Harmony (21 page)

She would have cried if she thought it would do any good.

“Please . . . Tom . . .”

A blue eye opened; one side of a firm mouth arched.
And in a manner that could only be described as sinful—certainly not painful. “Please, Tom . . . what?”

She gasped. Sputtering her shock, she said, “Why . . .” Then she straightened, appalled. “Why . . . you horrible toad. You baboon. What's the matter with you? Are you crazy? You scared me half to death.”

In her upset, she went as far as slapping him on the arm—with as much force as she could muster. His wince gave her a slight satisfaction as she rose to her feet and shook the leaves off her skirt.

Tom rolled onto his back, then casually crossed his legs at the ankles while his hands linked behind his head. “You never called me Tom before.”

“I'd call you something else,” she said, flinging the words at him, “but my language isn't that base.”

Deeply, he laughed, making her want to squash him under her shoe. On a huff, she trudged toward her rake, but she never made it. Tom must have shot to his feet, because he jogged past in a burst of speed. Then, pivoting, stood in front of her and blocked her way so she couldn't go anywhere without running past him.

“Don't be mad, Ed. I was just trying to get you in the mood.”

“Mood for what?” She scowled. “To bash you in the head with my rake? You are the most infuriating, most insensitive, most—”

“—fun you've had since you got back to Harmony.” A lopsided grin caught his mouth. “Admit it, Edwina. You want to have a turn on that rope.”

She would confess no such thing.

“I tell you what,” he said in that tone that foreshadowed her undoing. “I'll make you a deal. You swing on the rope and I'll be your target. See if you can hit me.”

“It's a tempting offer, but the answer is no,” she conceded. “So quit daring me to do things. I don't like it.”

“Yeah, but you love the challenge.”

At cross purposes, she could say nothing to the contrary.

“You're missing an opportunity to let your hair down.
You know you want to,” he said, fanning the flames of desire to do just that.

“Absolutely not.”

“One little swing.”

Forcing an air of reservation, she said more to herself than him, “Somebody might see me.”

“It's Sunday. Who'd come down here?”

“I don't know.” And that was the truth. She couldn't think of a soul who would happen to be this far down on either Birch Avenue or Dogwood Place on a Sunday, unless they had to go by the mill to get to Evergreen Creek, which wasn't very likely on a Sunday. Unless they wanted to get to the eastern side of the creek because the brick footbridge on Maple Street was still under repairs. Which wasn't a very likely trip to be made on a Sunday.

Groaning with resignation, Edwina walked toward the rope.

Tom called to her, “I knew it.”

She knew she wanted to, too. A wicked smile brightened her from within, but she'd never let Tom Wolcott see it. It had been a long time since she'd done this. Rope swings made her think of dragging the wicker lawn chair to the line of hemp in her yard so she could be high enough to get a good grip and swing wide.

Unfortunately, there wasn't any lawn furniture here, so how was she going to get a thrust going?

“I'll give you a boost.” Tom's voice wrapped around her, much like the man himself. He'd drawn up so close to her back, she could feel him breathing in her ear. “On the count of three, jump up.”

She nodded. He placed his hands on her waist as she stretched out her arms. Trying to displace the river of excitement rushing to the places his wide hands were splayed, she focused on Tom's hoist up.

“One. Two. Three.”

Then came a shove and she was lifted into the air. Her gloved hands caught the rope, gaining a firm hold. She felt confident, excited, silly—but unprepared for the
electrifying contact of palms on her behind as Tom began to push her.

“You don't have to do that,” she chided over her shoulder.

“Just giving you a hand.”

More like two hands.

Within five strong pushes, Tom got her going fairly high. Despite her vow not to show him she was delighted, she giggled. And once she started, she couldn't stop.

Leaning left or right could determine her course. Tom shot out in front of her, and she grinned while taking aim in his direction. Just when she could have winged him, he dodged out of the way.

“Hey!” she cried through a wide smile. “Don't move.”

“The hell I'm not.” He ran circles around her, laughing as he eluded her on every swing.

A drop of water fell on Edwina's nose. Another on her eyelid. Rain. Oh, not now! This was too enjoyable to abandon so quickly.

