Texas Born (20 page)

She had been afraid, but it had felt so good.
Love-making became a drug like no other. She felt compelled to be
used by Chester Savage, to feel him inside her, to clamp her naked
legs around his naked buttocks. She searched her soul and kept
telling herself that something which felt so good . . . which was
so beautiful . . . simply couldn't be wrong. She decided that Aunt
Arabella had once lied to her: sleeping with a man did not hurt at
all. On the contrary. What it did do was fill her with the most
exquisite ecstasy she had ever known to exist, and she lived and
breathed solely for those heady moments. She thrived on the
passion. Her face glowed with radiance; she had come alive as she
had never come alive before.

Arabella noticed the change in her and told
Reverend Flatts: 'I'm so glad Phoebe has finally got over her
parents' death, the poor thing. I was worried about her, she was so
listless. The fresh air is doing her a world of good. I'm so glad
you bought her that horse.''

Phoebe, overhearing her aunt, had smiled to
herself. If Aunt Arabella only knew! she thought. But
she
knew better than to tell her. Still, she wished she had a friend to
confide in, to share her exhilarating secret life with. But there
was no one. She had made no friends. Since coming here, she had
remained aloof from everyone except Chester Savage.

Their trysts continued like clockwork. And
then, suddenly, Chester missed one of their prearranged meetings.
For three panic-stricken days Phoebe returned to their place of
rendezvous. For two days he did not show up. She waited outside the
shed for hours, pacing hysterically, her ears searching the wind
for the sound of his horse, her mind racing over the terrible
things that might have happened to him. She imagined accidents.
Illnesses. Even death.

On the third day, he was there, waiting for
her.

She was so flooded with relief that she ran
into his arms and burst into tears. And he held her close,
peppering her with kisses, whispering the sweet words she needed so
desperately to hear. She summoned up her courage to speak of
marriage, but his hungry lips were always on hers; then they
coupled again and again. There was simply no time to talk. Not
after so many days apart.

Somehow, the lovemaking seemed enough. He was
back. She had him wrapped around her in more ways than one. He
needed
her. Obviously, no one else could satisfy him. He was
hers
.

Or so she thought.

Over the next few months he missed more and
more of their meetings, but his explanations were always smooth and
soothing and sounded sincere. Besides, she wasn't about to doubt
him. He was her lover and she needed to believe that whatever he
told her was the truth. She had to believe that, for if she didn't.
. .

. . . If she didn't, then her dreams of
capturing him for herself could never come true.

She floated; she soared. 'Phoebe Savage,' she
repeated to herself over and over, falling in love with the sound
of it more and more. 'Phoebe Savage. Mrs. Chester Savage.'
The
young, powerful, exceedingly beautiful Mrs. Chester Savage
.

She was at the top of the world.

She was not ready for the crash.

For he did not see her again.
Ever
.

Desperate, she saddled her horse and rode out
to the Savage estate, a sprawling complex of buildings at the edge
of the flour mill. When she reached the majestic pillared house,
the butler told her that Mr. Savage was out of town on business.
'Would you like to speak to the missus, ma'am?' he asked.

She had nodded, expecting his mother. But the
cool, haughty young beauty was obviously not the woman who had
borne him.

'I'm Phoebe Flatts,' Phoebe said softly.
'I've come to see your brother.'

The woman laughed softly. 'So you're the
one!' she said with a hint of laughter in her voice as her amber
eyes appraised Phoebe thoughtfully.

'Pardon me?' Phoebe asked in confusion. She
expected his sister to put her arms around her, perhaps kiss her on
the cheek. But no matter what the reception, she would try her best
to make friends with her.

'You're here about Chester, aren't you?' the
woman asked.

Phoebe smiled and nodded. 'Yes. Will he be
back soon?'

'I certainly hope so,' the woman said. 'But
of course, I have a vested interest in him. You see, he's not my
brother. He's my
husband
. ' Seeing Phoebe freeze, she added,
'Don't you read the papers? We were married only last week in St.
Louis.'

