Daisies In The Wind Page 17

  Rebeccah sighed. “I’ll wager she’s mad at you for bringing me and not her. Did you tell her you were going to?”

  He nodded, still scowling.

  “Was she furious?”

  “She threw all them pretty wildflowers I brought her straight at my head.”

  “Waylon Pritchard, what you need to do is march straight into that schoolhouse and ask Coral Mae Taggett to dance.”

  “Right in front of everyone?”

  “Right in front of everyone.”

  “But Ma and Pa will be there!”

  She gritted her teeth in frustration. One glance at his shocked face and darting, anxious eyes destroyed the rest of her patience. “Fine,” she snapped, and hitched her shawl across her shoulders. She didn’t wait for him to assist her from the buckboard, but jumped lightly down by herself. “Then I suggest you go stand in a corner somewhere and wring your hands all evening while you watch Coral dance with Clyde Tyler. Don’t expect me to dance with you, either, because I won’t stand up with a man who’s too scared to stand up for himself,” she flung at him, and began stalking toward the schoolhouse.

  Waylon hurried to catch up with her. “You’ve got a danged ugly temper for such a pretty gal,” he sputtered as he pulled open the schoolhouse door for her.

  “Thank you!” she shot over her shoulder, and Waylon wasn’t sure if she was thanking him for his comment or for holding open the door.

  The long, solemn room with its desks, stools, maps, blackboard, and teacher’s desk had been transformed into a gaily festooned dance hall rollicking with festivity. A table draped with a checkered cloth had been set up along one wall, and it held platters of cakes and pies and cookies, pitchers of lemonade, homemade cherry brandy, and huckleberry wine. Brightly colored ginghams and calicos spun in a dazzling blur as the floor vibrated with dancers. The whirling, stomping couples in their Sunday best cavorted with more spirit than grace to the fiddlers’ soaring tune, and amid laughter and shouts and the buzz of excited talk, everyone looked happy, busy, and lighthearted.

  Rebeccah at once spotted Coral and Clyde Tyler spinning across the crowded floor. She studied the girl closely. Beneath Coral’s vibrant smile and the determined batting of her eyelashes, she detected pallor, and an air of forced gaiety.

  Waylon Pritchard, you couldn’t see the Mississippi River if it was coursing up over your knees, she thought in disgust. And then she heard Waylon’s voice at her elbow.

  “All right, I’m going to do it. Just like you said, Miss Rawlings. I’m going to ask her to dance in front of everyone.”

  Before she could offer a word of encouragement (and before he could lose his nerve), Waylon darted across the room, shouldering his way through the dancers, and pounded the red-haired cowboy’s shoulder with his fist. Then suddenly Clyde was searching for a new partner, and Waylon and Coral twirled by, holding tightly to each other. Their gazes were locked on each other’s faces with such rapt expressions that suddenly, unexpectedly, Rebeccah felt her throat tighten with emotion.

  Then someone was tapping her on the shoulder, and she spun around, startled into a reaction of instinctive fear.

  “Whoa, sweet thing, don’t look so scared,” a slender, dark-haired man said, catching her chin in his hand. He swept his wide-brimmed Stetson off his head with his other hand and grinned at her. “A lady as lovely as you should never be without a dancing partner,” he continued gaily. “Won’t you let me fix that right now?”

  He had wavy black hair, magnetic, solidly handsome features, and incredibly beautiful eyes of a clear moss-green hue. Over his right shoulder, she saw Wolf Bodine near the window, looking relaxed, nonchalant, and vividly handsome as he leaned forward to listen intently to something Nel Westerly was saying to him.

  “I’d be delighted,” she heard herself muttering grimly, and then she was whisked into a strong grip and swept across the floor to the tune of “Turkey in the Straw,” and she had no more time to dwell on the tight pain that squeezed her heart.

  13

  Images rushed by in a blur: Caitlin Bodine, seated on a ladder-back chair, clapping in time to the music; Billy Bodine, Joey Brady, and some other boys playing a wild game of tag among the chattering onlookers; Culley and Abigail Pritchard eyeing the dance floor in frozen displeasure; Myrtle Lee Anderson stuffing a wedge of pie into her mouth. Dozens of other faces swirled by, but she didn’t see and didn’t want to see Wolf Bodine and Nel Westerly side by side together.

