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As Sarah moved along the road with Owen, she soon found herself growing tired of the solemn silence they'd lapsed into. Aside from that, she wasn't keen on wandering in the woods with him, and at the moment, she had no idea where they were going. So, she turned her curious gaze on his face. "Owen, where are we going?"
"To my cabin."
Her breath hitched in her throat, but rather than stop in her tracks, as logic told her she should, she continued walking. "Why?"
"I know that everyone will begin to gather at the telegraph office, to await news from Washington."
Her brow furrowed.
As if sensing her confusion, he continued. "I'd really like to spend some time with you, Sarah. I know it's not the most proper thing, and I'll walk you back home if you like, but..." he cast a hopeful gaze in her direction.
Before her good sense could make her tell him to take her home, some strange force inside her made her bob her head up and down in the affirmative. "It's all right, Owen." Even as she spoke the words, she wondered what had gotten into her.
"Good. At least the sun is still up." He shrugged his broad shoulders as they strolled into his front yard. "Maybe that makes it less improper."
"I suppose." She mumbled the words as they walked past his cabin. Then she stood by his side, watching him turn his key in the lock on the front door of his woodshop. Moments later, he ushered her inside.
"This is where I do my best thinking." He made the remark as he sat on a short stool near the door. Gesturing to the stool's twin, he waited for her to sit.
Sarah knew that the hem of her party dress had likely already been befouled by the sandy soil along the road, but habit forced her to sweep up the skirts anyway to avoid the thick layer of sawdust covering the floor. Gingerly, she took her seat on the stool, taking care to spread her skirts properly as she did so.
"You've told me about your life in the Territory. Anything you want to know about me?"
She scrunched her brow in thought for a moment. "Where are you from? If you were born and raised here, I would have known you."
He shifted a bit on the stool, as if seeking a more comfortable position. "I'm from the Great Dismal, near Edenton."
Her brow hitched. It was common knowledge that the Great Dismal Swamp, which lay across the border between North Carolina and Virginia, had been home and haven to a large population of runaway slaves. Her next question was the most logical one, at least to her mind. "Where did your people run from?"
"Little town called Blairsville, in the northeastern part of Georgia. Ran before I was born."
Intrigued, she settled in as best she could on the hard, wooden seat. "Do you know much of the story?"
A wistful smile crossed his handsome face. "Sure do. My grandmother has told the tale since I was old enough to remember. When my Pa found out my Mama was carrying, he vowed he wouldn’t let his child be born a slave. So, he and his brother, my uncle, started plotting. Grandma was in on it, too, and when the four of them ran, my mother was heavy with child. I'm told my Pa carried her in some places, but she made the journey without a single complaint."
She could feel her eyes widening. "Your mother fled slavery while carrying you? You should be proud to come from such a strong woman."
His smile broadened. "I am. My mother is incredible, and I can never repay her for what she did to assure my freedom."
"You know, your mother would fit right in with the women I know. What's her name?"
"Myrtle."
"Well I'd love to meet Mrs. Myrtle Markham. She sounds remarkable."
He looked her way, as if her words had given him pause. "You want to meet my family?"
She shrugged. "Sure, why not? From everything you've told me, I'd be honored."
A moment passed in silence, as his expression turned thoughtful. Rising from the stool, he grasped her hand. Tugging her to her feet, he said, "Come here. I'd like to show you something.”
She followed him to a large, flat table centering the room. The table, constructed from a large, thick piece of wood balanced atop three old sawhorses, had an odd-looking tool resting on its surface.
"Tell me about your upbringing." His large hand wrapped around the tool as he posed the question.
"It was typical of a girl of color growing up in this area, I suppose. That is, except for my mother's literacy work."
Now, he began to glide the tool over the surface of the wood, producing spirals of pulp. "Literacy? What kind of work did Mrs. Webster do?"
"Back in those days, many of the new freedmen didn't know how to read or write. My mother was part of a ladies’ literary society that educated them in those vital skills."
"Mrs. Webster was free born, then?"
She nodded. "Yes, in New York. But my father was not. He purchased his freedom from his master in South Carolina before migrating here."
"I see." He stopped moving the tool, looked in her direction. "Do you know what this is?"
