Homespun Hearts (39 page)

Esme nodded. "I ain't never," she confessed. "But when he kisses me, I ... I want more."

She'd lowered her eyes with shame, but her father grasped her chin in his hand and raised it to look down into her face.

"That's where most women start their married life," he said, "half-yearning, half-curious."

"I've heard that it hurts?" Her statement was formed like a question.

There was a perceptible nod of agreement. "Your mama said it hurt some the first time," he admitted. "But I think it's mostly just so downright embarrassing," he said.

Yohan gazed thoughtfully across the meadow toward the church. "A gal is told for twenty years to keep herself decently covered, and then she stands a few moments in front of the preacher and finds herself married up to a fellow she hardly knows." Yo Crabb shook his head in disbelief. "And she's supposed to lift up her nightgown for him like it was nothing!"

Esme covered her own burning cheeks at the thought.

"And the fellow," Yo continued. "He's pert-near as ignorant as she is. The most of what he knows about it is stories he's heard from other men. Nearly all of which are lies and bragging. Now he's supposed to reassure her, comfort her, and please her while his own heart's a-beating so loudly he can't hear himself think and he's touching and squeezing things he's been dreaming about for years."

With a pessimistic sigh, Crabb gently patted his daughter's cheek and carefully smoothed a stray lock of her hair. "What I'm aiming to say, Esme-girl," he told her, "is that it ain't always perfect right away. Things between a man and a woman take time. That's why God made marriage forever."

Yo looked into her eyes seeking assurance. "I'd feel better about this, Esme, if I knew that you loved him."

Esme nearly choked on the words, but she knew they had to be said. "I was thinking to marry him for all of us, Pa. I figured I could get along with just about any fellow with some money." She hesitated. "Truly, I didn't expect to feel nothing special, but I think I really do love him, Pa," she admitted. "I just can't seem to help myself. I just wish he loved me."

Her father's smile brightened. "He will, Esme-girl," he told her. "How can he help himself?"

S
he was late
. Cleav forced himself not to look at his watch again. Everybody was staring at him. Sweat beaded on his brow as a glistening accent to his florid complexion. Grandpa McCray had once told him a story about his boyhood in Scotland, where sinners were made to sit on a chair in front of the church, and the congregation stared at them as a punishment. In Cleav's youth he'd thought they'd gotten off easy. Now he wasn't so sure.

Maude Honsucker, who was every bit of ninety, was providing the music. She had warned Cleavis that she could only play the tunes that she could remember. This morning her memory was apparently not too lively as she'd been playing the same hymn repeatedly for a good twenty minutes. And her very soulful rendition of "Nearer My God to Thee" had Cleavis thinking that rather than standing to the right of the pulpit, he should be lying in a box in front of it.

Scanning the crowd, he noted, not for the first time, that it was an exceptional turnout. He'd had hopes that since his own mother refused to make an appearance, the rest of the community would do likewise. But it looked to Cleav as if Mrs. Rhy was the only living soul within ten miles that was not in attendance.

Even Sophrona, looking brave and beautiful, sat with her mother on the second pew on the left. Her head was held high, and her face betrayed no emotion. He had never anticipated that she would be there. Although there had been no understanding between them, there had been expectation. Perhaps that was why she hadn't stayed away. Community sympathy would have embarrassed her. No doubt she would be the first to wish Cleav and his new bride well.

Cleav cringed with disgust and gave into the urge to check his watch. Maybe she just wanted to be a part of the audience that watched Cleavis Rhy be left waiting at the church!

With an audible creak, the door to the church opened and the Crabb twins sauntered in. Behind him, Cleav heard Reverend Tewksbury sigh in audible relief. Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd begun to wonder.

Swinging clasped hands as they made their way down the aisle, the two pretty young girls hesitated only once to giggle when Armon Hightower gave them a broad wink. As they reached the front of the church, the two gave Cleav a haughty glance before assuming their places.

"Is she on her way?" Cleav whispered to the nearest twin, unable to tell one from the other.

"She's outside talking to Pa," she answered, pausing only an instant to watch Cleav's shoulders relax before she added spitefully, "I think he's trying to convince her to go through with this." This last was said quite loudly.

Humiliation flooded Cleav like Indian Creek in the springtime. The crowd tittered as the Crabb girl's words were hastily repeated and spread like a fire through the sanctuary. He had no idea where to direct his gaze. He didn't want to see his friends and neighbors laughing at his expense. Unexpectedly the memory of the Crabbs' charity basket came to mind. As if it were yesterday, Cleav could see Esme standing proud and strong, her eyes focused on an unseen horizon as she gazed over the heads of the crowd.

