Welcome to Paradise (20 page)

“I’ve got no problem with you leading. Not while we’re dancing, anyway.” She moved into his arms, accepted his broad hand over her own, his other hand firm at her waist, guiding her in the direction he wanted her to go.

“Only for the physical stuff, I promise.” He began to waltz her backwards across the wooden plank floor, their feet gliding easily over its coating of sawdust. “How are you doing? How are you feeling?” he asked abruptly.

She laughed, surprised that she could. “How long is this song? I’m feeling a lot of things, I think.”

“I have all night to listen,” he promised, seeming to relax a bit, lose a little of the tension that had been gripping him.

“You must be a really good doctor. Because you have one heck of a bedside manner.”

“Depends entirely on the bed,” he said, pulling her in closer as the fiddle launched into the refrain yet again, the musicians seeming as reluctant as the two of them to end the song, and the evening. His body was warm against hers, his back solid under her palm. She could feel herself relaxing as well, moving as if her
body were
part of his own, and was at once comforted and aroused.

“Feelings,” he prompted as the song went on.

“Hmm? Oh,” she sighed. “Umm, shaken up, obviously. And relieved that it’s finally over.
Kinda
proud of myself, actually. I’ve never told somebody off like that. That was new. And embarrassed at the same time, for the same reason.”

“Sad, too,” she went on, “that it ended so ugly. And,” she admitted, “scared about what these next weeks are going to be like.”

“Scared how?”

“You saw how furious he was. He doesn’t like to lose. And losing in front of everyone, on camera, what I said, what you said . . . he’s going to be pretty unbearable. I’m not sure just how nasty it’s going to be, but it could be bad. And we’re all stuck here. At least he’s not going to be on our homestead, not right away anyway. But once he is . . . that scares me. And it’ll be rough over there. I hope Alec’s going to be OK, being your brother and all.”

Gabe laughed softly, and she felt the rumble of it vibrating in his chest, into her own body. “Alec can take care of himself,” he promised. “And I can take care of you.”

She felt the decidedly un-PC thrill of that all the way through her. She’d been living in the nineteenth century way too long, for that to make her feel so good. And was aware, as he pulled her even closer, that he was as aroused as she was.
And that, as she’d noticed the other evening, his version was . . . impressive.

“Do you still want to know how I’m feeling?” she asked him breathlessly.

“Dying to hear. I think you can tell how I’m feeling. I’m just hoping you’re somewhere in the ballpark.”

“I’m in the ballpark. I’m all the way around the bases.”

And he, Gabe thought, still somehow managing to dance, was wondering what it was going to feel like to slide into home.

Five o’clock had never come so early, Gabe thought with a sigh the next morning at the sound of the alarm, the slap of Stanley’s big hand shutting it off.
 
Especially after exactly one beer, and staying out until all of nine-thirty.

“Right,” he said in resignation. “The price of high living.” He stood up, grabbed his clothes off their nail, shrugged into his shirt, buttoned his pants,
pulled
up the suspenders. He’d got over his squeamishness about putting on dirty clothes, anyway. He wondered how his more finicky brother was doing with that. Well, everything was bound to get good and filthy today. Challenge day.

“Bet they’ll have a good one for us this time,” Kevin mused a few minutes later, picking up the milking stool and opening the corral gate in the gray light of dawn, Gabe following behind with the shovel and wheelbarrow.

“In particular, you mean?” Gabe asked.

“Yeah. Because we missed it last week,” Kevin
answered,
seating himself on the milking stool while Gabe began to shovel. “And because of that nice bit of extra tension you provided last night. Bet they’re sorry now that they don’t have a cage fight planned. At least I hope they don’t. That wouldn’t be too period.”

“A regular fight would be, though,” Gabe decided. “And that would suit me just fine. I’d win, too.”

“Oh, I’d have no problem nominating you to defend our homestead’s honor,” Kevin agreed. “Or Mira’s, more like. Though I think you might have to duke it out with Stanley for the privilege. He sounded sorry that Scott didn’t give him any excuse when he walked his drunk ass back to Arcadia last night.”

Gabe snorted, scooped one last shovelful of manure, and turned the wheelbarrow to head out with it. “Bullies don’t mess with anybody bigger than them. I’m sure you’ve found that out yourself by now.”

Fight or challenge, he vowed as he trundled the heavy wheelbarrow over to the manure pile, winning was going to be the best revenge. Because they needed to win, or it was pretty clear Mira would be leaving with Scott. And that wasn’t going to happen. Not if he could help it.

“Ready for this?” he asked her as they neared the Clearing a little after noon. She’d been quiet all morning, subdued after the late night, all the emotion. He’d held her hand on the walk, just as he had on the way home last night, and it felt ridiculously good just to be able to touch her.

Now he gave that hand a little extra squeeze, looked down at her, wishing he could see her face, hidden from him by the sunbonnet.

“Yeah,” she said firmly. “I’ll do my best. My very best.”

“I know you’ll do that,” he assured her. “But I meant, ready to see Scott.”

“Oh.” He felt her hand tighten for a moment in his. “No choice. And he can’t do anything today. Not with everybody around.”