Phoebe took a step backward as icy chills
rippled through her.
This can't be true!
she thought.
This can 't be happening to me. This is a nightmare. I'll awaken
at any moment—

'In a way, I have a lot to thank you for,'
the new Mrs. Chester Savage said saccharinely. 'After all, you've
been a great help to me, you know. What Chester couldn't have with
me, he had with you. But take my advice.' She smiled
conspiratorially and lowered her voice. 'From one woman to another,
next time,
don't put out
. Men love to be with women who do,
but they never marry them.'

And she slammed the door with such force that
Phoebe felt the force of the wind.

'Noooo!' she wailed shrilly, her voice
warbling with pain. She took a faltering step backward, her hands
covering her ears.
'Noooo!
It can't be true!'

Then she turned and fled the vast estate with
its majestic house, the house she would have given her eyeteeth to
live in as her own. The house which, she had been certain, would be
hers. Which now belonged to someone else.

Someone who had played a different game for
the very same man. Someone who had won while she had lost.

Phoebe never remembered how she managed to
get home. Nothing registered in her consciousness. Nothing but the
terrible pain and confusion which filled her with knifelike stabs.
In a split second her beautiful, controlled world had
disintegrated, and she wanted to die. Yet, despite her pain, one
thought instinctively rose to the surface of her tortured mind.

No matter what happened, no one must ever
know.

She stumbled through the successive days and
weeks in a daze. Somehow, the masks she pulled down over her face
and heart must have been convincing. No one seemed to suspect that
anything was wrong. No one seemed aware of her pain.

The days were sheer torture. Only the nights
were soothing, when her subconscious would conjure up dreams of
Chester Savage. When his warm dream lover's arms would once again
be around her, bringing her exquisite love and pleasure. Yes, the
nights were bearable . . . but they were far too short.

She receded into her books. Sang in the
choir. Went through the ordinary motions of daily life. The glow of
lust and ecstasy that had lit her from within was gone now,
replaced by an undetectable countenance of shame and sorrow.

Now, sitting at the railroad station, waiting
for Zaccheus, she raised her head slowly. In the distance, she
could hear the long, drawn-out whistle of the approaching
train.

Suddenly it was the sound of salvation.
Carrying with it someone who could feed the fires that Chester
Savage had kindled within her. Arriving on the train.

The first thought that crossed his mind was:
She's
grown even more beautiful.

The first thought that crossed her mind was:
He's not as bad as I remember. Rumpled, perhaps, by the journey,
but neat and clean. Presentable. Rather attractive, in fact. No,
he's not bad at all. He's no Chester Savage, but I could do a lot
worse
.

Phoebe flashed Zaccheus her most dazzling
smile and forced herself to take his arm and squeeze it
affectionately. Unwittingly she had a vision of squeezing Chester's
arm, but instantly blotted out that thought. She might as well face
the facts. Chester Savage was gone from her life. She must forget
him.

Reverend Flatts drove and they sat side by
side in the back of the buggy. Phoebe unfolded the lap robe and
pulled it over their knees, her clever fingers brushing his legs.
The buggy rattled, swaying and bumping across the rutted road into
the night, and they were repeatedly jostled against one
another.

She said softly, 'I've missed you. I waited a
long time to see you.'

Zaccheus turned toward her, his eyes glowing
in the light of the white country moon. 'You have?' He sounded
pleased.

She did not meet his gaze. 'I have.'

He didn't speak.

'It's so quiet here,' she said with a sigh.
'Nothing exciting ever happens.' She laughed quietly. 'Of course,
you know that.' She paused, hating having to show her hand by
asking the question, but it was imperative that she know just where
she stood. 'Did you make any . . . friends . . . at college?'

'A few.' He swallowed nervously, feeling
simultaneously thrilled, yet peculiarly discomfited, by her
closeness.

A note of caution crept into her voice. 'Were
they all . . . ministerial students?'

'Yes.'

No hesitancy there
, she thought with
satisfaction.
So far, so good
. Her voice relaxed. 'Now that
you're back, I hope we can see quite a bit of each other. That is,
if I'm not intruding on someone else's . . .' She shrugged
delicately. 'You know. Territory.' Her eyes glowed at him in the
dark.

'No, no, you're not,' he said positively. 'Do
you want to see me? I mean,
really
want to?'