Cleav raised his chin and stared at the distant nothingness. If Esme could will herself unashamed, so could he. His mind traveled back in time to his school days in Knoxville. Again he heard the taunts and laughter of young gentlemen in tailor-made suits. Strangely the sting was not as cutting. Had time softened the images of his humbling? Or had experience taught him taunts didn't matter?

The door to the church opened, and Cleav watched the woman who would be his wife step inside. She hesitated for a moment inside the door and then squinted toward the front.

Cleav's face broke into a delighted smile. Esme's vision wasn't good enough to see him, yet, but he could see her perfectly. Her chin raised and determined, she was as ill-at-ease and embarrassed as he was. Somehow that pleased him.

The Widow Honsucker abruptly changed the sad lament she played to a rousing "When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder, I'll Be There."

Taking her father's arm, Esme led, rather than followed him, up the aisle. Brother Oswald stood, detaining her momentarily, as he handed her a small bouquet of lupins, cut from the bushes at the side of the church. The stems were carefully wrapped with white ribbons and a shield of leaves protected the blossoms, since the touch of hands would darken the petals. The sweet pungent odor already filled the room. Esme breathed in a deep fragrant breath.

Looking up, her eyes met Cleav's. They gave each other the cautious look of two people joined more by fate than free will. Esme lowered her gaze discreetly and continued at her father's side, making her way to the front of the church.

When they reached the preacher, her father at her left, his fiddle tucked neatly under his arm, and her sisters at her right, attractively and identically turned out in their Sunday best, Esme focused her attention on Reverend Tewksbury.

But Cleavis focused his attention on her.

"Dearly Beloved," the reverend began. His voice was hoarse and caught unexpectedly. After clearing his throat, he began again. “Dearly Beloved. We are gathered here in the presence of God to unite this man and this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony. An honorable estate ..."

Cleav was not listening. His eyes and his thoughts were on Esme standing barely a yard away. He would never have chosen her, he reminded himself. But perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. He remembered the warmth of her kisses, the feel of her body pressed close to his, and—oh heaven of heavens— those long, lovely legs. He reminded himself that she was bright and hardworking. Although she certainly would not be an asset on his arm, he thought she might clean up well and wouldn't look too bad in decent clothes. He was willing to make the best of it. ' 'Who gives this woman in marriage?" Reverend Tewksbury boomed across the crowd as if he didn't know the person to answer was standing right in front of him.

"I do!" Yohan shouted right back.

Stepping back, Yo placed Esme's hand in Cleav's. The two shared a brief, blushing glance before returning their attention to the preacher.

Yohan, however, was not finished. To the amazement of everyone, he put the fiddle to his chin and began to play a slow, sweet, romantic tune of the mountains.

Esme recognized it as the one he'd written the day she'd gone down the mountain to ask Cleav to marry her. That wonderful day, so long ago now, when she'd learned what sweetness was desire.

Cleav looked at his bride, surprised to see tears forming in her eyes. The song was tender, he had to admit. Too tender for the loveless wedding it commemorated. But then, perhaps it was not loveless for Esme. A woman who so brazenly chased, offered, and even begged for attention was without a doubt infatuated with the man of her pursuit. Maybe it was more than a girlish fancy. She could be deeply in love with him. That pleased him more than it should have.

To have Esme Crabb, with her sweet smile and seductive legs, striving to win his favor. And she'd certainly never be any trouble to him. A woman so desperately in love would be easy to handle.

"Do you, Manfred Cleavis Rhy, take this woman, Esmeralda Joleen Crabb, to be your lawful wedded wife? Do you promise to protect, honor, and cherish her, keeping yourself only unto her as long as you both shall live?"

Cleav swallowed hurriedly and then stated with conviction, "I do."

"And do you, Esmeralda Joleen Crabb, take this man to be your husband? Do you promise to love and obey him, keeping yourself only unto him as long as you both shall live?"

Esme turned to look at Cleav. There was fear in her eyes but resolution, too. Facing Reverend Tewksbury, she replied with calm determination, "I do."

Cleav brought out the ring. The wide gold band had been in his store for two years. He'd paid a fast-talking drummer too much for it and had never been able to sell it. Although it was too much to hope that it might fit Esme, when he placed it on the third finger of her left hand, it was perfect.

