Carlisle finally shook off winter’s grip, and though April seventh of 1866 dawned clear and cold, the morning sky promised a warmer day. A few patches of snow could still be found in sheltered spots on the river bluffs, but you had to search for them. The sight of completely bare earth rejuvenated Paul, and he paused on his way to the soddy, the fresh milk in the bucket wafting wisps of steam into the still air.
He studied the low roof and weathered boards of the sod house and smiled. He and Ana had raised five children in that tiny place and now, soon, they would move everything in there to the new house across the field. Paul couldn’t see all of it for the chicken coops, but there it stood, overlooking the Platte River, clear wood still awaiting the first coat of paint, but finished. He and another man had worked all winter on it. He continued on to the house and pushed the door open.
“Gonna be a beauty today,” he said cheerfully.
Ana stood by the stove, scooping cooked oatmeal into bowls. The children all sat around the table watching their mother get breakfast. Simon, typical for a morning, browsed a book.
“I hear school will be out for the summer in two weeks, Simon. Ready to go back to work?” Paul asked.
School lasted as long as the children were not needed for working in the spring. As soon as the local farmers could get on the ground, school was adjourned by consensus.
“Not really,” Simon said. “I do nothing all day but help teach this rabble and their friends.” He punched Axel on the arm but missed Abel when his brother scooted away.
Miss Everett had told Paul that Simon was a natural teacher, and she relied on him to teach the older children while she helped the young ones get started. She had high hopes for him, and had finally convinced Judge Kingsley to allow Simon to use some of his books and references. Paul knew Simon had already spent several limited sessions in the judge’s library. Limited, because Mr. Swartz still demanded most of Simon’s free time. The judge had set up a small table and a comfortable chair for him, and had told Simon he required only three things: to put everything back where he found it, to leave when the judge was there, and to write down the title of the books he used. The judge kept the list.
Alex Prosser looked up as Matt entered the telegraph office.
“You have anything for me?” Matt demanded brusquely.
“Yes’ir. Got it about an hour ago.” Alex shuffled through six or seven sheets of paper. “Here it is.” Matt took the telegram and Alex watched him read the short message. He didn’t miss the sharp look Matt gave him.
“I needn’t tell you to keep this to yourself,” Matt said.
Alex saw the pleased look on Matt’s face and averted his eyes, fully aware of the color rising in his face.
“Good.” Matt left, slamming the door.
Simon strode along the road toward the Kingsleys’. The judge had read Simon a short piece out of a book and suggested if Simon had found it interesting, he might want to read it next. Simon had indeed found it interesting. Written by a man named Goethe, he’d told Mr. Swartz about it that morning, and the storekeeper told Simon he could take off early and go read some of it. It seemed Mr. Swartz was very fond of the same author.
Mrs. Kingsley answered his knock on the door. “Hello, Simon. Come to visit, or have you come to read?”
He noticed right off that she smelled wonderful, violet he guessed. “I want to use the library, if that’s all right, ma’am.” Dampness started to form under his arms.
“Of course. The judge is out, playing cards, so you have full and free access. You know where it is.” She stepped back to let him in, but not quite enough, her bosom lightly brushing his shoulder as he slid by. Mortified, his ears on fire, the walk across the parlor to the library took forever, and he felt her eyes bore into his back.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said as he opened the door and escaped into the wonderful smell of the room. The judge had left the copy of Faust on the table. Simon picked it up, sat down in his chair and began to read.
Simon’s thoughts swirled like a dust devil. Every time he thought he understood what he’d read, another few lines would force him to reassess what he’d just learned. Why had the judge given him this book to read? The short passage he had heard the other night had been simple to understand: “What you don’t feel, you will not grasp by art, unless it wells out of your soul.” He thought that meant you can’t fake what or who you truly are. But what he read today simple confused him. He began to wonder if this might be like the Greeks Miss Everett had helped him read. Maybe the meanings would come later. He marked the page and rested the closed book on his chest.
The door opened and Mrs. Kingsley halfway entered the room. “I’m going over to Mrs. Bray’s for a couple of hours, Simon. Feel free to stay.” And she was gone as quickly as she had appeared.
The front door closed, and he relaxed in the silence of the library; the steady tock-tock of the tall-cased clock rippled the stillness of the room. The steady cadence encouraged his mind to wander, and he sat quietly in the chair, completely disengaged. Until he felt nature’s urge.
“Damn it,” he thought. And then: “Damn it, I’m swearing more and more. Dern it!”
He got out of the chair, laid the book on the table where he’d found it, then opened the door and listened. Hearing nothing, he stepped out of the library and headed across the room toward the kitchen and the back door leading to the privy.