  She was out of breath when the dance ended, her cheeks glowing above the white lace collar of her peach gown. Her dancing partner—she didn’t even know his name—lightly held her elbow and guided her off the crowded dance floor and over to the table where refreshments were served.

  “For you, the prettiest lady here,” he said, handing her a glass of huckleberry wine.

  “You’re too kind, Mr. ...”

  “Call me Chance.”

  “Chance?”

  He nodded, took a deep drink of the wine, and grinned at her, his teeth flashing very white and straight in his sun-bronzed, boyish face. The green eyes danced. “Chance Navarro.”

  “An unusual name.”

  He was watching her sip her wine, smiling a little. “Yup. I made it up. Like the sound of it, I reckon.”

  “What was wrong with your real name, Mr. Navarro?”

  “You ask a lot of questions for such a pretty lady, Miss Rawlings,” he drawled.

  Now Rebeccah lowered the empty wineglass and stared at him for a long moment. “How did you know my name?”

  Chance Navarro set his glass down on the refreshment table and put both of his hands on her shoulders. He turned her around toward the sea of people watching the fiddlers and the dancing. “That lady there ... in the blue dress?”

  “Mrs. Brady,” Rebeccah murmured, half to herself.

  “Well, Mrs. Brady said to Mr. Brady the moment you and that big fellow walked in the door: ‘Caitlin told me Miss Rawlings wasn’t coming to the dance tonight, and here she is with Waylon Pritchard. I’m sure glad she changed her mind, aren’t you?’ And Mr. Pritchard said ...”

  “Do you always eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?” Rebeccah demanded, her eyes narrowing as she inspected his wickedly smiling face.

  “Only when they’re discussing the most beautiful lady in the Territory.”

  “You’re a flatterer, Mr. Navarro.”

  “No, I’m a gambler, Miss Rawlings. And tonight I’m gambling everything on making you fall in love with me, ma’am.”

  “Now, why would you want to do that?” Rebeccah found herself smiling in spite of herself. Chance Navarro had charm, looks, and ... something else. A happy-go-lucky, mischievous, carefree air that intrigued her. She turned her head slightly as he gave his lighthearted reply and pretended to watch the dancers, but her gaze was really observing the cluster of bright-gowned women fluttering around Sheriff Wolf Bodine.

  They were gathered behind a group of chairs where some onlookers sat holding glasses of lemonade or cups of coffee. Nel Westerly, charmingly attired in a pink-sprigged gown and pink kid slippers, with pink and white ribbons fetchingly arranged in her pale upswept hair, laughed the loudest. Rebeccah didn’t know the others, but guessed that the slim, auburn-haired woman in the sea-green muslin might be Lorelie Simpson. It was bad enough that two women fawned over him, but four? Rebeccah had no idea who they all were, but Wolf Bodine looked positively surrounded by adoring feminine faces and trills of enthusiastic laughter. So much for mourning his dead wife. The man looked as calmly content, at ease, and good-spirited as she had ever seen him. His blue shirt fit snugly over his broad shoulders and wide chest, accentuating the corded muscles and revealing, just beneath the throat, a thatch of dark, curly chest hair. Dark trousers encased his strong, powerful legs and were tucked into handsomely polished boots. He had hung his hat on a hook near the schoolroom door and was bare-headed, showing off the neatly combed locks of silky chestnut hair. And even from this distance Rebeccah could
see the dusk-gray glint of his eyes as he regarded first one of those fawning women and then another, his glance moving easily around the attentive group. And then he saw her.

  Their gazes locked, and held. The keen gray eyes sharpened. He said something to the women, and they parted to let him pass.

  He was coming toward her. “Let’s dance,” she said breathlessly to Chance Navarro, and seized his hand.

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” he responded gaily, and let himself be dragged onto the floor.

  From the corner of her eyes Rebeccah saw Wolf stop dead and scowl. She pasted a sunshine-brilliant smile on her face and directed every dazzling ray of it at Chance. He whirled her faster, held her tighter, and laughed at her delighted gasp. Then Rebeccah let the music and the wine and the dizzying motion swallow her up so that she noticed nothing but her own feet flying across the floorboards and the giddy sensation of light-headedness, induced, she told herself, by having such a great deal of fun.

