Garters.htm (18 page)

"She's not 'that horrible Crabb girl,'" Cleav said hotly. "She's just young and confused and fancies herself in love with me."

His mother raised a skeptical eyebrow and sniffed with disdain. "Seems to me she may be getting older and wiser every day."

"Mornin', Esme," Rog Wicker called as he stepped through the front door of the store. "Mornin', Cleav," he added almost as an afterthought.

"Good morning," Cleav answered, but his jaw was set in disapproval. It had been that way all morning.

Denny, Tyree, Fat Blanchard, even Brother Oswald came waltzing into his store, greeting Esme as if she belonged there. And worse yet, Esme acted as if she did. She eagerly hurried to help the customers whenever Cleav was busy, and she knew the inventory and location of almost every item.

It was clear Esme loved the store. She enjoyed the order and accessibility of everything from fabric to crackers. Having all the things that she considered so dear right at her fingertips had a compelling appeal. When customers came in, Esme was smiling, friendly, happy, and the folks who came to the store smiled right back.

They smiled at Esme. The standard approach to Cleav these days was curiosity tinged with disapproval. No one knew what was going on, why Esme Crabb spent her every waking hour in the company of a man who was supposedly courting the preacher's daughter. But they blamed him.

In the normal course of things the woman would be suspect. But human nature being what it was, people tended to root for the underdog. Esme was a good-hearted, church-going, hill girl. Cleavis Rhy had spent years establishing himself as the prosperous and genteel storekeeper. His relative affluence was
not
a mark in his favor.

Although Cleav didn't know it, every eye in town was on the General Merchandise, and every word of gossip had his name attached.

"What do you think is going on between them two?" Toady Winthrop asked Sarah Mayfield.

"Heaven only knows," Sarah had replied in a scandalized whisper, "but for sure it's something. Have you seen the way he looks at her?"

Both Toady and her friend Madge nodded resolutely.

"Why, the man can hardly take his eyes off her,'' Madge answered. "It just ain't decent at all."

"It's that city life," Pearly Beachum assured Madge not an hour later as the latter helped her carry in the laundry. "In Knoxville he no doubt saw them rich city men taking advantage of poor helpless girls like Esme."

Madge tutted with disapproval.

"As soon as I get this laundry put away," Pearly promised, "I'm headed down to that store to see for myself what kind of carryings-on that Rhy is up to."

"So you think he's up to no good?" Madge asked.

"He's always wanted to be one of those city men," Pearly told her levelly. "I'm thinking that he's planning on making poor, precious little Esme his
mistress.''

The last word was more mouthed than spoken, still Madge gave a little cry of shock and covered her ears.

That did not stop Madge, of course, from repeating it to no less than half a dozen other women that day.

"It's getting worse every day," Mabel Tewksbury confided to Eula Rhy. "The talk is just getting out of hand."

Mrs. Rhy gave the preacher's wife a worried nod of agreement. "There is nothing to it," she said flatly. "I'm convinced that the only feeling my dear Cleavis has for that girl is pity."

Mabel was not completely convinced, but she didn't say so. "The truth doesn't matter in these things," she admitted. "In matters of hearsay, appearance is everything."

Eula knew Mrs. Tewksbury was right.

"I've tried to keep the rumors away from Sophrona," Mabel confided. "But I can't lock the girl in her room. Someone is going to say something to her, that's certain."

"The best way to squelch these stories is a very public and prompt betrothal," Eula said.

Mrs. Tewksbury sighed with relief. "I couldn't agree with you more."

"I've told Cleav that the time is right to press his suit. I can only hope that he takes my advice."

Mabel gave a nod of sympathetic understanding. "I've spent hours trying to impress upon Sophrona that gentlemen with Mr. Rhy's civility and resources are extremely scarce in this part of the world. My prayers are that she will accept his proposal immediately."

Neither woman was certain that their perfect solution was on the horizon.

It was not only from the tongues of women that gossip flew that day in Vader. Across the checkerboard old man Denny asked Tyree.

"What do you think about him and the girl?"

"What?"

