Liz Ireland (14 page)

Emma felt too disheartened to care. “Do them, or leave them if you’re too tired. I’ll tend to them in the morning.”

Her declaration of slovenliness apparently shocked her sister into speechlessness, because Emma made the rest of the trip upstairs in complete silence. She considered going to Lang’s room to apologize to him for snapping at him this morning, but she couldn’t face that humiliating task just yet.

She trudged to her room and listlessly tugged off her dress and slipped into one of her old thick cotton nightgowns. She’d been wearing the same design since she was twelve—pastel cotton print, usually little roses or clusters of violets, trimmed in white eyelet. The hem brushed her ankles, the cuffs encircled her wrists and the collar practically brushed her chin. As she glimpsed herself now in her bureau mirror, she cringed in recognition. It was a spinster’s nightgown, she realized with horror, just as the long single braid hanging down her back was a spinster’s practical braid. She’d never had beautiful, lush nightclothes like her sister; she’d never worn her hair loose and flowing.

And she wasn’t about to start now, she thought, grumbling to herself as she climbed beneath her stiffly starched, pristine-white spinster sheets and practical gray-pink woolen spinster blanket. For twenty-eight years she had lived without illusions about herself; for one day she had slipped. If she went back to her old sensible self and stayed that way for another few decades, maybe she would be
able to forgive her foolish lapse. Better to be a practical spinster than a foolish unhappy one.

The trouble was that ever since Lang had arrived, dreams she’d thought impossible had suddenly seemed eminently achievable. The hospital, the farm. Life had untapped possibilities, she’d discovered.

Maybe that’s why she’d fallen for the sheriff’s smile hook, line and sinker. She frowned. Perhaps it would be wise to get her life back on track, to forgo her ideas for the hospital and the farm at present, and concentrate on restoring some of her dignity. She had enough problems to tend to with Lorna and Davy and Lang without taking on bigger projects. And maybe if she renounced her hospital and farm plans, Rose Ellen would finally give up and retreat to Galveston without her.

Just as she was about to drift away into sleep, something brought her back. She sat up in bed and heard a light rapping at her door. This was probably Rose Ellen, come to lecture her about leaving the supper dishes for her to do.

“Come in,” she said, more irritated than she’d meant to sound.

To her amazement, Lang slid through the door, shut it behind him and came right up to her bed, his hands behind his back. Emma, blushing, pulled her blanket right up to the top of her chin. No man had ever marched into her bedroom before! She wasn’t even decent.

“What are you doing here?”

He looked at her hesitantly. “I thought I’d bring a peace offering.”

Suddenly she remembered that the last time they’d spoken, she’d been screaming like a harpy at him for suggesting the sheriff might not be sincere in his affections. If only she’d listened!

A little of her outrage seeped out of her. “I’m the one
who should be apologizing to you,” she said. “You were right. The sheriff doesn’t care a fig about me. He just wants my land.”

“I heard.”

Of course. His room was directly above the dining room, and she and Rose Ellen hadn’t exactly been speaking in dulcet, ladylike tones. “I’m so ashamed,” she said, dropping her hands into her lap. Tears burned her eyes, and she fought them with the last spurts of strength in her exhausted body.

He sank down onto the bed next to her, and she felt a quickness in her stomach, a butterfly of awareness that caused her to cringe.
More foolishness
—just as her horrified reaction to his entering her bedroom had been. When would she learn that there was as much chance of her being ravished as there was of her walking on the moon?

“Why should you be ashamed when it was the sheriff who behaved dishonorably?” Lang asked.

Her shoulders rose in a vague shrug. “I should have known better. I should have known that no man would…”

She couldn’t finish. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes remained focused on her hands. She couldn’t look Lang in the eye for fear that he would detect the magnitude of her chagrin.

Then, into her open palms dropped a bluebird.

It wasn’t a real bluebird, of course, though it might have been, so lifelike was the wooden carving. The tiny creature perched precariously on a small branch, glancing up at her with inquisitive life in its wooden eyes. Its tail feathers were bent, its delicate wings slightly spread as if just about to take off in flight; she sensed the potential of movement in its stance and the pert determination of its pointy beak. Or perhaps this young bluebird was just testing its feathers, gauging its strength.

Of course, the bird wasn’t blue. It might have been a small robin, or a sparrow. But just as she sensed movement, she also sensed unseen color.

“Oh, Lang,” she whispered. She looked up at him in surprise. She’d seen a little of his work last night, but she’d never expected him capable of this. “You’re an artist!”

He chuckled. “I’m a workingman with too much idle time after harvest.”

For the second time today Emma was overwhelmed by a gift, but this, she could see, had more genuine goodwill behind it than the largest box of chocolates in Joe Spears’s mercantile. No one could fashion such a beautiful, intricate piece and give it away without feeling something for the recipient—even if it was pity.

