A Place Called Harmony (24 page)

She nodded slightly as he opened his mouth over the side of her throat. When she stiffened in his arms, he spread his hands wide and moved them along her exposed flesh, warming her, exciting her, learning her every curve.

His chest was solid against her back as his hands pressed her to him until he felt her relax and move with the pleasure they were both enjoying. He moved his big hand along her leg.

She froze in his arms.

Realizing how bold he’d been, he pulled back and turned her so he could meet her gaze. She was looking at him now, not frightened, but nervous. “Close your eyes, dear. I’m not finished touching you.”

She nodded slightly and his hand pressed against her skin just below her waist once more. Her body shook as he leaned forward and kissed the valley between her breasts as his hand pressed into her soft flesh. His fingers brushed her gently and he felt her breathing quicken.

He pulled her to him and kissed her cheek. “Did you like that?” he whispered in her ear.

He caught her answer in a kiss that lasted a long time. When he finished she was warm and relaxed in his arms, but he made no more advances.

“Thank you for letting me touch you, dear,” he found himself saying as she rested against his chest. She was soft and relaxed in his arms, cuddled close, content not to make a sound. “If you’ve no objection I think we might do this again.”

She answered by placing her hand over his, resting just below her breast. Her touch seemed far more intimate than anything they’d ever done.

He stood with her in his arms and carried her to the bed. When he laid her down, he kissed her again, harder, bolder, knowing that he might be bruising those perfect lips. As the kiss turned to fire, he pressed his chest down against her soft breasts, wanting her to know the weight of him above her. He feared she might be frightened, but she only sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer over her.

God help him, he wanted his wife. This wife. He’d turned away from every woman who’d offered comfort or her bed, but he couldn’t turn away now. She satisfied a hunger so deep in him he feared for his sanity.

Karrisa held tight as if her need for him were the same, but when he felt her tears, reason returned. He broke the kiss and held her gently as she cried.

When she stopped, he kissed her forehead. “Want to tell me why you cry?”

“No,” she whispered.

He stood and pulled the covers over her. She hadn’t invited him to her bed, and he wouldn’t go without an invitation. “Good night, dear.”

“Good night, Clint,” she answered, already sounding more asleep than awake.

He walked to his bedroll by the window, realizing how much he cared for her. He’d sworn she would never matter to him. Only she was so wounded, maybe too wounded inside to ever recover. He didn’t know if the passion they shared would help or hurt her, but he did know that he had to let her set the pace.

After he knew she was asleep, Clint silently slipped from their room and went downstairs. He stepped over Ely and Harry, still snoring, and walked outside, heading straight for the stream. The spring rain helped cool his desire for his wife, but he needed to dunk his body and stay under until he could calm all the fires burning inside him. He never would have guessed that a shy, thin woman who wouldn’t even look at him most of the time would be the one to fill him with desire. He wanted her, needed her. When his hand spread over her tummy, he wanted his seed inside her growing. When he’d put her to bed, he’d wanted to stay forever with his body pressed over hers.

Without pulling off his clothes, he walked into the stream, guessing he was going mad. Completely drunk in need for a woman who barely talked to him. He’d never known such passion, such longing. Never.

Ten minutes later, when he walked into the shelter of the barn’s overhanging roof, Patrick frightened a year off his life by stepping out of the shadows.

“Going swimming this time of night, Truman?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.” Clint tried to get his heart out of his throat. He’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t even been aware of his surroundings. That was something that never happened, and it was dangerous.

“Only one reason I can think of that a man would go for a cold swim this time of night. You didn’t even bother to take your clothes off.”

“They were already wet from the rain.”

Patrick laughed. “Like I said, strange behavior for a man who should be in bed with his wife about now. Something wrong? Maybe I could help.”

Sorry he hadn’t gone swimming with his Colt in tow, Clint answered, “I’m going back to sleep. McAllen, I suggest you do the same.” When Patrick didn’t move, Clint added, “It might be good for your health.” He studied the man ten years his junior. “I’m up because I needed a bath. Why are you up?”

“I’m thinking about my own death,” Patrick complained. “You ever can’t sleep for thinking? I swear, worrying about when I’m going to die keeps me awake more and more.”

Clint growled. “It’s starting to keep me awake too. You’re not going to die tonight, Patrick, so go back to bed.”

“And you, Truman, are you going back to bed? Maybe try again to . . . sleep. At your age body parts are bound to have trouble working now and then.”

