"Spencer, put me down," she said, but when he didn't, she just put her arms around his neck and rested her head against his chest. "Then take me in the house," she said, and there was no mistaking her meaning.
He shook his head and headed for the barn, kicking the door open with his feet. There, awaiting a second coat of paint, was the bed he had been working on so lovingly, a big white headboard into which an
0
and an
S
had been carved and the letters connected with ribbonlike swirls and curves.
She stiffened in his arms and pushed against him, trying to regain her feet. Gently, reluctantly, he set her down.
"Oh, Spencer!" She ran her hand just inches above the wood, not touching it with her body but fondling it with her eyes. He lit the lantern that hung by the door and held it so that she could better examine his handiwork. "Oh, but it's beautiful!" Wiping with the back of her hand the tears that gathered at the corners of her eyes, she took in the other three beds that stood behind their own.
Neil's was blue, just as he had requested, with waves cut out in the wood and a white sailboat painted above them. Josie's was a pale pink, with hearts painted on either side of a carved-out
J
. Louisa's was simpler, more elegant, with one heart carved in the center of the headboard and a matching one in the footboard.
"When in the world did you do all this?" she asked when she could catch her breath.
"I had a lot of energy to work off," he said, thinking about how much he wanted to take her, then and there, and how wrong it was, wanting to make love to his wife in a barn in the semidarkness. But there was no helping it.
"Want to try it out?" he asked. At her blush he could have kicked himself. What kind of idiot asks his wife if she wants to try out a bed frame filled with straw in the barn when it wasn't even quite night and . . .
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry, Spencer, that I'm so shy." She stared at the ground and bit at a fingernail.
"Sorry?" he asked, cupping her chin and lifting it to search her eyes. "Livvy-love, you've nothing to apologize for. You're perfect."
"No," she said, shaking her head and sending waves of hair dancing across her shoulders and breasts. "I'm hysterically shy, and repressed, and—"
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Spencer said, closing any distance between them and hugging her to him. "You are perfect," he repeated.
"But Dr. Roberts—" she began.
"The doctor in Milwaukee? The one Bess saw?"
Guilt colored Livvy's face scarlet.
"She said you were what?"
Livvy mumbled something about River Street that was lost in his chest. How could he listen to her when her warm breath was teasing his nipples and it took all his concentration just to breathe?
"I said," he managed to get out finally, and with a certain authority, "that you are perfect. And you deserve better than this, Liv."
She took a deep breath and then she crawled over the side rail and lay on her back, her arms out to him, reaching, beckoning. "Do you really think I'm perfect?"
He fought to swallow and had to settle for merely nodding.
"Then don't leave me here alone." She rolled over in the fresh hay until she was on the far side of the bed and looked up at him. Her eyes were almost closed. Her chest rose and fell. A small sigh escaped her lips.
Dear God! She wanted him.
It was why he'd brought her back to the farm, after all. To take her to his bed and make her his own. But now he stood beside the bed ashamed of himself and humbled. He hadn't made her his, at all.
It was she, with her soft ways, her patience and her love, who had made him hers, forever. And all he wanted was to make her world as wonderful as she had made his. And that didn't mean a hay bed in a barn with a cow and a couple of dozen chickens there to watch.
She reached out her arms again, and he was undone.
"But it'll be perfect on Tuesday," he said, forcing himself to wait. "You don't understand. I've got you—"
"Spence, shhh. It's perfect now." She began unbuttoning her dress, her eyes fixed on his.
"Livvy, I've gotten you Sacotte Farm." He hadn't meant to blurt it out, but his brain couldn't function any better than his lungs, which were having trouble taking in air, or his tongue, which was hanging from his mouth, or his heart, which had ceased to beat at the sight of his wife's creamy skin being revealed inch by precious inch.
Her eyes widened, but she only said, "That's nice," and worked at pulling the tails of her blouse out from her skirt and easing out of it until only her camisole covered her breasts, as if being there with him at that moment Was more important to her than her family farm.