Nothing but look like he wanted to kill her, her and Gabe both, she realized as they stepped forward to meet Arcadia, coming from their own path onto the Challenge field. Both homesteads moved toward the spot where two big stacks of skinny logs, some shorter posts, and a double pile of tools were laid out. Where Cliff and John were standing already.

She averted her eyes from Scott’s thunderous face, let go of Gabe’s hand and moved with Zara and Maria-Elena to the spot indicated by the ever-present Jay, a single long bench where the Arcadia women were already seating themselves.

“Welcome to our men’s challenge,” Cliff announced. “We’ve had to get you here a little earlier today, because this one’s going to take some time. I know you were disappointed that the log-sawing went so fast,” he went on to a few rueful grins, “so today you get a much tougher assignment. You’re going to be building something special.”

“Oh, boy,” Zara said with satisfaction. “We’re going to kick butt on this. Arcadia’s only just got their garden fence up, Hank told me last night.”

“You’re not secretly rooting for him?” Mira asked.

“I should be, I suppose,” Zara said, sounding surprised at herself. “Because if they win, I know I’m not going to be the one going home this time. But I can’t help it. This is my team.”

“Since you’ve got an extra man, Arcadia,” Cliff was saying now, “you’re going to need to sit somebody out. I’ll give you a minute to decide who that’s going to be.”

“Only one choice,” Zara muttered. But to Mira’s surprise, the decision wasn’t happening easily. She could see Scott’s furious face, his vehement refusals,
Alec’s
posture eloquent of disgust as he rapped out a few choice words. Calvin merely stood, arms crossed, while Hank looked back and forth between the two angry men, his expression bemused. After several minutes of argument, he shrugged, said something to the others, and turned toward the bench.

“Looks like I’m taking a break,” he said, sitting down beside his wife as Mira shifted to make room for him.

“Now that you all have got that sorted out,” John said, taking over from Cliff to address the remaining men, “you’ve probably figured out that you’re going to be building fence today. Building a pigpen, to be exact. Got everything you need for a ten by twelve pen, just enough for a sow and some piglets. Guess we’ll see what you’ve learned out here, because I’m not going to tell you any more than that. Points for how fast you do it, points for how good you do it. That’s about it.”

“Challenge is on,” Cliff announced.

As the two little groups huddled over their materials, Zara reached for Hank, gave him a quick kiss, rubbed her hand down the grizzled stubble on the side of his face. “What happened just then?” she asked him. “Not that I’m not glad to have your company, but I would’ve said that was a no-brainer, unless he actually
wants
to leave.”

Hank shot a glance at Mira.

“Don’t worry about me,” she assured him. “There’s not much you can say at this point that would surprise me.”

“Well.” He took off his hat and scratched his head, then set it firmly in place again against the midday sun, stretched his lean legs out in front of him, and considered. “Can’t tell that man a thing, is what. Thinks he knows it all. And he sure can’t take criticism. Sets his back right up. He can’t be sat out, because that’d mean he was the worst. And he can’t be the worst. Wasn’t much we could do, short of hog-tying him and dragging him
off.
Which a couple of ’
em
would have done, quick enough,” he added with a grin.

“Trouble already,” he added with a sigh, eyeing his team’s progress. “Unless Paradise finds some way to mess up bad, you all are
gonna
win this one.”

It was true. The Paradise men had seemed to decide quickly on a strategy. Stanley had paced off the dimensions of the pen, and Kevin had searched through the supplies for a piece of string and was laying it out along Stanley’s hypothetical
fenceline
. As soon as he was done, each of the men picked up a posthole digger and started in.

Meanwhile, Arcadia was still talking, Scott and Alec again in vehement disagreement, Calvin wandering over to the pile of supplies, seemingly deciding to get started on his own.

“Yep. I smell another crash and burn,” Zara pronounced.

“We’ll see,” Hank said with a grin. “We may have a late surge. You never know.”

“Now that we’ve got that going,” Cliff said, having made his way over to the women’s bench, where a camera crew had been filming all along, “time to get you ladies started. Don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten you.”

“We don’t mind being the decorative audience,” Rachel assured him. “Or the cheerleaders. We’ve lost Melody and Chelsea, but I’m sure I could scare up some pom-poms somehow. And Mira’s got a cute ponytail now and everything.”

“Nice try,” Cliff smiled, “but no dice. Come on over to the kitchen area, and you can take a look at what we’ve found for you to do.”

The clucking that greeted them from a pen near the covered structure, the four chopping blocks set up, each with a hatchet and bucket set ready, told their own story.

“Oh, no,” Maria-Elena groaned. “Oh, gross.”

Mira felt a little sick herself as Cliff went on. “It looks like you’ve got the picture. Two women from each homestead are going to prepare a rooster for the pot. I know Alma taught all of you how.” He nodded to the woman who came out to join him. “And she’s here to judge how you do today. You’ve all eaten a chicken or two out here, haven’t you?”

