Hummingbird (22 page)

"Because we hate each—" He stopped her words with his open lips while his hands went aroving up and down her back. His moustache was soft now, almost as soft as before she'd shaved it, and his warm tongue came seeking, thrilling, inviting with supple sensuousness before she broke away, claiming, "This is crazy, we must not—" But his long palms spanned her cheeks and he had his way with her again. He pulled her mouth to his, then found her arms and placed them behind his neck, holding them in place until he felt her acquiesce and curl them around his head.

And she thought, I am crazy, and let him go on kissing her until his hands were on her back again, running up and down, up and down. Then at her waist, pressing firmly at her sides, down low, just above her belt line.

He whispered things into her mouth. "Don't fight it, Abbie… for once, don't fight it," and the words were blurred from his tongue moving against hers as he spoke. His hands moved lower, to her hips, swiveling them around until she half lay, half sat on his lap. He stiffened his body in the very small chair, lifting and shifting her until she no longer controlled where she was or how she rested upon him. With chest and waist arched away from the chair, Jesse manipulated her until she lay upon him. He was one smooth, hard plane of flesh upon which she settled while both of his arms circled her waist, holding her very still, allowing her to know the feel of him through flounced petticoats.

And he was long… and hard… and somehow very good.

Sense intruded and she broke away, resisting. "No… you are a thief. You are my enemy."

"You are your own enemy, Abbie," he whispered. Then she felt his hands cup her beneath her arms while he raised her whole body, sliding it effortlessly upward until her breasts were over his face and he held her that way, breathing through the starched front of her proper dress, blowing hot life into her who fought against wanting it.

"Oh, please… please, put me down." She was almost in tears now, pain and pleasure intermingling in her breasts, her heart, her hands upon his hard shoulders… and the part of her that now rested against his chest.

"Abbie, let me," he said into her breasts, "let me."

"No, oh, no, please," she begged, her lips brushing against his soft hair as she spoke into it.

"Let me make a woman of you, Ab."

"No, don't," she gasped. "I… I won't touch your gun or your moustache again. I promise. I'll feed you anything you want, only let me go, please."

"You don't want me to," he said, letting her slide back down the length of him until her lips were at his again. But the towel had worked its way between their mouths somehow.

"Take the towel away, Abbie," he entreated, his arms firm and solid about her waist.

"No, Jesse, no," she breathed tremulously.

And hearing her utter his name, Jesse knew that she wanted him, too. He raised his chin, nudging the towel down with it, nuzzling her neck. "Let's be friends," he said against her high, stiff collar.

"Never," she denied as his lips eased back to hers. He pushed the rocker back and lay further horizontally, his hips plying hers, rocking a little bit, a little bit, each movement of the chair driving his hard body against hers. He knew it was truly beyond her to say yes to him, that the only way he'd ever have her would be nothing short of rape, for even if she gave in, she'd be doing so against her will. He had to hear her say yes or turn her loose. But he understood, too, that that one word—
yes
—was impossible for her to utter. When he released her, she'd be shamed even by what she'd done so far. But release her he must, and so, to make it easier on her, he quipped, "Say yes quick, Abbie, because my leg hurts like a bitch."

At his teasing she jumped back, too peeved for shame. "Oh, you! You are egotistical and insufferable!"

To her dismay, he laughed, holding her down just a moment longer.

"But let's still be friends, for today anyway. I'm sick of the fighting too."

She struggled up from his lap, adjusting her clothing. "If you promise not to do anything like this again."

"Well, could I maybe just think about it?" His dark moustache curled above a teasing smile while Abby scarcely knew where to let her eyes light, she was so flustered. She headed for the kitchen and he followed on his crutches.

"Mind if I sit out here awhile?" he asked. "I'm getting pretty sick of that bedroom."

She wouldn't look at him, but allowed, "Do whatever you like as long as you stay out of my way."

