Bartholomew blinked against the onslaught of rain, and shouted, "Bridge is washed out. I'm going to back the wagon up, in case part of the road goes too. Keep a firm grip on the reins while I direct the horses from down here."
Ariah retrieved the reins from the brake handle with trembling fingers and nodded to let him know she understood. Rain poured down his face, slowing when it reached his jaw where his beard was coming in thick and dark, even though he'd shaved that morning. The moisture pooled at the tip of his strong chin and dropped onto his yellow slicker to merge with the water already beaded on the sleek surface. Beneath her own slicker her heart pounded with fear. Adrenaline hummed in her veins, demanding action. Somehow she had to hide her panic and help Bartholomew. Later there would be time to think about how close they had come to falling into that chasm and the raging water below. How easily they still could.
Time and terror sat on her shoulders like twin gargoyles of doom, weighing her down as she struggled to catch the orders Bartholomew bellowed and the wind tried to snatch away. The thought of backing the wagon around the curve on this slippery road was even more horrifying than trying to turn it completely around. On one side was the sheer rise of the mountain, on the other, the drop-off to the river, with barely enough room for a rider to get by. She tried to remember if they had passed any spots along the dugway wide enough to turn around in and found her mind a blank.
The horses continued to whinny their own fright, but Bartholomew's calm voice and sure hands kept them under control. The wagon jarred as the wheels fought to break out of the old ruts and go straight instead of following the curve of the road.
Ariah's breath caught. She craned to see how close they were getting to the edge. Wind whipped rain into her face. She blinked to clear her eyes. Beyond the end of the wagon everything was black. Any moment she expected to feel a wheel drop over. If that happened, she must contain her terror and jump off the far side. But hysteria was already riding the surface of her flesh, like spiders, making her skin prickle.
The wagon jolted again, nearly throwing her off the seat. The rear wheel lifted. When it dropped back down she felt it slide, jerking the wagon closer to the ravine. Her stomach hung mid-air and for a moment she felt sickeningly as though she were already falling.
"Bartholomew!"
Moisture filled her mouth as she screamed. His slicker was a pale yellow blur in the distance. Still clinging to the reins, she scooted along the wagon seat to the far side, preparing to jump. Above the sound of the rain she heard a faint rumble. The rear of the wagon on the river side dipped suddenly.
"It's going!" she screamed. "Bartholomew!"
The wagon jerked to a sudden halt, tumbling her backwards. She scrabbled frantically to grab onto something and screamed again and again.
"I've got you, I've got you."
A thick arm came around her waist. She found herself lifted out and crushed against Bartholomew's broad chest, and murmured a silent prayer of thanks.
"I'm sorry." Frantically, he pressed his lips to her cool, wet skin, covering her with desperate kisses. "Oh God, I nearly lost you. The edge crumbled and the wagon almost went over. God help me, if I'd lost you I don’t know what I wouldn’t done."
His lips felt amazingly warm on her cheek. Warm and alive. She wrapped her arms around him, ignoring the stiff slickers bunched up between them. The roar of the water faded. Fear receded. Time hung suspended. They were safe, and together.
"You're shaking." Bartholomew couldn't tell if she was crying or if it was only rain pouring down her cheeks. He pulled the yellow oilcloth back onto her head and tucked her hair inside. His throat felt tight. The thought of her plunging into the river made his knees weak, his stomach queasy. All he could think was thank God, thank God.
Too soon Ariah felt herself lifted back into the wagon. Cold and desolation set in the moment he let go of her. Her eyes clung to his dark face. If he stepped out of sight, she would die.
He had to shout to make her hear him. The world and the storm had returned. "Put whatever you'll need for the next few days into your valise. We'll have to leave the wagon here."
"Where will we go?"
"I have friends two miles back. We'll ride the horses, it won't take long."
As she gathered together what they would need, her ears searched out the faint clink of metal and the nervous snorts of the horses as Bartholomew unhitched the team, needing the confirmation of his presence. He had kissed her. Again and again. Not on her lips but all over her face. She didn’t know what it meant, but those little kisses filled her with happiness. He belonged to another woman, she to another man. Yet she could not stop her heart for yearning for Bartholomew.
