Heartbreak Creek (28 page)

“So you don’t know if I did this?” He reached under the covers and put his hand around her ankle.

She tried to pull it back.

He moved his hand up her calf.

“Stop that.”

“You don’t remember this?” Above her knee now, his palm roughened by calluses, his fingers almost spanning her leg. “Or this?”

So distracted was she by what his hand was doing, she didn’t see his head come down until his mouth pressed against hers. She froze, her pulse hammering in her temples, her skin tingling where his beard stubble raked gently against her chin, then along her jaw as he brushed his lips across her cheek to her temple. Why did he smell like roses?

Under the covers, his hand slid higher.

She thought she should tell him to stop but her throat wouldn’t work.

“Trust me, Ed,” he whispered into her ear. “You’ll remember.” Then with a gentle pat on her bare fanny, he straightened, lifted his hat from the bedpost, and settled it on his head. “Later, wife. That’s a promise.”

Then grinning, he turned, ducked under the beam over the landing, and clumped down the stairs.

 

 

Still smiling, Declan stepped out the kitchen door, pleased to note that during the night the wind had risen to clear away most of the stink. There were still tiny wisps of smoke curling above the blackened pile where the carcasses had been, but the huge mound had been reduced to a fraction of its original size, and what smoke hung in the air smelled of wood smoke, not charred meat.

“Morning, Sergeant,” he called as Guthrie’s next in command left the group of soldiers standing with Amos around a small cook fire and walked toward him. “The lieutenant already gone?”

“Yes, sir. About two hours ago.”

Sergeant Quinlan was a tall man with a head as hairless as a cannonball. To counter that lack, he cultivated an impressive mustache that he coated with pine resin and sheep tallow to keep the ends curled tight as a pig’s tail. Joe Bill, having a keen interest in facial hair since he couldn’t grow any yet, had related all the particulars over supper. Declan wondered how the man could work his rifle without getting tangled up in the lever.

As the sergeant approached, Declan stepped off the kitchen stoop to meet him. “Got any coffee over there?”

“Yes, sir, we do. Your man just started a new pot.”

“Had breakfast yet?”

“Yes, sir. And please thank your wife for the bacon she sent over last night. The men sure appreciated it.”

As they walked toward the campfire, Quinlan said, “The lieutenant left orders my men were to dig you a new well. After you get your coffee, maybe you’ll show us where, so we can get started.”

There weren’t a lot of options, Declan decided, a half hour later, as he stood by the old well and looked around. They could dig upflow of the old well, he guessed, and hope the fouled water didn’t backwash into the new well. Or he could move higher up, but that would put it farther from the house, which would be a problem in freezing weather.

“You might find water up there,” Quinlan offered, nodding toward a stand of aspen about fifty yards up the slope that rose on the west side of the house. “Where you find aspen, you usually find water.”

“We tried up there. But whatever seam is feeding those aspen must split off somewhere between here and there. We couldn’t find it.”

“Wait up, gentlemen,” a cheery voice called.

Declan turned to see Ed coming toward them, holding a cup in one hand and pinning a wide-brimmed straw bonnet to her head with the other. The crisp morning breeze sent untied streamers fluttering out behind her like flocking birds and molded her skirt tight around her hips and legs.

Long legs. Smooth and firm. A butt as warm and soft as a new foal’s belly. His hand closed tight at the memory.

“Good morning, Sergeant. Isn’t it a grand day?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is.”

“What are you doing out so early?” Declan asked as she stopped beside him. He’d expected her to start on the parlor this morning.

“I’ve come to help. Hold this while I secure my hat. The wind is atrocious today.” Thrusting the cup into his hands, she lifted her arms.

He watched how the motion pulled the fabric of her dress tight across her breasts and wondered how he was going to make it until later.

“There now,” she said, once she’d re-pinned and retied. She retrieved the cup, took a sip, then licked coffee off her top lip. “Joe Bill should be here with the sticks in just a moment, then we can get started.”

“At what?” Declan knew she was a hard worker, but surely she didn’t intend to dig beside the men.

