Homespun Hearts (42 page)

Cleav ran a lazy hand along one long, slim leg that embraced him. Those legs for a lifetime! And love, too! He placed a soft kiss on her temple as he smiled. This wild, long-legged hill girl was in love with him. She'd chased him and she'd caught him. At that moment he was sure that the future would bring cause for both of them to be grateful.

"What are you wiggling about?" he asked her.

"I feel funny down there," she admitted.

Cleav's smile disappeared. "You're hurt." He attempted to move away again.

"No," Esme assured him as she tightened her arms around him. "It doesn't hurt exactly. It just feels funny."

"Funny how?"

"Like I need to scratch or something."

As Esme watched, the concern melted in Cleav's eyes and a warmth of understanding crossed his face with a pleased smile.

"Scratch?" he asked with a teasing lilt. "Have you got fleas, Mrs. Rhy?"

"Fleas!" Esme was outraged, remembering his mother's suggestion of vermin in her bed the night before, and she reacted more strongly than she should have.

"I don't . . ." Furiously Esme struggled against him with the hope of slamming her strong young fist into his teasing smile.

"Oh, I think it's fleas," Cleav continued as he held her fast. In Esme's anger, the teasing quality of his voice escaped her. "No need to be ashamed, Hillbaby," he said. "Lots of women in these mountains get fleas."

She tried to bite him, but he moved his head back just in time.

"I do not have fleas!" she proclaimed loudly.

"I think you do," he insisted, still managing to hold her. "But don't worry, I'm going to take care of you."

"You . . . you ..." Esme couldn't think of words bad enough. She continued to fume and fight as Cleav slipped a hand between them. Luxuriantly he caressed the length of her torso.

"Sometimes those fleas get to a woman," he told her as his hand warmed her flesh. "She gets an itch that nobody but a man can scratch," he said. "Now, with a decent woman like yourself, that man's going to have to be your husband every time."

With a sudden shocked intake of breath, Esme realized his intention, and the fight went out of her. So warm, so firm, so gentle and curious, when his hand began teasing the damp brown curls, she melted.

"I bet that flea is right about here," he said hotly against her neck.

Esme gave a cry of pleasured surprise and arched her pelvis against him.

The teasing grin on Cleav's face softened as he watched her. His body hardened inside her and his lips touched her neck with sweet kisses and naughty bites.

"Save to graces!" Esme called out as she squirmed against the steady rotating pressing of his fingers. "Oh, Cleavis! What is this?"

"This is the part that doesn't hurt," he answered. He could never remember watching a woman before. Watching and feeling such pleasure in her pleasure. Had he always done it in the dark? He couldn't remember. At that moment he couldn't remember any woman any time before the one in his arms.

Clamping his jaw against his own desire, he was fully aroused again. "Are you sore?" he asked hoarsely. "I don't want to hurt you. You tell me when you want me to stop."

Esme grasped his buttocks in her hands and begged, "Don't ever stop!"

As she pressed for urgency, Cleav stayed her as best he could, rolling her supine to take control. She was eager and earnest, but she needed guidance. He was glad he was to be the one to guide her.

"Not so fast, Hillbaby," he whispered against her ear.

“Last time I lost control, but this time I'll be better."

"I'll be better, too," Esme promised breathlessly.

A humorous chuckle escaped Cleavis. "Don't try," he told her. "You're already better than I deserve."

"I am?"

"Oh, yes, sweet Hillbaby," he said as he kissed her. "You really pleased me, Esme. Last time you really pleased me. This time is for you, just for you."

But in the end it was not.

Esme squirmed and wiggled and strained for his attention. Cleav was tender and considerate, but ultimately his gentlemanly rhythm gave way to a lusty pounding that shook the floorboards.

"Yes, Hillbaby," Cleav pleaded through clenched teeth. "Come with me, fall through, let it go."

Opening her eyes, Esme meant to question his meaning. But the edges of her vision turned sunset pink, her eyes closed at the sight, and she cried out his name. She could do nothing but follow.

