Untethered (13 page)

“Oh,” Marie managed. She dropped her gaze for a moment, and Cricket could feel the fear and trepidation washing over her friend. It was a brazen thing to do: to tell a man you cared for him and beg him to abandon his parents and siblings, especially when Marie wasn’t even certain
Hudson
cared for her. But Cricket was sure—ninety percent sure anyway.

“Come on, Marie. You can do this!” Cricket heard Ann whisper.

Cricket silently prayed that Marie’s courage would not fail her.

“Oh, God…don’t let her fear win over,” the preacher’s daughter prayed aloud, however.

“Is that what you came out here to ask me about?”
Hudson
inquired. “You come all the way out here this late to ask me about when the family is movin’?”

“Yes,” Marie fibbed. She recovered quickly, however, and stammered, “Well, n-no. Actually…the truth of it is…”

“Look up at him,” Cricket whispered. “Come on, Marie. Just look up at him.” Cricket thought her own heart was going to burst with frustration—either break or beat itself to death with the brutal hammering of agony for Marie’s sake.

But then Marie did look up at
Hudson
, and Cricket could see the determination returning to her pretty face.

“Actually, I came to ask you not to leave,” Marie confessed, gazing up into
Hudson
’s beloved face. “I-I came to ask you to stay in Pike’s Creek…not to go with your family to
San Antonio
.”

Hudson
’s strong brow puckered. “Why? Why would I stay in Pike’s Creek when my whole family is movin’ on?”

Cricket feared she might lose the contents of her stomach to heaving caused by apprehension. He’d asked so forthrightly! Just come right out and asked. Cricket wondered whether she would have the courage to answer
Hudson
with just as much frankness as Marie had to do in that next moment. Would she? Could she do what she had encouraged Marie to do? And was
Hudson
as dim-witted and unobservant as he sounded? Or was he simply trying to draw a confession out of Marie?

“She’s not gonna be able to tell him!” Ann whispered to Cricket. “I don’t think she can find it in her to simply—”

“Because I want you to,” Marie answered
Hudson
suddenly.

Cricket felt her eyebrows spring into arches as her mouth dropped open in delighted and relieved astonishment. In fact, she knew her expression was not so different from
Hudson
’s—for the smile that spread across his face was as wide as the
Mississippi
.

“You want me to stay here?”
Hudson
asked.

“Yes. I-I want you to stay here in Pike’s Creek, Hudson,” Marie managed. “I don’t want you to go. I want you stay here…because I…I-I…” She seemed breathless for a moment—took a step back from
Hudson
.

Cricket held her breath again, whispering to herself, “Do it now, Marie. Now. Don’t wait!” She knew that if Marie waited much longer to finish casting her lure—if she waited until
Hudson
questioned her again—the moment would be lost. She needed to kiss him that moment—that very moment! The anticipation, the desperation for Marie’s sake aching in her, was torture.

“She’s gonna miss her chance!” Vilma whined to Cricket. Cricket saw the tears in Vilma’s eyes and knew Vilma and Ann (who was literally on her knees, hands clasped, head bowed, and whispering prayer) were in nearly as much agony as Cricket was.

Hudson
breathed a chuckle. “Well, that’s awful sweet, Marie,” he said. “But my family needs me to—”

He was interrupted—his sentence hanging unfinished in midair as Marie reached out, taking hold of the lapels of the dark gray vest he wore.

“But I need you more,” Marie said, her voice quivering with emotion. “I love you more,
Hudson
.”

Cricket heard Vilma and Ann gasp as Marie then lifted herself on the tips of her toes and kissed Hudson Oliver square on the mouth.

Cricket watched—waited for the lingering kiss to end—waited to see what Hudson Oliver would do. But what he did was nearly as unexpected to Cricket as what Heathro Thibodaux had done. Cricket had hoped
Hudson
wouldn’t spurn or humiliate Marie—hoped he’d be willing to discuss the matter with her. But what actually happened was astonishing.

