Butterfly Garden (17 page)

Shocked, trembling, glistening with sweat, he froze, took a breath and turned his brain, rather than his nether parts, to working.

He tried to absorb his surroundings: his bedroom, his bed, a woman in his arms. Sara. His Sara. His wife ... whose life lay in his hands.

A heartbeat from completion, Adam took a breath, swore, firmed his resolve and began to withdraw, but Sara cried out and surged against him, tearing that delicate barrier, impaling herself.

“No!” Adam shouted, pulling away and spilling his seed against her belly.

Time passed with only their harsh breaths to mark the seconds, but Adam knew that as soon as he could get air into his lungs, he was going to beat his wife.

She had done this on purpose. She had—

Sara was crying. She was sobbing against his neck, holding him so tight, he could feel her body shudder. His strong, unflappable wife was crying, and trembling. Well, he was trembling too, but….

Adam felt as if he
had
beat her. He knew, as much as he knew his own worthlessness, that his wife was shaking with unsatisfied desire.

He, at least, had found relief, though much less satisfying than he knew it would be with Sara, especially after her determined seduction.

He forgave her. He hurt for her.

“Shh,
mein lieb
, shh.” Adam rocked his wife in his arms. “Tell me, Sara. Tell me what you want.”

She lifted her face from his neck to look at him. Embarrassment, he could see. And he believed he was right; she had set out to make him break his vow. Except, of course, she did not
know
he’d vowed not to get her with child. She was only a woman who wanted release, as he had been a man who wanted the same, but received it.

“I don’t know what I want,” she whispered in despair.

“But I know,” Adam said, turning her on her back, pillowing her head with his arm. He knew then that God intended her for him, so ideally did she belong in his arms and his bed. “I can give you the release you seek,
mein lieb
, but no more than that. He cupped her breast and thumbed her nipple bringing her hips off the bed. “Ah, you are far ahead of me, I see.” Ach, Sara, such a bright pupil. “Though I suppose I should say I was ahead of you. Here, sweet, here; this is what you need.”

Sara gasped with shock and elation when Adam touched her in that place that ached, there where she was wet with wanting. She raised her head, looking down to where his hand separated and stroked her.

However shocking the sight, Sara knew it was right with Adam. Her husband. Her love. She lay back and closed her eyes, feeling him stroke every slick inch of her, exactly where she ached for him.

Aware, somehow, of his gaze on her face, she opened her eyes.

Adam. This was her Adam gazing at her with ... caring. Yes, he did care, and the realization transported Sara, his touch the sweeter because of it. When he lowered his head, she raised hers and their lips met for their first stirring kiss since their wedding day.

Like starving souls, they drew manna from each other’s lips.

Sara closed her eyes and floated.

Adam encouraged her, in gentle German. She could barely understand him, but his tone, oh Lord, his tone was sweet and coaxing, and that aching spiral at her core tightened, almost beyond bearing, but she did not know what she was supposed to do. In near-panic, she looked to her anchor, and he smiled and kissed her again. “Let it happen,” he whispered against her lips. “I want to see it happen.”

See what happen? she wondered, but for the life of her, she could not speak the words to ask. She knew only that the threat and fear of shattering was not as great as the knife-sharp pleasure infusing her, raising her toward a summit never imagined.

“It is good,” Adam said. “For a husband to raise his wife thus, and a pleasure beyond words to watch her embrace the journey. Soar, my butterfly. Kiss the sun, my Sara.”

With his claim, Sara gave herself over to his touch, to pleasure, sweet and raw, hot and shivering, to an intimacy so stark and all-encompassing, she was transported to that place where butterflies kiss the sun.

She called her husband’s name as she lost herself in the wonder of it.

Adam experienced, for the first time in his life, an emotion that frightened him—happiness, untainted and pure. Unworthy though he was, he accepted the gift of Sara’s release with the greatest humility. And once he admitted to himself that he would seek this intimacy with her again, that he must or perish, he held his wife in his arms and fell into the best, most restful sleep he’d had in months.

