Cupid's Confederates

Reaching under the netting, Bett brushed a trickle of perspiration from her forehead, bent back over the beehive and started singing again in a low, husky murmur.
“Doucement, ce n’est que moi. Doucement, mes amants charmants, doucement…”

The temperature on this August day was 95; Bett was sweltering in ragged jeans, halter top and shoulder-length netting, and frankly wasn’t in the mood to croon seductive sweet nothings to anyone. Still, one didn’t quarrel with success. This particular clan of honeybees was touchy. And if they wanted French love words set in song, the little darlings got them.

A dusty cloud of wings buzzed up in protest as she uncovered the “super”—the top shelf in the man-made hive. The honey in the super was surplus, and removing it wouldn’t harm the hive in any way. In a few more weeks. Bett would have to convince the bees of that; at the moment, she was simply checking on their production and health. Unfortunately, the worker bees were quite annoyed with her. Bett felt sympathy; they had undoubtedly spent the entire day frantically fanning their queen to keep her cool, and now Bett had destroyed all their air conditioning. But as the smell of warm honey wafted through the sultry air, she frowned. A dozen bees settled on her gently moving bare hand; she paid no attention as she bent lower. Below the super was the largest part of the hive, where the bees stored their own food as well as brood combs for the young.

It was loaded. The hive would swarm and divide into two separate hives if one became overcrowded; to avoid that Bett would have to isolate the bees, and soon.

The thought of handling a swarm didn’t bother her; she’d done it before. But the last time, the swarming hive had settled in the top of a plum tree, and Zach had lain there on the ground rolling with laughter as he watched her climb after them, only to have them shift to the top of another tree. For an entire afternoon, the swarm and Bett had played leapfrog between tree tops. She’d tickled her husband unmercifully when it was over.

There were a great many occasions in Bett’s five-year-old marriage when her husband’s wayward sense of humor required a strong hand.

Reclosing the hive, Bett stood up and gently brushed the last cluster of bees from her shoulders and arms. They fluttered back to their business and Bett stretched, kneading her small fists in the hollow of her back. Her mind was busy cataloguing the rest of the day’s responsibilities. At least the morning’s peach picking was done, and Zach would handle the semi coming in that night; but someone still had to go for more bushel baskets, look at the garden, oil and fuel the Massey for tomorrow… Then, too, Zach seemed to have this strange idea that the bills on the desk should at least be opened…the list kept rolling. By the time she came to the zillionth chore, another trickle of perspiration was sliding between her eyes, and she came to the logical conclusion that it was past time for a ten-minute break.

With a springy step, Bett wandered out of the plum orchard and up a knoll blanketed with clover and wildflowers. Whipping off her veiled straw hat—a makeshift beekeeper’s garb at best—she felt her baby-fine blond hair shiver down to her shoulders, the same baby-fine hair that had been ruthlessly confined to a rubber band that morning. Confined for about three minutes, anyway. Not that Bett hadn’t tried all ninety-nine hair products guaranteed to thicken and manage, but beyond hating the women in the hair-care commercials, she’d given up finding a cure for too-soft, too-fine hair. Now, she just let it have its way and tried to keep the style simple.

Another bead of moisture trickled down between her breasts and blended with a little peach fuzz left over from the morning’s picking. It itched. Actually, just about her whole body itched. Her jeans were sticking to her like miracle glue; the terry-cloth halter top was as absorbent as a towel; and if another soul were anywhere near her, she would be having an anxiety attack about deodorant fadeout.

But then, there wasn’t another soul around. Just past the rise of the clover field were the woods, nine luscious acres of ironwood and hickory and walnut—the same nine acres that could have been sold as timber to pay off their monstrous operating loan except that both Bett and Zach would sell their souls first. The woods held solace and silence; how could anyone sell that? In the spring, the ground there was carpeted with violets and trillium; in the fall, wild animals built shelters in the depths of leaves and hollows.