She stuffed the oilcloth-wrapped leftovers from their noon meal into her valise along with a change of clothing. On impulse, she fished among her dresses until she found a framed photograph of her parents and a beaded bag that contained her old baby brush and spoon, swaddled in her mother's hand crocheted dresser scarf. To lose those, should the wagon end up in the river, would be more than she could bear. Bad enough to leave behind her books and the gaily colored plates her mother had brought from Greece. But the bag would only hold so much. For a moment she stroked the satiny glazed surface of a plate and gnawed her lip as she eyed Bartholomew's battered leather satchel.
By craning her neck, she could see that he was still busy with the horses. Knowing her mother would scold her for her impulsiveness she tucked first one plate, then another among his garments. By the time she'd fit in all four, protected by Bartholomew's shirts and—she blushed to think of it—his underwear, the bag was so full it nearly refused to fasten shut.
"Are you ready?"
Ariah whirled guiltily at the sound of his voice beside the wagon. "Yes."
"Good, can you ride bareback?"
"I-I've never ridden a horse before."
"In that case, you'll have to ride with me. Hand me the bags."
With a rope he had scrounged from the wagon he tied the two bags together, frowning in puzzlement as he hefted his own. He slung them across one of the horses’ broad rumps like saddlebags. After fetching his rifle from beneath the wagon seat, he mounted the mare. He laid a folded blanket over the harness gear in front of him to make a more comfortable seat and helped Ariah on. While she arranged her skirts to cover her legs, Bartholomew slid his arms around her waist and took up the reins.
Ariah could have sworn it took them a week to travel those two miles to the Upham place. The dampness and cold had seeped into her bones, chilling her thoroughly inside and out. Her bottom and inner thighs ached. And her mind insisted on dwelling on what had happened between her and Bartholomew. What did it mean? What could or should they do about it? She comforted herself with thoughts of hot coffee and a warm bath when they reached Bartholomew's friends.
While they rode, Bartholomew told her how he and John Upham had grown up together in Tillamook, not only to keep her distracted, but to distract himself as well. No matter how wrong he knew it was, he couldn’t regret having kissed Ariah. But he dared not let it happen again. His self-control was weak and she was an innocent. It was up to him to do the right thing and put what happened behind them. Forget it happened.
"Heaven only knows why we became friends,” he told Ariah. “John used to complain of what a bore I was, because I always had my nose in a book." Bartholomew chuckled. "All he cared about was having his own farm someday. The only true common ground we shared was animals; him to raise and profit by them, me to doctor and shelter them."
"Doctor them?"
"Yes. I wanted to go to veterinarian school. After my mother died, I went to Corvallis University to complete my schooling, but a few months later my father was gored in the spine by a bull. It left him paralyzed and I had to return home to take care of the farm."
"Didn't you have brothers or sisters to help?"
"Two brothers, one sister, but they were all married and gone. Hester was there to see to the house and most of the nursing, though. She came shortly before my mother passed away and stayed on as housekeeper for my father."
"I see."
Bartholomew glanced down and saw the question in her unforgettable blue eyes. He smiled ruefully. "I was young and full of resentment. Hester had had a rough life. It seemed to create a bond between us." He shrugged. "Anyway, after my father died, I married her."
A mile or so down a track that veered off from the road, they came to a log house. No light shone from the windows. Ariah moaned in dismay. "No one's home."
"It's all right, the door won't be locked."
Ariah resisted the urge to kiss the puncheon floor on which she found herself standing when she stepped inside. Within a few moments, Bartholomew had a kerosene lamp lit. The light spilling across the floor gave a welcome sense of comfort and cheer.
"You'd best get out of those wet clothes." He added a log to the small blaze he got started in the fireplace. "I have to get the horses in the barn. Maybe there'll be something there to tell me where John and the family are."
Ariah was holding her hands out to the blaze and studying several framed photographs displayed on the mantel when she noticed a paper propped against a vase. "There's a note here addressed to you."
Bartholomew carried the letter to the lamp and turned up the light.
Bart,
Sorree we could not be hear when you come back. Littil Johnny took a bad fall from the barn loft and brok his leg bad. We ar taking him to Doc Woolsey. Mak urself to hom if we do not get back in time. Mabe we will see you on the road.
Yore friend
John
P.S. Shud be hom tomoro but we wood be gratful if you cud feed stock.
Bartholomew chuckled and handed the note to Ariah. "Since spelling has nothing to do with the price of hay or the production of cheese, John pays little attention to it. The way he looks at it, it's pure foolishness to waste time worrying about silent e's when the only sensible way to do it in the first place is phonetically."
