Hummingbird (6 page)

In no time at all her head lolled and her thoughts grew dim as she faded into a dream world where the stranger awakened and smiled at her from behind his soft black moustache. His wide chest moved near and she pressed it with her hands. She avoided his tempting lips, arguing that he was a thief, but he only laughed deep in his throat and agreed that he was, and wanted to steal something from her now. But I don't know your name, she sighed like the night wind. He smiled and teased, Ah, but you know more of me than my name. And she saw again his naked body—soft, curled, intimate—and felt again the wondrous shame of sensuousness. And upon the tiny sewing rocker her sleeping body jerked.

His flailing limbs awakened her and she jumped up and flattened him, using her own body to keep him on his back and still. The strange, forbidden dream was strong in her as she felt the flesh of this man beneath her own. She should not think such thoughts, or touch him so.

Yet she stayed beside him, guarding him through the night. Time and again he tossed, and she ordered,

"Stay on your back… keep that knee up… tell me your name…" until she could fight him no longer In the deep of night she fumbled into the dark kitchen, found a roll of gauze, and tied his left ankle to the brass footboard, his left wrist to the headboard. Blurred by sleep, she again sat on the armless rocker But sometime during the night she arose insensibly, clambered over the footboard, and fell asleep near the end of the bed with her lips near his hip.

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Slowly… hazily… he became aware of a great, steady heat on his face. And he could tell by its constancy that it was sun.

Mistily… lazily… he became aware of a soft, lush heat against his side. And he could tell by its curves that it was woman.

Progressively… painfully… he became aware of raw, gnawing heat in his flesh. But this he could not identify, knew only that it pained in a way nothing ever had before. His eyeballs rolled behind closed lids, refusing yet to give up their private dark, hemming him in with the three heats that melded to scorch his very fiber. He wondered, if he opened his eyes, would he rouse from this dream? Or was it real? Was he alive? Was he in hell? His eyes grated open but he stared up at a ceiling, not the roof of a tent. His body ached in many places. Sweet Jesus, he thought, and his eyes faded closed to leave him wondering where he was and who lay down there near the foot of his bed. He tried to swallow but couldn't, lifted drugged lids again and gritted his teeth till his jaw popped, then raised his head with a painful effort.

A female satyr of some kind was braced on its elbows, gaping at him with wide eyes.

He had only one conscious thought: I must be slipping. This one's a hag and she had to tie me up to get me to stay.

Then he slipped once more into blackness. But he took with him the image of the ugly hag, her hair strewn like vile straw around a face that seemed to have fallen into collapsing folds from her eyes downward. In his insensibility he dreamed she harped at him, commanding him to do feats of which he was incapable. She insisted that he speak, roll over, don't roll over, answer her, be still. Sometimes he dreamed her voice had turned to honey, but then it intruded, thorny-like again, until he finally escaped her altogether and slept dreamlessly.

Miss Abigail despaired when his head fell back and he was lost in oblivion before she could wrest his name from him. All she knew that she hadn't known before was that his near-black eyes held a faint touch of hazel. She'd expected they'd be jet, hueless, as foreboding as the rest of him. But the hazel flecks saved them from all that.

Groaning, she pulled herself off the bed.

Never in her life had Miss Abigail looked into a morning mirror and seen a sight like that which confronted her today. The night had taken its toll, seemingly having shrunken the skin above her eyes and stretched that below. Plum-colored shadings accentuated her too-wide, distraught eyes while elongated lines parenthesized her lips. Tangled, devastated hair set it all off with cruel truthfulness.

She studied her reflection and felt very old indeed.

The thought of David Melcher brought her out of her maunderings.

She bathed in the kitchen and brushed her hair, coiling it neatly at the base of her neck, then donned a soft, cream-colored blouse much like that she'd worn yesterday and a brown broadcloth skirt. On an impulse she applied the tiniest bit of attar of roses to her wrists.

"Miss Abigail, don't you look lovely this morning!" David Melcher exclaimed appreciatively when she stepped to his doorway with a breakfast tray.

"And aren't you chipper, Mr. Melcher!"

Again he invited her to stay while he ate, and this time she accepted, though propriety demanded she stay only briefly. But he praised her cooking, the coddled eggs, toast, and apple butter, teasing, "Why, Miss Abigail, I'll be plain spoiled by the time you throw me out of here."

