Wild Flower Page 9

  I thought, How many lives have we lived in which our paths were near, but didn’t touch?

  I curled my hand around his thigh, holding fast.

  See, he’s right here. Mathias is right here. He isn’t going anywhere…

  He’s all right. He isn’t going to disappear.

  We would have found each other, even still.

  We will always find each other…

  After supper Bull brought out the cards and the menfolk gathered around the dining room table, retreating inside. Diana stood at the kitchen sink, laughing about something with her oldest granddaughter, running water over a stack of bowls, while Mathias helped cart dirty dishes into the kitchen.

  “Show off,” Tina said, pestering her brother. She told me, “Don’t expect this sort of thing all the time, hon. He’s normally as lazy as those guys,” and she indicated her dad and the other husbands, lounging around the table with fresh bottles of beer, fanning and reshuffling their cards in preparation to play some poker.

  “Hey, I resent that,” Mathias said, kicking at Tina’s ankle. “I help out at home. Don’t I, honey?”

  “He does,” I agreed, smiling as I thought of the many times and ways we made love in our own little kitchen, during and after he helped clean up from dinner. The counter was a perfect height for certain specific things.

  “See?” he said to Tina, with undeniable smugness.

  “Boy, we’re holding up the game for you!” Bull announced in his roaring voice.

  “Play through once without me,” Mathias told his dad. “I’ll be there in a few.”

  My phone, abandoned on my chair, caught my attention with its chirping ring, and I saw that Noah’s mother, Marie Utley, was calling.

  Shit, I thought. That meant something was up with Millie. I tried not to let the sudden burst of apprehension overwhelm me as I answered by demanding, “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, yes, don’t worry,” Marie said instantly. My shoulders drooped with relief, but then Marie went on, “I hate to ask, but could you swing out to pick up Millie? Noah has…well, he must have been sneaking drinks. He’s—”

  Not wanting to hear any more of this pitiful explanation, I interrupted, “It’s no problem. I’ll be there soon. Thanks for calling me.”

  A stack of dishes balanced in his hands, Mathias asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “That was Marie,” I said. “I have to go get Millie. You stay here and hang out.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I guess Noah is—” I stuttered a little, anger and irritation blocking my throat so that I was forced to clear it before finishing. “I guess he’s drunk and can’t bring her home.”

  “Oh,” Mathias said, his voice carefully harboring no judgment. “We better go then.”

  I turned and studied the lake, curling my hands over the porch rail, restraining a sigh; I couldn’t help but feel as though Noah had deliberately done this to ruin my night, which I knew was stupid. Behind me, I heard Mathias set down the stack of plates. I said, “I can go, sweetheart. You stay and play some cards.”

  “I’m not going to make you drive out there alone,” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist, drawing my spine to his chest.

  “You’re so warm,” I murmured, clutching his forearms. He was always so quick to understand things, to do what he felt was right.

  “I’ll warm you,” he promised, lifting my braid to gently kiss the nape of my neck. “I want that in our wedding vows. ‘I promise to warm you through all the days of our life’ sounds about right.”

  “And nights,” I whispered, shivering at the pleasure of his sweet words. “Don’t forget about nights.”

  “Hell, yes,” he murmured in my ear.

  We left a few minutes later, after hugs and reminders to come back for dinner soon. I’d been hoping to stop by our cabin and see it in the moonlight, but that was out of the question now.

  “I’m sorry we had to leave early,” I said as we drove east, out toward the Utleys’ farm on Jackpine Way. “Marie would bring her home, but she doesn’t drive alone, and she said Curt’s too tired to drive out to Shore Leave.” I pressed my fingertips to my forehead, momentarily overwhelmed by irritation. “Why do they even have alcohol in the house? Don’t they realize that’s wrong?” Sinking even lower, I vented, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Noah would do something totally stupid like drink enough at his niece’s birthday party that he wouldn’t be able to drive his daughter home. What was I thinking?”