“Once,” Zara said. “We decided it was too much work. Which it is.
”
She and Mira exchanged a concerned glance. In fact, the guys had done the worst parts for them. Stanley had killed the two young roosters they’d sacrificed to the cause last week, and Gabe had cleaned them. All the women had had to do was pluck, but the whole thing had been disgusting and tedious enough that they’d made a unanimous decision to stick to corned beef, trout, and rabbit from then on.

This was one time when the Paradise men’s consideration might work against them. Because Mira was willing to bet that Scott hadn’t cleaned anyone’s chicken. And sure enough, it was obvious from Rachel and Lupe’s confident nods that they had a leg up on this. She felt a surge of trepidation.

“So, Paradise. You’ve got the extra member this time,” Cliff went on. “
Who
are you sitting out?”

The three women looked at each other. “I’m sorry, guys,” Maria-
Elena
said, appearing truly ashamed. “It’s just, like, so gross. I’d be puking the whole time. I don’t think I can.”

“That’s OK,” Mira said firmly. “Zara and I can do it, can’t we?”

“You bet we can,” the older woman agreed, her chin lifting. “Go sit down and cheer us on, Maria-Elena. Don’t get distracted and wander back to look at cute guys, now.”

“I won’t,” the girl said earnestly. “I promise.”

“Ready to get to it?” Cliff asked.

“Ready,” Mira called back as Maria-Elena took herself off to the spectators’ bench.

“Then I’ll let Alma explain what you’re going to be doing,” Cliff said.

“You all know,” Alma said briskly. “Least you should. I’ll be judging on time, and on preparation. You leave pinfeathers
in,
do a sloppy job of cleaning, that’s points. I want to see a nice, clean bird.”

“And with that,” Cliff said, challenge is . . .” He lifted his arm in the air. “On!” he shouted as he dropped it.

All four women raced to the wire pen, Rachel getting there first. Within seconds, they had each grabbed a young rooster. Mira wrapped her arm around the flapping wings as she ran to one of the chopping blocks, forcing her mind onto autopilot.

Upside down,
she remembered, visualizing Stanley holding the thing by the feet to quiet it, then laying it on the block, holding it down for the hatchet. She did the same, then realized she didn’t have the hatchet,
had
to lean over awkwardly again to pick it up, trying not to lose her hold on the struggling rooster in the meantime. She heard the
thunk
from the block next to hers, and saw that Lupe had already dispatched her own bird.

She lifted the hatchet. “Sorry,” she whispered. Forced herself not to close her eyes, brought the blade down, severing the neck with one strong blow. And then had to close her eyes after all for a moment against the sight.

Drop the body in the bucket.
She did it even as she heard the shriek, and looked up to see that Rachel had forgotten that important instruction. Her rooster was running,
headless,
blood spraying from its neck, and Rachel had lost her usual aplomb.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” the other woman moaned, until Lupe ran out from the kitchen, caught up with the still-moving body, gathered it up and stuffed it into Rachel’s bucket with a quick word.

Mira raced for the kitchen herself, toward the Paradise stove with its kettle of boiling water. Reached into the bucket for the feet again, dipped the rooster’s body by them into the water, careful not to burn herself again in the process.

The stench immediately rose to fill her nostrils, and she fought back the sickness, wishing she hadn’t eaten lunch. She pulled the body out, made way for Zara to scald her own bird, and moved back outside, where Lupe, of course, had already begun plucking, sitting on her chopping block surrounded by feathers.

Mira took a deep breath, hustled to her block, pulled the wet, stinking body from her bucket, and began to pull out handfuls of white feathers. This, at least, she’d done before. And the smell, the feel of it were just as disgusting this time. Her gorge rose, higher and higher, until she couldn’t stop it. She leaned over and lost her lunch next to her stump, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and went grimly back to plucking.

You can do this,
she told herself fiercely. She knew how hard the guys were working, and that Gabe and Stanley, at least, would be putting forth that much extra effort on her behalf. She wasn’t going to let them down.

The next hour was a disgusting blur of plucking, pulling pinfeathers, and, finally, working with a sharp knife to clean the bird. By the time she’d finished, Mira had vomited twice more. On the other hand, everyone but Lupe had done the same. It was a pale, sweating group that laid their birds out on the kitchen workbenches for inspection. Lupe was first to finish, Zara barely last. And when the judging was over, Paradise had lost for the first time.

“But only by 15 points,” Zara pointed out shakily as they sat in the shade, having washed up as best they could with the pitcher and bowl provided. She wiped the sweat from her face with the underside of her blood-splattered apron and took another big gulp of water from the Mason jar. “Not too bad. The guys don’t have too much to make up.”

“I wanted to win it for them, though,” Mira said miserably, wiping her eyes on her own apron as she had so many times out here. “You know they’re trying to do it for us.”

“Did you do your best?” Zara demanded.

“Yes,” Mira said, still a bit tearful. “I really did.”

“I couldn’t even do it,” Maria-Elena put in. “You guys did awesome. It’s just that my mom’s really good at that stuff.”

“And that our guys are too nice to us,” Zara agreed ruefully. “Chivalry has a price. But I did my best too, and that’s all anybody can do. Let’s go back over there, see how they’re doing.
Looks from here like they’re well in the lead.
I’m guessing that they’re going to bring it home for us one more time.”