His appreciation ruffled her ego in a gentle, stirring way, like a low breeze can lift the fine hair at the back of one's neck and create delicious shivers.

"I would not, as you say, throw you out of here, Mr. Melchet You are free to stay as long as you need."

"That, Miss Abigail, is truly a dangerous offer. I may take you at your word and never leave." His eyes held just the right amount of mischief to make the comment thoroughly proper Yet that tickle stirred the back of her neck again. But she'd stayed as long as it was prudent.

"I'd like to visit longer, but I do have work I should like to complete while the morning coolness prevails."

"Why, Miss Abigail, you made that sound just like a sonnet. You have such an eloquent way of speaking." Then he cleared his throat and added, in a more formal manner, "I'd like to read through the sonnets again today, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. Perhaps you'd enjoy some others I have also."

"Yes… yes, I'm sure I would."

As she rose from her chair and ran her hands down her sleeves to free them of any nonexistent wrinkles, he thought of how delicate the high collar and long sleeves made her look and of how she smelled like roses and of what a perfect little lady she was.

She fed the robber warm broth through the cattail again. Now, nearing him, her pulse did strange, forbidden things, and as if to get even with him, she scolded the unconscious man, "When will you make up your mind to awaken and tell me your name and take some decent nourishment? You're being an awful lot of trouble, you know, lying there like a great hibernating grizzly! You've put me to the task of feeding you as I did yesterday. I know it seems a vicious method, but it's the only way I can think of…

and believe me, sir, it's no more palatable to me than it is to you, especially with that moustache."

The feeding finished, she brought out the shaving gear and intrepidly set out to clean him up, not at all sure how well she'd do. She lay thick towels beneath his jaw, lathered him up, and set to work with the blade, all the while puzzling over that moustache.

Should she or shouldn't she?

It truly was a dirty, ominous-looking feature. And maybe if David Melcher hadn't pointed out how typical the moustache was of outlaws, and maybe if it hadn't been so alarmingly soft, and maybe if her heart hadn't betrayed her when she touched it, she wouldn't have shaved it off.

But in the end she did.

When it was half gone she had a pang of guilt. But it was too late now. After she had finished, she stood back to evaluate the face without the moustache and found, to her chagrin, that she'd spoiled it completely! The moustache belonged on him just as surely as did his thick black eyebrows and his swarthy coloring. Suppose when he awoke he thought the same thing? The thought did little to calm her misgivings, and the next task did even less. It was time to give him a bath.

She set about doing so, a section at a time, first lightly soaping an arm, then rinsing it and wiping it dry.

His armpit was a bed of straight, thick black hair—unnerving. So she concentrated on his shoulder and tried not to look at it. The far arm presented a problem, for the bed was pushed up into a corner of the room. She tried pulling the bed out to get at him from that side, but he was too heavy and it wouldn't budge. She ended up climbing once again onto the bed with him to facilitate matters.

His upper half was done…

She gulped, then remembered he was, after all, unconscious.

Slipping the oilcloth beneath his right leg, she washed it carefully, avoiding the damaged thigh. His foot was long, and it evoked a queer exhilaration as she washed the sole, then between the toes, which were shaded with hair between the knuckles. She admitted now that what Doctor Dougherty said was true: it was infinitely more disconcerting tending the intimate needs of a stranger than those of a father. The sheet still shrouded his private parts. She managed to keep them covered while doing his other leg.
That part
of him she did not wash.

But she had seen it once, and couldn't get the picture from her mind.

As the day progressed, his eyes moved more often, though they remained closed. Now and then she saw muscles flex, and he tossed repeatedly, so she kept him safely tied to the bedrails.

While Miss Abigail freshened up David's room that morning, she learned he was a shoe salesman out of Philadelphia. Then he surprised her by announcing, "When I get back, I'll be sure to send you a pair of our best."

She placed one small hand on the high collar of her blouse, fingers spreading delicately over her neck as if to hide a pulsebeat there.

"Oh, Mr Melcher… it wouldn't do at all, I'm afraid, much as I'd love a fine pair of city-made shoes."

"Wouldn't do? But why?"