Clint swore he could see the kid smiling even in the dark. “I take that back. There might be a chance, if you keep talking, that you could die tonight.”

Patrick laughed, not the least frightened. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard when you get older it’s hard to keep up the pace. Once you’re over thirty, it’s all downhill.”

When Clint reached for Patrick, he was gone, vanished back into the night, leaving only his laugh behind.

Clint headed for the trading post not knowing who was the bigger fool, McAllen for worrying about dying all the time or him for standing in the rain thinking of wringing his neck.

As rain tapped against their one window, Karrisa watched her husband come back into their tiny room upstairs. Soundlessly he removed his wet clothes. She’d studied him since the night they’d met and knew far more about Clint Truman than he probably knew about himself.

His body was strong, powerful, and well built, but that wasn’t what she admired most about him. He’d never raised his voice to her or said one unkind word. He might storm at Patrick or cuss when he thought none of the women were listening, but there was a gentleness about him few saw.

He never looked in a mirror except the tiny one when he shaved. She guessed that if he had, all he would see was the scar running along the side of one jaw. A scar everyone else barely noticed.

He always asked about the baby and took Danny often to hold. This hard man loved children. When he’d touched her below her waist, she’d wondered if he was thinking that his child might grow there one day.

She liked the way he touched her, always hesitant as if he needed assurance that his caress was welcome, never demanding. He might not know much about women, but he knew how to make her feel cherished.

The watery moonlight danced across his wide shoulders. Her husband wasn’t handsome like the captain, or fun-loving like Patrick, but he was exactly what she needed. The sight of his body made her long to touch him. Those strong shoulders seemed to hold the weight of the world on them. She needed not just to be protected from a world she’d found frightening, but she needed him to care for her. Somehow when her mother died and her father sent her away to live with cousins she didn’t know, Karrisa had fallen into a pit. No one cared about her and she had few skills to survive.

A year ago when she’d screamed in pain, no one had helped her. Later when she’d cried and told how she’d been beaten and raped, they’d laughed and told her to toughen up; things like that happen when a girl has to work.

Now she knew if she ever screamed, Clint would give his life to protect her, and when she cried, he held her close. He was the one person who cared about her, but one was enough.

He cared. He might never say the words, but he cared. He had been gentle and kind from that first night. Once she lost her fear of him, she knew she had to open her heart to him. With each touch she knew he alone could wash away all the pain she’d been through.

He might never say he loved her. It didn’t matter. He was showing her he cared and that was enough.

Captain Gillian Matheson

The morning after Granny Gigi’s funeral dawned sunny, and everyone seemed to want to be outside in the light. Gillian organized the men, trying to remember that they had not enlisted and he was no longer a captain, but his suggestions came out in typical military manner. He guessed they were all used to him by now or maybe respected him enough to follow orders. Or there was always the chance they thought him mad and simply didn’t want to argue with the insane.

The Roma boys pitched in, heading out to Truman’s place with the first load of lumber, but Harry Woolsey complained of a headache from too much whiskey the night before and stayed behind on the porch of the trading post. He promised to check on the prisoner, but driving a supply wagon seemed to be his only occupation and at forty he didn’t want to start another.

With the McAllen brothers directing Truman, the Roma boys, and him, the frame of the first house was up by noon. When the women came out with all the boys loaded in the back of the wagon, lunch became a picnic.

Gillian, as he sat on a blanket with his wife, watched Truman through the wooden frame. The big man was showing his quiet wife around their house. A kitchen big enough for a table by the window, a bedroom facing east, a small parlor, and a room just for her sewing ran the length of the house. She kept dancing around Truman as if she thought the place was grand and he’d been the only one hammering all morning.

Since Truman kept nodding and writing something on a piece of paper, Matheson guessed she was ordering furniture. They were the only couple who’d arrived with nothing but clothes.

When the Trumans finally joined the group, Matheson relaxed. Maybe Patrick would stop talking about death now that the women were present. The young man might be a gifted carpenter, but he’d been preoccupied far too long about this fear of dying. The others were worried. Gillian had seen it before in young recruits in the army. Usually, after a few battles they stopped worrying about dying and just started being happy to be alive.

Truman walked up behind the group as Patrick said, “I can’t help it if I worry about things. Bad things happen and I figure it’s about my turn to roll the dice and take my chances.”