In the aftermath of near heaven, Cleav rocked her gently and whispered nonsense as she slowly returned to the day at hand. Their pulses still skittered, but their breathing slowed and they smiled at each other. Words were unnecessary.

He brought his mouth to hers. Opening just slightly, he applied a light pressure as he sucked gently at her sweet lips. She returned the slow seduction of his mouth and even had the audacity to flick her tongue against his teeth.

"You're a fast learner," Cleav told her as he reveled in her attention.

"You said yourself that I was very bright," she said.

"Very bright?" He gave an exaggerated look of puzzlement. "When did I say a thing like that?" he asked.

"Down by the fish ponds," she answered. "Don't you remember? The day you taught me to feed the fish."

Cleav sighed contentedly against her cheek.

"Oh, yes, Esme," he said. "I remember the day I taught you to feed the fish."

They kissed again, this time accenting the lushness of teeth and tongues with tiny pecks on noses and chins.

"Do you remember saying that I was bright?" she asked between love bites.

"I may have said it," he admitted. "But I was wrong, of course."

"Wrong!" Esme pulled back to get a good look at the laughter in his face.

"How bright can a woman be who rolls around on the floor with her husband in the middle of the afternoon?" he asked.

Esme answered his tease with a naughty pinch of his backside.

"About as bright as the man that rolls with her!"

Giggling, kissing, and exploring, the two made good use of the late afternoon sunlight to observe at close hand the partner that each had made for life.

She told Cleav about her father's warning about embarrassment. "I guess I'm nearly a sinner," Esme admitted. "But I don't feel one bit ashamed, and I'm laying here with you as naked as the day I was born."

"Not quite," Cleav corrected as he snapped the remaining garter.

"I guess it's 'cause I've been spending so much time trying to show you my legs, I plumb lost my modesty," she said.

"You've been trying to tempt me?" Cleav asked in mock outrage.

She had the good grace to blush.

"Well, I ... that first day . . . well, I saw that you liked my legs ..."

"Did you pull your skirt up to see if I would?" he asked.

"Of course not!" she snapped. "It was an accident At least it was that time," Esme admitted.

"For shame," Cleav chided. "Trying to lure me into sin just so I'd marry you."

"Well, how else . . ." she began, but as Cleav moved from her, she cut off her words.

Esme was dismayed as he pulled away from her to rise.

"I'm sorry, Cleav, I . . ."

Folding his arms across his chest Cleav leaned against the counter and raised a condemning eyebrow.

"Well, it didn't work, young woman," he stated flatly. "I resisted all your temptation and I'm sure heaven has properly noted the fact and marked it down in my favor."

"But you did marry me," Esme pointed out as she pushed herself up into a sitting position.

"But not because you beguiled me to it" he said.

That was true, Esme realized. All of her attempts at seducing him had been thwarted. He'd never sinned with her; people only thought that he had.

"You married me because of the town gossip," Esme said quietly.

Cleav leaned down and pulled up her chin to face him.

"Because of these garters," he said, pointing to the only clothing she wore.

Esme ran a hand across the one remaining guilty, pretty, pink and white confection of ribbon and lace.

"I guess you regret giving them to me," she whispered, a lump in her throat making it strangely difficult to speak.

Cleav didn't answer. He turned from her. Naked, he strolled to the far end of the store and opened one of the drawers in the counter.

Blushing, Esme assumed the precious moments of closeness were over and began to reach for her clothing. So quickly it was over. Just moments ago she'd felt so secure, so prized.

Cleav turned toward her, but Esme couldn't look at him. Now she felt naked. Now she felt ashamed.

Walking back to her, the counter drawer in his arms, he called to her.

"Sit still, Esme."

At his words she stopped searching for her camisole.

"Don't dress yet, Hillbaby," he said softly.

Coming to a stop beside her, Cleav stared down at his new wife, naked, on a remnant of rose crepe de chine. He gave her the smallest of smiles before upending the drawer over her head.

"What?" Esme started with surprise, then giggled with delighted laughter.

It was raining garters.

C
leavis stepped
out of the hatching house and spied Esme lying lazily and contentedly beside the brooders' pond.

"Shirker!" he called out as he casually headed toward her direction.