The sight of naked skin jerked him to a halt, mouth open and heart hammering in his chest. Sarah, in the warmth of the kitchen, reclined in a big copper tub, eyes closed, arms extended beside her, giving him a full frontal view through the door that stood a quarter open. The waterline crossed just over the tops of her nipples, and the cloudy water masked everything below. Swallowing hard, he fought to do what he knew was right, but he wanted so badly to stay. The fear-of-getting-caught puritan fought a fierce battle with the desire-to-gaze-at-her rogue, and the rogue won. With the kitchen lamps turned full bright and the parlor in semidarkness, he felt sure she couldn’t see him. So he watched, fascinated.
The back of her neck must have itched because she lifted one hand from the water to scratch and—there! A full breast, but so unlike the one at Adobe. Firm and small, the nipple reacted instantly to being taken from the warm water. The jaw-dropping image lasted but a moment. Her hand slowly descended into the water again, along with that gorgeous breast. Without knowing it, Simon had risen on the tips of his toes, craning his neck, willing that pink-brown wonder to stay exposed, but as it sank, so did his heels. How long did he dare stand there? Mrs. Kings-ley could return early. He remembered his last look at the clock, it wasn’t quite seven. “She’ll be a while yet,” his gazing rogue argued.
Then Sarah’s eyes popped open and she took a long, deep breath, stretching her arms over her head. Both breasts burst into full view and each seemed to compete for elevation. Simon groaned, and then slapped his hand over his mouth, frantically looking to see if she had heard. She hadn’t, because she reached over the side of the tub and caught the edge of a towel. Knowing what must come next, Simon shot a glance at the front door and steeled himself for the grand prize. Sarah stood.
Simon could not compare the sheen of her body to anything he’d ever seen before as the water sought to return to the tub. He’d passed into a new realm, crossed a frontier. The warm yellow cast of the lamplight made her skin the color of honey. Nipples erect in the cooler air, she stood for a moment and ran her hands down her body, wiping off the excess water. Then she looked toward the door and directly at Simon. He stopped breathing, and his eyes opened so wide they stung as he waited for the flash of recognition. It never came.
He inhaled a quivering gasp of air and a cold sweat crept over his scalp. She looked away, and with her gaze on the floor, stepped out of the tub and stood on a small rug, the towel held against her side. She raised a leg to place a foot on the short stool sitting at the end of the tub, and dried; first her foot, then her calf, and finally, putting her leg down again, her thigh. The towel flashed between her legs, and he tried to imagine what he couldn’t see. She repeated the ballet for her other leg, then, towel slung over her shoulders, she used the ends to dry her belly and chest. Shrugging the towel off, she dried her rear and then, with a flourish, she launched the towel out of sight. Turning her back to him, she reached to the left and retrieved a large fluffy ball and daubed her body with it, powder puffing into the air.
Simon’s gaze moved to the curve of her hips. On the left one, a scarlet, teardrop-shaped birthmark, the narrow end pointed down, beckoned to him, and he had the insane urge to rush in and kiss it. His hard got even harder and he suppressed a groan. Suddenly, Sarah took two quick steps forward and disappeared. With a whimper, Simon turned, and as fast as he dared move, scurried out of the house.
Simon sat in Mace’s chair. He’d been studying Buell’s relaxed face for several minutes, and couldn’t decide if he was sleeping or not. He decided not. “Have you ever seen it up close,” he asked.
“Sure.” Buell wrinkled his nose, and then rubbed it. His eyes never opened.
“Well . . . where?”
“Adobe. Last year.”
“Well, did you just look?” Simon couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. Can’t he construct a sentence over three words long?
Buell opened his eyes and grinned at him. “Nope. Lacey said I ought to do it just to see if I liked it. He reckoned it was like trying one of them new mixed drinks at the saloon. Ya pay yer money, and if it don’t suit yer fancy, ya don’t have to order it again.” Buell’s eyes shut again.
“And?” Simon waited. “Well, you gonna tell me or not? Shit, it’s not a big secret.”
“Then why you askin’?” The quick smile and the crinkled eyes said Buell was having a good time.
“I saw Sarah . . . last week when I was at the Kingsleys’ reading. I can’t get it out of my mind. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Whoa.” Buell sat up from his slouched position in his chair. “Naked?”
“Yup. Bathing. I wanted to touch her so bad.” Simon looked at his friend, slightly embarrassed, but still at ease telling Buell about Sarah. “She has a birthmark on her butt.” Simon felt himself blush. “Looks like a teardrop.”
“Boy, you got a case of it. I suppose I can see someone get-tin’ a little worked up about it, but from what I’ve experienced, it ain’t worth much. Now, not sayin’ anything against Sarah, I like her a lot. She’s yer girlfriend and that makes ’er special to me. But I don’t see myself getting all wrapped up in it. Pa gets along fine without a woman, so I expect I will too.”
“Well, what’s it like? Even if you don’t want anyone special.”
“Just like your hand, only it costs you three dollars. Shit, Simon, I can’t describe it. You lay on her and she sticks it in for you and you wait until she makes it happen.”
“But—”
“That’s all there is to it, Simon.” The familiar mask dropped over Buell’s face.
Simon let out an exasperated puff, slumped back in his chair, and let his daydream jump back to Sarah—naked.