She sighed, remembering that her mortification was the reason he’d given her the bluebird. “I can’t accept it. It’s too nice, and you shouldn’t owe me anything when you were only telling me the truth.”

“I was wrong.”

She didn’t understand. “But you heard me talking with Rose Ellen….”

He shook his head. “I meant I was wrong to let you leave with the impression that I thought you didn’t deserve love. In fact, just the opposite is true. If I sounded harsh, it was only because I was jealous.”

“Jealous?”

Lang’s dark eyes alone could have communicated his remorse. “If I were in the sheriff’s shoes, I would have declared myself years ago and proven that you were worthy of more affection than one man could even offer you.”

The tears she’d been fighting back rallied, and when she felt one splash hotly onto her cheek, Lang reached across and gently wiped it away with his thumb. A flash of desire
seized her even as her mind whirled in confusion.
Maybe he really does care…or maybe he just pities me…
.

Her gaze fluttered down to the bluebird perched to spread its wings, then back up into Lang’s dark, piercing gaze. She couldn’t trust her instinct, which was telling her that the man looked at her with raw desire. The sheriff’s admiration had sounded real enough, too. But Barton’s kiss
…that’s
when she should have smelled a rat. While she’d expected fireworks and shooting stars, from the sheriff’s kiss she’d received only workmanship and a crick in her neck. She’d known it wasn’t right. Only afterward had she tried to convince herself that she’d been swept off her feet.

After this harrowing day, Lang could talk about love till his tongue dropped off, and she’d never know whether or not to believe him. His kindness, his heart-stopping gaze and the hard broad muscles beneath his shirt made her want to trust his sincerity. If he’d just take her in his arms, she might see her way to making a more certain judgment….

She took a deep breath, drawing in oxygen like courage. She’d made such a jackass out of herself this day, surely one more bit of lunacy couldn’t hurt. Maybe that way she could confine a lifetime’s foibles to one neat twenty-four-hour period.

“May I ask you a favor?”

Lang’s dark brows rose in curiosity. “Of course.”

“Would you kiss me like there was no tomorrow?”

And who knows, she thought. There might not be. Because if Lang said no, she might die of embarrassment right there on her old spinster bed.

L
ang didn’t need to be asked twice. As soon as Emma spoke the astonishing words, he bent down to press his lips against her own parted ones. He didn’t question her motives, or ask how a simple carved bird could elicit such an odd request, or wonder why the hell she was asking him of all people to kiss her. He’d already spent four long days in bed thinking way too much about Emma to refuse the opportunity she offered him.

The trouble was, he’d meant to stop with a mere brush of his lips against hers. A taste, nothing more. But a taste of Emma’s sweet lips wasn’t nearly enough. Her mouth was soft and warm, the movement of her lips tentative yet curious. Five minutes ago she’d seemed shocked that he would march into her bedroom; now she seemed unafraid to have him ravish her in her bed. The contradictions in her drove him to distraction, and his pent-up desire for her made him forget all about his plan to stop at a simple peck.

He pulled her gently to his arms and deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth for better access to the delectable wine of her lips. His movement shifted something between them; suddenly Emma became an active participant in their experiment. Forgotten covers pooled around her waist as
she lifted her hands to encircle his nape. Her body cleaved to his like sky against the earth.

He hadn’t expected the sharp stab of desire he felt as she undulated against him, or that a mere soft moan of pleasure from her would drive him to the edge of control. His groin was burning and stiff, and as they explored each other’s mouths, he realized it had been a long, long time since he’d felt this strong a desire for any woman.

Not since Lucy.

The very name was like water dousing a campfire. Lucy had taken his kisses as her due, stoked his desire and affections, then turned away from him without a second glance when he’d offered her everything he had. She never dreamed of marrying a farmhand, she’d declared. She’d assumed Lang had understood that from the beginning.

He hadn’t, but he’d learned the ground rules, all right, with Lucy as his master teacher. Rich gals didn’t marry poor men, and kisses that meant a great deal to one person could count for very little to another.

Slowly he tore himself away from Emma’s lips, savoring the last taste of her. Who knew if he would ever be allowed another? Emma wasn’t Lucy…but now he wasn’t even a farmhand. He was a desperado, and though he was innocent, asking a woman to care for him was close to criminal. Especially a woman who had already been as kind and generous to him as Emma had been.

When he pulled back he searched her green eyes for her reaction, but his gaze was drawn again to her parted lips, still moist and pink from their kiss.

“Oh my!” She glanced down at her arms and hands and torso as if taking inventory, then looked back up at him. “That didn’t hurt one bit!”

He almost laughed. “I’ve never heard that particular reaction to a kiss.”