With the Uphams in Tillamook—on the other side of the washed-out bridge—Bartholomew and Ariah would have the house entirely to themselves. Bartholomew felt as though he had been given a thousand silver dollars. And a temptation he could not give in to.
Ariah handed back the note, and pulled the pins from her hair. She bent from the waist, letting the wet strands hang over her face to the hearth while she finger-combed them in the heat of the fire. Steam rose from the thick tresses and even from her skirt, filling the room with the smell of damp wool and lily of the valley.
Bartholomew clenched the paper tightly to keep from plunging his own hands into the fire-tinted mass of her hair, so absorbed in the sight that he was barely aware she had spoken. "What?"
"You usually stay with them, don't you?" she repeated.
He walked closer, drawn to her like a bee to pollen. "Usually. I'd stopped on my way in to Portland so they knew I'd be passing by again on my way home."
"Was it because of me you didn't stop this time?"
She looked up and he saw the distress in her eyes. Cursing silently, he said, "The inn was only a bit farther. I thought you'd prefer the comfort of a bed." He gestured to the single bed in the corner behind a bright calico curtain, and the ladder that led to the loft overhead. "Here we would have been sleeping on the floor."
The lie was a small one. Olivia would never allow a lady to sleep on the floor. She'd have put John there instead and shared the bed with Ariah. With relief, Bartholomew watched to see the frown ease from Ariah's brow. But it was still there when she turned away.
"I feel a tad guilty enjoying their home when they aren't even here," she said.
"Don't. John would have skinned me alive if I hadn't felt at home enough to stay. Olivia will be sorry to have missed you, though. She loves getting to visit with another woman. It's a treat out here where they're so isolated. You'd best get into dry clothes now. I'll see to the horses."
After he was gone, Ariah went into the bedroom. She placed her valise on top of the high bed and sat down to test the firmness of the mattress. What she wouldn't give to take a bath, climb beneath those lovely quilts and sleep for twelve hours straight. She didn't think she'd ever been so tired. But she needed to wipe up the mud they'd tracked in and fix them something to eat.
She couldn’t say why she suspected Bartholomew had not been entirely honest about his reasons for not stopping here in the first place. Nor could she help wondering if he’d wanted the same thing she did—for them to be alone together.
It was so wrong. Guilt filled her, making her chest feel thick and heavy and tight. She had promised herself to Pritchard Monteer. And Bartholomew was unobtainable. For the sake of both their souls, she must douse the flame that had been growing between them. To that end she busied herself with task that needed doing, and that kept her from thinking.
A bucket of water sat on the floor next to a washstand that matched the bed. Ariah decided to settle for a spit bath. The bowl on the stand held pinkish water. Beside it was a crumpled towel stained with blood. Olivia Upham's son must have suffered more than a simple break in his leg. Ariah scrubbed the towel to keep the stain from setting and tossed the water outside.
After she finished bathing, she picked up the clean chemise and drawers she had set out. For a moment she stared at her corset, wishing she didn't have to bind herself up in it again. She detested corsets. How much more comfortable it would be if she could simply don her night robe and wrapper. Would it be so very wrong? The impulse was too much to resist. Seconds later, primly covered by a blue scotch-gingham wrapper that matched her eyes, she went out to prepare a meal.
When Bartholomew re-entered the cabin, his gaze went instantly to Ariah where she stood at the table, setting out bread, cheese and apples left over from lunch.
"I put on some coffee," she said. Lamplight fell on the long, loose braid that hung down her back as she turned to take cups and plates from the sideboard. Except for their night at the Olwell's when he had found her staring out the window in her nightdress, shrouded in shadows, he had never seen her hair uncovered and unbound. It had been too dark then to see much. Now he saw that it was not so much brown as a rich dark honey. His fingers itched to free it from the braid and stroke the fine silky tresses.
"Good,” he said. “I could use something warm to drink."
The wrapper hugged her hips, making it abundantly clear that she wore no petticoats or corset. He stumbled over the wolf pelt spread in front of the hearth, too busy staring at Ariah to see where he was going.
"Do you want to change into dry things before we eat? There’s water in the bedroom for washing." As she swung toward him he detected the movement of her breasts beneath the thin garment. Desire slammed into him like a fist.
"Maybe I'd better."