When Marie ended the kiss, stepped back, and cast her gaze to the ground, Hudson Oliver simply took hold of her shoulders, turned her so that her back was against the house under his bedroom window, and said, “Well, why didn’t you say so before, darlin’?” the moment before he kissed her.

And what a kiss it was! Cricket knew her eyes were bugging out like a mouse caught in a dead man’s fist. She knew because when she glanced to Vilma and Ann, their eyes were just as bugged out—their mouths hanging just as agape.

“Well…I didn’t quite expect this as his response,” Vilma whispered as she watched
Hudson
gather Marie into his arms—watched Marie’s arms slide around
Hudson
’s neck as she returned his impassioned kiss.

“I dreamed of it though,” Ann giggled. “Oh, look at them! I swear he’s settin’ her stockin’s on fire!”

Cricket smiled as she watched
Hudson
making sudden and passionate love to Marie—right there under his own bedroom window. “I knew he loved her,” she whispered. “I knew it!”

The sight of Hudson and Marie lost in one another’s wildly impassioned affections healed Cricket’s heart a bit from the sting of what had happened with Mr. Thibodaux. Marie would be happy—happy with Hudson Oliver. They’d be married soon, she was sure of it. And one day, little dark-haired angels would be playing at their feet. Maybe Marie’s babies would call her Auntie Cricket. Maybe they’d play with the children Cricket hoped to have one day.

“I feel better,” Cricket sighed.

Vilma looked to her, frowning. “Better? How could you feel any better than you already did? The goin’s-on between you and that tall drink of water Heathro Thibodaux didn’t look much different than what’s happenin’ right now between Marie and Hudson.”

“It was apples and onions, Vilma Stanley,” came Cricket’s response. “I mean, look at them.” She gestured to where
Hudson
now had Marie pushed back against the outer wall of his house again, driving such a kiss to her that Cricket wondered how on earth the girl could breathe.

“That’s love, Vilma,” she stated. “That’s deep, everlasting, true, true love.” She exhaled a sigh of contentment for Marie’s sake. “Heathro Thibodaux doesn’t know me from a fried turkey gizzard. But
Hudson
knows Marie. His eyes know her, his heart knows her, and his very soul knows her.”

“Looks like his lips know her pretty well now too,” Ann giggled.

Vilma returned her attention to Marie and Hudson, sighing as she watched them embracing, kissing—resplendent in the joy of what was obviously mutual adoration. “How perfectly wonderful would it be to have a man love you like that, girls?” Vilma asked.

“I imagine it would be as perfectly wonderful as it looks,” Cricket sighed, unable to keep her thoughts from drifting back to the moments with Heathro Thibodaux—unable to keep from wishing the scene between her and the ex-Texas Ranger had been a mirror’s reflection of what was now happening between Hudson and Marie.

“Well, I suppose we should leave them to their sparkin’,” Ann suggested.

“We certainly should,” Cricket agreed. “Let’s head home and get some sleep, ladies. We’ll leave Marie to being breathless in
Hudson
’s arms and get ourselves to bed.”

Ann giggled. “And maybe I can dream about Mr. Keel, and you can dream about your kiss with Mr. Thibodaux, right, Cricket?”

“Right,” Cricket answered, forcing a smile.

Ann looked to Vilma. “And since Vilma refuses to tell us who
she
spends her nights dreamin’ about…we’ll just have to say sweet dreams about whoever he is, Vilma.”

Vilma smiled, curtsied, and said, “Thank you, Ann Burroughs. I’m sure they will be very sweet.”

With one last glance at Hudson and Marie, who hadn’t yet lessened the intensity of their passionate kissing in the least, Cricket turned and followed Ann and Vilma into the night. Another night of mischief was finished, and Cricket felt the familiar descent of her spirits with it. As wonderful and satisfying as it was to do nice things for other people, Cricket always experienced a somewhat melancholy hour or so once the shenanigans were over. For one thing, she was always very tired. But the thing that disappointed her most was that it was over.

