Homespun Hearts (46 page)

Cleav set Esme on her feet and tenderly wiped the long strands of rain-soaked hair away from her forehead. Her knees still trembled in passion.

"Touch me, Cleav," she whispered. "I need you to touch me."

"I need you, too," he told her longingly. "When this rain lets up a little, we'll make a run for the house. You'll not get a wink of sleep tonight, ma'am, I promise."

Esme smiled, shivering, as she wrapped her arms around his naked form and rubbed the tips of her breasts against the thick dark fur of his chest.

The feel of her body, her hardened nipples, made his loins tighten again.

"No, Hillbaby," he said with a sharp intake of breath. "Don't tease me now. It's torture to taunt me with what I can't have."

"I'm tortured, too," Esme murmured. "I'll be tortured to death before we make it back to our proper marriage bed."

Leaning forward, she grasped the sleek muscles of his arms as she searched his chest with her tongue. Finding a small, brown nipple with a point as hard as a two-penny nail, Esme nipped him gently.

Moaning, Cleav grabbed her shoulders firmly and turned her away from him. If he continued to look at her breasts, her lips, he would have to touch her. And he was aching for her already.

Holding her away from him so that his jutting arousal could not find soft haven in the curve of her buttocks, he spoke gently.

"You've got to stop, Hillbaby," he insisted.

"No!"

"Yes! I can't take much more."

"Make love to me," she begged.

Taking a deep and controlled breath, he tried to explain. "This is clearly a moment that calls for"—his voice cracked slightly—"civilized behavior."

A quiver went through Esme's flesh at his words.

"You're chilled," he whispered tenderly. "And we haven't even a blanket in here."

"Keep me warm, Cleav," she beseeched him desperately. "Your body can keep me warm."

Cleav swallowed with difficulty. "There's no place in here," he explained painfully through teeth clenched against his own desire. "Not enough room to lie on the floor, not even enough wall to lean up against."

The frustration in his own voice mirrored her own.

Esme looked back over her shoulder at him with despair.

"There must be some way." Her tone was frustratingly forlorn.

"Maybe there's no room to lay down on or lean against, but there's plenty of room to bend over."

Against his will, Cleav reached out and ran a trembling hand along the soft, perky backside so prominently displayed before him. "Esme, put your hands against your knees," he whispered.

Cleav had seen French postcards with pictures of men and women doing this exact thing. He, however, had never imagined he would be participating. It was strictly night-dream fantasy.

Tenderly he reached out and stroked the firm young flesh of her backside. When he allowed his hand to wander down between her slightly spread legs, she gave a deep sigh of pleasure.

"Do you really want this, Hillbaby?" he asked, shaking with desire.

Esme worried that she'd asked too much.

"Do you think I am very wicked?" she asked, dismayed at her own inability to practice ladylike behavior.

"Nothing between us is wicked, my love," he whispered as he leaned over her, stroking the sides of her breast and waist as his sex pressed against her.

She purred like a cat against his caress.

"Cover me, Mr. Rhy," she said with a naughty inflection. "Cover me like the stallion covers the mare."

Cleavis did not require a second invitation.

T
he morning sun
was just peeking over the top of the mountain. Cleav, impeccably groomed and ready for the workday, detoured along the banks of the trout ponds looking for any damage caused by the thunderstorm.

The memory of that wild collection of rain, wind, and lightning lingered just below the surface of his thoughts, evidenced by the naughty little ditty he hummed to himself as he made his survey.

Several of the screens were clogged with leaves and debris, which he quickly scooped out so the appropriate running ripple in the water resumed.

The screen at the lower end of the brooders' pond was blocked with more than branches and vegetation. Reaching down to clean it, Cleav brought to the surface a pair of windswept, rain-soaked, white muslin ladies' underdrawers.

The find brought a warm smile to Cleav's lips.

"So that's what happened to these."

Carefully wringing out the fabric, he let his thoughts roam back to the previous night. Their lovemaking had been as sweet and satisfying as ever, but the added excitement of the clamorous storm and illicit acts made it even more memorable.

It was near dawn when the rain finally let up. Cleav had wandered along the banks of the pond collecting their sodden clothing.

Giggling like naughty children, they'd covered themselves with as little of the cold, damp cloth as decently as possible and sneaked into their own house like thieved.

They hadn't bothered with sleep but warmed each other beneath the luxury of clean, fresh-smelling sheets and bedclothes.

The lack of rest should have left Cleavis exhausted. His jaunty walk, however, indicated otherwise. He took the scanty evidence of their wicked behavior to the hatching house. With a sly grin, he was tempted to hang the drawers from the tin roof, like a conqueror displaying a captured flag.

Propriety still had its place, he conceded, and carefully draped the unmentionable garment across the end of a hatching tank to dry. He had no intention, he decided then and there, of ever returning these underdrawers to his lawfully beloved wife. Dried and hidden in one of the drawers of the cabinet, they would be a souvenir of a very thrilling night together.