He rushed off to the bedroom where he could take several deep breaths and get control of himself. Fresh water waited in the basin on the washstand. Considering his state of arousal, he hoped it was good and cold. With his mind on cooling his ardor, he thrust a hand inside his bag in search of a shirt, and cursed as his fingers rammed into something solid. When he drew out the plate, he frowned in confusion. On the back, he noticed the Greek lettering and smiled. Later, wearing a clean shirt and trousers, his control re-established, he took a seat at the table, saying nothing of his discovery.
In the awkward silence that accompanied their meal, he became increasingly aware of the pop of burning logs and the clink of china. One of Ariah's front teeth overlapped the other and he found himself oddly charmed by it. He wondered if the enticing little mole on her lip would taste of the tangy cheese he was slicing. A shudder ran over him, causing him to jerk his hand. The knife clanked against the dish, bringing her gaze to his hands. She looked at his face.
"I'm sorry, it's not much of a meal," she said. "There's food in the larder, but it seemed dishonest to take it somehow."
"Don't worry about it. John and Olivia would want us to help ourselves to whatever they have. That's the kind of people they are."
Ariah smiled. "I should have known that."
"Why?"
"It simply stands to reason. They're your friends, so they're bound to be gracious and generous. Like you."
Without thinking, he said, "Hester might argue against that."
She cocked her head and gazed at him a moment. "Then she doesn't know you very well."
He stared at her. "You think you know me that well?"
The tip of her tongue emerged to lick away all traces of cheese from her fingers. "Well enough to know that you're compassionate, as well as sensitive."
"Passionate, perhaps," he said softly. Hester would call it lust.
Her gaze dropped to her plate. "I'm afraid passion is something I know little about. Carnal passion, that is."
Bartholomew sank back in his chair, legs weak, stomach quivering. How he longed to be the one to teach her. Ariah Scott was definitely not like most women. Hester would have cut out her tongue before she would have uttered the word carnal or any of its synonyms. According to Hester, sex had only one function—to produce children. Since she had been thirty when they married, and too old for child bearing, she claimed there was no need for them to share a bed. In frustrated rage, he had pointed out what a hypocrite that made her—considering her past. Forgetting her new role as a genteel woman, she cursed him in language that would have made Old Seamus blush. After that, she installed a lock on her door.
And learned that locks can be broken.
His appetite gone, Bartholomew pushed aside his plate and rose to his feet. He crouched in front of the fire and poked at the embers with an iron poker.
Alone at the table, Ariah gnawed her lip, kicking herself once again for opening her impulsive, tactless mouth. Somehow she had offended him. She considered apologizing and decided it might be best to leave matters alone. "It's late. I guess I'll go to bed."
"Take the one down here," he said tonelessly. "I'll sleep in the loft."
In spite of her exhaustion, sleep eluded Ariah. She was still awake, lying on her stomach in the big feather bed and hugging the pillow beneath her head, when she heard Bartholomew bank the fire, and climb to the loft overhead.
Bedsprings squeaked beneath his weight. A boot thudded to the floor, then another. Softer sounds followed; the rustle of clothes, a sigh.
Ariah rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, trying to picture him in his nightshirt or whatever he slept in. Did men sleep the same way women did? Sprawled on their stomachs. Or on their sides, drawn up in a ball, like a child. She smiled in the darkness at the thought of a big man like Bartholomew Noon curled up like a toddler, his hair in his face, all sweet and innocent. Soon she would know exactly how men slept. As Mr. Monteer's wife she would share his bed. She would sleep beside him and learn at last what it was that husbands and wives did together in the sanctuary of their marriage beds.
Once when her mother had friends visiting, Ariah had caught enough of their whispered conversation to know they were discussing the mysterious subject of marital relations. She heard their stifled giggles, saw one of them shudder in revulsion. Later she had asked her mother what it was that men and women did in bed. Demetria Scott had smiled, gently chided her ten year old daughter for eavesdropping, and explained that the marriage bed was where babies were created. It wasn't until years later that Ariah realized she still did not know how babies were created.
Soon, now, she would find out. Fear and excitement rushed through her at the thought. What if she didn't like this act done in the marriage bed? Once she found out what was expected of her, it would be too late to back out. No woman should have to go into such a binding commitment that blind. It wasn't fair.
Overhead the springs creaked loudly as Bartholomew turned over. He mumbled softly and thrashed about. She heard a sharp whack, followed by a curse.
Ariah sat up. "Bartholomew? Are you all right?"
The only answer was another thud and the cracking of glass. Or china. Her mother's plates!