She shook her head. "I have no idea."
"It's called a plane. In carpentry, it's used to level the surface of a piece of wood."
Curious, she ran her gaze over the newly planed section. "Where did you learn your carpentry?"
"From my father and uncle. That was their function on the plantation they ran from. Both of them were master carpenters in the master's woodworks. During my raising in the Great Dismal, they passed their knowledge on to me."
Listening as Owen revealed a part of his past to her, she couldn't help feeling her heart opening up to him. She sensed an undercurrent of determination in him, a palpable drive to succeed.
As if giving voice to her thoughts, he spoke again. "My father insisted that I learn, so that I could be my own master, as he said. As long as I have my skills, I'll always be able to support myself."
"In a way, that's how I feel about my baking." She moved close to where he stood, drawn there by his honesty, and by an unknown force that seemed to propel her to his side.
He grasped her hand. "Would you like to try?" He gestured to the plane.
She answered with a slow nod.
He placed her hand on the grip, and then laid his own large hand over hers. Guiding her movements, he helped her move the plane along the surface of the wood. She was surprised at how smoothly the tool moved, gliding over the wood as it cast off the curly shavings.
What surprised her more, however, was how much she enjoyed his touch. The warm sensation of his hand covering hers made her feel safe, and possibly a bit reckless. Wanting to break the spell, she pulled her hand away.
"Thank you for teaching me,” she blurted. "I supposed I owe you a lesson in baking."
He looked a bit confused, but didn't press as he set the plane aside. "Can you teach me to make apple pie? It's my favorite dessert."
"Then that's what I'll teach you." A smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
He smiled back. "There is something else I'd like to teach you, if I may be so bold."
"Oh?" She looked up into his eyes. "What is that?"
By the time she'd spoken the last word, he'd draped an arm loosely around her waist. "Have you ever been kissed by a man, Sarah?"
Her heart thumped in her chest. "Once or twice, but I've never been...moved by it."
That seemed to please him, because a light danced in his dark eyes. "Then you're overdue for a lesson."
Without another word, he tilted her chin up and let his lips brush against hers.
***
He kept the first kiss brief, in case she became uncomfortable. With his face inches away from hers, he asked, “Do you want to learn, my sweet?”
“Yes.” Her answer came out in a whisper.
Letting his gaze meet hers, he brushed his knuckle over the supple line of her jaw. “You’re aglow, Sarah. You have a radiant soul.”
“Oh, my...” came her breathless reply.
He leaned back in, pressing his lips to hers again. This time, he drew her body as close to his as possible, and relished the feeling of her wrapping her arms around his neck. Using the tip of his tongue, he gently parted her lips and let his tongue slip inside.
She moaned low in her throat as the kiss deepened.
He took things slowly, aware of her inexperience. When he felt her body tense, he broke the seal of their lips and eased his mouth away. As his kisses moved to the column of her throat, she trembled.
“Owen...” she whimpered his name.
Flicking his tongue over her collarbone, he smiled. “How much do you want to learn?”
Her breaths were heavy and thick. “As much as you will teach.”
Heat swirled through his body. “Come with me.” With one arm still draped around her waist, he led her toward the door.
Only the evening songs of the birds and insects greeted them as they moved across his backyard. As they reached the back door of his cabin, he unlocked it and led her inside.
Later, Owen held Sarah's clammy hand within his own as he walked her home. He could not remember ever having felt so awkward in the presence of a woman.
The sun had sunk low on the horizon, less than hour of daylight remained. As they moved along the worn path, he watched her face, noting her expression, which was so serious it bordered on solemnity. While he watched her, she kept her eyes straight forward.
Unable to bear more of this odd silence, he spoke. "Sarah, please." The two simple words pained him to say, but he needed her to speak.
"What am I to say, Owen?"
He gave her hand a squeeze. "Whatever you want to say. Just don't look so sullen."
"It isn't sadness you see on my face." She hazarded a glance in his direction. "It's shame."
Her gaze fled.
He blew out a long, slow exhale. "Come here." Deviating from the path by a few feet, he gently tugged her hand, leading her to stand with him beneath the shade of a tall pine.