"I said, what do you think about him and the girl?" Denny repeated a bit louder.

Tyree huffed with disapproval. "I may be half-blind," he stated. "But that don't mean I cain't see what's right under my nose."

"You think those two have been frolicking in the path of damnation?"

Tyree avoided the straight answer. "I'm thinking that if
I
was Yohan Crabb, I'd be coming down off that mountain with my shotgun loaded!"

As the temper of the community heated up, Esme remained blissfully unaware. The thrill of Cleav's wonderful kiss could still bring a blissful glow to her cheeks whenever she thought of it. And she thought of it often. Even his wounding words about never marrying her couldn't darken her optimism. He just needs to get used to the idea, she assured herself. He wanted a wife, and one wife was pretty much the same as another. Once he became accustomed to having her around, it would just seem natural to marry up.

Any self-reproach that she felt about Sophrona, she quickly explained away. If Sophrona wanted him, and it wasn't clear any longer that she did, she only wanted Cleav for herself. Esme needed him for her whole family. Humming to herself, again she imagined the Crabb family sitting comfortably on the porch of the biggest white—no, make that blue—house in Vader.

Cleav was too caught up in handling his own errant thoughts to worry about what others were thinking.

At first he was angry that Esme hadn't run from him after his deliberately wounding comments. It had taken all of his strength to treat her so coldly, and she appeared unaffected. Then he became angry at himself because he was
glad
she was still around. Although he was a gentleman, where Esme Crabb was concerned, he couldn't keep his thoughts in check. She'd reach for an item on the top shelf, and he'd imagine running his hand from her wrist to her ankle. He would imagine moulding her soft breast with his fingertip, exploring her nipped waist and caressing the generous hip, before staking his territory on those long, luscious limbs.

He had vivid memories of the hot, secret kiss they had shared and the eager way she had pressed her body against him.

He'd told himself that he'd been trying to frighten her, make her understand that her reputation was at risk. But he knew, in all honesty, that he'd kissed her because he'd wanted to. And he'd only stopped because in another minute he wouldn't have been able to…

Clearing his throat, Cleav focused on his surroundings. Rog Wicker was still looking around the store, Esme was searching down his horseshoe nails. She'd immediately gone to the correct bin, not five feet from where Cleav was standing, to fill Rog's order. That didn't please Cleav, but what she did there pleased him a little too much.

Since the bin was nearly empty, Esme had to lean far into the wide cask to retrieve the nails. The position raised her derriere, prominently outlining the impudent curve faultlessly. Cleav's eyes flew to Wicker in anger that he made such a request. The man had continued to browse through the store, completely unaware of the vision of shapely buttocks that was being exhibited on the far side of the room.

Imprudently Cleav's gaze returned to the bountiful backside of Esme Crabb. His mouth went dry as he realized he need only take one step closer and he'd be able to touch her.

He did not allow himself to take that step, but warmth pooled to his groin as strongly as if he had.

"Damn it!" he cursed silently and slammed his fist in fury against the counter.

Both Wicker and Esme glanced up at him questioningly.

Cleav flushed with embarrassment. "I've made an error in the accounts," he explained lamely.

It was an especially lame excuse for Esme, who could see that he did not have the accounts in front of him, but rather a drummer's catalog. She looked at him curiously but didn't comment.

Cleav felt her gaze and moved closer
to the
counter. The last thing he needed was for her to learn how easily he could be affected by her.

Esme carefully weighed the nails at the scale, dropping two back into the bin before she got the amount exact. She folded them in paper so that none of the horseshoe nails would spill. After laying the package on the counter along with Wicker's other supplies, she returned to her dusting of the washtubs.

Perhaps his mother was correct, Cleav concluded suddenly. This was undoubtedly the perfect time to get married, and Sophrona Tewksbury was the perfect person to marry. Esme had not believed him when he'd said that he would never wed her. A betrothal to another woman would surely go a long way in convincing her.

As he surreptitiously adjusted the fit of his trousers, he decided that a betrothal was not enough. He might not sleep
more
with a woman in his bed, but he would certainly sleep
more contentedly
. And a man who was satisfied at night was surely less bothered by temptation in the daytime.