"By the power vested in me by this church and the State of Tennessee, I pronounce this couple husband and wife."

Slipping his hands around Esme's waist, Cleav pulled her close and leaned down to capture her lips with his own.

"What God has joined together, let no man put asunder."

T
here were
congratulations and slaps on the back as the young couple stepped out in the churchyard for a cup of punch. Cleav had engaged Sarah Mayfield and her daughter-in-law to manage the refreshments: pink lemonade punch and white layer cake decorated with burnt sugar on the icing. Cleav had told Mrs. Mayfield to spare no expense, and the congregation considered these treats luxurious. Esme Crabb might be a simple hill girl, but her wedding would be remembered as a lavish affair.

Unfortunately, Esme had hardly had time to take stock of her surroundings when Armon Hightower separated her from her new husband. He grabbed her around the waist and forcefully pulled her from the party.

"What are you doing?" she asked, more startled than annoyed.

Armon's grin was wicked. "Miz Rhy, I suspect you'd call it being 'kidnapped.'"

Esme only allowed a second for the meaning of his words to sink in. "Cleavis!" she screamed.

"What's going on there?" Cleav called angrily as he watched in shock as Armon Hightower hoisted Esme on his shoulder and began to head toward the mountain.

"Hightower! Come back here!" he hollered.

His reaction earned him some derisive laughter from Armon's fellow kidnappers. "You can buy her back for three dollars' worth of sorghum and a jug of moonshine!" one of the Roscoe brothers called to him as he followed Armon and the squealing bride.

"What are you talking about?"

"We're talking about a shivaree ransom," Will Gambridge called back with a laugh.

"Three dollars' worth of sorghum would be about a whole barrel," Cleav said incredulously.

"Rolling a barrel up the mountain with a jug of whiskey in one hand will be a trick worth any bridegroom's price," Gambridge taunted.

"Yahoo!" the Roscoe brothers called as they hurried after Hightower.

"Shivaree!" Will added as he rushed past the spectators, now over their surprise and laughing in alliance with the kidnappers.

Cleav stood staring after them, rooted to the spot. With the unusual and hurried circumstances of the wedding, the last thing he'd considered was a shivaree. Yo Crabb, his new father-in-law, hurried up behind him.

"Good Lord, son," he said. "Go after her."

Cleav started after them, but the culprits divided up as soon as they reached the cover of trees.

Wandering around without picking up a trail for the better part of an hour, Cleav decided that striking a bargain was his best chance of getting his wife back before morning.

Hurrying back to the General Merchandise, he found Mort Riggly, the local moonshiner, waiting for him on the porch of the store.

"Evenin', Cleavis," Mort greeted him amiably. "Was it a nice weddin'? Sorry I missed it."

"It was fine," Cleav answered distractedly. "How'd you know to be here?"

"Armon tole me you'd be needing another jug for the ransom when he bought his."

Cleav's eyes widened in concern. "They already have one whole jug?"

Mort heard the worry in his tone and waved it off. "Don't get yourself in a dither," Mort told him. "I admit that, drunk or sober, Will and those Roscoe boys could throw all their good sense together and wouldn't have enough to make change." Mort chuckled at his own little joke. "But Armon's up there with her. He's wild, but he ain't stupid. And he's got feelings for the gal anyway."

"Feelings?" Cleav felt the inexplicable rise of jealousy, and his question was harsher than he intended. "What do you mean by that?"

Mort found Cleav's agitation downright amusing. "I sure don't mean what you think I'm meaning," the whiskey seller assured him. "He's been courting those twins now for nigh on a half year. I suspect he's thinking your gal is practically his in-law." Mort laughed out loud. "Now, that's something I never woulda thought to see. You and Armon being practically relation."

"Armon Hightower is not a member of my family," Cleav stated tightly.

"Not yet, maybe," the old moonshiner admitted. "But when you marry up with folks like the Crabbs ..." The man shook his head. "Hell, Mr. Rhy, you probably got shirttail relation from hear to Memphis, each poorer than the next."

"I married Miss Esme, not her family," Cleav said coldly. "Now, do you want to sell me that jug of liquor or just talk to me all afternoon?"

In full knowledge of the situation, and perhaps a bit of spite for Cleav's attitude, Mort asked three times the going rate. Cleav had no choice but to pay for the whiskey. And because he never drank spirits himself, he couldn't even threaten to take his business elsewhere in the future.