Ariah shoved the bedding aside and hurried to the ladder, forgetting her wrapper in her panic. Holding up her gown with one hand, she climbed the wooden rungs until she could poke her head above the loft floor. He was barely visible, sitting on the far side of the bed and rubbing the top of his head.
"You've hurt yourself!"
He started to rise, mumbled an oath, and plopped back down on the bed, yanking the covers over him as she stepped up onto the floor. "What in thunderation are you doing up here?" His voice held frustration and alarm.
"I heard something fall and I was afraid . . ." On the floor lay a broken china cup that matched those in Olivia's sideboard downstairs. A cup—not a bright, hand-painted plate. Her eyes moved back to him. He was still rubbing his head. She stepped closer. "Here, let me see."
He jerked the covers higher. "Good hell, woman, are you always so impulsive? To barge into a man's sleeping quarters this way?"
"Yes." She paused, unsure now of her welcome. "My mother said it was my worst trait."
"Your mother was right."
"I'm sorry. It's just that I . . . Oh dear, you really will think terribly of me, but I'm afraid I've done something absolutely unpardonable. You see, I couldn't bear the thought of leaving my mother's precious plates behind, in case something happened to the wagon and just now, when I heard something break—"
A noise startled her into silence, something sounding oddly like laughter. She stepped nearer, and yelped as her head brushed something hanging from the ceiling.
"Watch out." His voice held undeniable humor. "Little John has paper stars hanging all over the place. There's a moon too, and a few planets, I think."
Her hand found the dangling object. Her fingers made out the five points of the star, as well as the dry, rough texture of cheap paper. "Gracious Sadie, this ceiling is so low . . .no wonder you cracked your head on it. And look how short that bed is, you must be miserable there."
"I'll make out. Go back downstairs to your bed." Before I pull you into this one.
"No. I'll take this bed, you take the one downstairs. Come on, get up."
"I can't. Not until you get out of here."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not dressed."
Ariah lifted her eyes to the ceiling and sighed. "Mr. Noon, it's too dark in here for me to even see you in your nightclothes, and since the situation in which we find ourselves is not exactly the usual, I think we can dispense with worrying about such small matters of propriety."
Bartholomew couldn't help laughing again. "I'm afraid you don't quite know what you're saying."
"And why not?"
"Because I'm not wearing any nightclothes."
"You mean . . ." She retreated a step, and spun around as realization sank in. "Oh. Oh, dear."
"Yes, oh dear, is right."
Ariah thought of his big, masculine body with its wide shoulders and narrow waist. She'd seen a picture once of a Greek statue of a male nude and couldn't help wondering if he would look as virile and shockingly beautiful as the statue. For one whole second she battled the sinful urge to peek at him over her shoulder. She gathered herself together and boldly turned to face him. All she could see were his shoulders and arms above the blanket he held. Resolutely, she shoved aside her disappointment.
"Very well," she said with a sigh, "I will return downstairs while you dress, and we’ll trade places."
He found her waiting for him at the bottom. Dressed but carrying his shoes, he paused, his face close to hers as he grinned. "You are the most impetuous, unpredictable woman I've ever met, do you know that?"
Ariah heard the humor in his voice and faked a pout. "Am I truly that bad?"
He chuckled and moved closer. "No, not bad at all. Not to me, anyway. It's refreshing to find a woman who doesn't feel she needs to go into a swoon every time she's faced with something slightly . . .improper."
A delicious shiver ran down her spine as his breath wafted over her face. The warmth of his body so intimately close to hers heated her blood. She put out her hand, intending to push him away, and found her fingers tangled in the springy hair that covered his chest. She made a choked sound and jerked her hand back, but not before he'd seized it with his. Her breath caught as she stared up at him in the dim light from the banked fire.
He gazed at her, his eyes dark, enigmatic, intent. He lifted her fingers to his mouth and lightly kissed each one. His voice was hoarse and ragged. "You'd best get to bed."
"Yes." Reluctantly she withdrew her hand, turned and began to scale the ladder, agonizingly aware that he stood below, watching.
Bartholomew exhaled as she vanished from sight. He ignored the guilt that plucked at his conscience for having stayed there, admiring the flash of ankle and calf as she climbed. Painfully aware of the hardness of his body and the surging of his blood, he went to the bed and crawled beneath the covers. At once he was assailed by the scent of lily of the valley and he groaned. How on earth would he ever get to sleep surrounded by her smell and the image of her small body lying where he now lay?