Lesbian Cowboys (14 page)

“Ouch,” she shouted as the blood pooled in the sliced skin beside her fingernail. She grabbed a dishrag and applied pressure to her gashed finger as she paced the kitchen.

She sat on the parlor sofa and stared at a photo of Henry on the end table, her heart heavy with loneliness. To feel someone's arms wrapped around her once more…

The rumble of the old pickup chugging up the dirt driveway woke her from her nap.

“What happened?” Del asked, staring at the bloodstained cloth around her finger.

She stood up, still a bit groggy. “Nothing. I nicked it starting supper. I can't believe I fell asleep.” She swiped wisps of blonde hair off her face.

“Let me take a look at that.”

“No, it's okay,” Lucille said, brushing past him into the kitchen. “I have to get supper ready.”

He gently grabbed her arm and enchanted her with those piercing eyes. “Supper can wait. Let's fix you up first.”

Supper can wait
? When was the last time a man ever uttered those words?

He opened the bloody rag and examined the wound with slender fingers dirty under the nails. “Where's your first-aid kit?”

“Under the sink.”

“That's some nick you got there. You could damn near bleed a pig with a nick that size.” He dabbed the cut with Mercurochrome, wrapped it in gauze, and wound it securely with white tape. He looked up and gave her a warm smile. His teeth sparkled without the slightest hint of tobacco stain, and his lips were thin with a rosy shine.

“You don't look like a cowboy,” she blurted with a grin.

His warmth faded into a hard glare. “You don't look like a damsel in distress, yet here we are.”

She ripped her hand from his. “I told you I didn't need your help. I was okay.”

He threw his hands on his hips. “So okay you were just about bleedin' into your own lap?”

A deep breath gathered her composure. “Mr. Mather, perhaps we can get back to our respective duties and meet back at the supper table at six P.M. How does that sound?”

He glared at her stubbornly. “Sounds plumb fine, Mrs. Grady.”

He stalked back outside with a toughie's swagger, leaving Lucille in need of another breath.

 

Glancing out the window, she smiled at Del washing his hands in the water trough and then turned to carefully inspect the supper table. Steam wafted from the stew bowls, while a stack of white bread rested on a plate and apple cider beckoned in condensation-slick glasses. Fresh-cut blue hydrangeas exploding from a vase added a delicate touch.

“Mrs. Grady?” Del's soft voice floated in from the side door.

“Del? Where are you?”

He materialized behind the screen, holding his hat against his chest. “Mrs. Grady, I'm awful sorry about before. I was
awful mean to you, and I apologize.”

She laughed. “Mean? How were you mean?”

“I called you a damsel in distress.”

“Oh, Del, you saved me from bleeding to death, which I was perfectly contented to do for some odd reason. Come on in and have your stew.”

They both sat down and began eating silently.

Lucille's eyes darted between Del and the cloth napkin in her lap. What was it about this petite cowboy from “Amarilla” that had her so captivated? “So, Del, what brings a Texas cowboy all the way up to a Connecticut dairy farm?” she finally asked.

As he looked up over the hydrangeas, the hue of the flowers made his eyes pop a heavenly blue. Lucille nearly forgot her question.

“I needed a new start,” he said. “I picked New England on account of it's where the folks in England went when they needed a new start. Seemed to work out good for 'em, so I figured I'd give it a whirl.”

“The colonists were running away from something, an oppressive ruler trying to tell them how to live their lives.”

“Rings familiar,” he mumbled.

“Are you running away from something, Del? The law maybe?” Her lips curled with the thrill of intrigue.

He laughed. “I ain't runnin' from nothin', Mrs. Grady. I reckon I'm runnin'
to
somethin'. A life lived my own way.”

“What way is that?”

“Just me bein' able to be me.”

“That doesn't seem like too much to ask.”

“You'd be surprised,” he said, spooning in the last of his stew.

“How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Twenty-two.”

“I knew it. I knew you looked young.”

“You're young, too, ain't ya?”

“Twenty-five.”

“That's young, all right.”

“I don't feel young anymore. It's hard to feel young when you're a widow.”

“The war?” Del asked.

She nodded. “Henry was a gunner stationed in Belgium during the Battle of the Bulge. Silliest thing, he didn't even die on the front lines. There was a Jeep crash…” She looked away and let out a soft sigh. “I've never talked about it before.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, and then regarded her with admiration. “I imagine the day he left you was the hardest day of his life.” He scratched his curly dirty-blonde hair and pushed away his empty bowl.

She smiled. “Would you like more stew?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Grady. As delicious as it was, I wanna have room for that peach cobbler you promised.”

“Why don't you go relax out on the porch swing, and I'll put some coffee on.”

“You sure you don't need no help cleanin' up?”

“Cleaning up?” she repeated, laughing. “Heavens, Del, what are they teaching boys down there in Amarillo?”

His awkward smile tugged at her heart.

“Thank you, Del,” she said sincerely. “Why don't you cut up the cobbler? I'm not too skilled with knives today.”

 

Over the next six months, Lucille had several things to note on the kitchen calendar: the Japanese surrender, her fifth wedding anniversary to Henry, the one-year anniversary of his death, and six months to the day since Del Mather and his sunset of a smile appeared at her door.

More than a farmhand, he had become her friend. Lucille had grown to cherish the simple things—having a meal companion just as interested in conversing as he was in eating; evenings on the porch watching the sun dip below the hillside, then later relaxing by the fireplace, listening to
The Jack Benny Program
. She even taught him how to waltz to Les Brown and Doris Day's hit, “Sentimental Journey.”

As she wiped her hands on a dishtowel, she smiled at the thought of waltzing eye-to-eye with him after insisting he remove his boots lest he crush her other set of toes.