  “He’s struggling,” Mathias countered. “Even I can see that. He’s a mess.”

  The radio volume was low, but I could hear George Strait singing “Cross My Heart” and allowed the familiar song to relax me. The last thing I should do was let Noah cause me any more stress.

  “I feel a little sorry for him,” Mathias said when I didn’t respond. “I think he’s truly regretful.” He paused. “But I have to admit there’s a certain way he looks at you that makes me want to smash my fist into his face. Repeatedly.”

  I looked his way, eyebrows raised.

  “Longingly. He looks longingly at you,” Mathias clarified, his gaze directed out the windshield. “It makes my skin crawl.”

  I’d never noticed Noah looking at me with anything but resentment, and found my voice. “I think you’re misinterpreting that.”

  I sensed a slight relaxing of Mathias’s powerful shoulders. He allowed, “Maybe,” but there was a decided lack of conviction in his voice.

  I realized what really troubled him and said softly, “You’ve already been more of a father to Millie Jo than Noah will ever be.”

  I’d hit the nail on the head; Mathias was silent for a few beats. The song switched to “The River and the Highway,” and I shivered at the mournful opening notes. At last he said, with quiet vehemence, “I hate resenting Noah so goddamn much. I hate that I wish he’d leave Landon so I’d never have to see his face again. I know he’s Millie’s father, and I acknowledge that he’s trying, but I hate it. I’m selfish as shit, I know this. I’m not trying to make an excuse, I swear.”

  I curled my fingers through his and squeezed, as he signaled to turn right onto the gravel road that led out to the Utleys’ dairy farm. There was a lone streetlight shining on their property, creating a blue-white glow that highlighted the long, low-slung cattle barn. Despite the fact that this was my daughter’s grandparents’ home, I was rarely out here; usually Curt and Marie, or Noah, drove over to Shore Leave to collect Millie Jo. Their house was warm with lights and the front door opened as we climbed from the truck, revealing Noah’s small, plump mother.

  “Thanks for stopping out, Camille,” she said. “Hi, Mathias.”

  “Ma’am,” he said politely.

  “Hi, Mama!” Millie called, darting outside into the gloaming light. I bent to collect her into my arms.

  “Hi, sweetie,” I said. I told Marie, “Thanks for calling me.”

  “You bet,” she said shortly, clearly not wanting to discuss the matter any further; she had long ago stopped apologizing for her youngest son. The air out here smelled of the pines growing tall behind the house, and the nearby alfalfa field; the fainter scent of the cows was also present, but not unpleasant. There was a beat of purely uncomfortable silence.

  “Give your grandma a kiss,” I told Millie, setting her on the ground, and she ran to do so.

  “Good-night, bunny.” Marie hugged her close. “We’ll see you soon.”

  I offered Marie as much of a smile as I could manage. Millie skipped to Mathias, who helped her into her car seat.

  “How’re you, little one?” I heard him asking her.

  Marie observed all of this and her expression hardened; she took a step out the door and said, “Camille.” I wasn’t exactly sure how to gauge her tone, which sounded more like an order than I liked; maybe I was imagining the hint of censure. “Noah has been wanting to talk to you.”

  A resentful breath lodged in my lungs. “He can talk to me a
nytime he wants.”

  Marie pinned me with her gaze. “He’s trying, you know. It’s not easy for him.” She clamped shut her lips as though to restrain further comment.

  I wanted to scream, Are you fucking kidding me? My hands balled into fists, which I relaxed almost immediately—did I think it would solve anything to storm inside that house and aim a punch at Noah’s chin? I muttered, “Good-night, Marie,” and turned away without another word. My scalp prickled as I returned to the idling truck, suddenly aware that someone hidden was watching this entire scene. My footsteps faltered. The barn, I realized. The structure was cast in shadows but somehow I knew Noah was in there. The summer we dated, three years ago, in a rare moment of self-revelation he’d told me that as a kid he would hide out in the hayloft when things weren’t going his way. Clearly he was hiding out there now, probably along with his stash of hard liquor.

