The Sister and the Sinner (7 page)

The next afternoon, Mother Agnes seemed more alert than normal. She called for him to come to her, and reached for his hand when he arrived. Mary Francis came with him, eager to share a lucid moment with the woman who had raised her.

"There you are, you rascal," the old woman said to J.D. "You thought you were going to get away without telling me about what's going on in your life. What's become of you? What are you doing?"

J.D. was not going to lie to her, but neither would he intentionally hurt this sweet old woman. "Well, there's not much to tell," he fudged. "My father was a prospector all of his life, and I grew up around mining camps full of men. But he made sure I got an education. I can read and write and do my numbers, and I ran away to fight in the war when I was too young to know what a stupid thing that was to do."

Mother Agnes looked suddenly sad, and shook her head, as if she knew a lot of boys who had done just that. But then she looked back up at the man she thought was her son, and her face brightened until it shone.

"I've just been, uh . . . wandering mostly since then."

"No wife? No children?" His pseudo-mother looked aghast.

"You sound like my father," J.D. chuckled. "And no to both."

The possible connection to his father went right over the older woman's head. "You must, my son, you must. Children are a blessing." Whether she realized it or not, she reached out and took Mary Francis's hand and J.D.'s and put them together, as if marrying them and blessing their union.

Mary Francis snatched her hand away immediately; appalled that the Reverend Mother would do such a thing, and half afraid that she had guessed what transpired between the sheets in the room next door. She sighed. It was all such a muddled mess right now. She wished it would just go away, so that her life would go back to the way it was before J.D. had tackled her in the vegetable garden, and all she had to worry about were the pigweeds and where their next meal would come from.

This man had come into her world and literally turned it upside down. She had gone from sheltered novice to a brazen young woman who had been bare bottom spanked and had been subjected to a woman's pleasure - not once but repeatedly. Mary Francis would have bet that Mother Agnes would have killed herself long before she would have allowed any of those things to happen to her, but then again, Mother Agnes appeared to have had a child out of wedlock, as well. Mary Francis wasn't at all sure whom she could trust. But she was pretty sure that it wasn't an outlaw.

J.D. read until his voice was all but gone. He closed the Bible and returned it to the nightstand. "Excuse me," he said, surprised to see the old woman was still awake. "I need something to drink."

Mary Francis rose and would have left with him, but Mother Agnes begged her to stay. Mary Francis took the chair J.D. had vacated, folding her hands anxiously in her lap. Here it would come... condemnation for her sinful acts. She could barely look the Reverend Mother in the face.

"I'm sure you have questions, my child," the woman said, her voice thin and far away.

Mary Francis shook her head. She did not want to hear the sordid facts of the Reverend Mother's own downfall. Some things were just best left private. Unfortunately, the Reverend Mother seemed to be in a rare talkative mood.

"As you know, a vow once made between man and God cannot be broken. It is sacred, a solemn, holy promise. That is why I have been so hard on you, and have not let you make your vows yet. You have to be sure, absolutely sure, that you wish to dedicate your life to God. No - don't interrupt. Let me finish. You say you are ready to do that now, but you have lived a sheltered life. You should leave the convent, and spend a year or two in the world, knowing what we expect of you. Then, then when you know for certain that you are not called to a different vocation, you may return and I will accept you with open arms."

"But I cannot leave you, Mother," Mary Francis blurted. It was utter nonsense! No one else was here to take care of her!"

"I know, Mary Francis. I know. I have been selfish, keeping you here by my side in my old age. I just want to know that when I'm gone, you will do this for me. Go out into the world, before you make a commitment to God."

Mary Francis shook her head, tears filling her vision. "You aren't dying, Mother. You can't! I need you!"

"I'm not ready to go yet, my child. I have a bit of life left in me. But now, I will tell you about Jake."

