown up in a one-horse town where everyone was either a rancher or the wife, daughter, mother—whatever of a rancher. I was absolutely determined that I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life on a ranch. After some effort, I managed to persuade my Pa to let me go to college if I paid for it. You’ve met him; you can imagine how much persuasion that took!

Anyway, I got a scholarship and made it to the University three days after my eighteenth birthday. The scholarship didn’t cover everything so I found myself a very cheap boarding house within sight of the Tower. I saved even more money by doing housework for my landlady. There was a lot of work she wanted done, needed to have done.
 

Then I started classes and found out very quickly that my little high school in West Texas might have produced good football players but didn’t begin to provide enough education to keep up with the rest of my class. I began to spend every spare moment at the library, studying like I never had before. Between studying and working for the Landlady From Hell, I barely had time to eat and sleep.

By the time finals came, I was exhausted and desperate. I had to get an “A” on the final for American history just to pass the class and stay in school. I was at the library so often that it’s a wonder nobody mistook me for a bookcase.
 

I met a really nice guy in the stacks one night when I was looking for a book on the Constitution. He didn’t look like anyone my Pa would object to: my height (yes, that short!), brown hair, blue eyes, slender and taut as a sword, pretty as a girl. He looked only a few years older than me, possibly old enough to be a grad student. He had a French name, Jean-Marie something.
 

We got to talking about my history class and he was able to offer me all sorts of tips, which I just tried to soak up. I was upset when the closing bell rang. I didn’t want to let go of the best talk I’d had on history since arriving at school. He teased me about my disappointment and offered to help me study the next night, just before my final.