Harmony (27 page)

So, why then, did she welcome Tom's kiss when his mouth crushed hers? All rationality fled. The well-rehearsed arguments against this sort of thing that she'd waged in her head were lost. In their stead, she moaned in blatant ecstasy as Tom traced the seam of her mouth. They softly mapped out each others' lips, slanting and giving, searching and seeking pleasure. Pure fire shot through Edwina. She'd never known such an intensity. Tongues gently stroked as she explored the velvet satin of his mouth.

She shamelessly slid her arms over Tom's shoulders to pull him closer. His hands hastened down her sides, seeking the swells of her breasts. Her nipples beaded. Their breaths mingled, fevered and raspy. Tom lowered his mouth to the side of her neck, the sensitive curve leading to her shoulder. Her rained kisses across her hot skin, up toward her ear, teasing the lobe with his teeth. She tingled everywhere. His mouth captured hers again, possessively.

Madness. She should tell him to stop. She cried out, but her words were lost in a whimper as his tongue swirled across hers. Her hand rose to his chest just enough to push a slit of distance between them. Her intentions had been to try to clear her head, but the
small opening gave room for his palm to cup her breast, run his blunt fingertips over her puckered nipple. The exquisite sensations raging through her body were nerve-shattering.

But she knew better . . . she'd been down this road before.

“Tom . . .” she whispered against his mouth. “Please.”

The word wasn't a plea for more. Her tone begged that he be the one to put a stop to it all—because she couldn't.

His hands fell still. Their lips broke apart. An instant of regret fluttered in her heart.

Tom mumbled, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—”

“No.” Her trembling fingertips pressed against his lips. “It's not your fault. It's mine.”

She quickly went to her feet, unable to bear being close to him without his arms around her. Out of the need to occupy her hands for fear she'd reach out to him, she fidgeted with the frogs of her cape, adjusting, straightening. “I have to go in. Thank you for tonight.”

“Edwina. Don't.” His warm fingers closed over her wrist; her pulse tripped against his hold. “Don't run away.” Then quietly, “Are you afraid I'm thinking less of you?”

She couldn't speak. Her breathing was still hurried, her face still flushed.

“If you do, you're wrong.”

Grateful the dark veranda hid her shame, she refused to meet his eyes. If he only knew what kind of woman she really was—the kind of woman she was in agony considering being again . . . with him.

“Edwina . . .”

“You were right when you said that I'm not who you think I am. You don't know me.”

“Then let me.”

The words that followed were barely audible. “You'll be disappointed.”

He released her. His voice hardened as he said measuredly, “Don't decide for me, Edwina.”

She could say nothing further.

He'd gone for the steps and was soon enveloped by the night.

•  •  •

Tom had asked Shay to mind the store for a couple of hours. He'd told him he wanted to try out a new lure and get in some angling before the weather turned too raw. In actuality, he was counting on the diversion to keep his mind off Edwina.

With a smoke clamped between his lips, Tom stood on the bank of Evergreen Creek where it spilled into a natural pool about a mile down from the sawmill. Using an over-the-shoulder technique, he cast his line into the murky green water. The lure—a luminous soft rubber grasshopper—plunked through the tranquil surface and sank. He began turning the reel handle immediately, trying to bait a cutthroat into striking. Thus far, there had been no takers. The faddish lure came up empty again. He recast.

He must have repeated this motion some fifty-odd times already. Frankly, he didn't give a damn if he caught a fish. Any other day out, and he would have enjoyed himself. Fishing was something he liked; the peacefulness relaxed him. But rather than forcing his head elsewhere, like on the picturesque stream and the golden scenery around it, the automatic motions of cast after cast freed his mind to think about the woman who'd been avoiding him for the past three days.

Many times since, he'd rehashed the night they'd shared on her porch swing. Edwina had more complexity to her than the assembly instructions for a Kankakee portable section boat. No matter how carefully he read her, he couldn't put her together. On the outside, she presented Harmony with a woman of strict decorum and modesty, reserved, flawless conduct. But on the inside, when she allowed herself freedom in his company, she was dynamic, witty, intelligent.

She was much smarter than he. He'd spoken about his lack of education only to see what she'd say. He'd
waited for her to look down on him, to ridicule his stupidity. Instead, she'd encouraged him. That hadn't been what he'd expected—or maybe it had, but he'd wanted to think otherwise. He'd wanted her to be like Elizabeth—selfish and unkind. It was easier to think he was toying with her, that he felt nothing.

But he did.

Admiration for Edwina was blossoming. More than idle curiosity, it was an interest far too deep for him to interpret, much less comprehend. He'd never felt this way about a woman, and there had been a fair share of women in his life: different types—those he'd flirted with, worked with, slept with. But he'd never met any that he'd wanted to get to know. He couldn't exactly say why. Perhaps he'd been too restless, too unsure of where he wanted to go, on the move with nothing to offer. But now that he'd ended up in a town where he intended to set down roots, things had changed. He'd changed.

And he thought that Edwina might have, too. He hadn't known her before she went to Chicago, but he sensed that something had happened to her there. She'd tried her wings and liked flying. He couldn't fault her for that. Everyone was entitled to see a little slice of life before settling down. But along with gaiety and dancing at the Peacherine Club and pitching balls at the Midway Plaisance, she'd taken her awakening a step farther. How far, he wasn't sure. There was a reason she overcompensated with the proper lady stuff. She must have done something improper . . . and now she didn't want anyone to find out.

Tom considered himself a forgiving man. God knew he'd done his share of hell-raising. Whatever Edwina thought was so terrible, he probably would think nothing of.

