Hummingbird (24 page)

He withdrew to the porch steps to watch her inexpertly drive the rig around the end of the picket fence.

"You're pulling too sharp!" he warned. "Ease off!" He held his breath for fear she'd overturn the thing before the mission even got under way. But the rig arrived safely at the porch and he poised on his crutches on the second step.

"Can you make it?" she asked, measuring the distance visually.

He grinned, quipping, "If I don't, just ship my bones back to New Orleans." Then he swung both feet toward the floor of the rig, dangling momentarily by his armpits on the crutches. But the rest of his body didn't come along with his feet, and he teetered precariously, on the verge of going over backward.

"No!" Miss Abigail exclaimed, reacting automatically, reaching to grab the only thing she could see to grab: the waistband of his new denims. It did the trick, all right, but she yanked a little too hard and he came plummeting like a felled tree, nearly wiping her clean out the other side of the buggy. The next moment she found herself squashed beneath him, one hand splayed on his hard chest, the other still delving into his waistband. Suddenly realizing where that hand was buried, she jerked it out. But not before his suggestive smile made her face flame. She pushed him away and fussily adjusted her hat, whisked at her skirt, and refused to look at him. But his smirk remained in her peripheral vision. He was up to his cute tricks again, naturally! Red to the ears and trying to pretend she wasn't, she stiffened her back while he took the reins, clicked, whistled, and the mare set off while Abbie sat like a lump of her own cornmeal being taken for a ride.

"Are you all right?" he asked. But she could hear that smirk still coloring his words.

"I'm perfectly fine!" she snapped.

"Then what are you snapping at me for?"

"You know perfectly well why I'm snapping at you!"

"What did I do now?" All innocence and light.

"You know perfectly well what you did! You and your shifty, suggestive eyes!"

He smiled sideways at her starchy, affronted pose. "Well, I wasn't going to mention it, but as long as you did, what's a man supposed to do when a woman's got her hand in his pants?"

"My hand was not in your pants!" she spit, really puckered now.

He laughed boldly."Oh, a thousand pardons, Miss Abigail. I guess I was mistaken. It must have been some other woman's hand in my pants just now." He looked around as if searching for the culprit. He chuckled low in his throat once, assessing her mirthfully. She wasn't taking his teasing too well today. He liked it best when she gave him tit for tat. He grinned, casting sideward glances at her stern face, and relaxed back and started whistling some little ditty softly between his teeth, deciding he'd be nice for a while and see if he couldn't sweeten her up some.

They headed north on a double track that paralleled the railroad tracks toward the foothills. It was scorching, and Miss Abigail was grateful for even the sliver of shade afforded by her narrow hatbrim. The leg space was inadequate for his long limbs, so his knees sprawled sideways, brushing against her skirts, though she kept her feet primly together and her hands in her lap. She inched away as far as possible, but they hit a bump and his knee lolled over and thumped against her and his smiling eyes leisurely roved her way. When she sat stiff and silent, he finally glanced off at the scenery without saying a word.

As they neared the foothills the undergrowth thickened and Jesse raised an arm, silently pointing. She followed his finger to where a cottontail hit for cover, and without knowing it, she smiled. Her eyes stayed riveted to the spot until they reached and passed it, and Jesse furtively watched her search for more animal life. A hawk appeared, circling above him, and she lifted her face to follow it. The greenery hedged closer to the road, and she seemed enchanted by a flock of lark buntings flitting in and out, feeding upon piñon nuts. The rails swung right while the wagon track bore left, and once again they broke into an open space where spikes of blue lupines created a moving sea all about them, as if part of the sky had fallen into the peaceful mountainside. Her lips formed a silent "Ohhh," and he smiled appreciatively.

Silently they swayed along, climbing higher and higher until the terrain became rockier, with outcroppings here and there holding a strangling yew. They passed a cluster of bright orange painted cups, and again her eyes strayed behind to linger on the flowers as long as possible.

He turned his slow gaze upon her. "Where does this go?"