  Wolf watched her dance in the stranger’s arms. She looked so damned happy. She never looked like that when she was with him.

  Gloom settled over him. For a woman who was always stumbling over buckets or falling out of wagons, she danced like the most graceful creature on earth. And what was worse, he’d never seen her look more beautiful. Whether it was the luscious peach color of her gown or the way her cheeks were flushed a radiant pink or the way her eyes sparkled like sunlit pansies in the bright lantern light, Rebeccah Rawlings outshone every other woman here.

  He waited until the country reel was over and then he strode toward her again. She was still talking to that damned stranger, the one who’d sat in the back at the town meeting. Chance Navarro, that was his name. He was a gambler, Wolf had learned from Molly. One with plenty of money and a barrelful of nerve.

  Wolf kept his gaze fixed on Rebeccah as he advanced straight toward her. She was thirstily drinking a glass of wine. But before he could reach her, Waylon Pritchard suddenly appeared at her side and led her onto the dance floor.

  Wolf froze in his tracks. “Son of a bitch!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lorelie Simpson came out of nowhere and laid a slender hand upon his sleeve. As he glanced distractedly down at her, she slanted him a winsome smile. “It looks like you’re on your way to the refreshment table. Mind if I join you? I haven’t had a chance to taste Caitlin’s strawberry pie yet, and everyone knows it’s the best in the Territory.”

  “It is. Reckon you’ll enjoy it. But if you’ll excuse me, Lorelie, there’s something important I have to do.”

  Wolf vaguely heard her disappointed sigh as he stalked away, but he immediately forgot all about her. Bearing down on Waylon and Rebeccah pathetically trying to waltz, he caught Rebeccah’s eye. She at once averted her gaze and fixed it upon Waylon’s broad face as Wolf closed in on them.

  “And Ma and Pa probably won’t speak to me for days, but I don’t care because Coral says I’m the only man she ever wants to marry, and I owe it all to you, Miss Rawlings ... What ... Oh, Sheriff ...”

  “Mind if I cut in, Waylon?”

  Wolf didn’t even spare a glance at Pritchard, however; he was staring determinedly at the slender dark-haired vixen with the sweetest mouth he’d ever tasted. Without bothering to listen for the other man’s reply, he seized Rebeccah in his arms. The music blared as he swung her out among the throng of dancers.

  Rebeccah felt light as a daisy. Wolf’s arm was so tight and hard around her waist, it seemed as if all the breath was squeezed right out of her.

  “I thought you weren’t coming to the dance, Miss Rawlings.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Sheriff.”

  “Wolf.”

  She tilted her head to one side as if baffled. “I’m not certain we know each other well enough to go by given names, Sher—”

  He stepped on her toe. On purpose, she was certain.

  “Ouch!” Violet fire shot from her eyes.

  Wolf drew her even nearer against him, holding her so tightly, she thought her ribs would crack. Yet his nearness was warmly delicious, and the hardness of his body crushing against hers caused tingles from her shoulder blades to the delicate arches of her kid-slippered feet.

  “You had no trouble calling me by my given name the other night,” he reminded her, his breath rustling against her cheek. The cool gleam in his eyes was at odds with the vibrant warmth of his body. “In your kitchen. Before Billy walked in.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Liar. Do you remember the night I drove you home from supper?”

  “The night you walked out just as Caitlin was about to serve the meal? Oh, yes, I remember that.”

  Wolf’s eyes darkened to opaque charcoals. “That’s not the part I’m talking about, Rebeccah. As you know damn well.”

  “Some things are best left forgotten,” she replied tartly. But she was having difficulty keeping up the conversation and reminding herself not to simply melt against him. His nearness, the soap and spice and leather scent of his skin, the sexual heat of his glance, were all having an effect on her senses. She had dreamed of dancing with Wolf Bodine, she had imagined it while gazing into campfires and while peering out the window of Miss Wright’s Academy at the wishing star. Now here she was, warm and flushed and dizzy from wine, with the most virilely handsome man she’d ever met waltzing her around a crowded room, and she had to fight the hazardous impulse to clasp her arms around his neck and brazenly kiss him, here in front of everyone.

  Imagine Myrtle Lee Anderson’s face. And Mayor Duke’s. And Waylon Pritchard’s.