Reeling in his line and sailing it out over the water once more, Tom reflected on his conversation earlier in the day with Otto Healy, the agent at Granite Home and Farm Realty. The office walls had been crammed with framed architectural sketches, representations of
Gothic, Italian, Norman, and Swiss styles, the typical eclectic homes with such features as mansard roofs, arched windows, Elizabethan stickwork, and pinnacles. His ignorance must have been obvious, because after he'd looked bewildered at the sketches, Healy had pointed out the various facets.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Wolcott?” The agent had taken a seat at a desk and gestured for Tom to do likewise.

He slipped into the chair and lifted his heel on his knee. “That property on Sycamore Drive next to the Stykem place. How much are you asking for it?”

After rifling through a mound of papers, Healy had slid a sheet out of a folder. “It's a full acre. Semiwooded. You'd have to get rid of some trees if you wanted to build on it.” Gazing down through the document, he'd said, “Eight-forty.”

Tom had nodded, the spark of hope he'd been holding onto fizzling.

“Are you interested in the parcel, Mr. Wolcott?”

He hated to lay down his cards, especially when he didn't have a hand to play. “I might be. How much would it cost to put a house on that lot?”

An assortment of home catalogues had littered the edge of the desk. “Depends on what you want to build on it. You can hire your own architect and have him draw up customized plans. Of course that'll mean you'll have to go up to Helena. I don't have those services at my disposal here. Or you can look through the catalogues and pick out something already drawn up.”

He had shoved one toward Tom and, out of courtesy, Tom had thumbed through it. All the houses had seemed elaborate to him—big, more than enough room for one man. But if that man had plans on putting a wife and family inside, they were just the ticket. Only from what he saw, they were so far out of his budget, he couldn't imagine ever owning one. A three-story with a stone foundation and latticework had caught his eye. It had a long veranda and molded itself around the
porch. The whole of the house had reminded him of Edwina's.

“This one.” He'd handed Healy the catalogue. “How much for it?”

The agent had cross-referenced design number five-seventy-six to a specification chart. “Twenty-nine hundred.”

Tom had folded. He was out. Not a chance. No way, nohow. Not in this lifetime.

“There would be other costs, of course. Excavation of the land is twenty-five cents a cubic yard. Any rough stonework below grade would run the same. And if you want to modify the plans, there would be an extra charge.” Seeing Tom's lack of enthusiasm, he'd rushed to add, “Now, I do have properties available for occupation. No builder's fees. I'd be happy to show them to you, Mr. Wolcott.”

“Do they run considerably lower than twenty-nine hundred?”

“Well, some . . . but most are over two thousand.” Once again, detecting Tom's uneasiness, Healy had quickly added, “You could still build, Mr. Wolcott. Loans are available. Have you checked with the bank?”

“No.”

“I suggest you do so. And if Sycamore is too expensive for you, I do have a small lot parallel to the tracks that's two hundred and eighty.”

South of the tracks
. Tom had already stood and extended his hand. “I thank you for your time, Mr. Healy.”

The agent had grasped his hand. “Anytime, Mr. Wolcott. If you have any further questions, please don't hesitate to drop on by.” Then with a jovial curling of thumbs under the suspenders over his shoulders, he'd commented, “As soon as I'm able, I'll have to get by your store and check out the camping equipment.”

“You do that.”

Tom had departed with the feeling of complete failure suffocating him. He'd been fooling himself when he thought he could buy a house that . . .

 . . . that Edwina might like.

The thought had sobered him. He hadn't even realized he'd been thinking along those lines. The notion was premature. He was getting ahead of himself. They hadn't spent very much time together.

But sometimes a man just . . . suspected.

Staring at the water, Tom didn't bother to recast his line. He packed up what little he'd brought in a creel and headed back to the store, feeling no less discontent than when he left.

A bank loan.

Hell, that meant he'd have to put up his business as collateral. But the building and everything inside was worth around a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred. Would that be enough? And if his business did poorly or failed, he'd lose everything. Risky. But was buying a house worth taking the risk? Tom had no answer as he walked into the store and set his pole on the counter.

Shay handed him a witch-shaped card. “Cressie brought this by while you were out. It's for both of us.”

Tom took it and said, “ ‘Cressie'?”

“I see no reason to call her Miss Stykem. We've seen each other every day since Saturday—making it a total of fourteen hours in each other's company. In my book, that's long enough to be calling her something more familiar. Besides, I don't think Crescencia suits her. It's too prissy.”

Gazing at a white invitation written with drippy red ink, Tom read:

F
ELLOW
S
POOK
:

YOU ARE HEREBY NOTIFIED TO ATTEND A
G
HOST
C
ONVENTION ON THE
31
ST OF
O
CTOBER, OTHERWISE KNONW AS
H
ALLOWEEN
. C
OME AT EIGHT O'CLOCK AND PARK YOUR TROUBLES AT THE DOOR
. T
HE PASSWORD IS
“F
UN
.” F
ULL GHOSTLY REGALIA IS REQUIRED
. B
E SURE TO COME TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS AT THE STROKE OF TWELVE
.

M
ISS
E
DWINA
H
UNTINGTON

H
IGH
G
HOST

I O S
YCAMORE
D
RIVE

Looking up, Tom frowned. “Why does she want us to come to some costume party?”

“It's for those doctors that're in town—you know, the ones I'm taking up to Elk Flat on Thursday. Cressie said the whole thing is some kind of matchmaking session.” Shay chuckled. “This ought to be good, watching those women fall over themselves for attention.”

Tom didn't necessarily like that idea. But what did intrigue him was seeing Edwina. She'd conveniently been gone from the school by the time he closed, and she hadn't come to class until the girls had arrived, so there'd been no time to talk to her beforehand.

Setting the invitation down, Tom asked, “So what're you going to wear?”

With a wide grin, Shay pointed toward the corner. “That.”

Tom had to crack a smile. “You've got to be joking.”

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