She dropped her gaze, as if counting the blades of tall summer grass beneath her feet.
He crooked his index finger and used it to lift her chin. As her lovely face came into view, he could see the unshed tears standing in her eyes. "Listen to me. You have nothing to be ashamed of."
She blinked, as if to stave off the tears, but one fell anyway. "I shouldn't have let you..."
"Give you pleasure? Is that what you feel so badly about?" Owen drew her closer to him, draped his arms loosely around her waist.
She pursed her lips, her jaw tightening.
He considered that her soundless agreement with his statement. "Your maidenhood is still intact. I would never sully you."
"What we did was so..." A deep shade of red filled her cheeks.
"Good? Delightful? Pleasurable?" He would hold on to his memories of what they'd shared for a lifetime. He had used his hands and lips to bring her to completion, and everything about her reaction said that she'd never been there before.
"My parents would never approve."
"I don't plan on telling them. Do you?" He smiled, hoping to lighten her mood.
Her smile didn't match his, but her expression did soften. "You're outrageous."
He leaned in to place a soft kiss on her brow. "You are beautiful, Sarah. Beautiful and passionate. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to go further tonight. But I would never bring dishonor on you."
Her dark lashes fluttered in time with her rapid blinking. Softly, she replied, "Thank you, Owen."
He brushed his knuckle over the satin line of her jaw. "Thank you."
The sound of pounding hooves and someone calling Sarah's name broke through the silence of the forest. Knowing someone was probably looking for her, Owen released Sarah from his embrace. "Go. Seems someone has come after you."
"What about you?"
He waved her off. "I'll walk home after you've left. Don't worry yourself."
She offered him an appreciative smile as she left the shelter of the trees and returned to the main road.
Owen faded into the brush, crouching by the road's edge.
There, he saw Sarah's older sister Mary, approaching on horseback. Mary reined her mount to a stop. "Sarah, where have you been all afternoon? Papa sent me out after you."
"I...uh...just needed some time alone." Sarah's vague, non-committal answer stuck in Owen's craw to a degree, but he knew why she'd said it. After all, it was the same reason he was currently hidden away in the brush.
"No matter. Another telegram came. President Garfield's alive, but badly wounded." Mary patted the saddle, scooting her body forward. "I'll tell you all about it on the way home."
Taking her sister's cue, Sarah approached the beast.
Owen watched as Sarah slipped her foot into the stirrup and hoisted herself, fancy gown and all, onto the horse's back, behind her sister. Once she'd hooked her arms around Mary's waist, Mary clicked her heels against the horse's sides.
Rising to his feet, Owen stood by the road and watched as the horse galloped off.
Once they were out of sight, he turned and headed back to his cabin.
***
The next evening, Sarah approached the front door of Owen’s cabin. She had a basket resting in the crook of her left elbow, which contained everything she’d need for the evening’s lessons. Reaching the small stone stoop, she raised her fist and rapped on the door.
He opened it a few moments later. He wore a pair of denims, belted at the waist, but his upper body was bare. Surprise filled his eyes as he looked at her. “Sarah. What are you doing here?”
Doing her best not to stare at his chest, she gestured to the basket. “I promised you a lesson on apple pie baking, remember?”
He nodded. “I do, but you want to do it today?”
“Since I’m leaving for Washington tomorrow morning, we don’t really have a choice.” She paused. “That is, unless you want to wait until my next visit home. I don’t know when that will be.”
He stepped aside. “Come on in.”
She entered the cabin, moving over to his table to set the basket down. She eyed his kitchen setup briefly, as he stood close behind her.
“I don’t have an oven, I’m afraid. Since I live alone, I’ve never had need of one.”
She looked into his fireplace, seeing the iron rack sitting inside. “It’s not a problem, so long as you have an iron skillet with a cover.”
He moved past her, opening a cabinet, and reaching inside. “Like this?” He extracted a good-sized skillet and its lid, holding them out for her inspection.
She nodded. “Yes. Those will do nicely.” She set the cookware on the table, near her basket.
“So, where do we begin?”
She chuckled. “At the pump. We need to wash our hands.”
“Right this way.” He gestured for her to walk ahead of him out the cabin’s back door.