“About what?” Truman asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer. Everyone knew the answer. Even the Roma boys who knew little English probably knew.

Patrick took the bait. “About my death. I can feel it coming and there’s not a thing I can do about it.”

Truman moved directly behind Patrick. “I say we test the theory right now.”

Patrick straightened suddenly and lifted his hands. Worry blended with fear in his eyes as he looked at the others.

Everyone froze. Truman must have pulled his Colt on Patrick. Gillian opened his mouth to order the big man to stand down, but Truman spoke first.

“What’s the matter, McAllen, you still worried?” Truman said in deadly calm as if he’d already killed this morning and one more wouldn’t matter. “Death is knocking on your door right now, kid.”

“I’m worried because you’re sticking a gun in my back,” Patrick whispered. “It’s probably got a hair trigger and will fire if you breathe too deep.”

“What makes you think I’ve got a gun pointed at you?”

Patrick’s face paled, but his voice remained strong. “I know what the barrel of a Colt feels like.”

“Good,” Truman said. “If you believe life is predestined and you’re going to die soon, then if I pull the trigger, your vision comes true, but if I pull the trigger and you don’t die by some miracle, then you’ll admit all this is in your mind.”

“The feel of your Colt is not in my mind,” Patrick whispered.

“Right. Now we’re dealing with a fact, not a worry.” Truman shifted slightly and everyone in the group saw the handle of a hammer he had shoved between Patrick’s shoulder blades, but no one moved.

“So, settle your mind. Do you live or die?”

No one breathed as Patrick straightened, as if awaiting his fate.

Annie could not keep silent. “Patrick, he holds a hammer, not a gun.”

Patrick looked back and relaxed, then grew angry. “That was a dirty trick to play, Truman. I could have had a heart attack or something.”

Truman shook his head. “Even if it had been a gun, kid, you could have avoided death. Nothing’s for certain. If you use your head and keep calm, you can walk away sometimes no matter what danger you face. Right, Captain Matheson?”

Gillian nodded. While the women finished lunch, he watched as the once-soldier showed McAllen how to swing his hand and twist if a real barrel ever rested at his back. Chances were good, if he moved fast out of the line of fire and hit the gun as he twisted, that the shot would go wild. From the way Truman demonstrated, Gillian would bet that he’d used the trick a few times. Truman probably had his own war stories to tell, but Gillian didn’t know if they’d ever become good enough friends for Truman to open up.

“That’s a skill they teach every soldier, Patrick.” He stood and joined the others. “May you never have to use it.”

As fast as he’d turned angry, McAllen went back to his usual happy self. “Thanks, Truman, for the lesson and the fright. You scared the worry right out of me.” He shook Truman’s hand. “You know, if I could just teach you to hammer a straight nail as quickly, we’d have this house done by dark.”

Truman took a halfhearted swing at Patrick, and then they both laughed. As they helped the wives and kids into the wagon, everyone paused when Truman leaned down and kissed Karrisa on her cheek. She blushed and turned away, but Gillian caught her smile as Truman lifted her into the wagon.

Gillian watched, glad that the man had finally noticed he had a wife. The captain was learning his men. No, correction—he was learning his friends. Truman had been a fighter once; maybe he still was. McAllen was a thinker, a logical mind who’d age them all double time if he didn’t stop worrying. Shelly McAllen had a real gift for building. They all respected each other, and together they’d build old Ely’s town.

The wind was calm and spring warmed the air just enough to make the work seem easy. Late in the afternoon, Truman motioned Gillian over to the supply wagon.

When they were alone, he pointed with his head toward the south.

Gillian didn’t pretend not to know what he was worried about. “I know, I noticed the smoke a half hour ago. Too close to be travelers. They would have come on into the post for the night.”

“I agree. Someone is watching us.” Truman kept his voice low. “Maybe Apache? Maybe Dollar Holt wasn’t hurt as bad as I thought and he’s waiting for his chance to get even with me? Hell, for all I know it’s McAllen’s father come to kill his fallen son.”

“So what do we know?” Gillian had already been piecing the puzzle together, but he wanted to hear what Truman had to say.

“They are not strong enough to attack us out here, so I’m thinking it’s four men or less.”

“I agree it’s a small party, but they might not have any interest in attacking. They might just want to watch us.” Gillian thought he was probably being too optimistic.