  She giggled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. Everything.” A peal of laughter broke from her, and Wolf studied her closely.

  “You’re drunk, Rebeccah.”

  Still laughing, she shook her head. Then she blinked as the room swam. Colors ran crazily one into the other.

  “I’m ... dizzy,” she whispered in surprise. Putting a hand to her head, she closed her eyes.

  He stopped dancing and tugged her toward the door, adroitly steering past the people gathered in bunches, many of whom called out greetings. He pulled her out into the cool mist of the night and around the corner of the schoolhouse, where there were no windows or doors, only an old tree stump set in the midst of the buffalo grass.

  “Sit down. Breathe.”

  He stood over her as she perched on the tree stump and obediently took great gulps of air. “Better?”

  For answer she giggled. “Bear used to say that no one could get drunk by drinking wine. It had to be whiskey or bourbon or Tarantula Juice ... but not wine. Well, he must’ve been wrong, because I only had two glasses of huckleberry wine and I’m ridiculously drunk and—”

  “Haven’t you ever had wine before, Rebeccah?”

  She gave a peal of laughter and then hiccupped and giggled again. “No. We weren’t allowed spirits at Miss Wright’s Academy for Young Ladies. Miss Wright wouldn’t have heard of it, and Miss Althea—that’s the vice principal—wouldn’t have heard of it, and Miss Youngston—that’s the headmistress—she wouldn’t have heard of it, and—”

  “I get the picture.”

  She peeped up at him, and a dreamy smile came over her face.

  “Oh, Wolf,” she murmured with a great, gusty, longing sigh.

  He regarded her suspiciously. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just Wolf.” There was a beatific glow in her eyes. “Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of dancing with you? Millions. Millions and millions. And do you know how many times I’ve positively ached to hear you say, ‘Miss Rawlings, may I have the infinite pleasure of kissing you’?” She lifted beseeching eyes to his startled face. “Oh, come here and give me one little teensy kiss,” she begged.

  He was looking at her as if she’d gone loco. Which she had. My, being drunk felt so strange. And yet, it was rather pleasant—foggy and silly and pleasant. And here she was with Wolf, and he looked so handsome, she just couldn’t r
esist him anymore, and she held out her arms and surged to her feet. And would have fallen, but he grabbed her up like he always did and held her close. His arms were supporting her because her knees had buckled like paper, and he wore the most adorable worried expression on his face. Rebeccah gazed blissfully into his eyes.

  “One kiss,” she pleaded. “Come on, Mr. Lawman Bodine, one teensy kiss right here,” and she pointed to her full, pouting lips.

  “You’re more than drunk, you’re rip-roaring drunk,” he accused her ruefully, but his eyes were warm with laughter. “Who would ever expect to see the stiff-necked Miss Rebeccah Rawlings in such condition,” he mused, one hand sliding up to grip her delicate nape as she tilted her head back to stare at him. “I could take advantage of you right now, Rebeccah,” he continued softly as her eyes rested earnestly, longingly on his face. “Did you really dream about dancing with me? Since when?”

  “Since that time in the cabin when you found me hiding under the cot. I’ve thought and thought about you ... oh, a thousand times. Wolf, don’t you want to kiss me? At first I thought you did and then I thought you didn’t and now I think you do, but perhaps you don’t—and if you want to, you can, but if you don’t want to, I’m going to die, and if you want to—”

  He kissed her. Just to shut her up. He felt her soft, delicious mouth pulse to life beneath his, and his arms swept around her, hauling her up against him. He kissed her hard, to quieten her. She kissed him back. Clingingly. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, he could feel the soft, full mounds burning through the fabric of his shirt. He kissed her again, his mouth plundering hers, thinking he would shock her and snap her out of this giddy mood, but she only gave a whimper of pleasure and snuggled closer against him. Her fingers slid gentle as feathers through his hair.

  “Oh, God, Rebeccah,” he groaned, and then he was lowering her to the ground beside the tree stump, lying with her in the crisp gold-brown buffalo grass, and her hair was somehow unpinned from its ladylike chignon and fanned about her on the earth, and her moist, bright lips were parted, inviting him, and her arms stretched out to gather him close, and only then did Wolf remember that she was not herself.