And on a blistering day like this one, Bett felt instant relief in the cool shadows. She paused, her bright eyes surveying the splendid view. Their pond stretched out in a long lazy S, its spring-fed waters glittering in the sun. Wildflowers crept up to the shore, mingling with cattails. Beyond the pond stretched a twenty-acre slope of peach trees. She could see the glint of coral even from here, and the sweet smell of ripening fruit drifted toward her. Her dad would have loved the farm so much, Bett thought idly, and unconsciously bit her lip in remembered loss.

The town of Silver Oaks was a fifteen-minute drive from Lake Michigan. The lake was a little less than a lady, Zach often said. A storm would start in Washington, build up power in Idaho, gain fury in Montana and the Dakotas, be a raging tempest by the time it reached Wisconsin—and immediately settle down for Her Highness, the Lake. Michigan’s western coast suffered only the gentler breezes, and the promise of regular, nurturing rains and temperate winters. This was orchard land, a sandy loam with a mild roll and contour to the landscape.

Bett and Zach had first seen the area in springtime. Zach’s uncle John had willed him the farm, for no known reason since Zach had only met the man once. Neither Zach nor Bett had the least idea what to do with his inheritance, particularly once they understood that three-quarters of the 250 acres of orchard land had been given over to grain. This was due not to mismanagement but to Uncle John’s age and failing health. Grain was easier to take care of. In the meantime, though, it would have taken a fortune to turn the property back to the profitable orchard ground it was meant to be. A fortune Bett and Zach didn’t have. So, obviously, their only choice was to sell it.

But in the spring that whole countryside turned into a fairyland. Acre on acre burst into blossom until one saw pink and white for miles. The perfume was inescapable; it seeped through closed doors and shuttered windows, inside, outside, everywhere. From a distance, an orchard of peaches in bloom had the look of acres of fragile cotton candy. Close up, the petals fluttered down with only a whisper of wind. The earth looked frosted with pink and white, and if one happened to find oneself making love in such an orchard on a spring day for no reason at all, well… It had been damn tough for Bett to go back to teaching high school French in Milwaukee.

In June, they returned, this time for good. Everyone said they were crazy to come here. Everyone was absolutely right. They knew nothing about farming. Bett was twenty-one, with a B.A. in French; Zach was twenty-three and had just completed his second year of law school. They were both very happy, that first year of their marriage…and one look at the land had caught both of them, like rabbits in a snare. There’d been no going back.

Bett’s wandering eye paused again, this time catching sight of something strangely out of sync in the natural landscape.
Definitely
out of sync. A very old boot was weaving back and forth in the air, the ankle to which it was attached resting on a jean-clad knee. The owner of the boot was lying flat in the grass by the pond, his short-sleeved shirt open and his head resting on a log. His eyes were closed and a long blade of grass was stuck between his teeth.

So. Guess who else had had the unforgivable idea of taking a break when they had work absolutely coming out of their ears. Bett tossed her hat on the ground; her halter top followed rapidly. The sneaky piece of manhood down there certainly looked as though he’d just emerged from a haystack, not at all like a once-very-serious law student. Well, he might still look halfway intelligent.
If
he took the blade of grass out of his mouth.

She tugged open the button on her jeans, then used the toe of one boot to pry off the heel of the other. That lazy Tom Sawyer was just lying there without a care in the world, while his virtuous wife had been
slaving
the entire morning. Even reclining, he looked tall and lanky. Big feet. Lustrous, thick brown hair, coppery skin and a square face with clean, precise lines. Blue eyes—but not at all like her own blue eyes. Hers were plain old blue; his were Spencer Tracy sassy, the kind of eyes that took their humor slow and lazy. He wasn’t very smart—no one with any intelligence worked his way through college with all As, completed two years of law school and then fell for a derelict old mismanaged farm—but Bett was rather attached to him. For one thing, he generally handled the impulsive surprises she handed out pretty well.

With an impish grin, she left her jeans in a heap—her underpants had naturally come off with them—and tiptoed out into the sun.

***

Zach lifted one lazy eyebrow at the sound of the splash, then the second one when he glimpsed the distinct flash of a bare white thigh. He hunkered up just a little higher on the fallen log to get a better view, carefully making sure his eyes were closed every time the mermaid surfaced for air—and to look his way.