Esme rolled onto her back and held an arm across her forehead to block out the sun's glare. "I'm just resting, Mr. Rhy," she told him with a teasing hit to her voice. "Save to graces, I've only been married three days, and I swear to you, my husband doesn't let me get a wink of sleep all night!"

With a widening grin, Cleav dropped down on the grass beside her. "You bragging or complaining, ma'am?"

"Just stating the facts, sir," she responded with a snappy challenge.

Cleav reached over to give a playful tug to a loose strand of hair near her ear.

"Some of the facts, ma'am, but not all of them," he said lightly. "You forgot to mention how you wake up two or three times a night to come crawling all over the poor abused man."

Esme's smile brightened. "Us mountain folk are used to sleeping nine to a bed. Snuggling just comes natural for us," she declared.

Cleav leaned forward and placed a kiss on the end of her nose.

"It's getting to be pretty natural for me, too."

Having already decided that people didn't call the first month of marriage "honeymoon" for nothing, Cleav was content. Any hesitation he'd had about marrying Esme had evaporated like mud holes in a drought. She was loving, affectionate, fun to banter with, and eager for his touch. Surprisingly, he felt more relaxed around her than anyone he'd ever known.

There was a lot to be said for a relaxing woman. With Esme he was free to say and do what he wanted. She didn't know or care what was "proper behavior." She listened to his opinions, but she definitely had her own. But more than her good humor and her easygoing ways, she genuinely liked Cleav for himself and never hesitated to say so. That was a heady novelty.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked. "Except for grumbling about your new husband."

Esme's grin was downright naughty. "Just daydreaming a little. Wondering how scandalized the good people of Vader might be to catch a pair of newlyweds sparking in the grass in the middle of the afternoon."

Cleav raised an eyebrow. "Well, Mrs. Rhy, we will never know," he stated with firm good humor. "Not that you aren't an extreme temptation," he admitted. "But those fish are very hungry."

"Then let's feed them!" Esme agreed and hurried to her feet, holding out her hand to help him up.

He took it and kept it when he got to his feet. The two walked hand in hand to the meat house.

"I've been looking over all the fish," Esme told him. "Trying to get to know them better."

Cleav smiled.

"I still think they should have names," she said, then continued with a shrug. "But we've got more fish here than there's names in the Bible."

"Oh, I don't know. We could go through all the 'begats' and probably get enough," he said. "But I'm not about to call one of my fine trout Jehoshaphat."

Esme giggled.

Together they gathered up a bucket of the ground meat and carried the smelly mix back to the water's edge.

"These are my favorites," Esme told him as she indicated the full-grown fish swimming leisurely in the water. "They are just so pretty."

"The Rainbows," Cleav said, nodding his understanding. "They are a very pretty fish, and good fighters. But for my table, I prefer the Browns. Not much to look at, but fine eating."

"I can't even think about eating them!" Esme said, dismayed.

"That's what they're for."

"I know. No use getting sentimental about where your food comes from. But they are mighty pretty."

While he scattered in the other ponds, Cleav let her hand-feed. She loved feeding the brooders, and it pleased Cleav to watch her.

For her part, Esme thought that caring for his fish was a lot like caring for Cleav.

"What are these gray ones?" she asked him. "The ones that always run with the Rainbows." He looked to where she pointed. "That's a Steelhead," he answered. "It's the same as the Rainbow."

Esme looked up quizzically. "What do you mean the same? They look completely different."

Cleav nodded as he squatted down beside her.

"The Steelheads are the exact same fish as the Rainbows," he said as he watched a big silver gray Steelhead take a bite of meat from her hand. "They just grew up to look different."

"Why?"

"Well, you know that all the trout migrate."

"Migrate?"

"They go to other places downstream," he said. "That is, unless you've got them penned up in ponds like these."

"Why do they do it?"

Cleav shrugged. "Curious maybe," he suggested. "Or looking for the right mate. Nobody knows really, the trout just do it," he said. "But they always return to their spawning waters, the place where they were born."

Esme nodded.

