Marna (24 page)

His eyes glazed over with desire, he pushed away her
hands and sneered, "What's wrong? Ain't I doin' it like
Caleb and Jake?"

Her hand flashed out to slap him again. But this time
he was ready for her. He grabbed it and pinned it over
her head. His eyes, narrow slits, burned down at her.
"Go ahead, you wildcat," he panted, "fight me."

And fight him she did. With her head swinging back
and forth, refusing to meet his lips, her free hand
scratched at his face and tore at his hair. When he
pushed a knee between her legs and and strove to push
them apart, she threshed her body about until he was
half-crazed with the desire to possess her.

Gradually the force of her blows became weaker and
slower. Matt felt her body slacken, and he knew that
the fight had gone out of her. He gathered her sweatmoistened body into his arms and pulled her in tight.
Smoothing the damp curls away from her forehead, he
ran his lips across the tortured, tearless eyes that gazed
up at him. Slowly then, he lowered his head and
hungrily captured the parted red lips. After he had
pulled the soft underlip between his teeth and sucked it
gently for several seconds, his lips trailed down the
white column of her throat to her breasts.

Matt felt her tight body relax, then start a trembling
that matched his own. He smiled and began to trace
fast kisses down the smooth, flat stomach.

Matt started out being gentle in his lovemaking. But
as he kissed and stroked her, became acquainted with
every curve and valley, his long-suppressed hunger for
her burst loose. Suddenly he was like a man possessed,
raining kisses up and down her body as though he
couldn't get enough of her. And sometime during the
wild caressing of his hands and lips, Marna had begun
to respond with an abandonment that made his blood
sing.

When finally she sobbed, tossed her head, and called
his name, he parted the soft thighs and climbed between them. After two unsuccessful attempts to enter
her, he raised up and gazed at her in bewilderment.
"Marna," he asked huskily, "haven't you known a man
before?"

Her eyes dull with desire, Marna shook her head.

His mind reeling with elation at her answer and his
loins an aching throb, he gently but steadily pushed his
way into his bride.

Twice she moaned softly, but she continued to strain
eagerly toward him.

The sky was a light gray when Matt slumped over
Marna's exhausted but contented body for the last time.
But even in his sleep he held her close, not really finished with it. He would only rest awhile.

The sun awakened Marna hours later. "Goodness," she
murmured, stretching lazily, "it must be at least two
o'clock."

She ran her fingers lightly over her bare body, flinching when she hit a tender spot. Matt had been so intense in his lovemaking. She pushed the covers down to
her waist and examined the faint red marks scattered
across her breasts. Remembering the pleasure those
marks had brought her, she grew warm again with
desire. She wished that Matt were here this very
minute.

She had responded, but sleepily, to him this morning
just before he rose to run his traps. The rhythmic thrust
of his body had quickly brought her to that joyous
crest, then she slid back into dreamland. She had
vaguely heard his soft chuckle as he withdrew and
kissed her mouth softly.

She swung her feet to the floor, curling her toes away
from the cold planks. Her body a mass of gooseflesh,
she grabbed up her old, soft, wool robe that Hertha had
made for her two years ago. The day was much too
cold for the thin, fancy robes that Jake had brought her
one day. She didn't like them much, anyway. He could
have only gotten such clothes from Betsy. And she
hadn't made up her mind yet about the big, attractive
woman.

Digging her fur-lined slippers from under the bed,
she scuffed into the other room and headed for the fire.
Sometimes she was sorry she had had the bed taken to the other room. It had always been so cozy, nestled up
against the chimney.

Hefting the coffeepot, she smiled. Almost full, and
still warm. Matt had taken the time to brew it before
leaving. She poured a cup of the strong, dark liquid and
carried it to a small table under the window. Glancing
out, she saw Jake coming across the clearing, his boots
kicking up the new-fallen snow.

He seems in a hurry, she thought as she went to the
door.

Jake immediately noticed the new softness in her
face, and wondered at it. "She gets lovelier every day,"
he marveled.

"What brings you here today, Jake? Did your new
houseguest kick you out already?"

Jake smiled at her sally as he removed his coat and
laid his hat on the hearth. "My houseguest, as you call
her, didn't move in."

"Oh, Jake, I am sorry," Marna exclaimed, hanging
up his coat. "I know how much you wanted her to."
She sat down on the couch, pulling him down beside
her. "May I ask why Betsy didn't move in?"

Jake picked up her hand and held it between his
own. "That's why I'm here. I have something to tell
you. It's a long story, so can I have a cup of coffee?"

"Of course," Marna said, jumping to her feet. "I was
just about to offer you some."

But when the coffee was poured, and Jake held it in
his hands, he still didn't speak. He sat turning the cup
in his hands, weighing his thoughts. On his way here he
had rehearsed what he would say, and it had sounded
fine. Encouraged by Hertha's assurance, he had thought
it would be easy, and had even looked forward to the
telling. But now that he faced Marna, he was finding it
difficult to even get started.

Marna liked him as a friend, he knew, but all that
could change rapidly if she knew that he was her father, the man who had run away and left her to the doubtful
care of Emery Aker.

He closed his eyes against the thought of that fondness turning to hate.

Watching him, Marna could contain her curiosity no
longer. Peering quizzically into his face, she urged,
"Well, Jake, what were you going to tell me?"