Yes, he resolved to himself. This afternoon he would propose to Miss Sophrona. And he would insist that the engagement be as short as decently possible. If he'd married her months ago when he first thought of it, this whole regrettable situation with Esme would never have occurred.

Stealing unwelcome into his thoughts was the knowledge that he didn't exactly regret these past weeks with Esme. It was a heady feeling to be the recipient of a woman's adoration and longing. Never had any female made him feel so desired, so fascinating. If only his own passions had remained uninvolved. If only the woman in question were more suitable. If only it were Sophrona, not Esme, who lusted after him.

That brought him up short. Sophrona feeling lust? It was difficult to imagine. Certainly she'd be a dutiful wife, and he
would try to please her, but the hungers of the flesh were surely incongruous to a lady of Miss Sophrona's refinement.

The fantasy of Sophrona Tewksbury whining and begging as she wrapped her legs around his neck was not only difficult for him to imagine but strictly ludicrous. A good part of the reason that he had never attempted to take liberties with the young lady—except on one fateful occasion—was simply that he couldn't imagine her allowing them. And if the slap he'd received under the maple tree was any indication, his judgment had been correct

Still, a wife would be a wife, and a wife was exactly what he needed to get Esme Crabb out of his life for good.

Rog Wicker, apparently finished with his inspection of the available goods, walked to the counter to settle up.

"Will that be all?" Cleav asked as he totaled the price of the goods for purchase in his head.

"Need some tobacco," Wicker said as an afterthought.

"Red Leaf?" Cleav asked, already reaching for it.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, the man shook his head. "I smoke Carolina Blue," he said a little louder than necessary. "It's a lot smoother than that old cheap Red Leaf."

Cleav couldn't stop himself from taking a hasty look toward Esme, then wished he hadn't. She was grinning ear to ear and looked positively ready to swagger.

As he helped Rog load the supplies on his wagon, Cleav reassured himself that, lust or no lust, he was proposing marriage to Sophrona Tewksbury this very afternoon!

The store was empty when Cleav went back inside. Well, not empty, he corrected himself. Esme was there, but she'd become such a fixture even he'd begun to think that she belonged.

She was humming to herself as she rearranged the canned goods on the shelves. A few days ago she'd suggested that since the cans with the bright-colored paintings were quicker to catch the eye than the plain tins with black lettering, putting the brightly painted ones in front would draw attention to the shelf and cause customers to make more purchases. Cleav tried, without success, to explain to her that people only bought the things that they needed. That people were too smart to be lured into buying something that wasn't necessary just because it came to their attention.

She hadn't been convinced, so he'd allowed her to change the shelving presentation however she liked, thinking she would learn
for
herself. To his amazement, he'd sold more canned goods in the last two weeks than in the whole month prior. And with spring blossoming out everywhere, the need for canned goods should have dropped completely.

Cleav shook his head in disbelieving approval. The woman certainly did have a head for business. Maybe after all of this was over, when he was blissfully wed to Miss Sophrona and Esme safely married to one of the hill boys, he could hire her to work for him. That would leave him more time for his trout. And a little cash money coming in regularly wouldn't hurt her family, either.

Satisfied with his solution to all his problems, Cleav almost felt like humming to himself. He resisted it, however, and returned to contemplating the drummer's catalog.

The cool quiet of the store, disturbed only by the pleasant sound of a lively tune on Esme's lips, lulled Cleav into a temporary contentment.

When the humming stopped, Cleav looked up.

As usual, with no thought to her surroundings or the proprieties, Esme Crabb had paused to jerk up her skirts and adjust her sagging stockings.

At the sight of those well-remembered, oft-dreamt-of limbs, Cleav's pulse began to pound. Heat suffused him, and the air within the confines of the store was suddenly not enough to catch his breath. This was not going to happen again, he swore to himself, not ever. He was done with her merciless teasing.

"Don't!" His shout was so unexpected, Esme actually jumped.