She looked up at him from beneath the floppy brim of her hat. “Amos said you were digging a new well.”

“I am.”

“Where?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Exactly. Which is why I’m here.” She must have seen his confusion. “I find water. It’s one of my few talents.” She smiled reassuringly at the sergeant. “And I’m very good at it, even if I do say so myself.”

Declan frowned. There was a reason it was called water “witching.” It was unnatural. Illogical. On a par with rainmaking and hair restorers and evangelical swooning. He’d thought Ed too smart for such foolishness.

“You’re a douser?” the sergeant asked.

“I am.”

Declan snorted. “It’s bunkum.”

“It most certainly is not. And I’ll prove it.” She nodded past his shoulder. “Here comes Joe Bill. You’ll see.”

“Will these do?” Joe Bill held out several slim switches as he approached Ed. “It’s the best I could find.”

Ed took them from his grip. “They’re forked?”

“All but the one. And I skinned the forked ends like you said.”

“You’re sure they’re willow wood?”

Joe Bill muttered something.

“Excellent.” Ed chose two from the bunch, studied them closely—for what, Declan had no idea—then made a final selection. “Prepare to be amazed, gentlemen.” Gripping the forked ends in her bare hands, she turned her wrists until her knuckles faced up, her thumbs out, and the stick was pointed halfway between earth and sky. Then she commenced marching.

And marching. Back and forth, back and forth, her brow furrowed in concentration, her steps measured and slow.

“I told you she’s crazy, Pa.”

Declan didn’t respond, but he was beginning to agree.

“I saw a douser once in Missouri,” Quinlan said as they watched Ed work her way slowly up the slope in a crisscross pattern like a hound coursing for a scent. “Don’t have the gift myself, and I damn sure can’t explain it, but I saw it work with my own eyes.”

“Crazy as Cooter Brown,” Joe Bill said.

Halfway up the slope, Ed stopped, rotated her neck and shoulders, shook out her arms, then started again.

“You gotta make her stop, Pa. It’s embarrassing.”

Declan turned his head and looked at his son.

“Well, it is. She’s even got you wearing perfume.”

Declan frowned, then remembered the soap. He was wondering how to defend his manhood to his own son, when Ed yelled, “Found it!”

To Declan, “it” looked like every other patch of dirt within a hundred-mile radius.

But Ed was bobbing on her toes with excitement. “It’s a big flow. Joe Bill, get that long switch without a fork, and I’ll tell you how deep it is.”

Muttering under his breath, Joe Bill went.

“What makes you think it’s here?” Declan tried not to sound too skeptical. Yet if he was going to ask men to dig in this rocky soil, he’d like to have a reason for picking this spot other than that a stick told him to.

Ed rolled her blue eyes. “I declare you’re the stubbornest man alive. Just stay here and watch what happens when I walk by.” Moving about ten yards away, she gripped the forked stick like she had before, flat across her palms, knuckles pointing up, and walked slowly toward them.

Three yards out, the tip of the stick began to twitch. At one yard, the twitches became jerks, and when she reached Declan, it swung sharply down to point directly at the spot she had indicated. “See?” Letting go of one fork of the stick, she winced and rubbed her palm on her skirt.

“Well, if that don’t beat all.” Quinlan spoke in such a tone of deep admiration and respect Declan tried not to glower.

Ed grinned happily back. “Have I made you a believer, Sergeant?”

“You have, ma’am. You surely have. I’ll get the men and we’ll start digging.” He walked back toward the campfire, barking orders as he went.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” Declan asked.

She studied her palm. “Rubbed a bit. It happens if you grip too hard and the pull is strong.”

“Let me see.”

Taking her smaller hand in his, he traced a finger across the red welt cutting across her palm.

“That tickles,” she said in an odd voice.

He looked up, found himself sinking into her eyes, and forced himself to let go. “How does it work?” He had watched her hands when the stick started twitching and moving, and he was convinced she hadn’t shifted her grip or turned her wrist or done anything that he could see. Yet the stick had moved in her hands . . . apparently while she held it as tight as she could. It made no sense.