Jake set the cup on the table at his elbow and rose to
stare down into the fire. After several seconds, he began
with a question. "How much do you know of your
parents, Marna?"

Puzzled, she stared up at him for a moment. Then an
excited fluttering began in her breast. Did Jake know
her father?

Her blue eyes almost purple in her eagerness, she sat
forward and answered, "I don't know a great deal
about them, Jake. My mother died when I was born,
and Grandma said that my father was so broken up
about it that he left Philadelphia. She's never heard of
him since, and we fear that he is dead. Why do you
ask?"

In a voice that came out weak and uncertain, Jake
asked, "Do you hold it against your father for leaving
you-leaving you with such a man as Emery Aker?"

Marna gazed solemnly before her. "I did when I was
little. When Grandpa used to abuse Grandma, I would
think to myself, why doesn't my father come and take
us away from this old devil? Then one day Grandma
explained to me that even if my father still lived, he
would have no way of knowing where we were. It
seems that we had to leave Philadelphia very quickly."

Jake gazed down at her, hope building in his breast.
"Then ...then if your father should show up today,
you wouldn't hate him?"

As if floating in a dream, Marna stood up. A look of
half fear, half hope on her face, she whispered, "Oh,
Jake, do you know who my father is? Does he still
live?"

His body held tensely, Jake stared back at her. The
time had arrived. Taking a shuddering breath, he answered, "Your father lives, Marna. I am your father."

For a moment Marna stared at him blankly, not
grasping his words. Then her eyes widened in understanding and she uttered a little sound. It was so clear
now. Why hadn't she realized it before? She had her
father's eyes. That was why he looked so familiar to
her. Grandma had told her many times that she had her
father's eyes.

"Oh, Jake," she sobbed, throwing herself into his
arms.

It was as if nature had spread a clean white blanket on
the ground, Matt thought as he stepped off the porch
and into the newly fallen snow. It was totally silent in
the grayness of the morning, and somehow strange.
Usually the loud, raucous voices of the hunters could
be heard competing with the wild barking of the hounds.

But today he had at least an hour's start on the
others. He wanted to run his traps and get back to the
warm arms of his wife.

He walked rapidly. Much time was saved by his ability to see a great distance ahead. In the new snow small
tracks could be seen easily.

It was well past noon when he was almost finished
running the line. Fourteen fat, sleek beaver, strung together, hung across his shoulder. Matt was about to
take a straight course for home. Then off in the distance he heard the fussy gobbling of wild turkeys. He
smiled. Maybe his extra steps weren't for nothing after
all. Marna would be pleased if he brought home a big,
fat bird. They could invite Henry and Dove over for
supper.

Turning off his trodden path and heading into a
cedar grove, he came upon them. In a small clearing,
surrounded by wide, towering trees, a dozen or so big
toms scratched busily in the protected soil under the
trees. High in the branches, another dozen sat preening
their feathers in the sun.

Standing quietly beside a lone, bare oak, Matt lifted
the rifle to his shoulder and took careful aim. The rifle
spat, sending the fowl into a fluttering, gobbling panic. The beat of their wings was like rolling thunder as they
swept off through the woods.

He walked over to the inert pile of shining red and
brown feathers and picked it up. Twenty pounds or
more, he thought, pleased.

After cleaning the rifle and reloading it, he took the
bird and headed for home.

But as he came closer to the cabin, his steps slowed.
A queer chill had stolen over him, a vague dread that
all was not well.

He came to the familar clearing and stopped short.
Booted footprints crossed his, then followed them to
the cabin. A defensive, uneasy expression crossed his
face. Only Jake South wore boots around here.

Matt moved slowly up the narrow, snow-covered
path, and stopped at the porch, reluctant to enter the
cabin.

He slid the furs off his shoulders, and laid them,
along with the turkey, in the snow beside the steps.
With a deep breath, he crossed the porch and opened
the door.

He felt sick and empty inside. Clasped in Jake
South's arms, her face radiant, was Marna. The past
wonderful hours had meant nothing to her. She had
only wanted release from the desire he had roused in
her.

He kicked the door shut with his heel. The pair
swung around and stared into eyes that were as cold as
the icicles hanging from the eaves.

Overwhelmed with confusion at the burning accusation in Matt's eyes, Mama stood rooted, Jake's arms
still about her. The silence in the room grew heavy and
oppressive before she found her voice. Then, drawing
away from Jake, she spoke with a quivering catch in
her voice.

"I know how this must look to you, Matt, but Jake
is-"

His voice full of contempt, Matt interrupted her
through clenched teeth. "Save your breath. I'm not interested in the excuses of whores."

Marna gasped, and Jake's eyes grew wide at the insult Taking a threatening step toward the stony-faced
hunter, he exploded, "Now you listen to me, Matt Barton. Marna has done no wrong. If you will just listen to
her-"

His voice heavy with the hurt and jealousy that
festered inside him, Matt lashed out, "I'm sick to death
of her smooth, lyin' tongue. She'll not make a fool of
me again."

Marna was incredulous. Make a fool of him? What
about the times he had made her look worse than a
fool? Well, those days were gone forever. She was no
longer a woman without the protection of a man. She
had a father now, and she had taken her last abuse
from this stubborn, presumptuous, wild man.