She ducked her head and her cheeks pinkened. “I only meant, that was wonderful. I—I never knew…” Her words stammered to a halt, and she gazed at him with such open, trusting admiration that he was on the verge of kissing her again. “Thank you.”

He shot off the bed; it was safer that way. Emma wasn’t Lucy, he repeated to himself. She was both more mature and more innocent, stronger and more vulnerable. She was beautiful, and suddenly he wanted to be the man who showed her what it was like to make love. Or maybe he only wanted to forget all the problems that fate had rained on his head, or to be reassured that there was one woman in the world who was generous and good. Or that his life would go on.

But his life was a risky proposition at this point, and Emma would be a fool to love him. There wasn’t much of a future in it.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to just leave her. He wanted her to know how she’d moved him. “To hell with the sheriff,” he said, his voice surprisingly raspy and dry.

She smiled, and didn’t seem the least shocked by the profanity, or for that matter, the sentiment.

“The man who wins you will be lucky, Emma. Don’t ever forget that.”

He went back to his room then, his awkward gait slowing his progress. He didn’t want anyone to see him coming out of Emma’s room, especially when his face was sure to have a string of troubled emotions marching across it, amounting in the end to a bad case of male frustration. Damn and double damn!

The man who would win Emma would be lucky, all right. Unfortunately, Lang Tupper was a man for whom luck was in short supply.

Emma gazed at her bluebird and suddenly felt as if she were that small winged creature, poised to take flight. At least her heart was soaring, even if she was still earthbound. She’d hoped that Lang’s kiss would show her that he was more sincere than Barton, but the kiss had done more than prove a point; it had transported her. For the third time in one week, she had received her first kiss.

Because Lang’s kiss was the kiss that the novelists wrote about, the daydream concoctions that reality didn’t disappoint. Her lips felt warm and wet, and the desire that the mere touching of his mouth against hers had stirred in her remained with her still as she lay on her bed minutes after he was gone. Emma knew that she should feel ashamed of the liquid heat that had pooled at the core of her womanhood, but she did not. She was too fascinated, too overcome with the rush of blood through her veins, too amazed by the feeling of weightlessness that had seized her.

Lang Tupper. She mouthed the name quietly, as though she were just discovering it. Why had he left her so abruptly? Did he wish she hadn’t thrown herself at him? Of course, if memory served, the man hadn’t needed much encouragement….

Lang hadn’t pounced on her, or clunked their bodies together like toppled stone statues, or pinned her down till her neck cramped. If she ever needed proof that he wasn’t a criminal, she’d received it tonight. His kiss was gentle, not that of a hardened lawbreaking vermin. Lang hadn’t demanded or pushed too far too fast; he’d simply given, offered himself to her unquestioningly, and had made certain she’d received pleasure. Her thoughts galloped ahead to wonder what other pleasures he might be able to impart.

A stern voice of propriety scolded her for such wanton thoughts.
For shame, Emma Colby!
her finger-wagging conscience screamed. But how could she really feel a shred
of guilt about one even not-so-innocent kiss? She was twenty-eight, for heaven’s sake. Her sister had gone through more beaux by the time she was seventeen than Emma would ever see in a lifetime. She was certain the sheriff had never kissed Rose Ellen as if she were a statue.

She grinned. Or maybe he had. Maybe statue was his style. Some swain he had turned out to be!

She couldn’t believe she was laughing, when just minutes before she was wishing she could hide from the world. She had Lang to thank for that, too. To think, she’d actually wanted to sleep for a week—a week, when there was so much to do, and accomplish! Now she didn’t want to waste a single minute of her life regretting what was done. She certainly wasn’t going to waste precious time moping over Barton Sealy.

The next day when Emma went to town to order seed corn, she pointedly avoided the sheriff’s office. Her wagon stood right on Main Street, so she didn’t doubt that Barton would realize she was there. But she wasn’t going to talk to him. Not even to give him a piece of her mind, which she would have enjoyed. In the interest of maintaining her dignity, she’d decided the silent treatment would get the message across to him just as well.

She marched out of the feed store, aiming her steps back toward the wagon. There was much to do at home. Lang, who was finally, tentatively, on his feet again, was marking off acreage to be plowed up. She was already way behind the other farmers in the area and would have to hustle if she wanted to have a decent crop.

As she turned a corner, she heard footsteps behind her. She whirled, half expecting to discover Barton following her, and gasped. It wasn’t Barton Sealy.

It was his brother. William.

This was the first time she had seen the youth since learning of Lorna’s predicament, and Emma was shocked both by how young he looked and how mature. He had the same basic features as his older brother—tall frame, blond hair, blue eyes—but on William the traits were configured in such a way as to give him the appearance of being as yet half-finished. Tufts of yellow hair tossed every which way on his head, limbs gangled like a colt’s, and the blue eyes that gawked at her were as innocent as the sheriff’s were calculating.