Truman kept going. “If they wanted money or valuables, they’d go after the trading post, and now, with most of the men here, might be a good time. Of course our women wouldn’t stand by and let them take what they want. They’d get off at least a few shots. We’d know.”

“Right, but Harry’s probably still on the front porch and Ely meets guests with a rifle at his side. Daisy mentioned that a few army scouts riding north stopped by this morning and Ely invited them to lunch.” Gillian dug his fingers through his hair. “Maybe I’m worrying about nothing. Just to be on the safe side, how about you and the Roma boys hang around for another day or two before you leave to take the prisoner and the wagons back.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Truman grinned. “Course, if the strangers stay much longer Ely will change the sign and add him to the population.”

Gillian laughed. Ely was so excited about having folks around he’d even count an outlaw.

A few hours later, when they loaded up and moved back to the trading post, everyone was tired but happy. Real progress was being made.

Gillian wasn’t surprised the women had spent the day quilting, but he was surprised that Momma Roma had made supper. A feast was set for them, putting everyone in a party mood. When Patrick told Harry and Ely his story of Truman almost shooting him with a hammer, everyone joined in the laughter.

After the meal, Gillian helped Daisy get the boys to bed. He thought it would be easy, but Abe tried to reason that it wasn’t time. Ben kept sneaking back into the kitchen, and the twins didn’t understand a word he said.

The good news was that with so many hands in the kitchen, the dishes were done in minutes and everyone had wandered off to their beds by the time Gillian finished bullying the twins to bed. Jessie, as she always did, ran out the back door to go check on her horse. He decided if she loved that mare any more they’d have to move her cot from the kitchen to the stall next to the horse.

He poured the last of the coffee into two cups and sat down at the table as Daisy came out of the bedroom already in her gown.

“You want a cup?” he asked, guessing she did. “You look so pretty in the white gown, just like you did on our wedding day.”

“I’m older now.”

“And smarter. If you’d been much more out of your teens, Daisy, you probably would have been too smart to marry a soldier, even if he was crazy in love.”

She shook her head. “I’d fall for you all over again today, Gillian.”

He leaned over to kiss her cheek, but she pulled away and picked up her coffee.

He knew they had things to discuss and time alone was rare. Maybe he’d start with something easy and move into what was really bothering her. “We need to talk about our house. Patrick says he’s going to stay behind tomorrow at Truman’s place and do some of the inside work while we all move over to our land. I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t have the first floor framed up by suppertime tomorrow.”

Daisy downed a long drink and asked, “Did you tell them I want a big kitchen and a pantry?”

“I did. We’ll have two stories, so it’ll take longer than Truman’s frame. Patrick thinks he’ll have the outside up in a week, but the real work is inside. We may have to live with it roughed out for a while. He wants to get all three frames up before planting time.”

“Makes sense.” Daisy smiled. “I won’t know what to do just cooking for you and the boys. Ely says he’ll trade me all the apples and flour I want for a few pies a week.”

“Do you want to do that? We’ll move in as soon as the pump and stove are working. I told him to just floor the second story and we’ll put in rooms later. I guess we should think about how many bedrooms upstairs.”

“Four,” she answered simply. “One for Jessie, one each for Abe and Ben, and then the twins can share.”

“But what if we have more children, Daisy? Where do you plan on putting them? You seem to get with child every time you stand downwind from me.”

She still didn’t look at him when she added, “We’ll only have four, Gillian.”

For a moment he wanted to argue. Was this the way she planned to tell him that there would be no more children between them because they would no longer sleep as husband and wife? He could understand if she didn’t want to get in a family way again. The birth of the twins must have been hard on her. He wasn’t there. They’d been sick. She’d said she’d almost died. Only this wasn’t fair. They’d had so few nights together when he thought they would have a lifetime.

Gillian stared into his coffee. He’d fought as a soldier for years, but he didn’t know how to fight this. “Are you saying that you no longer want to sleep with me as man and wife?”

He held his breath. She’d been his only lover and he’d been hers. It couldn’t be fair that they’d had so few nights to hold each other.

“No,” she finally whispered as tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’m saying that I can’t have any more children. I couldn’t write and tell you. I’m so sorry.”

His chair toppled backward as he stood and rushed toward her. “Oh, Daisy. My dear sweet Daisy.” He pulled her up, holding her to him as if he could take away all the pain of what she’d said.

Understanding and heartache avalanched over him.