  Grow up! I sent the thought in his direction, with angry heat. Grow up and get it together!

  Two hours later, at home, Millie was snoring in her room and Mathias and I were sprawled on our bed, the sheets a wild pinwheel of cotton beneath us. We were both naked, tangled together, my head resting lazily on his left shoulder. We lay studying the picture of Malcolm Carter in the glow provided by a single candle situated on the nightstand, our preferred lighting, the bottom edge of the photo resting between my breasts.

  “I love Aces,” Mathias said, his voice low and drowsy with satisfaction. He shifted slightly, cupping my right breast, his thumb moving slowly over my nipple. We’d spent the last hour talking in between bouts of making love and my limbs were weak from being wrapped around him; I didn’t plan to move before dawn peeked through the window.

  “Aces,” I repeated, warm with contentment. “I love him too.”

  “There’s so much about that lifestyle that appeals to me,” Mathias continued. “Having to depend on your horse like that. Riding for the horizon, not knowing what you might find. Adventure. Danger.” He paused and kissed the top of my shoulder. “Don’t accuse me of romanticizing it at all.”

  I felt so secure in his arms, as though nothing in the world could ever hurt me again; I refused to get worked up at the mention of danger, especially in this context. Even still, I whispered, “Don’t you go talking about riding away from me into danger.”

  “You’d be with me, of course, silly woman. I wouldn’t go riding away from you. We’d have adventures together, unless I thought it was too dangerous.”

  “Searching for gold?” I murmured.

  “Gold, land, the next card game,” he replied, playing along. “I think it would be incredible to ride for the horizon all day and not come across any towns, anything manmade. That seems like true adventure.”

  “It does,” I agreed. “To live in a time when parts of the country were wild and unsettled.”

  “What would you name your horse?” he asked. My nipple was full and round against his stroking fingers.

  “I’d have to meet her first,” I said, shivering at his touch. “I’d have to see what she looked like.” I decided immediately, “She would be a buckskin, black mane and tail, golden body.” I rested my nose against his jaw and then speculated, half-teasing, “I’d maybe name her something like Bluebell…”

  Mathias snorted a laugh, hugging me around the waist. “Bluebell? What kind of name is that for a horse? She’d be embarrassed as hell.”

  “She would not!” I countered, giggling. “I had a stuffed horse as a kid. I dragged that thing all over the place.”

  “What was her name?”

  I admitted, “Blossom. But that was the name she came with.”

  “Oh my God,” he groaned, still laughing.

  “Yeah, that’s even worse than Bluebell,” I allowed, tracing my fingertip over the picture, straight down the pale stripe on Aces’ dark nose. I recalled all the lonely nights I had kissed Malcolm’s face before I went to sleep, those years before meeting Mathias; I pressed a tender fingertip to Malcolm’s cheek, remembering how this picture of him had pulled me through. In the photograph Malcolm appeared content, even happy, standing in the slanting light of a long-gone sunset. As I had many dozens of times, I thought, I’ll find out what happened to you, sweet Malcolm, I promise.

  Mathias whispered, “You love him, don’t you?”

  I loved that he understood this, that there was nothing but gentle acknowledgment in his question; my love for Malcolm was braided inexplicably together with my love for Mathias. It was almost as though they were the same man. It was not the first time I’d felt this to be true.

  “I do,” I whispered, a little choked up. “Or, I did…once…”

  Mathias aligned his thumb over my fingertip, which still rested upon Malcolm’s face. He said solemnly, “I promise to be worthy of him.”

  “He knows,” I said, grateful anew that Mathias didn’t think it was crazy that I spoke as though I was actually capable of communicating with his deceased ancestor. How I hated the thought of Malcolm, or Aces, being dead and gone, as abstract entities we would never be able to meet in this life; I’d wanted to hug both man and horse for so long now that I could hardly remember a time before I knew of them. I preferred to think of them as simply absent—waiting somewhere for us to find them, when the time was right.

