Weeping Angel (34 page)

A
t the touch of Frank's lips, Amelia's eyes fluttered shut, and she stood there, immobile. The coolness of the stream and the warmth of Frank made her forget to be fearful of the soft current. Slowly, she began to relax against him as he gathered her closer. Ever so slightly, he bent her backward over his arm, and she hung on to him as his mouth slanted over hers. She tried to hold on to her slipping composure, but the kiss hit her with a stunning force. The sensation was dreamlike and not so very far from how she'd imagined a thoroughly passion-filled kiss would be.

She rested her fingers lightly on the top of his shoulder, her hand clenching her skirts crushed between them. Her senses were so disordered, she had to remind herself where she was lest her knees weaken.

He slid his hand through her coiffured hair, his fingers splayed. She felt the pins loosen under his firm coaxing, and since her mouth was otherwise occupied, she couldn't voice her protest. Wavy curls tumbled to her waist, and she knew she'd never be able to fix the damage. He cupped her neck, massaging and kneading
the tightness from her muscles. She moaned, and her lips parted from the pleasure.

He claimed her mouth with his tongue, and a strange shiver shot through her. The textures and sensations were foreign to her—shocking, but pleasing at the same time. She would have panicked if it hadn't been Frank kissing her in such an intimate fashion.

She felt his scratchy beard against her chin and tipped her head. This inadvertently gave his mouth a much better fit over hers, and he deepened the kiss. His tongue touched hers and stroked the inside of her mouth. She met him, tentative and unsure of how to kiss this way. She heard him moan against her lips, and his fingers bunched her hair.

She quaked in his arms as he pulled her full up against him. The hand coveting her skirt threatened to release the precious fabric. Her breasts were crushed on the broadness of his chest. She was breathless. She was feeling passionate.

She was in love.

All too soon, he lifted his head, his grip on her hair gentle, but firm.

Her eyes were still closed, her mind whirling. It was only the sound of Frank's voice that brought her back to earth.

“Did he ever kiss you like that?”

“Whhhooo?” she sighed, not having the foggiest idea what Frank was talking about.

“The salesman.”

The dreamy haze she felt lifted, and as she opened her eyes, the sky looked too bright. “Jonas Pray?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh . . . him.” It seemed odd after what she just shared with Frank, he make her recall someone he had all but erased to a dim memory. “Why do you want to know?”

Frank kept her close, his eyes hooded and dark; a
hint of brooding puzzlement filled them. “I just want to know.”

She licked her lips, tasting the faint traces of cherries from Frank's mouth. “No. He never—
no one has ever
—kissed me like you did.”

They remained where they were for a long moment, neither moving nor saying a word. Amelia wished he would forget about Jonas and kiss her again. But he didn't, and the water around her calves grew cold again. She shivered.

“I'll carry you out,” Frank said at length.

“You don't have to.”

“I want to.”

Her hand slipped down his muscled shoulder. “How will you manage? You're holding your fishing pole.”

His fingers left her hair. “It comes apart.”

Their hips still touched.

To Amelia, it was a mixture of hot and cold. She looked into his eyes, feeling a blush creep over her cheeks. He gave her that rakehell gaze of his, then a slight degree separated them as he disassembled his line and made three pieces out of his pole and handed them to her. “Carry that for me.”

She nodded, taking the segments, careful for the hook.

He put his arm by her behind and swept her into his embrace.

The wicker of the creel cut into her thigh, but she didn't dare wiggle for fear he'd drop her. Not that he wasn't strong. She felt every single muscle where her body pressed his; the hard definition of his chest; the tautness of his belly; the cords of his upper legs. With each of his steps, she grew a little breathless. The events were rapidly unfolding much like a poetic novel, and she was eager to read quickly in order to find out what would happen to the fated lovers.

As the river thinned and the shallows approached,
she felt more and more self-conscious. What should she do? What should she say? “
Pardon me, but I loved the way you kissed me. Can we try it again on dry land?”