Counting his money contentedly, Mort Riggly became encouraging. "Don't you worry about a thing, Mr. Rhy," he said. "That little gal of yours is as safe on that mountain as if she was in her daddy's arms. Shivaree's a good thing for weddings. A woman getting married, well, she gets a little bit scared of her husband, that's natural. When some other men come along and steal her away, well, then she's even scareder of them. Her man comes and rescues her, she ain't nothing but grateful."

Mort patted Cleav's clean white shirt consolingly with a grimy hand. "Shivaree gets a marriage from 'him and me' to 'us and them' in a hurry." Elbowing a playful dig to Cleav's ribs, he added, "About midnight tonight you'll be downright beholden to those kidnappers."

Cleav's expression was stony.

Mort slapped his thigh with hilarity and with a lusty laugh headed off into the night. "Mark my words," he called back to Cleav. "You'll be thanking those boys afore morning."

Cleav ignored his words. Those boys would be lucky if he wasn't killing them before morning. What on earth was he doing tracking a gang of ne'er-do-wells through the mountain with a cask of sorghum molasses because of a pagan custom!

Attaching the handle of the whiskey jug to a piece of rope, he hung it over his shoulder like a quiver of arrows, then went to retrieve a barrel of molasses from the store.

Ransom assembled, Cleav gave a sigh of resignation and began the grueling task of rolling a full and heavy cask of sorghum molasses up one of the steepest inclines in eastern Tennessee.

The week before having been wet and rainy, the ground had reached saturation point. His shoes repeatedly slipped in the fresh mud, but he managed to catch himself each time. At least he hadn't ended up sprawled in the mud. He could imagine what a disaster that would have been with a barrel of molasses rolling over him and back down the mountain.

It was far too dark to see "signs" on the trail. Cleav just assumed, and rightly so, that the men would have taken the roughest, most difficult path.

"Is this woman worth it?" he asked himself more than once. He never bothered to answer that question, he just braced his foot in the next slippery step and pushed the cask a few feet higher.

He never did actually find them. Will Gambridge finally stepped out from behind a tree, startling him.

"You've done better than I thought," the hill boy commented with a modicum of respect. He asked Cleav for the whiskey and, after taking a good long swig, offered the jug to Cleav.

"No, thanks," Cleav answered, not even tempted. The ordeal wasn't over yet, and he needed to keep his wits about him for Esme's sake.

Will led the way to the clearing where they held Esme, laughing and talking as if this were the best game he'd ever played.

“Ahhherhea!'' Cleav heard her cry before he saw her.

Esme was tied to a fallen tree, twisting and squirming in the mud. A red bandanna was tied on her mouth. Her eyes were bright and wide, but more with anger than with fear.

"Thank the Lord you made it," the eldest Roscoe boy teased. “I was worrying that this she-devil would kill us all afore you got here."

The men laughed companionably as they passed the jug of whiskey around. Even if he hadn't been told, it was obviously not their first of the evening.

"Get the gag off her," Cleav ordered with fury.

Startled at his anger, Will jumped to obey, but Armon told him to stay.

"She was spitting and squealing like a pig stuck in a blackberry bush," Armon explained casually as he leaned down to untie the constricting piece of cloth. "We didn't hurt her none, Cleavis. We's just trying to quiet her down."

"She wouldn't kiss us nohow," the younger Roscoe declared. "With no good use for a mouth, a woman's best when she's shut up."

Freezing the stupid young man with a look, Cleav went down on his knees to help Esme get up.

"Are you all right?"

"These lousy, no-account varmints," Esme complained bitterly. "You've made a mess of my wedding gown, you turd brain," she snapped at Hightower.

"You planning on getting married in it again?" Armon asked.

Esme headed for him, intending to kick him senseless. Cleav's arm around her waist stayed her. "Control yourself, Esme," he said firmly. "I won't have my wife cursing and fighting."

That stopped her, but just barely.

"You've got your jug and your sorghum," Cleavis pointed out to the captors with determined civility. "I'm taking Esme home now."

"Whew-he!" one of the Roscoes proclaimed. "He's hopping mad 'cause we delayed his honeymoon!"

The other Roscoe giggled lewdly. "Ain't marriage something wonderful. They'll be beating the ticks out of the mattress tonight!"

This time it was Cleav who nearly started a ruckus, but Esme grabbed his clenched fist. "We're leaving," she said.