Mary Francis covered her ears, but the old woman grasped for her hand and pulled it down with surprising strength. "Do not be afraid of the truth, child. Just know that I was not always a nun. I was married once. I gave birth to a son. Then the war broke out, and my husband went off to fight. I don't know what became of him, for he never returned. I assumed he had died, but I couldn't marry again, not knowing what became of him. Neither could I take care of myself. I was alone in the world. I had no family, no relatives - the country was broken and divided, like a festering wound that refuses to heal.

"So I took my son to a monastery, to be raised by monks, and I joined a convent.

"Maybe, if my husband had been a nicer man, I might have waited for him longer. Maybe I might have found word of his death, or taken another husband, but I felt all used up. I ran away from the world, and found refuge among the Sisters of Mercy. Then, I found my true calling."

Mary Francis's lip trembled. Shame filled her spirit. She had lain with a man, because she believed the Reverend Mother had done as much, and now she learned that the woman she had loved and respected was blameless. She had not forsaken her holy vows, she was just one of the rare few that were permitted to experience both vocations - marriage and religious life.

What did that say for her? Mary Francis had fallen as low as a woman could fall. In scriptural times, she could be stoned to death for her actions. She had not been defiled, as Dinah had been, for she had been a willing accomplice in her own corruption. She fled from the room, bolted down the stairs, and rushed outside, ignoring J.D.'s command to stop and tell him what was the matter. She ran past the garden, through the woods, towards the stream where she sometimes bathed when the weather was nice. There, she flung herself into the stream, fully clothed, and wept bitterly.

* * *

J.D. shouted after her, furious that she continued to disobey him. If a belt didn't get her attention, perhaps a switching was in order! He chased after her, and even though she had a head start, he had no trouble following her trail. He paused along the way to cut several small branches of hickory, peeling the bark and leaves away until he had three perfect switches. When he emerged, he was angry enough to peel away her skin as well.

She was bathing, nude, waist deep in the clean water, soaping herself generously. Breasts, groin, scrubbing, rinsing... scrubbing, rinsing.

He was truly mesmerized by the sight. Through the trees the dappled sun shone on her upturned face. She looked as natural as a wood nymph, and he was loath to disturb her. But then he realized that her motions were anything but natural, and that she was scrubbing the same spots - breasts, belly, inner thighs - until she had angry red marks on her skin.

J.D. ran out into the water, not even bothering to shed his clothing. He took away the lye soap she was using as well as the rough rag and began to kiss those raw areas she'd created trying to get herself clean again, suspecting he was the one who had made her feel dirty in the first place.

"No, baby, no. You don't need to do that. You're the cleanest, purest person I know, and nothing I ever did to you could ever change that." He tilted her face up to his and saw it streaked with tears. J.D. lifted her up with amazing ease, another sign that it was time for him to leave, and carried her to the bank of the river. He set her down and covered her with himself as well as soft, butterfly kisses pressed to each of the red splotches. "I'm so sorry, Mary. I'm sorry, sweetheart... I wish I could make it better."

She was sobbing so piteously it made his heart shrivel up in his chest, and her small hands kept trying to cover her breasts and privates, failing miserably at their tasks until he finally captured both of her hands in his.

"There's nothing about yourself that you need to hide from me, Mary Francis." He searched those dewy eyes deeply, although she kept trying to avoid his. "Please let me try to make this right for you." He almost added "before I go", but had the presence of mind to stop himself before he said it.

Mary Francis didn't know what to do or say. She hadn't expected him to find her here. She had enjoyed their lovemaking with complete abandon; she could not even place the blame solely on his head. She was as guilty - guiltier - as he was. Guiltier by far, because she was a woman of God. She had been raised in a convent, not a mining camp. She knew better. Or at least, she should have.

It was her disappointment in Mother Agnes that had pushed her over the edge. That, and her aching loneliness... but none of that mattered. She had sinned. She would never be able to look at Mother Agnes again, but what she would be reminded of her terrible sin.

And the worst part was, not only was she unfit to be a nun, but now she was unfit to be a wife, as well. No man would want her, now that her innocence had been taken. She was truly, completely, utterly, alone.