But that couldn't be. So he continued.
"I figured out that Makeridge was in cahoots with Bouche from the very beginning. Seems they met on the train to Milwaukee and Bouche offered Makeridge a piece of the profit if he bought Sacotte Farm, and . . ."
She was having trouble with the button at the waistband of her skirt. He came to the edge of the bed and got down on his knees to help her.
"Waylon and Julian?" she asked. "Oh. Uh-huh," she said distractedly, working the rest of the skirt buttons with less trouble.
"And I threatened to expose him if he didn't buy our farm, instead."
She eased the skirt down over her hips. White cotton with lace edges framed her like some sort of doll.
"He bought our farm?" She seemed only mildly interested. He was rapidly losing interest himself.
"Mm. He did." He reached out and ran one finger down her arm, watching the gooseflesh rise in his path.
She reached up and pulled on the tie that hung loosely around his shirt, drawing her to him.
"Wait, Liv," he said, knowing that once he joined her on that bed, he would be lost. "Then I bought Zephin's . . ."
She was getting cold, he could see, lying there alone in just her underthings, and she crossed her arms over her chest for warmth.
It worked. He felt the sweat begin to gather on his forehead at the sight of her ample breasts pressed together.
A gurgle came from his throat. He eased himself down onto the hay next to her. "You're so beautiful," he said, untying the ribbon on her camisole and fighting with the buttons.
"So then," she said, twisting so that she could reach his shirt buttons and working on them while he fought for breath, "we're going home?"
He nodded, unable to speak, running his hands everywhere, looking for skin to touch as if he needed to reassure himself that she was real and in his arms again.
There was still one thing he hadn't told her. Bouche had given up merely hinting and asked him for two hundred dollars to make his stake in the Klondike. He'd guaranteed that Spencer would never hear from him again.
"Liv?" he said. "There's something . . ."
But she was fighting with the buttons on his shirt, and when she mastered them, she struggled to free his shirttails from his pants.
"Liv . . ."
"I can't . . ." she said, fumbling beneath him. He lifted himself slightly from the hay, trying to see if her hands could be doing what it felt like they were. Dear God! They were! She was unfastening his suspenders! He rolled onto his back and gave her access to all of him.
He and Remy had taken the first two hundred dollars from the sale of Spencer's farm and wired it to Bouche. It meant they still owed some money to Zephin, but with a good crop . . .
He swallowed hard.
How was he supposed to keep his head when she was tugging at the waistband of his pants? The strap to her camisole fell off her shoulder and she pushed it back up, returned to her struggles, and repeated the gesture twice more.
"Liv?" he said, fighting for breath and trying to remember what it was he wanted to tell her.
"What is it?" she said, a little impatiently, he thought, stopping to look up at him and brushing the hair away from her face in a fluid, graceful motion.
"Leave the strap alone," he said, easing it off her shoulder. He could tell her tomorrow that he had to guarantee the rest of the money to Zephin. Or the next day.
But there were to be no more secrets, he reminded himself. "Liv?" He could hardly get the word out. Not that he was worried about money. After all, Livvy's pie sales alone would probably cover what they owed. And what choice did they have when it came to their children? Still, he felt he ought to tell her. "Liv?" he said again.
"Spencer?" she asked, pausing in her ministrations. "Are you nervous?"
The question was ridiculous. He snorted in response. She was the one who was shy. Repressed.
"Do you not want to do this?"
He snorted twice, for emphasis. Of course he wanted to do this. But he wanted it to be perfect.
"Then, Spencer?" She went back to work on his clothing with a diligence she usually reserved for dirty necks on little girls. "Shut up!"
He wanted to tell her he was shocked, tease her about her sudden loss of shyness. But just then she lowered her head to his now bare chest and lay one sweet perfect kiss just inches from his nipple. A charge coursed through him unlike anything he had ever felt. Like lightning hitting him. Like holding two of those new electric wires.