Frank set her down but didn't let her go. Flowers tickled her wet toes. She let her skirt and petticoats drop, the hems dusting the tops of the daisies. When he didn't move, she stepped out of his embrace with uncertainty. Outstretching her arm, she handed him his fishing pole. “Don't you want to fish anymore?”

His eyes probed hers with a smoldering intensity she felt in her very soul. “I think I've caught more than I can handle,” he said as he took the rods from her and set them beside his tackle box. He stood and was about to flip the lid down with his bare foot.

“Wait,” she said. “Could you get that sock thing and put my shoes on for me?”

“Sock thing?”

“Whatever you called that metal hook.”

“Sockdologer.”

“Yes. I'll need it to put my shoes on.”

“Leave 'em off for a while.” His big toe caught the lid, and he closed his tackle box. “It's too damn hot for shoes. I'll put them on for you. Later.”

“Later?” She thought they would be rejoining the other picnickers now. At dusk she had to give her recital. “What are we going to do?”

“Sit and enjoy the sun.” He sat on the blue-and-white cloth and put his long legs out in front of him. She couldn't see all of his face; his panama hid his eyes and nose in a gray shadow as he stared at the river. But she could see his mouth. Full. Chiseled. The color of pottery clay, sort of bronze and terra-cotta.

She swept her hair over her shoulder, but not before feeling for her crimped-wire hairpins. She came up with three. The others must have fallen in the river. She decided to try and repair her hair; she put the three pins between her teeth. Since she didn't have a
brush, her fingers had to suffice. Once she got the small tangles in order, she began twisting the whole mass together to make a coil.

She'd just positioned the knot on the back of her head when she glanced in Frank's direction. She froze.

He was watching her.

She spoke around the hairpins to explain. “I have to try and fix my hair. I still need to play The Star-Spangled Banner.' ” Shoving the pins in place, she felt for curl wisps. There were many. Too many to go unnoticed. People would know this wasn't the hairstyle she'd left with. Perhaps her hat could hide the imperfections.

She went in search of it and found the hat by the side of the picnic basket at Frank's knee. He followed her gaze.

“Leave it, sweetheart.”

She lifted a brow. “Leave it?”

“I like you much better without that hat.” His blue eyes traveled over her coiffure. “And without the hairpins.”

Before she could lose her courage, she asked, “Is that why you took them out?”

Frank leaned back on his elbows. “This may surprise you, Amelia, but ever since that night I saw you in your nightgown, I've been crazy wanting my fingers in the thickness of your hair again.”

“You have . . . ?” Her voice was small and threaded with the frantic beats of her heart pounding in her ears. This was not like Frank. Not at all. He rarely, if he'd ever, admitted anything to her.

Especially not a weakness.

She sat down next to him, following his suit by viewing the stream. Neither spoke nor moved. The fragrance of crushed flower petals surrounded them, and the trickle of water seemed the perfect music.

“I wasn't sure you liked me at all,” she said softly when he remained quiet.

Her words broke through his pensive inattention, and Frank's shoulder bumped hers as he sat up. “I like you, Amelia. Too much.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She smiled, blissfully happy.

“You know, there are others who like you, too,” he began in a tone that was strained. “Certain people at the saloon.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And I like Mr. O'Cleary and Mr. Weatherwax.” She peeked at him from the corner of her eye through her lashes. “I also like you. Greatly.”

His profile hardened. “I don't know why. I'm not much to like.”

She had the strongest urge to put her hand on his arm, but refrained. “Don't say that. Why, I think you're very likable . . . at least after I got to know you I thought that . . . which isn't really true, is it?”

“What?”

“I don't know you.” She hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on the top of her hands. She chose her words very carefully, trying to lead up to a question she wanted to ask him in a way he wouldn't balk at an answer. “When I was a little girl, we had to leave our farm and go to Denver to live with two elderly sisters, the Wootens. They smelled like medicine, but I got used to it as I grew up. We were all women in the house—just my aunt, my mother and I, and the two sisters.” She lifted her chin. “Do you have a sister or a brother?”