  Changing the subject, I whispered, “What color would yours be?”

  “I’d want a black stallion,” Mathias said at once, knowing just what I was asking, and his chest vibrated with a laugh. “With a tough name, like…Renegade,” and my laughter almost drowned him out as he continued, with relish. “And I’d have a black hat, spurs, and boots, to match. Christ, I would be such a bad-ass. Gunslinger, gambler, six-shooter…”

  Warming to this vision, I supplied helpfully, “And I’d be waiting for you in a dusty, remote little saloon. And you’d have been on the trail for a long time, without a woman’s touch…”

  He cupped both my breasts this time, with growing intent, nuzzling my neck. “And I’d catch a glimpse of you and tip my hat, and then I’d say, ‘Ma’am, I’m going to need you to come with me.’ See, there’s a double entendre right there…”

  I laughed even harder at his words, leaning to place the picture carefully on the nightstand and then returning to his embrace, resting my elbows on his strong chest, reaching to mess up his hair. The candlelight flickered over the angles of his face, his firm chin and sensual mouth, his black eyebrows, his seductively lowered eyelids. My ring caught the candle glow and glinted as I traced the outline of his lips, which sent desire knifing through my blood. I belonged with this man, it was that simple. When he was inside of me, held fast and deep, our names ceased to have meaning; we were simply us. Connected in ways I could not completely understand.

  “Do you think we make love too much?” I whispered, thinking of how everyone teased us. I leaned to kiss the cupid’s bow on his top lip, slowly, deliberately spreading my thighs over his hips, lightly grinding against his body. His blue eyes blazed but he remained still, letting me tease him. I loved the difference in the texture of our skin—he was so hard, his hands roughened by daily manual labor, his chest and arms and legs all covered in coarse black hair. He glided his touch down my waist and anchored around my backside. I shivered, my nipples grazing his chest, his rigid cock flirting with the slippery juncture of my legs.

  “Now you’re talking crazy, woman,” he murmured, offering me a lazy grin that belied his true intent.

  “Maybe just once more…” I breathed, licking his dimple.

  He moved with fluid grace, knowing I could handle no more teasing, rolling me beneath him and surging back inside.

  “Gentle!” I gasped, clinging to his shoulders. I was not being coy when I informed him, “Your cock is huge, you know.”

  He snorted a laugh at my words, still with a two-handed grip on my ass, but obligingly ceased all motion. He groaned a little, whispering, “How gentle? Show me…”

  I kissed his chin, using my hips to set our pace. He moved
accordingly, claiming my mouth as I gave over to his taste, his touch. Joy beat upon my nerves, radiating from my center as he continued on and on, slow and steady, until I was beyond all sense, crying out against his neck. He gasped my name and I clung as he drove deeply one last time, and then fell still.

  It was late. Mathias shifted us so that I lay cradled against his chest; he fell asleep almost immediately, as the candle dripped its wax and sank lower and lower. I drifted, caught in that almost-dream state in which I was vaguely aware of the familiar surroundings of our bedroom and yet half-sunk into another place. Somewhere far from here and far from what I knew as real.

  Knives? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?

  You’ll be a sensation, girl, if you can just get over the fear of it. Trust me.

  Sharp points thud against the wood near my head, but I know better than to shudder. Months of unending practice, that’s what it took to quell an instinct that basic, the one driving me to shrink from blades being whirled through the air and toward my immobile body.

  He’s here, you know, the one that caught your eye from a distance last night, girl. Third row, with that same rowdy bunch. Them fiddle-playing musicians.

  He’s here? A hand curls unforgiving fingers around my heart. What if…

  Waiting for my cue, as terrified as a child about to be punished, I listen to the excited buzzing murmur of the audience from where I hover backstage. I have heard it a thousand or more times before now. Through a small rend in the faded red curtain, stage right, I try to catch a glimpse, searching for the outline of a hat; I cannot let myself believe that it might actually be him. I’ve been destroyed by that thought too many times to count, already.