Harmony (13 page)

“And when you're fired up, I find you adorable.”

On that, she had no comment except to slam the door.

•  •  •

Edwina sat at her desk and put a hand to the back of her neck. She pressed her head hard against her palm, trying to rid herself of the headache that was giving her brain a pounding. The pain had erupted full force the instant she'd walked out of Wolcott's sporting goods store.

Through her uncurtained window, she could see outside; twilight cast the sky in plum. The day felt longer than a five-mile walk in new shoes. She resumed staring at the classroom's interior; a frown caught her mouth. Lit by the flame of a single lamp, the horror that was the room couldn't be disguised. The furnishings appeared lumped together. A hat rack nudged the sideboard, the extension tables made jagged rows, and her own desk sat so close to the heater, she'd had to smother the coals or risk being barbecued.

Moaning, she lowered her face to the open book on deportment in which she'd been marking pages for tomorrow's opening-day lessons. Her mind, plagued with a migraine, could no longer function. What little she'd managed to think out had been frequently pushed aside by visions of Tom Wolcott's hedonistic mouth on her own.

How could she have allowed him to kiss her? Hadn't she sworn never to kiss another man? But when he'd looked into her eyes, his own possessing such allure in their winter blue depths, she'd been reduced to a namby-pamby.

His lips had touched hers with a tantalizing persuasion. For a moment, she'd forgotten herself and kissed him back, stealing an instant's pleasure. In that time, she'd succumbed to the delight he'd offered. She'd enjoyed his sculpted mouth over hers and had reveled in the tingling sensations that had radiated through her body.

Oh, she loathed herself for her weakness. Now more than ever, she'd have to carefully watch her every move and gesture in his company. Actually, avoiding his company was the best plan. And there was no reason for
her to ever have to be in it again unless they chanced to meet on the streets. It would be safer for her. She wouldn't be tempted to do something she'd regret.

Any outward signs of attraction to Tom Wolcott would jeopardize all that she had fought so hard to regain. Namely, her dignity. She could never be used in such a way again and recover from the humiliation.

Lifting her head, Edwina sniffed back unshed tears. She'd been on the border of crying for the past couple of hours. Nothing was working out the way she'd planned. Feeling sorry for herself had never been one of her failings, but now she found that wallowing in self-pity made her outlook on tomorrow a notch brighter.

Things couldn't go worse than they'd gone today.

A deranged barking began behind the building. That no-account bloodhound sounded hotly in pursuit of something. The bays rumbled from its chest, echoing a thirst for blood. He'd probably treed a squirrel and thought himself quite the conqueror.

Edwina glanced down at the beribboned basket at her feet. At least her dear kitty was safely inside, away from that nasty mongrel.

“Precious angel.” She lifted the lid, wanting the comfort of her cat's silky fur to nuzzle against. Her anxious smile fell.

The basket was empty.

Rolling the chair back, Edwina poked her head beneath her desk. “Honey Tiger?”

In the dark recess, no marmalade cat with whimsical white whiskers could be seen.

She straightened, her eyes darting frantically around the room. “Kitty?”

A sweet little meow didn't answer.

Panic flew through Edwina as she went to her feet and began searching all the nooks and crannies of the room Honey Tiger had explored earlier. No Mama's-precious-lambie-baby-snookums kitty cat.

Honey Tiger had been in the basket many times. She'd always stayed inside once Edwina put her in there.
The cat had ridden in the coach compartment of the train to Chicago and back to Montana without a hitch. The only time she'd escaped had been at Abbie's after a neighbor's cat had moseyed along the porch and stuck its face next to the window glass. Honey Tiger had had a hissing and spitting fit and had gotten out of the house when a door had been opened. After chasing the other cat away, she'd climbed up the ancient elm in the backyard. Nobody but Edwina had been able to coax her down.

“Honey Tiger?” she called one last time, waiting a moment before accepting the idea that the cat had gotten out of the building. The cat must have snuck past her when she'd gone to see Mr. Wolcott. In her state of agitation, she hadn't noticed the tabby slipping through the door.