Her subtle query was greeted with silence.

“I always wanted a sister,” she continued, pretending not to notice his lack of a reply, “but my mother never remarried after my father died when I was five. When you're an only child, I think it's natural to want a sibling to play with. Did you, too?”

He wouldn't talk.

If she kept the conversation going in this direction, she would be forced to carry it. But the subject was worth pursuing, and she tried once more. “It would be nice to have family you could write to or visit. My aunt Clara was the last bit of close family I had. My father's side is spread out in the Midwest, and I don't really correspond with any of them. I can't imagine you writing a letter. But if you did, where would you post it? I mean to say, where does your family live?”

Frank snipped a daisy in his fingers, the petals looking fragile in his strong fingers. “I can appreciate what you're trying to do, Amelia, but my family is dead, so there's no sense in talking about any of them.”

Her chin rose from her knees, and she turned her head to gaze at him. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” Tossing the flower/he frowned. Then he met her sad expression and his face softened. “Ah, hell. You can be sorry for Harry, but not for Jack and Charlotte.”

“Who's Harry?”

“He was my brother.”

“Oh. . . . And Jack and Charlotte?”

“My parents.”

“When did they die?” she asked, wondering how long he'd been alone. She still wasn't used to the emptiness of her aunt's house, even though Aunt Clara had been departed for two years now.

“Jack and Charlotte died when I was nine.”

“And your brother?”

A play of emotion clouded his eyes. She felt his sorrow and knew that he must have loved his brother deeply. “Harry died when I was twelve.”

“How awful to have lost him when you were sc young,” she sympathized. “Was he older than you?”

“No.”

She dared to press the issue further since he was beginning to talk. “How did he die?”

“He drowned.”

Growing reflective a moment, she did put her hand on his arm. “I'm sorry, Frank. Truly.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged with a forced lift of his shoulders; she sensed he was trying not to show his sadness to her. “Well, it was a long time ago. I've gotten over most of the guilt.”

“Guilt?”

He gazed at her, as if realizing the implication of what he'd said after the fact. His eyes studied her hand on his white sleeve. Then he smiled and said, “Let's count clouds,” as if their prior dialogue hadn't transpired.

“Count clouds?”

“Yeah.” Tossing his panama by the picnic basket, he leaned back, and her fingers slid across the fine fabric of his silk shirt. “Lay down.”

She did as he asked. She put her feet straight out and her arms at her sides, just like Frank. A lodgepole pine shielded the sun from her eyes, and she was able to stare at the cobalt sky without squinting. There were cottony billows of clouds. Some were defined with curving edges; some looked like marshmallows and whipped cream pillows.

“You can't count all these clouds,” she said.

“No, but that one there”—he pointed—“looks like the Widow Thurman.”

Amelia glanced at him. He was grinning.

“The Widow Thurman happens to be an acquaintance of mine.” But she couldn't keep a straight face.

He kept the corners of his mouth turned up but said, “How come you don't have any friends your own age?”

She stared ahead again, her smile fading. “I don't have anything in common with women my age.”

“Which is?”

“I'll be twenty-five this December. And you?”

“Thirty next month. Why don't you have anything in common with younger women?”

She was embarrassed to say, “They're all married and have children.”

He grew quiet for a moment, then asked, “Did you love that salesman?”

She took her time answering, trying to figure out the best way to phrase her answer. “I thought I did.”

“Pap told me what happened.”

She turned her head toward Frank. “Mr. O'Cleary?”

Frank shrugged. “Pap can be nosy.”

Amelia put her gaze back on the endless sky. “One doesn't have to be nosy in Weeping Angel to find out a person's life history. Just drop a name or a hint, and someone will tell all. The problem is, most times, it's retold in fabrication.”

“Then you tell me. What happened?”

She wasn't sure she wanted to. It was humiliating thinking about being jilted, much less telling the details aloud. “Let's just say . . . I fell in love with the wrong man. Jonas wasn't in love with me, and I was too stupid to see him for what he was.”