Whistling again, Cleav latched the door to the hatching house and headed for the store. He was late. Tyree and Denny would already be there wondering about him. With a shrug of unconcern, he found that punctuality no longer held much of a place in his heart. There was too much love there, and it crowded out the non-necessities.

"Morning, gentlemen," Cleav said as he came around the corner of the store and spied the two older men waiting impatiently for him to open up.

"Where on God's green earth you been?" Tyree asked him, clearly disgruntled. "It's pert-near noon, and we ain't even got our checkers laid out."

Casually slipping his watch from its pocket, Cleav checked the time. "It's precisely seven twenty-five," he told the men calmly. "No doubt there will be time for a game or two before luncheon."

Within five minutes Cleav had the store swept and open for business. The still-grumbling older men were only half-engrossed in their checkers as they speculated on what could have made the storekeep an hour and a half late that morning.

With complete unconcern, Cleav continued his tasks with a smile on his face and a whistle on his lips.

"Guess that preachin' last night was good for you," Tyree suggested.

Cleav looked up. His smile broadened. "Yes," he answered. "You could say I've been communing with heaven."

By midafternoon Cleav had already had more business than was typical for a weekday. With the revival in town, more and more families from the hills would be coming down to camp out in the valley. By Saturday night of the "homecoming," every soul in east Tennessee who'd been "saved," married, baptized, or had kin buried at the Fust Free Will Baptist Church would be in town for the service.

Cleav had his usual "revival days specials," but this year he couldn't make himself concentrate on business.

In his mind all he could see was the beautiful woman that he'd married, and all he could think about was how much he loved her.

When the small bell over the door tinkled, for perhaps the dozenth time in the past hour, Cleav glanced up to see Sophrona.

Strangely she glanced guiltily in both directions, before entering the store. A hasty, uncomfortable perusal of the occupants of the room apparently reassured her. Hurrying to a deserted corner of the store, Cleav watched her uncharacteristically enthusiastic examination of the several types and sizes of washboards available for purchase.

Puzzled, Cleav finished his business with his current customer and then headed across the room.

He'd hardly spoken a word to his former sweetheart since his marriage. It wasn't that he felt he should. His break with Sophrona had been clean and well understood between them both. He knew she'd been embarrassed by his apparent fickleness, but she was clearly not pining away for him. He wondered, in fact, if she'd cared for him at all. They really had very little in common and even less to say to each other.

"Afternoon, Miss Sophrona."

"Oh!" The young woman startled as he reached her side. As she turned and quickly recognized him, she sighed with relief.

"Oh, it's you, Cleav," she said softly. Recovering herself, she made a swift restatement. "Good day, Mr. Rhy. It's so pleasant to see you."

Cleav gave her a polite bow. If she preferred to act like an acquaintance, Cleav was certainly courteous enough to allow her to do so. "It's a lovely afternoon," he commented.

"Yes," Sophrona agreed and quoted piously, "This is the day the Lord hath made.'" Then halfheartedly she added, "That is, if it doesn't rain."

"Of course," Cleav answered politely and secretly reminded himself that he'd developed a new appreciation for rain.

Miss Sophrona seemed distinctly uncomfortable and that distressed Cleav. More than likely they would both live in Vader for a long time. It was best for all concerned if they could forget their courting, or at least to look back at it as a useful folly.

"Were you looking for something?" Cleav asked her. He was almost certain that she intended to answer negatively when the customer bell rang softly behind him.

An anxious, almost frightened look came over Sophrona's face. She rubbed her hands together nervously and then focused on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, Cleav, as if unsure where to look next.

"Yes, I want to purchase this!" she declared with more decisiveness than was necessary.

Hurriedly she directed her attention to the merchandise on the shelf behind her. Cleav followed her gaze. Puzzled, he glanced back to her face. "You want to buy a washboard?"

Sophrona's cheeks were flaming, and Cleav sensed that she was looking at something behind him. Glancing back, he saw only Armon Hightower, totally absorbed in the week-old newspaper lying on the rack across the room, oblivious to them.

"Yes, I want a washboard," Sophrona said, capturing Cleav's attention once again. "Our old one is nearly worn out."

His expression even more mystified, Cleav replied, "I can't imagine why it's wearing already. Mrs. Tewksbury bought it just last month. A washboard's meant to last a lifetime." Nodding firmly, he added, "Tell your mother to bring it in, and I'll make good on it."

A chuckle from behind him made Sophrona's cheeks flush even more scarlet. Cleav looked back at Hightower. Still reading, Armon had obviously found something amusing in the newspaper.

The week was a busy, hectic one. The store was so crowded, Cleav had to call upon both his mother and Esme to help him.

His mother's neuralgia was much improved. But rather than being more help in the store, she became increasingly less. To her son's amazement she had taken a sudden interest in planting flowers all around the house. That was where Cleav discovered her one afternoon, wearing an old faded calico dress and a straw hat that was easily as old as Cleav himself.

"Surely, Mother," he said, "you don't have to spend your days crawling around on your hands and knees in the dirt."