 

He walked in the house and kicked the February snow off his boots as he inhaled the robust smell of his grandmother's Texas chili pouring out of the kitchen.

“Unbelievable, Lucille, smells just unbelievably good,” he said.

“I'm filling up your bowl now.”

“Be right in.”

Lucille had discovered two days after hiring Del that he was sleeping up against a rock at the foot of her property. She quickly moved him into the barn loft and then a month later into the spare bedroom.

He sat down at the table, tore into a slice of white bread, and heaved a large spoonful of chili into his mouth. “Now this is the kind of supper that sticks to your ribs on a cold New England night.”

“Have I mastered your grandma's recipe?”

“I'll say. You're a fine cook, Lucille. Haven't tasted a bad meal yet.”

“Del, we need to talk.”

“'Bout what?”

“You.”

His skin suddenly went pallid. “What about?”

“How you spend all your time with an old widow. Don't you want to go out and find a girl of your own?”

He dabbed chili sauce from the corner of his mouth with a grave look. “Lucille, I don't know what you're talkin' 'bout. I can't imagine spendin' my time with no one else.”

“But you're a healthy, attractive young man. You need to get yourself a girl before all the good ones are taken.”

“There ain't no girl in this town or state gooder, I mean better'n you. Heck, in my mind, you're the best gal in all of New England.”

She smiled bitterly as she cleared the table. “I guess you haven't been around Crowley's while they're gossiping about me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's rather obvious, Del. A young widow moves a handsome farmhand into her house? Oh, the gossip doesn't get much juicier than that.”

He got up and brought his bowl to her at the sink. “Why didn't you tell me sooner? I'm goin' to get a room in town tomorrow.”

She turned to him. “No, you're not.”

“But Lucille, I can't have no one talkin' like that about you.”

“Del, I'm no damsel in distress, remember? I don't care what people are saying. They're still buying my milk, eggs, and cobblers. So they shoot me the stink eye in church? That's why I stopped going.”

“Oh, now, Lucille, I can't stand by and let these people smear your good name. It just ain't right.”

She looked at him squarely in the eye. “There's a way to shut them up.”

“What? How?”

She wiggled her eyebrows.

“What? You don't mean marriage,” he shouted. “Why, Lucille, we ain't even kissed.”

She leaned in and did what she'd wished Del would do to her practically since the day he appeared on her doorstep. His lips were soft and warm and sent a tingle of warmth throughout her entire body.

He threw his arms around her and nearly lifted her off the floor, surprising her with his strength. She whimpered with desire as she began running her hands down the back of his sinewy body. She pressed herself against him, feeling through her thin sweater the cold steel of his belt buckle on her stomach. As he backed away slightly, her grip around his neck grew tighter.

“Del, would you mind if we skip the cobbler tonight?” Still kissing him, she led him toward the stairs, up to his bedroom.

He gently lowered her onto his bed and began kissing her deeply, more passionately than she ever dreamed it would be. Was it ever like this with Henry? She couldn't remember.

“You're the most beautiful woman I ever seen, Lucille,” he said, drowning her in his liquid blues. “I would love to make love to you.”

The gentle stroking of his fingers across her cheek and weight of his body awakened a frightening, powerful desire in her.

“I'm in love with you, Del. I know I probably shouldn't be, with Henry gone just over a year now, but I can't help myself. I just want you.” Her body writhed longingly beneath him.

“I love you, too, Lucille, so much sometimes it hurts.”

She grabbed his head and kissed him hungrily. “I want to be close to you, Del,” she said in a breathy whisper.

He kissed her neck as he slowly unbuttoned her dress. A delicate moan escaped her lips as his gentle hands caressed her breasts, his tongue titillated her nipples. She pulled the tail of his
shirt out of his waistband and stroked his skin.

“Your back is so smooth and soft,” she whispered. “Can I feel the rest of you?”

At that, he leapt up and turned off the light, leaving the shaded room in complete darkness.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I heard that sometimes girls get embarrassed the first time,” he said, fumbling with the zipper on his jeans. “Just shut your eyes and enjoy it.”

She shivered as she felt the slow, sensuous penetration. She tried to be quiet like a proper lady, but the intense pleasure forced moans and whimpers from her lips in spite of her efforts. His thrusts increased in strength and speed as her moans grew louder, and soon she was calling out, “Del, Del, oh, Del,” in a whirlwind of ecstasy until she shuddered in glorious release.

Afterward, she lay in his arms, spent, trying to catch her breath.

“Del, why didn't you take off your shirt?”

“Didn't seem like there was enough time.”

“Take it off now.”

“It's cold. I think the fire went out downstairs.”

He sprang from the bed, stumbled through the dark bedroom, and disappeared downstairs.

Lucille lay there, still quivering from the pleasure of his touch, listening to him move the screen in front of the fireplace and toss in a log. The fire popped and crackled. She smiled. It seemed whatever Del Mather touched roared to life with boundless intensity.

But what was taking him so long?

“Del, aren't you coming back?” she asked from the stairs.

“Why don't we have our coffee in front of the fire? It's nice and warm now.”

She buttoned herself up, slid into her slippers, and headed for the kitchen. After the way he made her feel, making him a pot of coffee was the least she could do.

 

They continued making love regularly and in the dark. Although Del physically satisfied Lucille to the point where she could think of little else during the day, she grew frustrated with not being able to touch him or feel his skin on hers while he carried her to the heights of pleasure.

As she lay in his arms, she made an idle threat she had no intention of following through with. “Del, if you don't let me touch you, I'm going to stop letting you touch me.”

She felt his sigh through his chest. “Don't say that, Lucille.”

“But Del, I'm just crazy about you, but I don't feel like I'm getting all of you. I'm tired of being made love to by a plaid work shirt.”