He sat down nonchalantly beside the table, leaning the crutches on the floor beneath his legs. "I won't be any bother," he promised. However, it bothered her already, the way he sat there with his legs sprawled and those walking sticks resting against his crotch. It took a supreme effort to keep her eyes from straying to it, and she had no doubt he knew exactly what he was doing to her. But before he could fluster her further, Doc Dougherty's voice came from the front door.

"Hello in there. Can I come in?" And in he came, for the way Miss Abigail's house was designed he could see down the straight shot from front to back that they were both in the kitchen. "W-e-e-ll," he drawled at the sight of Jesse, "you're looking fit as a fiddle, sitting up on that kitchen chair. How do you feel?"

"Stronger every day, thanks to Miss Abigail," Jesse answered, pleased, as usual, to see the doc.

"So she told me at church earlier. Oh, Miss Abigail, I got those britches you asked me to get. Avery opened his store special. We figured pants for a real necessity, so he obliged. If they don't fit, it'll be too bad, because Avery already locked up again."

Miss Abigail gave the denims a scant glance, then continued with her dinner preparations again as Doc and Jesse retired to the bedroom to have a look at his leg. She could hear their muffled voices before Doc came back to repeat his order of earlier "He's long past any danger and he can do whatever he feels strong enough to do—inside, outside, doesn't matter. A little fresh air and sunshine might do him good.

Now that he's got decent clothes, it wouldn't hurt to take a ride in the country or sit in that garden of yours."

"I doubt that he'd enjoy either of those things."

"I already suggested it and he seemed real anxious to get out. Might not do you any harm either. Well, I better be off now. You need anything else, just holler."

She showed him to the front door, but halfway there Jesse came out of the bedroom, dressed now in blue denims and a pale blue cotton shirt, which hung open.

"Thanks for stopping, Doc, and for the clothes," he said, and went along to the front door as if the house were his own.

"It was Miss Abigail's idea," Doc informed him.

"Then maybe I should thank Miss Abigail," Jesse said, casting a brief grin her way. But Doc was away, out the door, down the porch steps, calling as he went, "See you tomorrow, you two!" The way he said it, lumping the two of them together that way, left a curious warm feeling almost like security in Abbie, standing there beside Jesse at the front door after having ushered Doc out together.

Unexpectedly, Jesse's voice beside her was polite and sincere as he said, "It feels good to have some clothes on that fit me again. Thanks, Abbie." It took her aback because she had grown so used to his teasing and criticism, she hardly knew how to handle politeness from him. She was acutely aware of the fact that while Doc was here Jesse had politely called her Miss Abigail, but as soon as he left, he reverted to the familiar Abbie again. She could feel him looking down at her, caught sight of that bare, black-haired chest, those long naked feet, and wondered what to say to him. But he turned then, lifted a crutch, and gestured politely for her to move ahead of him back to the kitchen. She felt his eyes branding her back as he thumped along behind her.

She returned to her cooking and he to his chair, but the room remained strained with silence until Jesse commented, "Doc gave me hell for pulling that gun on you."

She could not conceal her surprise. Out of the clear blue sky he said a thing like that. Then he added, "I was surprised you admitted it to him."

Sheepishly, she said, "I only told him you made demands regarding pork chops, nothing more."

"Ah," he returned, "is that all?"

She was disconcerted by his sitting behind her, probably staring at every move she made. At last she ventured a peek over her shoulder. The crutches were resting against the same distracting spot as before as he leaned an elbow on the table, scowling, running a forefinger repeatedly over his moustache as if deep in thought.

She turned her back on him before inquiring innocently, "Did he say anything else?"

Silence for a long moment, then, "He wanted to know why my chin and neck were red. I told him I'd been eating fresh strawberries from your garden and they make me break out. You'd better have some strawberries in that garden of yours…" From behind, he saw her hands fall idle.

Abbie could feel the coloring working its way up her neck. "You… you mean… you didn't tell him about the lye in the rag?"

"No." He watched her shoulders slump slightly in relief.

To the top of the range, she said, "Yes, I do have strawberries in my garden."

Behind her, he sat watching as she started whipping something with a spoon. The motion stirred her skirts until they swayed about her narrow hips. Suddenly she stood very still, and said quietly, "Thank you."