Sleek white limbs skimmed gracefully just beneath the water’s surface; a stream of long blond hair swirled around her shoulders. Bett was built like a miniature, compact, exquisitely detailed time bomb. How in the hell had he ever married such a tease?

He stretched out one leg to better view Bett’s back float. It was only for a minute; Bett was a terrific swimmer, but a lousy floater. She sank. Not before she’d shown off exactly what she’d intended to. Two tiny, wrinkled nipples that looked in terrible danger of being sunburned; they were that vulnerable.

Cautiously, he pushed off one boot, then the other. Every farmer in the area joked that all libido simply died in the summer; somehow, Zach seemed to have the opposite problem. Maybe it had to do with knowing that he and Bett shared the same workday, struggled through the endless hours together and still loved what they were doing. Who could have guessed that Bett would fall for the land the way he had?

She was built on such tiny
,
fragile lines.
 
A long white throat and those huge, lustrous blue eyes, the cloud of blond hair…she would outwork him, if he let her. He didn’t. A man had to put his foot down now and then, just in case male chauvinism came back in style.

Evidently she was weary of playing porpoise, because she suddenly faced his half-closed eyes with a disgusted expression. Slowly, she swam closer to shore. Zach never once flickered an eyelid to let on he was awake, but he could see her through lowered lashes. Her shoulders emerged first from the water, golden and smooth. Then her breasts, small and taut, water streaming down the crevice between. She’d promised him she would develop a bustier figure once they married and she gained a little weight.

They’d married. She’d never gained any weight. Her waist was still nipped in, her hips almost nonexistent. Just now, her hair was a single rope strand hanging over one shoulder, dripping a long trail of water between her breasts and over a flat, satiny tummy into a soft curl of golden hair. She had golden skin, like their sun-kissed peaches. A soft, smooth gold.

She really didn’t have a damn thing to flaunt in the way of a figure. She was flaunting it, both hands on her slim hips, head proudly thrown back. The sun caught her delicate profile, every bone, every hollow and shadow. His jeans could barely accommodate the growth within. If he were any closer to her, she wouldn’t still be standing.

Bett was a witch. He’d actually married a witch. In college, he’d specialized in voluptuous Amazons. He still didn’t know what had happened. From the back, Bett could pass for a boy. And from the front…Bett could be sensitive about her lack of build. Foolishly sensitive. Every miniature inch of her aroused lust in him.

“Hi.”

Even her voice did it. A husky little alto. She was so darned slight that her surprisingly sexy voice always drove him slightly over the edge. Zach managed to very slowly open his eyes, feigning surprise. “Bett?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re in trouble.”

He didn’t even bother to look, taking the three steps to the water with his arms extended for a racing dive. He knew every inch of the pond and he knew its depth at that point, and he could care less if his clothes got wet. In seconds, the shockingly cool water closed over his head.

***

Laughing, Bett pulled herself out on the other side of the pond and started running, grabbing her jeans and halter top and hat and boots as she ran.

“You come back here!”
shouted a baritone voice behind her, but she paid no attention.

They both had work to do, she told herself virtuously. Not necessarily work that she’d planned to do naked, but then the picking crew had been sent home at noon, which left their 250 acres empty of voyeurs. Their neighbor Grady was an obvious risk, but since he was Grady, and of an age, Bett didn’t give him more than a passing thought. The rough clover field chafed her bare feet, but she kept up her pace. Knowing Zach…

Through the clover, past the plum trees, past her hives; there the truck was waiting. She vaulted into the cab, slid her cool, damp bottom onto the aged vinyl, tossed her clothes on the seat and started the engine as she faced a languid Sniper. She told the cat for the thousandth time that no self-respecting feline liked to ride in vehicles. Sniper stretched every Persian inch of him and started purring as the engine coughed and sputtered to life. The Ford pickup was ancient, but for another year or two they couldn’t afford a new one.

And Bett couldn’t afford a new husband. Besides, she liked the one she had. Zach was made on confident, easygoing lines; it did him good to get shaken up once in a while. The mischievous grin persisted all through the drive to the house, during the hurried rush into a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt, on the trip to the local market to pick up a load of bushel baskets, and through another trip to a processor to request the return of their pallets by morning.