* * * * *

Lena Zuckerman saw a difference in her son and daughter-in-law that morning, as they sat down to breakfast, though she could not imagine what caused it. Adam’s limp seemed more pronounced, and as usual, he evaded her questions about his leg. Yet, despite that, an ease emerged in the way he moved today, in his response to little Katie’s barrage of questions. Lena even noticed, in her son’s usually pain-blanked eyes, a softening, barely-acknowledged appreciation for life. Such an expression she thought never to see on such a hard and rugged countenance, neither his nor his father’s.

It frightened her how much Adam resembled his father, even in personality. Yet it seemed possible that the wife he’d chosen—his second, Lizzie said—was strong enough to counter his hard edge, perhaps in time, even to dissolve it.

Though she knew nothing about Adam’s first wife, Lena was glad he had chosen his second better than his father had chosen his first and only wife. Lena would be eternally sorry her children had suffered from her husband’s poor choice of wife and from her own lack of strength.

And yet, she did not know what she could have done differently. If she had dared to speak against her husband to the Elders, and reveal the horrible truth, their high holy leaders would have brought her before the district as a liar. No one would have believed such accusations against the fine, upstanding, God-fearing Amos Zuckerman.

If she had been shunned, she would not have been there to turn Amos from punishment, not that she had succeeded as often as she would have wished.

Yes, Adam was like his father, yet he was not. And poor Emma, she could only see the physical resemblance between son and father, not the difference in spirit, though Adam was a hard man, harder than Lena would like.

Still, she’d been glad enough for it when he was young. Adam’s strength had been what kept her sane through everything … until she’d lost him. She’d not been quite sane for a long time after that. Perhaps, she was not, even now.

Yes, Emma had always been afraid of men; she had reason to be. Lena feared Emma thought Adam was his father. No matter how often she explained that he was not, Emma refused to listen. Her daughter could shut out talk on any subject she chose, almost appearing deaf when she wanted to.

It was that ability of hers to seem totally deaf that made Lena wonder about what the doctor had said; that she must be able to speak. Lord, was the girl so good an actress that she could pretend such infirmity?  Had the skill been refined as a necessity to her daughter’s survival?

If so, what skills did Adam possess?  What fears?

Lena didn’t know she had been crying until Sara bent to kiss her brow. “Don’t be sad,
Mutter
. You are home now.”

* * * * *

Adam got an incredible amount of work accomplished that day. If he fixed the windmill’s broken blades too, so it would pump more water into the trough, he would be able to attend the horse auction tomorrow in Sugarcreek. He needed to get Sara a younger carriage horse to replace tired Old Joe.

He realized two hours later that he had wreaked havoc with his leg climbing to the top of that windmill, but only because he’d already done three days worth of work, and it was only four in the afternoon. He admitted he might have overdone it when he dropped one of the new blades for the second time and had to climb down the fifteen-foot-high windmill and back up again. But finally, when he went inside for supper, the job had been completed.

He had washed in the barn thinking about the night to come. If he wanted to surprise Sara with the horse tomorrow, he supposed he needed a different excuse to go to the auction, but he’d think of something.

Right now, he could think of nothing but getting his wife into bed. How foolish of him not to realize, sooner, that they could satisfy each other, at least. This way, he could keep to his vow not to risk Sara’s life in childbirth, the way he had risked and killed Abby.

An emotion, reminiscent of guilt, but more like sorrow, filled Adam. Had he ever anticipated a night with Abby?  Beyond his wedding night that was?

Accepting his touch had always seemed a stalwart duty to Ab; he’d suspected that right off. There’d been no pleasure, ever, for her. Had there been, she would have expired of shame. Often, he’d thought it just as well, because he might have allowed himself to love her, if—

Adam raised his head and swore. He would not love Sara. No matter the shaft of overwhelming and frightening ... sensation ... that filled him when he held her in his arms and brought her release. No matter that she made him feel—

Nothing. She made him feel nothing. He would not have it. He would not. He did not need Sara.

He entered the house to the sound of laughter. It was always so with Sara around, and yet it was Emma who laughed ... until she saw him.

He swore and Emma rose to flee.