A strange feeling gripped him. She had never spoken so nicely to him before. He cleared his throat and it sounded like thunder in the quiet room. "Have you got anything to put on it, though, Abbie? It's starting to sting pretty bad."

She whirled quickly, and he caught an unguarded look of concern on her face as she crossed the room to him. Her hand reached tentatively for his chin, withdrew, and their eyes met, each wondering why the other had softened the truth when Doc Dougherty had asked his questions.

"Buttermilk should help it." Her eyes dropped to the crutches.

"Have you got any?" he asked.

"Yes, outside in the well. I'll get it."

He watched her walk down the yard and draw the bucket up and bring a fruit jar back into the house. All the while the frown stayed on his face. "I'll get some gauze to apply it with," she said when she returned.

Bringing it, she stood hesitantly, somehow afraid to touch him now.

He reached out a hand, palm-up, saying, "I can do it myself. You're busy." When she was back at the stove he surprised her once more by asking, "Are your hands okay?"

"My hands?"

"From the lye. Are they okay, or do you need some buttermilk too?"

"Oh, they're all right. I barely got them damp."

When she collected the buttermilk and wet gauze to begin setting the table for their dinner, she stopped in the pantry door, looked across the room at him. "Do you like buttermilk?" she asked.

"Yes, I do."

"Do you want some with your dinner?"

"Sounds good."

She disappeared, returned with a glass of frothy white, and handed it to him. His fingers looked tawnier than ever against the milk.

"Thank you," he said to her for the second time that day.

At last she joined him at the table, extended a platter his way, asking politely, "Chicken?"

"Help yourself first," he suggested. And pretty soon—unbelievably—their plates were filled and they were eating dinner across from each other without so much as one cross word between them.

"We used to have chicken every single Sunday when I was little," he recalled.

"Who is we?"

"We," he repeated. "My mom and dad and Rafe and June and Clare and Tommy Joe. My family."

"And where was that?"

"New Orleans."

Somehow the picture of him in a circle of brothers and sisters and parents seemed ludicrous. He was—

she reminded herself—a consummate liar.

"You don't believe me, do you?" He smiled and took a bite of chicken.

"I don't know."

"Even train robbers have mothers and fathers. Some of us even have siblings." He was back to his customary teasing again, but somehow she didn't mind this time. The word
siblings
was a surprise, too, the kind he now and then tossed out unexpectedly. It was her kind of word, not his.

"And how many
siblings
did you have?"

"I had…
have
… four. Two brothers and two sisters."

"Indeed?" She raised an eyebrow dubiously.

He raised his buttermilked chin a little and laughed enjoy-ably. "I can hear the skepticism in your voice and I know why. Sorry if I don't fit your notion of where I should or shouldn't have come from, but I have two parents, still living in New Orleans, in a real house, still eating real chicken on Sundays—only Creole-style—and I have two older brothers and two younger sisters and last night when you washed my hair it reminded me of Saturday nights back there at home. We all washed our hair on Saturday nights, and Mom polished our shoes for Sunday."

She was unabashedly staring at him now. The truth was, she wanted to be convinced that it was all true.

Could it possibly be? She reminded herself again that he was an accused felon, that the last thing she should do was believe him.

"Surprised?" he asked, smiling at her amazed expression. But she wasn't ready to believe it yet.

"If you had such a nice home, why did you leave it?"

"Oh, I didn't leave it permanently. I go back regularly and visit. I left my family because I was young and had my fortune to seek, and a good and loyal friend who wanted to seek his along with me. But I miss them sometimes."

"And so you left New Orleans together?"

"We did."

"And did you find your fortunes?"

"We did. On the railroads—together."

"Ahhh, the railroads again," she crooned knowingly.

"What can I say?" He threw his hands out guiltily. "I was caught red-handed."

His blithe, devil-may-care attitude puzzled her, but she smiled at his affability, wondering if it was all true about New Orleans and his family.

"And what about you?" He had finished eating and leaned back relaxedly in his chair, one elbow slung on the table. "Any brothers or sisters?"