She perched like a little chipping sparrow, on the edge of her seat, alert and taking everything in. "To Eagle Butte, then along the Cascade Creek to Great Pine Rock and over the ridge to Hicksville."

Again they fell silent, he smiling and she taking in everything, while the mare trotted along. Once Jesse wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve. They entered a patch of quaking aspen and the trembling, dappled shade the trees created. Here and there was a fragrant evergreen—juniper or spruce—vying for sky as the branches formed a tunnel overhead. Soon they came to a flat, shapeless gray rock precipice.

"Is this Eagle Butte?"

She looked around in a full circle. "I think so. It's been a long time since I was up here."

He stopped the horse and they sat with the sun pelting them mercilessly as they gazed beyond the enormity of Eagle Butte to a similar ridge that rose across a chasm along which they'd been riding for some distance. Over there the firs were in deep shadow—a rich, lush haven of coolness, while on this side the afternoon sun still blazed. Studying the scene opposite, Jesse absently unbuttoned two buttons of his shirt and ran a hand inside. Mingling with the scent of pine was that of ripe grass and the pleasantly fecund scent of the sweating horse.

"If you continue on, we should soon reach Cascade Creek and it should be much cooler there."

He clucked to the mare and they moved on. When they reached Cascade Creek it was, indeed, cool and inviting, brattling its way shallowly down a rocky bed between shady willows and alders.

The horse plodded to the water, dipped her head, and drank, then stood blinking slowly. Both of the riders watched the animal for several long, silent minutes.

At last Jesse asked, "Would you like to get down for a while?"

She knew it would be best to keep this outing strictly to riding, but she cast a wishful glance at the water.

Instead of waiting for an answer, Jesse flicked the reins and turned the horse, nudging her toward a low-hanging branch on a gnarled pine tree. He stood, grabbed the sturdy branch, and swung easily to the ground. He retrieved his crutches from the buggy while she concealed her surprise at his lithe agility—for someone as big as he was, he moved like a puma. He reached up a brown hand to help her down, and she glanced, startled, at it, quite unprepared for this civility.

"Don't bump your head," he said, indicating the branch above her.

His palm waited, callused and hard, becoming more of an issue the longer she delayed placing her own in it. But she recalled that she was wearing her white gloves, and at last placed one in his firm grip as he helped her jump to the ground. She moved ahead of him toward the inviting water, but she had those gloves on, and he was on crutches so neither of them touched it. Instead they watched it bubble away at their feet. After some time he pulled his shirttails completely free of his pants again and unbuttoned the shirt the rest of the way. She stood stiff and formal, yet. Jesse glanced around, and spied a comfortable-looking spot where the water had scooped away the bank to form a rude, but natural chair.

He hobbled over, threw his crutches down, then settled himself with a sigh. The creek burbled. The birds spoke. The woods were redolent with pine spice and leaf mold. Jesse crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back, watching the woman who stood on the creek bank.

Her back was as straight as a ramrod: she never allowed herself to relax those infernal gentilities of hers.

Now she stood as stiffly as the boles of the pine trees, although he knew she was hot, too, for she'd raised a white glove to touch her forehead, then again to brush at the nape of her neck. What was she thinking as she looked at the creek? What did she want to do that her silly manners would not allow? He wondered if she'd even sit down, if she'd touch the water, if she'd condescend to talk to him.

"The water looks nice and cool," he commented finally, watching her carefully to see what she'd do.

When she neither replied nor moved, he added, "Tell me if it is. I can't reach."

Her hands remained as motionless as a watched clock for a long, long time. Finally she drew her gloves off. He could tell by the hesitant way she leaned to touch the water that she wished he weren't watching her. Even a simple, sensual gesture like that caused her second thoughts. For a moment he pitied her. The hem of her dress slipped a little bit and she hurriedly clutched it up, away from the surface of the stream.

And he thought, let if fall, Abbie, let it fall, then wallow in behind it and see how great it feels. But he knew, of course, that she never would.

"Bring me some," he called anyway, just to see what she'd do.

She turned a brief, quizzical glance over her shoulder "But I have nothing to carry it in."

"So carry it in your hands."