As she swished through the air, the force tugged the pins keeping her hair piled on top of her head. She could do nothing to remedy the situation, and slowly they slipped free until the Gibson style came tumbling free. She'd taken her hair down in the literal sense.

Rain began to fall more densely, splattering across her. She turned her face heavenward and let herself get soaked.

“How're your arms holding up?” Tom asked.

They hurt. So did her legs. She wasn't as agile as she used to be. But she didn't want to let go. If she did, she was afraid she wouldn't have the courage to get back on.

“I'm fine.”

With that, Tom gave her another strong push that sent her almost level with the warehouse's roof when she added her own weight into the swing.

The image she made must have been disgraceful, disreputable: soaked all over, hair down, skirts and petticoats
lumped halfway up her calves, swinging like a hoyden—and loving every minute of it.

Barkly began to anxiously bark, but she couldn't see him. He must have gone to the building's front and cornered a bug or something stupid.

If the hound hadn't ceased his howling to snarl, Edwina doubted Tom would have turned his head to shout, “Barkly! Come!” at the precise moment she soared right at him. In that split second, her legs collided with his chest and threw him off balance. Her arms, aching from the impact, released the rope. Tom fell backward. She toppled across him.

A jumble of leaden skirts and trouser legs, all wet through, prevented them from immediately disengaging. Edwina thought for sure he'd kill her. This was the second time she'd fallen on him. But in her defense, both times were unintentional.

Rather than getting yelled at, she felt the rumble of laughter in his chest as he started to chuckle.

“Oh, God, Ed . . . only you.”

She lifted her chin enough to look into his face. Thank goodness, no lumps were rising on his forehead this time. Through his laughter, which now she had deemed overwrought delirium, she said on her behalf, “There wasn't any time to say ‘Look out.' ”

“Wouldn't have done any good if you had.” The smile he gave her sent her pulse racing. Those white teeth flashing from such a face were . . . what was it Camille had said about men . . . ? Delicious. His face was delicious. She had no doubt he could have made even the most stodgy old maid fall into a fit of the vapors.

Why did he have to be so . . . so . . .
him?
Why couldn't she have fallen onto a man who was bald and had a wart on his nose? Temptation would not be running amok in her brain if she had.

But it was. And at an alarming rate. If Tom so much as moved his mouth a fraction toward hers, she would let him kiss her. Again. She wanted him to. Desperately.

Rain pelted them, but she barely noticed she was wet,
much less cold. On Tom's face, droplets rolled off his cheeks, his chiseled jaw. His smile died, and in its place came a fiery heat in his eyes.
He knew
. He knew what she wanted and he was going to do it.

Breath stilled in her throat. Her heartbeat thrummed. She lowered her head. Slowly. He lifted his. Slowly. Her eyelids flitted closed . . . and she waited . . .

. . . to be pounced upon by a soggy mongrel. Her lashes flew open with a start. Hot and cold clashed inside her. A dousing with ice water couldn't have sobered her more. The bloodhound conked her on the head with what felt like a stick. She turned to see he had a shredded umbrella clamped in his mouth. Water dripped off his ears, but he wouldn't shake off; it meant he'd have to drop his prize.

“Barkly, where in the hell did you get that?” Tom asked with a tight edge of annoyance in his tone.

“From me,” came the curt response.

Edwina recognized the voice instantly. “Mrs. Elward,” she whispered. She would have gotten up if she could. Mortification ran through her like a dull blade—painful and torturous. She was in big trouble.

Not a moment too soon, Tom came to her aid and managed to untangle her skirts enough so that she could sit up. He went to his feet and offered her a hand.

Once standing, Edwina saw that Mrs. Elward wasn't alone. Mrs. Plunkett, Mrs. Brooks, Mrs. Treber, and Mrs. Calhoon flanked Mrs. Elward as if she needed protection. Barkly growled. Edwina could see why. The ladies did look frightening with their wilted feather hats, dripping flounces, and muddy-hemmed skirts.

Whatever were they doing down here on a Sunday?