Where could her lambkins have gone? Honey Tiger didn't know the area over here; all she'd ever ventured onto was the sun porch of Edwina's house. . . . She could get lost or hurt or . . .

Edwina couldn't think with that blasted dog carrying on. “Oh, shut up, you good for nothing acorn eater.”

Barkly!

Edwina bolted out the door and ran toward the back of the warehouse. Dry leaves crackled beneath her feet as she approached the bloodhound, who sat at the base of a tree. Seeing her, he ceased his barking just long enough to sniff her fingers—as if she'd bring
him
anything to eat!

A faint haze from an unseen moon lighted the grove sufficiently for her to make out shapes but not much else. Tipping her head back and straining her eyes, she could see through the network of oak branches. There, on a high limb, was the silhouette of her baby girl, her back arched in fright.

“Honey Tiger!”

The faint and distressed mews tore through Edwina's heart.

Barkly had shifted from a snapping bark back to that
pitiful howl. For lack of a weapon, she picked up two handfuls of leaves and hurled them at him. “Get out of here! Go home. Shoo!”

The leaves had no affect on him. In fact, he thought she wanted to play. His forelegs stretched out in front of him, his rump lifted, and the whiplike tail wagged.

“You're so stupid!” she yelled, then turned her back to him and made a split-second decision.

She began unbuttoning the side placket of her skirt.

When she'd had to get Honey Tiger before, she'd had a ladder at her disposal for propriety's sake. Where on earth would she get one now? Besides, she dared not leave her kitty alone.

Stepping out of the navy Panama cloth, she kicked the wad behind the tree trunk. Then she untied the waist of her petticoat and let the cambric slip down her stockinged legs. Standing in her knee-length drawers, she did several toe touches to limber up; then she began to scale the tree.

“Hush, my sweet baby!” she called. “Mama's coming.”

Fortunately for her, she'd practiced climbing on Abbie's porch trellis. Neither the height nor the effort bothered her. She chose first one safe hold, then another, pushing twigs from her face as she went. Her hair got hung up on a branch, and a wince soured her expression as several strands snagged and tugged at her scalp. Hairpins came loose, and the pile of her pompadour sagged down her back.

Meow! Meow!

“Lambie precious! Hold on!”

Honey Tiger hadn't scrambled too far up the massive tree, but she had gone farther out on a limb than Edwina would have liked. Although the point where the appendage attached to the tree was thick, the end thinned dramatically.

Late acorns still attached to the tree rained to the ground as she bumped them. On a quick glance, she was surprised to see the dog not going after the nuts. Actually,
she was surprised to find the dog was absent. He'd apparently run off.

Good riddance.

Fearful of crawling out too far and risking stressing the branch, Edwina slid on the rough bark, her hands propelling her forward. She went along fine until an ominous rip rang through her ears. Her drawers caught on a broken twig, and the sensitive flesh of her buttock cheek stung from the scrape.

Tears watered her eyes, but she couldn't stop. A short distance separated her and her cat. Honey Tiger's claws were dug in deep into the tree's craggy skin, but at least her meows had subsided.

“Kitty. Come to me.”

Honey Tiger didn't move.

“Mama's pretty girl. Honey Tiger.” She held her arms out.

The tabby's arched back realigned to normal and her tail quit its tight waving. But she still didn't come to Edwina.

Anchoring herself to the limb by wrapping her legs around it and pressing flat against it, Edwina stretched her arms as far as they could reach in an attempt to pluck the errant kitty free. In spite of extending herself to the point of an unsteady hold, she was shy of touching her cat by about a foot.

A foot.
It would have to be that.

Leaves that hadn't fallen from the tree yet rustled with her motion as she inched forward. “Come to me,” she said sweetly, trying to disguise the frustration in her tone. “Honey Tiger.”

Meow.
But the cat wasn't coming to Edwina. She had to try another tactic.

“Salmon. Salmon, salmon, salmon nummies.”

Meow.

A crease furrowed her brows. The word
salmon
always worked to get the cat to listen to her. Against her better judgment, she crept out farther than was wise. Tamping down her impatience, she called in a no-nonsense
voice, “Honey Tiger, you come to Mama. Right now. Salmon. Mackerel. Sardines.”