Abruptly she stood up. "There is a ridiculous suggestion if I ever heard one."

"Not to a thirsty man."

"Don't be foolish, you can't drink from my hands."

"Why not?" he asked casually.

He could hear her thinking, as clearly as if she'd spoken the words aloud, "It is just not done!"

"If I could drink from your mouth while I was unconscious, why can't I drink from your hands now?"

Her shoulder blades snapped closer together and she said, still facing away from him, "You take very great pleasure in persecuting me, don't you?"

"All I want is some water," he said reasonably, still with his head hanging backward in the cradle of his two hands. Then he sighed, looked upstream, and muttered, "Aw, what the hell, just forget it then," and laid his head back on the creekbank and closed his eyes.

He looked very harmless that way when she ventured to peek at him. Funny, but she really did not like being on the bad side of him, yet she never quite knew what he was up to. She glanced at his moustache

—it was almost as thick as when she first saw him—then to the water, then back at him again. She looked around for something she could shape into a cone or vessel, but there was nothing. Never in her life had she done such a thing, but the thought of doing it caused an earthy sensation in the pit of her stomach. The water had felt deliciously cool. Even the horse had needed a long drink. And Jesse was obviously very hot. He'd unbuttoned that shirt again, and she remembered how he'd run his hand inside it earlier. She looked at him dozing peacefully. She looked at the water.

Jesse's eyes flew open as two large splats of water hit his bare chest. He jumped but then grinned: she was standing over him with cupped hands.

"Open up," she ordered.

Well I'll be damned, he thought, and opened his mouth like a communicant. She lowered her palms, created a split in their seam, but the water trailed away, down inside her cuffs, some hitting his chest and chin, but none reaching his lips. She half expected him to jump up and smack her hands aside, remembering the time she'd clacked the spoon against his teeth, but he surprised her by rubbing a hand over his dark chest, spreading the water wide.

"Ah, that's cool," he said appreciatively, then his eyes twinkled. "But I'd like a little in my mourn, too."

"Oh, I got my cuffs wet," she complained, pulling at them. But they stuck to her wrists and would not even slide on her skin.

"As long as they're already wet, may as well try again."

This time it worked better, for he reached to cup the backs of her hands and pour the water into his mouth from her fingertips as if they were the lip of a pitcher.

It was a decidedly sensuous thing, watching him drink from her fingertips. It made queer quivers start way down low in her stomach. After he swallowed, droplets were left upon his moustache. Fascinated, she watched his tongue run along its edge and lap them up. She realized suddenly that she'd been staring.

Immediately her eyes flitted to some distant bush.

"Why don't you have some?"

She touched her throat just below her jaw. "N… No, I don't want any."

He knew it was not true, but understood—she'd already gone too far.

"Come on, sit down awhile. It's nice and cool here and really quite comfortable."

She glanced around as if someone might catch her at it if she dared. Reaching some sort of compromise with herself, she said, "I'll sit here," and perched on a rock near his feet.

"You've never been up here before?" he asked, studying her back as she faced the creek.

"When I was a girl, I was."

"Who brought you?"

"My father. He came to cut wood and I helped him load it."

"If I lived around here I'd come up here all the time. It's too flat and hot down in the valley to suit me." He laced his hands behind his head and looked up into the trees. "When my brothers and I were small, we spent hours and hours by the Gulf, catching sand crabs, playing in the surf, shell hunting. I miss the ocean."

"I've never seen the ocean," she said plaintively.

"It's no prettier than this, just pretty in a different way. Do you want to?"

"Want to?" She glanced back at him.

"See the ocean?"

"I don't know. Richard was—" But she stopped dead and quickly faced the creek.

"Richard? Who is Richard?"

"Nothing… nobody… I don't even know why I brought him up."

"He must be
somebody
, or you wouldn't have."

"Oh…" She circled her knees with her hands. "He was just someone I knew once who always said he wanted to live by the ocean."

"Did he make it?"

"I don't know."

"You lost touch with him?"

She sighed and shrugged. "What does it matter? It was a long time ago."