"Now, all the trout travel," Cleav said. "But the Steelheads go the farthest. At one time in his life this big gray fish was swimming in the ocean."

"In the ocean?"

"Yes," Cleav told her. "It's the salt water that changes the Rainbow's pretty colors to gray."

"And his colors never come back?"

Cleav shook his head. "No, once he's been to the sea he's changed forever. The Steelhead can come back home here, stay for the rest of his days, and live among the other Rainbow trout, but he'll always be different because of where he's been."

The Steelhead came up for another bite and Esme watched him with a strange sadness in her eyes.

"He's like you, Cleavis."

"What?"

"He's like you. He'll never be a sea fish, but he's seen the ocean, and he's been marked by it."

She turned her head to face him. "You went to the city, and it changed you, too." Glancing around, she indicated her surroundings. "You'll always live here in Vader, but the city put its mark on you, and you'll never be like the rest of us."

Cleav was silent, staring at her.

The silence between them lengthened.

Esme looked down at the Steelhead swimming in the pond. "I'm gonna name this fish."

Cleav's eyes went to the streak of swishing silver beneath the water.

"All right," he said. "What name are you going to give him?"

A broad and bittersweet smile brightened her face.

"I'm gonna call him the Gentleman."

Together they finished the feeding. Esme hummed softly to herself, but Cleav was quiet, almost troubled. He'd come to care deeply for Esme, but it unsettled him that she could read him so easily. It made him feel uneasy. He should never have told her about his time in the city. He'd not shared that with a living soul. But at the time it seemed right to talk to Esme. And it felt so good that she could understand. It felt too good.

He wanted to be with her constantly, to tell her everything that happened, every curious word that was said, and every foolish thought or dream he had. It wasn't natural for a man to feel that way, he was sure.

Or maybe it was natural. Looking across the room at her examining the items stored at the far end of the hatching house, he wondered if this is what it was to be in love.

Esme Crabb was not at all the kind of woman he'd thought he could be in love with, the kind of woman he'd want for a wife. But it wouldn't be the first time he'd been wrong. That was the way of natural science. Each scientist had perceptions that he tried to prove. As often as not, a scientist proved himself wrong.

Had he proved himself wrong? Could he love Esme Crabb? Maybe he could.

"What is this thing?" Esme asked as she examined a large wood rectangular contraption with a metal crank.

"That's a roller spawning box," he answered, crossing the room to show it to her.

"A spawning box?"

"It's how I collect the fertilized eggs from the trout," he said. "It's a new idea, but I like it a great deal. It seems more natural for the fish."

He turned the crank to show her how it worked.

"The fish lays her eggs here on top. Once they are fertilized, the roller carries them down to this end compartment, where you can remove them to the hatching house without disturbing the fish."

Esme examined the box more closely. It was really three boxes within a box. The top layer was a mesh screen obscured by coarse gravel. Under this was an endless apron of fine wire-cloth that passed over rollers at the ends of the box that were turned by the crank. Esme was impressed by the ingenuity but curious about the purpose.

"Can't you just leave the eggs in the ponds?" she asked.

Cleav shook his head. "There are too many predators. Birds, frogs, and lizards consider fish eggs a treat. I hate to admit this, but a lot of my fish are so dumb they don't know family from food."

Her eyes widened. "You mean they eat their own babies?"

"It can happen. That's why I keep the small fry separate from their elders until they're old enough to defend themselves."

"It seems kind of sad," Esme said.

"For me, too," Cleav admitted. "Nature isn't always sweet and pretty the way we'd like it to be. I am a student of the natural order and have great admiration for it, but I believe there must be a balance."

"What kind of balance?"

"It's hard to explain," Cleav answered, wrinkling his brow as he sought the best phrasing. "Some men believe that only human needs are important. That trees should be cut to make farmland and dangerous animals should be destroyed routinely."

Cleav sighed and shook his head. "In contrast to that, there are many naturalists who would alter nothing. They believe that man should not use his superior intelligence to compete with animals and plants."

"But you don't agree with either view," Esme said.

"No," Cleav answered with a chuckle. "I agree with both." He turned his gaze to look out the doorway to the ponds beyond the hatching house.