A few moments later, they returned to the table with freshly washed hands. “It’s best to start the fire now, so it will be nice and hot when we’ve readied the pie.”
She stood by and watched as he placed the wood and kindling beneath the grate. He stuck a match, tucking it beneath the pile. As the flames started to appear, he used a small bellows to awaken the blaze fully. When he was satisfied with the fire, he returned to her side.
“All right. We begin with the dough.” Lifting the lid of the basket, she extracted the ingredients that she’d packed in mason jars: flour, salt, and a portion of chilled butter that was melting rapidly in the July heat. “Fetch a bowl, please.”
He did as she asked, returning with a white ceramic bowl.
“First, we prepare our surface.” She sprinkled an empty section of the tabletop with flour. “Next, let’s mix the ingredients to make the crust.” She poured the remaining flour and salt into the bowl. Using a wooden spoon she’d brought with her, she stirred the dry ingredients together before handing the spoon off to Owen. “Add the butter into this, and mix it well.”
He unscrewed the lid on the jar containing the butter, and added the soft lump to the flour mixture. As he attempted to mix the ingredients, she slipped into the space between him and the table. Once there, she placed her hand over his to show him the proper technique.
“You want to cut the butter into small pieces, then work it into the dry ingredients.” She spoke softly, feeling the effects of having their bodies so close together. His hard body rested comfortably against her back.
“You are an excellent teacher,” he remarked, nuzzling his stubble-dappled cheek against hers. “I’m enjoying my lesson immensely.”
Heat swept through her, and she knew the warmth didn’t originate from the fire. “Focus, now. We need to get in here with our hands and work this into dough.” She took the spoon and tossed it back into the basket. When she placed her hands into the bowl to work the mixture, his hands soon followed.
For a few silent, sensual moments, their fingertips played and dallied in the soft, damp mixture, often brushing against each other’s. By the time the ball of dough was formed, she’d broken out in a sweat.
Needing to break the spell, she grabbed the dough ball and split it into two pieces. “I’ve some diced apples in another jar, so that will save us the work of cutting. I’ve already put in the spices I use: brown sugar, cinnamon, a bit of nutmeg.” As she spoke, she placed the two dough balls on the floured surface and began flattening them out.
“Let me help.” He placed his hands atop hers, assisting with the process of flattening the dough into two large circles. “There.”
The intense heat still flowed between them, along with memories of how they’d behaved the last time they were alone in the cabin. “You know, there is some similarity between making a pie and carpentry. If you think of the structure of it, I mean. The bottom crust is like a foundation, and the filling is like the inner structure...”
“And the top crust is like the roof.” He interrupted her rambling, fixing her with a knowing look. “There’s no need to babble, Sarah. Your virtue is as safe as you wish it to be.”
She twisted around to look into his eyes. In that moment, wasn’t sure she cared about her virtue anymore. With him holding her against his bare chest, she knew she was liable to have a lapse in judgement at any moment. “Let’s at least start the pie to baking, Owen. Then we can see what happens.”
“Fair enough.” He backed up, gave her a bit of space.
She turned her attention back to the pie. She emptied the remnants of melted butter from the jar into his skillet, spreading it around with her fingertips.
He grasped her hand and drew it to his mouth. She gasped in delight and surprise as he sucked the traces of butter away. The action was bold, sensuous, and downright wicked.
“You build the pie. Put your skills to work.” She drew the hand away, tucking her tingling fingertips into the pocket of her skirt.
He chuckled, then assembled the pie under her watchful eyes. First one crust, then the apples, then the top crust. She showed him how to pinch the two crusts together, then placed the lid on the pan.
He set it on the iron grate in the fire place. “How long will it take to bake?”
She shrugged. “About an hour or two, if the lid is left on.”
He took a seat in one of his armless chairs, gesturing for her to sit on his lap. “Come. Let’s pass the time.”
Shaking her head, and knowing she should go sit someplace else, she eased into his lap anyway. “Do you mean to corrupt me, Owen Markham?”
“No more than you wish to be corrupted, my sweet.”
He pulled her in to his kiss, and as their lips met, she found she no longer cared.