'Of course I do!' She smiled, lowered her
voice, and hooked one arm through his. 'Remember the way you used
to follow me around while you were working outside the house?
Always sneaking little sideways glances at me? I'll never forget
that. As soon as I'd turn a corner, sure enough, there you
were—clipping or pruning right behind me! I used to feel you were
my shadow.' Her laughter tinkled in the night. 'You always seemed
to be lurking around me.'

'I'm sorry. Did I . . . annoy you?'

'Hmmmm. Anyway, times change, and so do
emotions.' She summoned up the warmest sincerity she could muster.
'I found I missed you. And now you're finally back!' She disengaged
her arm from his, clapped her delicate hands together, and held her
index fingers, as if in prayer, poised at her lips. She looked at
him expectantly. 'Did you bring me a present?'

'A present?'

'You know . . .' She waved one hand
deprecatingly. '. . . A little something from college. Don't young
men usually bring . . . their lady friends a little something? You
know. A souvenir?'

'Oh, I. . .'he stammered, suddenly
embarrassed, and felt his face flushing. 'Yes, I . . . I brought
you something,' he managed.

'Oh! What?' She sat forward eagerly.

Reluctantly he reached into his trouser
pocket and touched the little velvet case with his fingers. It felt
smooth and warm. For a moment he gripped it fiercely. Inside it was
the sterling chain and the Venetian glass pansy charm. He had
bought it for his mother, not for Phoebe.

How stupid of me!
he cursed himself
silently.
I should have bought Phoebe something too. Why didn't
I think of it?

But even if he had, his finances wouldn't
have permitted it.

He hesitated, his mind in sudden turmoil. He
knew how much his mother would treasure the keepsake. Perhaps he
should tell Phoebe that, in his hurried departure, he'd forgotten
her present. Or had lost it. But the warm reception he'd received
from her filled him with pride, massaging his male ego and
cementing, once and for all, the feelings he'd always harbored for
her. Somehow he had to reciprocate the warmth she was showing him.
He had to please her. Prove he loved her.

Slowly he pulled the velvet box out of his
pocket. 'Here,' he said quietly, handing it over.

'Oooooh!' she squealed, seizing the case and
hurriedly lifting the lid. She peered closely into the box, trying
to make out the shape in the moonlight. 'A necklace!' she breathed.
'Oh, Zaccheus! You shouldn't have! I mean, I'm so glad you did, but
nobody's ever given me anything like this before!' She leaned
sideways and pecked his cheek.

Zaccheus smiled shyly and looked down into
his lap. He'd always been attracted to Phoebe, but he'd never dared
believe that she could feel the same way about him. Did she
really
like him that much?

Slowly he lifted his hand and touched the
spot on his cheek where she had kissed him. It tingled warmly.

It seemed too good to be true.

Half an hour later they pulled up to the Howe
farm. The tiny cabin windows glowed with weak kerosene light.

Zaccheus hopped off the buggy, swung his
suitcase to the ground, held Phoebe's proffered hand between both
of his, and then waved to Reverend Flatts. He stood there watching
the buggy drive off until it was completely swallowed up in the
night.

He glanced around and breathed deeply. The
night wind was sweet and moist, exactly as he'd remembered it.
Cicadas and crickets chirped shrilly; wind rustled in the trees.
From somewhere in the distance the breeze brought the sound of a
barking dog wafting toward him.

Suddenly he felt all alone. Visitors to the
farm had always been rare events, and he remembered how everyone
always rushed out to meet anyone who arrived. But no one came out
to meet him.

Slowly he made his way up to the cabin's
rickety porch and set down his suitcase. He stood staring at the
door's weathered wood before turning the knob. Then he pushed the
door open and stepped into a room alive with flies. They swarmed
over every surface.

The tattered curtain dividing the cabin was
drawn aside, and Zaccheus could see his mother lying quietly on the
bed. Her eyes were closed, and her chest rose and fell with the
rasping, labored breaths she took. The noisy snores which
punctuated them came from Nathaniel. Keeping vigil beside the bed,
his father had fallen asleep in the rocker, his hands folded in his
lap, his head tilted sideways against his shoulder.