No comment.

As a desperate effort, she hastened to add, “Dittman's caviar.”

Footsteps stirred the leaves below, and Edwina froze. She had a clear view of the ground beneath her, the particular branch she occupied being an offshoot of one of the lowest arms. No limbs grew below it.

Cigarette smoke came to her nose before she could see the person. The red nub swayed her gaze in its direction. Though she couldn't make out a face in the haziness, from body definition alone, it had to be Tom Wolcott. He filled out a shirt better than any man in town. And no one else wore a baseball cap at leisure—especially not backward.

Not daring to move lest she call attention to herself, she prayed he wouldn't linger. Honey Tiger was no threat in giving her away. The cat had decided to give herself a face bath. Edwina rolled her eyes.

Crunching sounds rose to her ears as Tom took a few steps. “Barkly,” he called, then whistled once. “Let's go home.”

The dog, who she'd been grateful had disappeared earlier, didn't show itself and give his master a reason to leave. Drat that mongrel anyway. Tom took a draw on his cigarette, then strolled through the grove while whistling every so often. It was her misfortune that he paused directly underneath her.

Both her hands had grown numb from the night air. In fact, she realized it was quite cold. Gooseflesh prickled her skin as a slight breeze made the boughs tremble. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she might have heard something else from the tree. A crack? A creak? Just the wind playing tricks?

Apprehension flickered through her. She shouted silently,
Please go home, Mr. Wolcott, so I can get down!
No such luck. He stayed, the tails of his overshirt fluttering against his thighs.

The noise came again, definite this time—a sharp snap, the kind of sound a limb made when it gave way abruptly under pressure and strain.

“Oh, no . . .” she moaned as the brittle crack caused her to drop several inches with the branch. Grappling to hold on, she attempted to back off the limb. At this angle, it was impossible to slide up. She was dizzy with fright and her heart thumped madly.

Crack!

“Look out!” she screamed just as the branch gave way, and she hurtled to the ground.

Tom Wolcott's upturned head cleared her vision just as her hands slammed down on his shoulders. Somehow, she flattened him on his backside, landing in the middle of his belly. Their foreheads bumped, shooting fresh pain through her head.

Dazed and disoriented, she let herself drape over him with her full weight before attempting to move. Nothing felt broken, but then she'd never had a broken bone before, so she didn't know for sure.

With arms spread on either side of him, she struggled to lift her chin. Using her elbows to prop herself up, she had to peer through a web of her disheveled hair. Before she could utter a word, he had the bad taste to say, “Miss Huntington, if you wanted me on my back, all you had to do was ask.”

•  •  •

Aside from the knot throbbing on his forehead, Tom figured he'd gotten off pretty easy for just having had a body slam down on him from nowhere. Well, not exactly from nowhere—from the tree. What in the hell had Edwina Huntington been doing up there?

Darkness pervaded the grove, but there was enough illumination from a hidden moon to see by. Tom's hand automatically lifted to smooth the hair from Edwina's face. He tucked tangled locks behind both her ears. That done, he could read her expression clearly: shock, anger, agitation. A combination of all three lit her mouth, eyes,
and brows, which were clamped shut, narrowed, and arched, respectively.

“How do you feel?” he asked, overriding any retort she might make about his prior comment. Genuine concern caused him to lay stock-still in case she'd broken anything.

“Not particularly well,” came the weak mumble.

Consolingly, his thumb stroked her earlobe. “Where are you hurt?”

A trembling breath whispered, “Everywhere.”

“As much as I find our present position has . . . possibilities, I think you'd better let me help you stand so I can check your bones.”

Eyes flashed at him. “You're not a doctor.”

“No,” he said with a grin, running his fingertip over her shell-like ear, “but I used to play it in my youth.”

“You're positively indecent.”

“That's not what the girls said.”

She gave an all-over shiver and batted at his hand. “Quit doing that to my ear. I find it . . . bothersome.”

He didn't stop, enjoying the feel of her curvaceous body crushed against his. “Is that why your legs are hugging mine?”