Of course, J.D. wasn't waiting for a response from her. He was doing exactly what he wanted, which was what he would always do. But this time was different from all of the rest of the times his hands had taken possession of her; there was something poignant in his touch.

Almost as if he were saying good bye.

Chapter Six

He took his time, lingering at spots he hadn't before - the top of her shoulder, the curve of her waist, the delicate, fine fingers of her left hand. This time was entirely for her. He would hold himself in check even if he died in the act, but he couldn't think of a better way to go.

J.D. started by kissing the top of her head, running his hands through her hair, desperately wishing he could see it when it was grown down past her bottom. Then he nibbled at her neck, licking softly, then pressed soft kisses over her damp cheeks, kissing each eyelid, still swollen and wet with tears. He knew she wasn't fully on board with this yet, and aimed to convert her. With a thoughtfully bestowed kiss to her forehead, he took her mouth a bit more aggressively than he had anywhere else to that point, tipping her chin up and tucking it into his good shoulder, slanting his lips across hers to open them then plundering her mouth with his tongue until those slim arms crept up - against their will, he knew - to tentatively wrap themselves around his neck.

Victory, or part of it, anyway, but he could still taste the tears that were dammed at their lips. He moved down the slender column of her throat, licking and nibbling away then across her collarbones, down each arm, paying special attention to the inside of each elbow and the inside of each forearm, where he had found most ladies were usually quite neglected. Then he pressed warm wet kisses to each of her palms, and sucked the tips of each of her fingers, sliding his mouth down the entire length of each of her thumbs before pressing each of her palms to his own warm face as he changed positions.

Stretched out beside her, he made teasing patterns over every inch of the luscious skin that was available to him, but avoiding her nipples deliberately, watching her begin to moan and writhe and almost plead with him, but not quite ready to do what he had intentionally not done. Eventually, he leaned over and, placing his mouth just barely over the tip of one of those turgid peaks, he sucked it slowly, very, very slowly, into his mouth.

Mary Francis saw stars as he continued to suckle at her breast, feeling lightheaded from the flood of sensations. She knew she was panting in a very unladylike manner, but she couldn't help herself. He had introduced her to the pleasures of the flesh, and she was powerless to stop. He always made her body sing. It was wrong, so wrong... she knew it was sinful, and yet, she made no effort to stop him.

J.D. alternated, leaving a wet trail between each breast, always gently teasing the forlorn one that wasn't receiving the anxious attentions of his lips and mouth, guiding her higher and higher, gauging her reactions and where she was in her journey to fulfillment by the sounds of her mewls and moans. He also made sure to kiss each of the red marks she had made in scrubbing herself so vigorously.

When he reached down to open her legs, she willingly complied. She was soaking wet, as he'd hoped, and it wasn't from having just been in the river. Her womanhood was swollen to the size of a small pebble, and he set about caressing it with his sandpaper fingers, feeling her jerk spasmodically, grabbing at his arm, until he settled into a predictable rhythm.

Mary Francis finally let go of the death grip she had on his arm and sighed, her eyes closing blissfully as if she'd just found Heaven, but within a very few seconds, her sighs changed tempo and became much more agitated and frenzied. Her hips rose to meet his fingers, and that flame capped head of hers was rolling back and forth. Her breath hissed in between nearly clenched teeth, and he knew she was very, very close.

He had intended that this be just for her, but he found he couldn't be as selfless as he wished. He parted his trousers and freed his massive manhood, ready to claim her and take her to the heights that they had enjoyed together so many times over the last few days.

He heard her whimper as he entered her, not cries of pain or shame, but little moans of ecstasy. Her eyes were closed, her face turned away from him.

"Open your eyes, love," he commanded, however softly.

She fought the command for only a second. Then she gazed at him, baring her heart and soul.

She loved him... it was as plain as day. He hadn't meant to make her love him! What a mess he'd made of everything. He could never have her; she could never marry him. All they could share was this day, this moment, this grassy bank along the river somewhere outside of Deadwood, in the year of 1882.