She visually searched them for clues. Their hands clutched tiny green cloth books and umbrellas—minus the one; binoculars hung over their sodden shoulders. Then it dawned on Edwina. They were the local chapter of Amateur Ladies Avifauna Ornithologists.

Bird watchers.

“Ladies,” Tom gallantly began, “this isn't what you—”

“I collapsed,” Edwina cut in with barely a breath in her lungs. “It . . . it was the sermon this morning. Heaven's tears. That's what Minister Stoll calls the rain. The rain made me think of my mother. I . . . I became overwhelmed with grief and fainted on Mr. Wolcott. Quite unexpected. I knocked him over.”

“Your hair fell down in the faint?” Mrs. Plunkett said accusingly, a brow arched in a perfectly horrible gesture of disbelief.

“It was—” Tom started.

But Edwina talked over him again. “Yes,” she lied coolly, her tone daring them to say otherwise. “I was so distraught, wanting to go to my mother's grave, that Mr. Wolcott had to subdue me. Forcefully.”

“Really?” Mrs. Elward remarked, each syllable of the word emphasized to the utmost.

Edwina flushed, then got mad. “Yes, really. I want my mother.” She lifted her face to the sky and shouted for good measure, “Mother! Mother!” Then quite unexpectedly, tears formed in her eyes and she truly did want her mother—wanted to be cradled in her mama's arms and comforted, brought back to childhood, where the worst thing to happen was a scraped knee. “Mama,” she said through a sob.

Stepping forward, Mrs. Treber said consolingly, “There, there, dear!” And took her against her bosom and held her. “We know you miss your mother. It's a burden to bear, but a burden you must.”

The other ladies gathered around her and patted her shoulders, which were now quivering in earnest. She couldn't seem to stop crying. Somewhat hysterically, too, Like mother hens, the ladies clucked and fussed, and through it all, she heard bits and pieces of the reprimand they gave Tom. Something about Barkly's attacking Mrs. Elward's umbrella. Vicious dog. And being rained out of their club meeting yesterday and trying it again today. Scouting the
Sitta carolinensis,
the white-breasted nuthatch.
Rained out again. Going home. Vicious dog—that came twice. Tom offering to replace the damaged umbrella. Offer accepted. Conversation finished.

“We'll walk you home, dear,” Mrs. Brooks said. “You shouldn't be left alone.”

“Marvel-Anne is at the house,” Edwina said with a sniff, not venturing a look at Tom.

Then Edwina was shuffled beneath Mrs. Calhoon's umbrella and guided, with an arm about her waist, to the street. At the last minute before the oak trees would obscure her view, she chanced a quick glimpse of Tom.

With legs apart and hands at his sides, oblivious to the rain slamming down on him, he stared at her. In his expression, she saw regret . . . and the subtlest hint of longing. For what? Her? The very idea was . . . compelling. Potent.

She had the strangest urge to break free of the ladies and tell them they were making a mistake: she was headed the wrong way.

•  •  •

The rain had lost its force and trickled to a drizzle that Tom ignored while he walked to Edwina's house under the cover of darkness. Tucked beneath his arm, he carried a bouquet of damp wildflowers he'd pilfered from the lot next to the livery. He'd waited until he felt sure Edwina would be alone and calmed down enough so she wouldn't slam the door in his face.

That . . . and he didn't want to be seen bringing her flowers.

Not that he didn't think it a noble cause. It was just that he'd never been sap enough to go this far. He was new to this sort of tactic—in a nutshell: romance.

The word sounded foreign in his head, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. In the past, sweet offerings had never been required to make things up to a woman. He gave them an irresistible smile, a kiss here and there. End of story. Life went on. No complexities. No . . . flowers.

Tom was probably taking the romance thing a little
too far. This was strictly an apology mission. He'd pushed her too far. She hadn't wanted to go on the rope swing, but he'd baited her into it. And she'd gotten caught. He could understand why she'd be upset. She was probably still crying. He needed to make things up to her. Flowers soothed frazzled women—or so he'd been told. He'd soon find out.

At the walkway to Edwina's house, he opened the latch on the gate and let himself inside. Lights on the lower story told him she was still up. It wasn't yet seven o'clock, so he'd assumed she would be.