Being confronted by him was a shock. For weeks her mind had formed the most unfavorable picture of him—the seducer, the man who had abandoned poor Lorna in her hour of need. And indeed he might be all those things. But looking at him she could understand why Lorna still hankered after William, and wanted even now to believe the best of him. His appearance was that of a sweet, innocent youth.

“Miss Emma! I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

She lifted her chin, sniffing. She’d had about enough of Sealy men, thank you very much. “If it’s about Lorna, you would do better to address her personally.”

At the mention of the girl’s name, his eyes became misty and expectant. “How is Lorna?”

“Pregnant with your baby,” Emma stated flatly.

William’s cheeks streaked red.

“Do you deny it?” she asked, indignation making her voice shrill. “Can you?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been wrong, Miss Emma. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He cast a worried glance down the street toward the sheriff’s door. “I’ve heard tell of your starting a farm.”

“I am.” Her spine stiffened and she strained not to throw a glance at the sheriff’s door, too. Perhaps the whole
Sealy family was ready to pack their trunks and move into her home.

William’s large feet shuffled on the sandy pine blanks of the sidewalk. “Oh, well, I…”

Emma waited, not helping him.

At her stern silence, he finally looked into her eyes and choked out, “I need a job. I’d take it most kindly if you’d consider me for the position of farmhand.”

You could have blown her over with a sneeze! A Sealy wanted to work for
her?
For generations, Sealys had been the ruling class of Midday. Sealys had been at the battle of San Jacinto, had made buckets of money in land deals and had sent one of their sons, Barton and William’s father, to serve in the state legislature. They were a step up in reputation even from the Colby family.

But William’s question made her think. What had become of the Sealy fortune? Most of their land had been sold, their house had burned years ago and never been rebuilt. Barton and William lived in town, and the sheriff position couldn’t pay much. The old Sealy brass was definitely a bit tarnished. No wonder Barton had been willing to seduce a woman for a parcel of rich farmland.

The anger that seethed inside her at the thought of the sheriff made her first instinct to give William a flat-out no. Her heart told her to write off the whole Sealy clan as a bad lot worthy of all the misfortune life had to throw at them. But she knew that a person couldn’t be judged by the actions of their siblings. She wouldn’t appreciate people lumping her character in with Rose Ellen’s—and look at Lang. He was being held accountable for his brother’s sins, and what could be more unfair than the position he was in?

But then, William had his own sins to account for. “I would need to talk to Lorna.”

Again his eyes lit up. “Do you think she would see me?”

She sighed. A part of her wished she could tell him no, that Lorna’s heart had healed and she had moved on to thinking about the future. Serve the scoundrel right. But she knew deep down this wasn’t so. If William Sealy appeared at the doorstep to reconcile with Lorna, for the first time the world would witness a pregnant woman doing cartwheels.

“What do you know about farming?” she asked, getting away from Lorna and back to another issue pressing on her mind. Since she didn’t know what she was doing, it would be good to have someone around who did.

“Nothing,” he answered honestly.

So much for that hope. Emma screwed up her lips as she gave his physique another dismayed inspection. He was skinny, with the meagerest dusting of muscle over his bones. Davy probably had more elbow grease in him than William did; Davy probably knew more about farming, too. William’s way of moving also boded ill. He hesitated and lurched forward, and looked generally as if the tiniest pebble in his path would trip him up. In short, he was probably next to useless, and that trait combined with the puppylike eagerness she detected in his eyes made him an accident waiting to happen.

And there was no way on earth she wasn’t going to hire him.

“Ten acres,” Lang said, pointing out from a broken, splintery fence toward the horizon. He imagined what the fields would look like in a few months, with a wheat crop in and thriving. The thought absorbed him. All his life he’d looked after other people’s crops as if they were his own children, never feeling completely safe until they were
grown and out of his hands. There was so much to worry about, to tend to. Weather. Insects. Fire. He already felt the pleasurable hum of anxiety in his veins. He’d first told Emma he was a gambler, and maybe he was at that. Farming was the riskiest business he could think of.

“Ten acres,” Emma echoed.

He felt reassured by the mixture of worry and eagerness in her eyes as she looked over her acreage. Clearly she didn’t know what the hell she was getting into, but she was right to be anxious.

“As far as I can tell, all you have in the barn of your grandfather’s legacy are some spades, a mule harness and a rusty plow. Oh, and an old pair of gloves I found behind a keg of nails. You’ll need to get the plow back into shape, sharpen the blades and test the harness for strength.”

From the way her green eyes widened, he guessed she noted
she’d
have to do all these things. Her lips parted into a dismayed O of understanding, then a curtain of unreadable emotion fell over her eyes. Lang hoped she wasn’t having second thoughts, but she had to know the task ahead of her was huge. “You’ll also need a mule. Preferably two.”