Oh, she always perked up after a while—once she’d gotten home, changed into her soft nightgown, and collapsed onto her comfortable bed. Once she’d begun to review the shenanigans over in her mind—to envision the smiles, laughter, and tears of those whose hearts had been lightened—then her feelings of being let down would disappear.

Still, as Cricket made her way back home, quietly climbed in through her bedroom window, and readied for bed, she wondered whether this time her spirits would ever rebound the way they normally did. She thought of Mrs. Maloney—her joyful tears at having found the teapot waiting for her on her front porch. She thought of Mr. Keel and how Ann’s quilt would brighten his lonely home and bring him comfort. She thought of Marie, no doubt still locked in the arms of her lover—imagined how blissful she must feel. Yet no amount of forcing her thoughts to linger on the other townsfolk of Pike’s Creek who had been touched that night kept them from returning to her experience with Heathro Thibodaux.

At first she thought that the only way her exchange with Mr. Thibodaux could’ve been worse was if he’d actually pulled his gun and shot her. Yet in the next moment, even that didn’t seem more dismal an outcome.

Cricket climbed into bed, closed her eyes, and attempted to go to sleep. But sleep didn’t come—only visions of Heathro Thibodaux—only a fascinating tingling on her lips each time she thought of kissing him.

His voice resounded in her mind, repeating the warnings of what men who were not to be trusted might do to innocent girls. Cricket knew his experience the year before—the death of the abducted girls he had been unable to rescue—was what caused him to be so threatening and calloused toward her. The fact was that people made judgments and decisions based on their personal experience—and Ranger Thibodaux’s experience where men and young women were concerned had been far, far more than merely tragic. They’d been depraved, heinous, and wretchedly mournful.

Perhaps she should have expected him to be wary, harsh, and reprimanding considering what he’d been through, seen, and felt responsible for. But Cricket knew she could have had no way of knowing it.

She felt so saddened for him. A good man would blame himself for what happened to the abducted girls, even though it was no fault of his and could not have been in any way avoided. Good men were like that. Her father was like that.

When Cricket’s mother had fallen from her father’s horse and died instantly of a broken neck, Zeke Cranford blamed himself. He had been the one who had purchased the horse, ridden the animal for four years. It was his fault the horse was in the corral in the first place. At least, that was the way Zeke saw it. He never considered the mountain lion that had spooked the horse or the rock that had been where it lay for hundreds of years or the happenstance that his wife’s neck would strike the rock when she was thrown. No. To Zeke Cranford, his wife’s death had been his fault and his alone.

Cricket knew it was just what Heathro Thibodaux felt. In his mind, he should’ve been able to kill all those outlaws with his bare hands in one sweeping moment—or grip the arm of the last girl to go over the cliff and save her and the other seven tied to her.

Thus, she began to feel somewhat comforted about his treatment of her that night. He knew true evil and ugliness—had walked hand-in-hand with it—had been beaten, shot, and nearly killed by it. It was no wonder he should warn her to be careful.

Cricket closed her eyes and called up the memory of kissing him—of the moment her lips first pressed to Mr. Thibodaux’s. Instantaneously her body erupted with goose bumps, her lips tingling with the fleeting feel of kissing him—with the sudden awareness of the manner in which he had crushed his mouth to hers. However lascivious it had been, the memory of it whisked Cricket to moments of sudden breathlessness. She thought of the true intimacy of the kiss Heathro had forced upon her, and she was suddenly and overwhelmingly distraught that she did not accept it and, in truth, bathe in the wonder of it when she’d had the chance.

Heathro Thibodaux had kissed her—fairly made love to her right then and there while she stood on the watering trough! And she had failed to realize the wonder of it until that very moment.

Yes, he’d scolded her. Yes, he’d threatened her and implied she was ignorant. But the fact remained that, though his intentions were certainly to frighten and horrify her, he
had
indeed kissed her! His lips had taken hers; his mouth had tasted hers. His hand had carefully cradled her chin and cheeks, not brutally pained them as his mouth had worked to discourage her from trusting the men in Pike’s Creek. It had not been a tender, loving kiss he’d forced to her mouth—but it had been his kiss.