"Not right yet," Armon disagreed firmly. Cleav and Esme both turned to him, challengingly.

"You've paid your part of the ransom, Cleav," Hightower stated, gesturing toward the jug in his hand. "But Mrs. Rhy here ain't let a one of us kiss the bride."

"And I ain't about to neither, you scheming low-life polecat!" Esme protested.

"You shouldn't talk so poor about me, now, Esme," Armon warned with a chuckle. "We're practically kin, ain't we?"

"No, we ain't!" Esme insisted. "And as God is my witness, I'll do everything I can to keep you from ever being a relation of mine."

"Not even a kissing cousin?" the handsome hill boy teased.

"Are you looking for trouble, Hightower?" Cleav asked.

"Guess not," Armon answered tongue-in-cheek, glancing around at the other fellows. "You're the one that married up with her."

The other kidnappers hooted with laughter at the joke. Neither Cleav nor Esme was in the mood to see the humor.

"Esme doesn't want to kiss you," Cleav stated tightly. "If I were you, I wouldn't try to force her."

Hightower raised his arms in a gesture of disbelief. "Force?" he asked. "You think my grandmama didn't raise me well enough to know not to force a lady?"

There were murmurs of agreement from the other men. Obviously Cleav's insinuated superiority as a gentleman was a sore spot.

"I don't want to kiss her at all," Armon stated baldly. "If I had, I'd a done it years ago."

The others laughed in agreement, and Esme blushed in fury at his boastful supposition.

"But a bride's got to be kissed. It wouldn't be a shivaree without it."

Armon looked to his cohorts, who nodded agreement.

"If we ain't going to get to kiss her," Hightower explained, "then at least we get to see you do it."

"What?" Cleav and Esme exclaimed simultaneously.

"Kiss her," Will Gambridge encouraged. "And not that sissy little peck she got in church. Let's see you buss her for all she's worth."

"Yeah," the eldest Roscoe agreed. "And put some tongue in it!"

"You—" Esme sputtered angrily again, but Cleav patted her consolingly.

"My wife and I have no intention of entertaining you," he said emphatically.

Armon laughed. "Suit yourself, Mr. Storekeep," he replied. "Best make yourself comfortable, then, 'cause you ain't going nowhere, and we got a night full of drinking ahead of us."

As if to emphasize his words, Hightower crossed his legs and seated himself on the ground, making himself comfortable. "Tie her back up, Will," he ordered his henchman. "If they won't pay up, they're not going anywhere."

As Gambridge made a move toward them, Cleav held up his hand. It was obvious that the drunk quartet had every intention of getting drunker. Shivarees were normally just nasty little jokes, but more than one in the hills had turned ugly.

"You want to see me kiss her?" he asked unnecessarily. "Hell, she's my wife. I don't mind kissing her one bit."

Turning to the woman beside him, he whispered, "Just play along with me, and we'll get out of here."

Esme hadn't time to reply when Cleav pulled her into his embrace, bending her backward over his left arm. With her throat so exposed, he gifted it with a breathy kiss and a gentle bite. His actions brought a startled exclamation to her lips. Then he kissed her.

His kiss was neither gentle nor sweet. It was a kiss of lust and power. A kiss of masculine domination. A kiss designed for his audience. He thrust his tongue deep into the hot, sweet recesses of Esme's mouth. His only hope was that she wouldn't fight him, that she would let him finish the lewd display that would earn them their freedom.

The last thing he expected was her response. But slowly a low, soft moan emerged from Esme's throat, and her arms wrapped around his neck. She was pressing against him and kissing him back.

Cleav forgot his escape plan and his worry about the drunkenness of his captors. He forgot Armon Hightower's scurrilous little scheme. He forgot he was surrounded by slobbering hill boys. The rough kiss melted to one of tenderness, and a moment later he, too, was moaning and pulling the woman in his arms more closely against him.

"Whew-lordy!" The oldest Roscoe brother's exclamation penetrated the hot fog of desire that had blinded him. "Is that Esme a saucy-tail or which?" he asked of no one special.

Cleav jerked away from Esme, shocked at his own loss of control. In two steps he stood before Roscoe. Without a thought to the potential consequences, he grabbed the big, ruddy blond man by the scruff of the neck and slammed him none too gently against the scrub pine at his back.

"You keep my wife's name off your lips," he said with dark fervor. "Or I'll cut your balls off and feed them to that prize hog of yours."