Her lips tentatively explored his chest, and it felt as though she were tracing his Adam's apple with her tongue. For a brief moment, he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven.
He lay there, flat on his back, straw tickling him behind his knees, the smell of her lilac hair filling his nostrils, and let her kiss him.
She paused and raised her head to him. "Do you really think I'm perfect?"
His answer was a low groan. How could she doubt it? His hands rested on her shoulders, and he let them slide down her arms, dragging her camisole straps with them until he could see her perfection for himself. "Oh, God!"
There were things that had happened in his life that he hadn't deserved. He'd always thought those were the bad things. Now, next to him, was one more thing he didn't deserve. But this one he vowed he would be worthy of.
"This inch is perfect," he began, kissing the small beauty mark he was surprised to find on her shoulder. After tonight he expected there would be nothing about her body he wouldn't know. "And this inch," he added, kissing her collar bone. "And, oh my Lo—"
Her breast was silky against his tongue, and he latched on to the nipple like an infant seeking sustenance. From her he would draw the strength he needed for whatever they should face. His hands traced the hourglass figure he had denied himself for so long, felt the swell of her hips and the soft expanse of her belly.
As good as she felt, warm and supple and satiny smooth, nothing felt as wonderful, or sent waves of excitement through him, as much as when he felt her timidly begin to explore him. Her hand played across his chest, tangled in the hair she found there, followed that hair down his torso and pressed against his belly just inches from his manhood.
And then her hand dipped lower.
"Shy?" he whispered against her temple when he could finally get the word out. "She said you were shy?"
The hand stilled.
"What did I tell you?" he asked her, not moving an inch.
"Perfect," she said softly, and he felt again the tentative movements of her inquiring fingers.
"I love you, Olivia Williamson," he said and rolled her to her back. "My perfect Livvy-love."
And when they couldn't stand the sweetness of just touching and kissing any longer, he took his love home.
She rose long after he was asleep and slipped from within the shelter of his arms. A piece of hay teased his nose, and she moved it away before rising from the bed he'd built for them to share. On bare feet she tiptoed from the barn and made her way toward Spencer's house, a house that had never quite belonged to her.
Inside, it was eerily quiet, and with the utmost care she climbed the ladder to the loft where Peter and Margaret's belongings awaited their return. Tenderly she plucked each bird from the shelf on which it rested and placed one after the other within the folds of her skirt. When she had them all, she gathered the edges of her skirt into one hand and held them tight, careful that none of the birds could escape their soft nest.
On her way back toward the steps she picked up Margaret's doll and added her to the cache. "We're moving, Winnie," she said softly. "And I wouldn't want you left behind."
Down in her kitchen she looked around her in the early light of dawn. It would be harder, she realized, to say goodbye to the old house than she thought.
But then again, everything that mattered would be coming with her.
There was a crate on the table, and she put the doll and carvings into it, nestling them right next to the carving tools and blocks of wood Spencer had already packed. Then she carried it to the porch to be sure it went with them to Sacotte Farm.
The sun was just rising over the hill when she reentered the barn and tried to slip back into the makeshift bed in which Spencer was snoring lightly.
"Liv?"
"Mm?"
"Are you happy?"
His eyes were still closed, so he couldn't see the smile that split her face, or the tears that spilled down her cheeks, or even the nod of her head. And so she answered aloud the question he had never asked her before.
"Yes," she said softly, guessing he had already fallen back to sleep again. "Completely."
"Good,' he said, surprising her. "That's all I needed to know."
He shifted to accommodate her, pulling her into the curve of his body and pressing her bottom against his resting manhood. Outside the barn the crickets chirped, and a cool breeze sent chills across Olivia's scantily clad body. She should have thought to bring a blanket back to the barn, but from the stirring behind her she doubted she would be cool for long.
And he proved her right, once again.
Later, much later, he tucked his discarded shirt around her. "Do you think we might have made a baby?"
"I—I don't know," Olivia said, and she felt his hand cradle her flat belly and she covered it with her own.