She looked up at him, slightly bemused. "I've always loved to garden. I know it's not as genteel a vocation as embroidery or tatting, but truth is, I never was much good at either one." Sighing, she added, "Growing things was always a special gift to me. But if it truly embarrasses you, I won't do it."

"Embarrasses me?" Cleav was dumbfounded.

"I know you want me to be the lady and all," she said. "And I've truly tried. But all this beneficial conversation and delicate living can wear a body down." Mrs. Rhy wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve.

"I was just the helpmate that your father needed me to be," she said. "After he died, I tried to be the partner that you needed, also. I gave up my way of living to follow yours. I knew that you needed me to do that." Eula Rhy reached a dirty-gloved hand toward her son, and he didn't hesitate to take it.

"You needed me but not anymore. You've a woman of your own now to be beside you," she said. "So if it's all the same to you, I'd like to get my life back to where it used to be."

"Mother," Cleav said, genuinely appalled. "You know I would never ask you to give up anything. I only want what's best for you. This heat and the dampness of the ground could ruin your health."

Eula waved away his concern. "I've never felt better in my life. Besides," she added, "Brother Yo tells me it's a sin in this world to go counter to my own nature."

Cleav's eyes widened in shock. "Since when has Yohan Crabb become your spiritual adviser?"

"I am my own 'spiritual adviser,' young man," his mother snapped. "Now, if it shames you to see me with my hands in God's earth, say so."

Disconcerted, Cleav answered contritely, "Of course I'm not ashamed. Mother. If you truly enjoy gardening, certainly you should do it," he answered her honestly.

Giving his mother a kiss on the cheek, he started back toward the store, wondering if he could have said the same thing a few months ago. Somewhere in the last few weeks the demons that had plagued him since his days in Knoxville had gotten misplaced.

Even when trying, he could hardly conjure up any concern at all about the opinion of people who hardly knew him.

With Eula otherwise occupied, Esme was called upon more and more to help out in the store. She didn't seem to mind; in fact, she seemed to thrive on talking and joking with the customers, sorting and stacking the merchandise, and delighting herself with a difficult sale.

On Thursday and Friday she'd worked right beside Cleav from daylight until dark, even spelling him when he left to take care of the fish.

Cleav worried that she was working too hard.

"Your father could lend a hand down here," he suggested gruffly.

Esme shook her head. "Pa's just Pa," she told him. "We've got no right to expect him to be anything else."

Cleav looked at his wife and thought about his mother.

"That's really the way you feel, isn't it?"

Esme looked at him curiously. "That's the only way there is," she told him honestly. "People are just who they are. The only one you can change is yourself, and it takes a good deal of sweat and worry to even make inroads there."

Cleav reached over and pulled his wife into his arms. Tenderly he brought his lips down to taste the sweetness of her own.

"Ain't it a sight!" Denny hollered to Tyree, who dutifully squinted at the embracing couple.

"Who's it?" he asked.

"The newlyweds!" Denny yelled back.

T
he revival's
finale on Saturday night had all the makings of a true camp meeting. A half hour before the singing started, every seat under the brush arbor was filled, and all around the space outside families sat together on blankets covering the grass to hear Reverend Wilbur Boatwright's sermon.

Eula, who had arrived early to visit and gossip, saved half a pew for the rest of the family.

Esme and the twins had hardly sat down before Mrs. Tewksbury approached them. "Have you seen Sophrona today?" she asked.

Esme was momentarily startled. "No," she answered. "Well, maybe," she said thoughtfully. "She might have been in the store this morning. I'm not sure. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," the preacher's wife said. "She left early this morning to visit a sick friend. I just expected her to be back by now."

"Who's sick?" Agrippa asked tactlessly. "I ain't heard of nobody sick with the revival in town."

"I'm sure she'll be here shortly," Mrs. Tewksbury replied, carefully dismissing the question as she turned to return to her seat.

Esme's curiosity was piqued, but after several nonchalant perusals of the crowd, she gave up. Sophrona was probably there, she decided. She just had the good sense to get some visiting in before the sermon started.

The sermon did start, on time. And to Esme's mind, it ran on forever. It was clear, almost from the start, that the evangelist was not in his best form.

As is sometimes the case, the freshest, clearest, most important sermon can be presented at the wrong time and fall flat upon its face. Esme was quite sure that that was what was happening.

The crowd stirred restlessly. Babies cried. Toddlers whined. Several boys in knee-pants were called away from the service by fathers, presumably for a visit to the woodshed.

The crowd out on the grass, who would have had trouble hearing the best of orations, quickly lost interest in this one and began to visit among themselves. The low buzz of consistent whispering soon escalated to a clatter of voices that even distracted the "amen corner."

Having seen a preacher lose a crowd before, normally Esme would have felt sorry for Brother Wilbur. It was difficult, however, because the stout, red-faced little man refused to accept defeat. On and on his sermon went. Screaming at the top of his lungs, one hour passed and then two. It was as if he was punishing the congregation for their inattention.

Esme squirmed uncomfortably in her seat and glanced over at the twins. Both sat with elbows on their knees, bored but bravely holding their chins in their hands.