“It’s magic,” she said with that imp’s grin.

“It’s bunkum.”

“You’ll see.”

Joe Bill returned with another willow switch. This one had only been cut on one end and was an entire twig, about three feet long, less than half an inch in diameter, and very limber. Like the forked sticks, the cut end had been scraped of bark.

She went to her starting point ten yards out and turned. “When I get closer, watch for the switch to start bobbing, then count each bounce.”

Gripping the tip of the stripped end with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, and bracing it with her left, she walked slowly forward. As she neared, the drooping end started to twitch. When the tip hung directly over the spot, it began to bounce up and down in a regular rhythm.

“Count,” Ed said, her entire attention focused on the bobbing switch.

At twenty-two, the bouncing began to slow. By thirty, it had stopped altogether. Ed let out a deep breath and lowered the switch. “You should hit water somewhere between twenty and thirty feet.” She pointed at the ground between her toes. “Right here.”

They took turns digging. Those not working in the four-foot-wide hole cut saplings and carted rocks to line the sides. They’d dig a few feet, send up buckets of dirt, shore the walls with stone and wood, then dig some more. They hit a trickle at seven feet, another at twelve. After temporarily plugging the seams as best they could with stone, they kept digging. By dark they were down almost twenty feet and into gravel.

Declan called it a day.

They shared their campfire that night with the soldiers, dining on the last of the venison and beans, with Ed adding a cobbler made of canned peaches, dried plums, and lumps of dough to form the crust. The bottom was burned crisp, the top gooey, the insides too sweet. But the soldiers couldn’t seem to get enough of it, which Declan could see pleased Ed.

She was in her element. A beautiful, fluttering butterfly in a field of drab blue flowers, flitting from man to man, thanking them for their hard work and charming them with her smile. He figured tomorrow they’d dig to China if she asked them. It made him uneasy, reawakened his doubts; he’d been through this before, had watched one wife drift away and had done little to stop it. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he saw this woman doing the same thing.

But for now, he did nothing, just watched in silence as she made her rounds, pouring coffee into one man’s cup, laughing at some comment made by another.

His mood went from glum to morose.

Then when he’d about convinced himself he wouldn’t care if this one left him, too, she lifted her head and looked at him across the fire.

Her smile faltered, softened into something tentative and unsure. It took the breath out of him. And he knew then he would never let this wife drift away.

“Is that hot yet?” he asked Amos, nodding toward the four buckets of water heating on the fire.

The old preacher shrugged.

“Then take it to the loft. Have the boys help you.”

Amos and his sons picked up the buckets and started toward the house. Edwina watched them for a moment, then looked back at Declan.

He saw it in the widening of her expressive eyes. Read it in that shy smile that reached all the way down to his thudding heart.

Later had come.

 

 

Edwina tried not to dither, but it was hard.

That look.
Mercy.
She felt like the last hen in the coop when the fox came for a visit. The man was eating her up with his eyes.

Ever since that morning when he’d patted her bare bottom—her
bare bottom
, for heaven’s sake
—
and said “Later,” she hadn’t been able to get that word—along with all it portended—and the feel of his warm, rough hand sliding up her leg, out of her flustered mind. And now this look, his eyes gleaming with something she had certainly never seen in Shelly’s.

Law’s amercy.
She didn’t know whether to run shrieking through the sagebrush or burst into titters of nervous anticipation.

So she went to take her bath, instead.

Soon,
she thought a few minutes later, as she scrubbed herself into a heady, rose-scented lather. Soon she would know what had been lacking in her first marriage, and what put that dreamy look in Maddie’s eyes whenever she spoke of Angus, and what her body seemed instinctively to crave whenever Declan was near. She paused in her scrubbing, assailed by doubts as old worries rose in her mind.

Resolutely, she pushed them down. She wouldn’t give him a chance to have second thoughts or disappointments. She’d pounce like a chicken on a June bug as soon as he walked through that door. Go at him like a possum in a pea patch. Hang on those broad shoulders like a cheap two-dollar suit—
No, wait. Not cheap
. She didn’t want to appear trashy or common.