Miss Abigail dropped her eyes. "A lady simply does not accept such a personal gift from a gentleman unless he's…"

"Unless he's what, Miss Abigail?" he asked softly.

She felt herself color and stared at her hem. "Why, Mr Melcher, it simply wouldn't be proper " She looked up to find his brown eyes on her "But I thank you anyway," she added wistfully.

She thought the issue was settled, but at noon Mr Melcher announced he felt good enough to come downstairs to eat his dinner, but apologized for having nothing to put on his feet.

"I believe I can find a pair of Father's slippers here somewhere."

She brought them and knelt before him.

Such a feeling welled up inside David Melcher, watching her. She was genteel, soft-spoken, refined, and each favor she did for him made David Melcher revere her more. He got up shakily, hopping on one foot to catch his balance, and she whisked an arm around his waist while his came about her shoulder.

"The floor is slippery, so hold the banister," she warned.

They started down, one step at a time, and each time he leaned on her, his face came close to her temple. Again she smelled of roses.

Her free hand was on his shirtfront and she felt his chest muscles flex each time he braced on the banister.

"What color would you like, Miss Abigail?" he asked, between jumps.

"Color?" They stopped and she looked up into his face, only inches from hers.

"What color shoes shall I pick for you?" They took one more step.

"Don't be silly, Mr. Melcher." Again they'd stopped, but now she was afraid to raise her eyes to his.

"How about a pale dun-colored kid leather?" He lightly squeezed her shoulder, sending her heart battering around wildly. "They'd look grand with what you're wearing now. Imagine the leather with this soft lace." He touched the lace of her cuff.

"Come… take another step, Mr Melcher."

"I'd be honored if you'd accept the shoes."

She kept her eyes averted, her hand still upon his chest.

"I'd have no place to wear them."

"That I cannot believe. A fine-looking woman like you."

"No… I'd have no place. Please… our dinner is ready." She nudged him, but he resisted, and beneath her hand she felt his heart drumming as rapidly as her own.

"Don't be surprised if a pair of shoes arrives one day for you. Then you'll know I've been thinking of you." His voice was scarcely above a whisper as he murmured, "Miss Abigail…"

At last she looked up to find a multitude of feelings expressed in his eyes. Then his arm tightened upon her shoulder, he squeezed the soft sleeve, the arm beneath. She saw him swallow, and the breath caught in her throat as his pale brown eyes held hers. As his soft lips touched her she again felt the commotion beneath the palm on his chest. His gentle kiss was as light as a sigh upon her lips before he drew back and looked into her liquid gaze. Her heart thrilled, her knees weakened, and for a moment she feared she might tumble headlong down the stairs, so dizzy was she. But then she dropped her lashes demurely, and they continued on their halting, heart-bound way to the kitchen.

It had been years since David Melcher had lived in a house with a kitchen like this. The tabletop was covered with a starched yellow gingham to match the window curtains that lifted in a whispering wind.

Dishes and silver had been precisely laid, and a clean linen napkin lay folded atop his plate. His eyes followed Abigail McKenzie as she brought simple, fragrant foods—three puffed, golden biscuits were dropped on his plate, then she returned with a blue-speckled kettle and spooned thick chunks of chicken and gravy over the top.

"How long has it been since you were home, Mr. Melcher?"

"You might say I have no home. When I go back to Philadelphia, I take a room at the Elysian Club.

Believe me, it's nothing at all like this."

"Then you… you have no family?"

"None." Their eyes met, then parted. Birds chittered from somewhere in the shade-dappled yard, and the heady scent of nasturtiums drifted in. He thought he never wanted to leave, and wondered if she might be feeling the nesting urge as strongly as he.

The black-haired, clean-shaven man became aware of the smells around him this time much as he'd become aware of the heat once before. With his eyes still closed, he caught the scent of something sweet, like flowers. There was, too, the starchy, agreeable smell of laundry soap in fresh linens. Now and then came the tantalizing aroma of chicken cooking. He opened his eyes and his lashes brushed against some fancy, knotted stitchery on a pillow slip. So… this wasn't a dream. The sweet smell came from a bouquet of orange things over there on a low table near a bay window. The window seat had yellow-flowered cushions that matched the curtains.