“Stay,” he ordered in harsh frustration.

She backed away instead.

“Honestly, Adam, why do you frighten her that way?” The
English
snapped.

And what was he doing here?  Again.

“Because it gives me great pleasure to see my sister run from me,” Adam snapped back, swallowing his curse.

“Come,” The
English
said to Emma, holding out a hand, making Adam chuckle, until he saw that his sister’s stance changed. Her shoulders relaxed enough so they were no longer touching the wall she had backed up against. And she watched the doctor’s face as though waiting for something, her fear replaced with ... anticipation.

Adam swore again. Emma stiffened again, her fear back in place.

The
English
rose and dared to step toward the skittish girl. Stupid move. Foolish man. Now, he would see, Adam thought, how fast the girl could run, which she poised to do.

Still, The
English
took one slow step after another.

Even Katie became quiet as a mouse while everyone watched the man approach her frightened doe of an aunt. “I’m not going to hurt you,” The
English
promised. “I want you to trust me, Emma. Can you?” The man turned to Pris, the child gifted with a whine that could send a braying mule for cover. “Pris, come and show your Aunt Emma that you trust me?”

Adam was speechless. Blanket trailing behind, Pris walked right over and stopped before him, as if to await his next command. Then to Adam’s horror, she not only raised her gaze to the doctor’s face, she raised her arms as well.

At the extraordinary invitation, the medical man made so bold as to lift Pris in his arms, and she did not kick, screech or whine.

“See, Emma,” The
English
said. “Even Pris trusts me. And she doesn’t trust many. You must have seen that already.”

Emma nodded, barely, but there was no mistaking the way she focused on The
English
. Adam clenched his fists, remembering a time when
he
had been Emma’s rock.

The bold doctor kissed Pris’s forehead and put her down with a pat to her bottom. “Thank you, Sweetheart.”

Adam really disliked that man, and the closer Emma allowed him to get, while she stood as if waiting just for him, the more Adam’s dislike grew.

“You trust me, then,” The idiot
English
asked when he stood about a foot away from Emma. Again her nod, though, perhaps, less certain this time. And why Adam hoped so was beyond him. She should be able to trust somebody, shouldn’t she?

The
English
extended his arm. “Take my hand, Emma. Show me that you trust me.”

Emma looked around, examining each face, wary, uncertain. She gazed at their mother and received a watery smile, then at Sara who beamed, then at him. And before Adam could force a smile he did not feel, Emma scooted right into the doctor’s arms. The surprised man closed them around her while she buried her face in his neck.

Chapter 11

His mother began to cry and his girls to cheer over the step Emma had taken in trusting the fancy-talking English doctor. Adam tried to be pleased too. Emma trusting any man was worthy of celebration, but he wanted her to trust him, and only him, like she used to. And Sara knew it, like she knew everything else. He caught the look of pity directed his way, and that was more than he could take.

He gave her as close to a smile as he could manage with the biggest crow in six counties stuck in his throat, and went to their room.

It wasn’t long, thank God, before the house quieted and he heard her coming to bed.

Sara was as shaken by the fact that Emma accepted Jordan as a friend as she was by the way Adam reacted to it. She would have bet anything that Adam Zuckerman would never allow such deep emotions to show. She went directly to his side of their bed and saw that his eyes were closed. He didn’t want to talk about it; she knew him well enough to know that, if not well enough to tell whether he slept or not.

She took her time preparing for bed, not because she was tired, but because she wanted to turn her husband’s thoughts in the direction she had turned them this morning.

Imagine a wife deciding to seduce her own husband. How brilliant. How easy and fast had come success. She had only been trying for a few days, though it had not quite turned out as she planned. She wanted him to make her his by coming inside her and giving her his child. Though that had not happened, a degree of intimacy, previously missing, now existed between them, and for that Sara rejoiced.

Uplifted by the possibility of future seductions, Sara  hummed as she washed, moving the soapy cloth down her neck, between and over her breasts. But her nipples were so tender after this morning, that she moaned involuntarily when she did. That was the exact moment she knew Adam watched.