"It's like a man with a house full of children," he said. "I believe it's his duty to see that his children have bread on the table every day."

He turned his eyes back to Esme. "But that doesn't mean that he can ignore his neighbor's children who may be hungry."

He reached for Esme's hand. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Esme smiled at him. "You are a wonderful man, Cleavis Rhy," she told him.

"I'm just a man," he said. "Trying to do what I think best. That's why I prefer keeping the fish as close to their wild heritage as I can. The spawning box helps me do that. It's more natural."

"More natural?" Esme asked. "More natural than what? What do other people do?"

"Well, most trout breeders simply wait till the fish are fertile and then catch them in nets," he told her. "They pick a fish up in their hands and then press on its abdomen. If it's a female and she's ripe, the eggs will just pour right out of her into a pan. They can be fertilized right in the pan and taken immediately to the hatching house. The fish don't really have much to do with it."

"But with the spawning box, they do?" Esme asked.

Cleav nodded. “Those trenches I've built at the far end of the ponds are called the races. When it's time for the female to lay her eggs, she wants to go as far upstream as she can and find a nice still place to leave them.

“I put this box in the far end of the races. I put lots of nice gravel on the top here for her nest and then I just leave it alone."

Cleav's eyes were bright with the excitement and pleasure of the memory.

"The female comes up to the top of the races, finds her nesting spot, and deposits her eggs. Her mate is watching her all the time, and when she leaves, he goes behind her and puts the milt on the eggs."

"Milt?"

Cleav hesitated. "Milt is the . . . well, it's what the male contributes to the egg to fertilize it."

"Is it like an egg, too?"

"No, it's more a fluid that the trout just spills on the eggs."

Esme's brow screwed up curiously. "Is it like people?" she asked in a cautious whisper.

"People?"

"You know," she said with a blush.

Cleav's mouth opened in surprise. Ladies never mentioned such things. As his shock receded, he laughed out loud.

"Yes, Esme," he said. "It's like people."

He pulled her into his arms and gave her a warm, loving hug. "I love being married to you," he said. It was the closest he could come to expressing his new feelings.

"Me, too," Esme admitted. "And I'm so glad we're people instead of trout."

"Why is that? Don't you know how to swim?"

"I swim just fine, Mr. Rhy," she said. "That wasn't at all what I was thinking about."

"What were you thinking?" he asked. "I'm always curious about the workings of your mind."

Esme giggled. "I was thinking that I wouldn't want us to be trout, 'cause then you wouldn't have any arms to hold me.”

He immediately released her and stepped across the room.

"That's true, Esme," he said. "But it wouldn't be so bad. Sometimes a look is enough."

To prove his point, Cleav allowed his eyes to slowly travel along Esme's body. His pupils dilated with the pleasure of the sight.

"Perhaps we could create a scientific experiment," he said, "to determine if the sense of touch is absolutely necessary to create intimacy between a husband and wife?"

Without waiting for her consent, Cleav's look became a hot, fluttery caress across her skin. His lips parted as he examined the curve of her jaw and the length of her neck. Slowly he moved his gaze to the swell of her bosom, the trimness of her waist, the curve of her hip, and allowed his heart to remember the long, slim legs hidden beneath her skirts.

Esme felt her flesh quiver beneath his gaze. Forcing her chin up, she straightened her shoulders and looked back. He was so handsome, so strong, so warm and wonderful. His heart was so full and he talked with such sincerity and concern for all things. It was difficult to keep herself from running into his arms. But the challenge in his eyes stayed her.

Her nipples pressed anxiously against the fabric that covered her. But she was not the only one who could be affected by a look.

Giving free rein to her own eyes, she watched as Cleav swallowed nervously. Her gaze wandered down his face to the broad strong shoulders that bore such care, the long sinewy arms that held her with such strength, and the large, long-fingered hands that he kept so clean and touched her with so tenderly. She felt a warmth of joy and possession as she allowed her eyes to travel the length of his masculine torso to the front of his trousers. He was already partially aroused. The sight brought a slight smile to Esme's face.