Sycamore Hill (31 page)

It was only afterward that I realized how self-defeating one’s
mind can be, how we convince ourselves of fairy-tale endings and knights who
are not dressed in tarnished armor.

Jordan said nothing after his possession. His hands continued to
stroke my body as though exploring newly claimed territory. I lay silently
beside him, my eyes closed, wanting desperately to hear him say he loved me.
When he still said nothing, fear began to gnaw at me. Surely he must now know
how much I loved him after what I had just given to him. But still he said nothing,
and his hands stopped their caressing as he stared up at the sky above us. The
warmth he had created with his ardent love-making cooled, and I felt a hard
lump in my throat.

Pushing himself up, Jordan looked down at me, his eyes moving over
my body in a sensual perusal that gave me an uneasy feeling deep in the pit of
my stomach. He bent down and nibbled at my ear. Then he gave a throaty laugh, a
sound of male triumph.

“You don’t look like a Boston lady now, my dear Miss McFarland,”
he said sardonically. His hand moved from my face in a long caress down the
length of my body to rest on my bare thigh. “In fact, you look anything but a
lady.”

A chill grew inside me until I thought I would die of it. He gave
me a quick kiss before straightening again. He was saying something about the
ranch, but my mind was still focused on his indictment of my behavior of
moments before. Shakily, I sat up and reached out for my clothes.

I could feel Jordan watching me, looking over the body he had
recently claimed like something he had bought for a bargain at a bawdy house.

“Don’t dress yet, Abby. There’s the whole afternoon.”

I avoided his hand when he reached out to touch me. I wondered if
I could even stand, I was shaking so hard. But I had to get away from him. He
had only wanted to use me like some whore, and I had been fool enough to let
him. There had been no love inside him when he had possessed my body, only a
carnal need.

I stood up, frantically pulling on my clothes and fastening them
with trembling fingers. I stuffed my blouse heedlessly into my skirt. Jordan
was dressing leisurely, watching me with an expression of amusement. He pulled
on his pants, clasping his belt buckle. I was so ashamed of what I had done
that I wanted to die on the spot. Had I really allowed Jordan to make love to
me here on the grass, right out in the open like some field animal? Tears
blinded me. Jordan was pulling on one of his boots when I bolted toward the
horse standing about a hundred yards away. Jordan caught me and swung me around
to face him.

“What in hell is the matter with you now?” he demanded
insensitively, staring at my tear-streaked face. I did not even stop to think
what I was doing.

“I hate you!” I spat at him, pulling my arm back and lashing out
at him, striking him hard across the face. His expression mirrored
astonishment, and then a black rage. I saw his hand coming at me and did
nothing to avoid it. I stumbled back from the blow, and my cheek burned like
fire.

Yet, somehow his action was what I wanted. It relieved some of the
emotional ravagement I felt, leaving me with a numbing shock and a physical
pain I could hide behind.

Trembling violently, I put my hand up and touched my face. Jordan
was staring at me, white-faced. He raked his fingers back through his hair, and
I saw that his hand was shaking.

“If you hate me, you’ve a damned strange way of showing it.” He
was looking at me as though he detested me. “What you hate, my dear Miss
McFarland, is your own precious self. Because you gave me everything without
making conditions first,” he hurled at me, his mouth twisting bitterly. I
turned away and ran, unable to bear any further rejection and humiliation.

“Abby!”

I kept running. Reaching my horse, I swung myself up, my skirts
hitching about my knees. I did not care.

“Abby!” Jordan shouted again, not moving from where he was. “So
help me, God. If you run from me now, to hell with you!”

I kicked my heels hard into the horse’s side, and, unaccustomed to
such rude treatment, he lurched forward with a start. I wished he would gallop
faster. Not once did I look back at Jordan Bennett standing in the open field
above the river pool.

“Abby, my dear, what’s wrong with you today?” Ellen asked. “You
haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said for the past half-hour. Am I that
dull in my dotage?”

“No, Ellen. I’m sorry,” I apologized quickly. “I’ve just got a lot
on my mind.”

“Well, out with it, girl. It’s obviously bothering you. You look
as though you haven’t slept a wink in weeks. Now, what’s the matter?”

“There isn’t anything the matter,” I insisted. “Just.. .just a lot
of school things I’ve got to do. You know, Christmas is coming up in less than
three weeks. I’m supposed to have a program for the parents.”

“Poppycock,” Ellen grumbled. “That’s not what’s eating you, and
don’t try telling me it is. Now, I’ve asked you a question, and I want an
answer.”

“Well, you’ve had the only answer you’re going to get!” I snapped
with rudeness. Ellen’s eyes widened.

“My, my, we’re touchy today, aren’t we?” She clucked her tongue.
“Whatever this ‘nothing’ is, it’s serious. I’d bet a dollar on it.” She
squinted her pale eyes at me. “It isn’t that darned ghost business again, is
it?”

I could lie and say it was. I had heard the woman crying on
occasion, but I was too unhappy to care if there were a dozen ghosts inhabiting
the old schoolhouse.

“I’ve had some problems with James Olmstead and Mr. Hayes,” I
said, hoping she would be satisfied with that. Actually, I had not had an
argument with either of them in over a week, which was surprising.

“Yes. That wouldn’t surprise me.” She chuckled. “I heard about the
scene at the general store a while back. My niece told me all about it, and she
heard it all from Berthamae, naturally. That woman has a mouth as big as the
Grand Canyon.” She chuckled again. “I also heard that Jordan arrived at an
opportune moment. The report had it that you were about to be hung by your
thumbs.”

The last person in the world I wanted to think or talk about was
Jordan Bennett. I felt as though what had happened between us the week before
was written clearly across my forehead. “This woman gave her body to Jordan
Bennett without benefit of clergy!”

“Mr. Bennett didn’t appreciate my ‘interference,’ as he so kindly
called it,” I told Ellen.

She was watching my face with her usual shrewdness. “Jordan’s a
sensitive man, and don’t give me that look of yours, my girl. He is! He’s
probably still annoyed with you for thinking he fathered Diego.”

“I don’t imagine it matters what I think about Mr. Bennett,” I
told her stiffly and stood up. “I really must be going, Ellen. I’ve got... I’ve
got a lot of school things to plan out for the next week or two. The holidays
are coming, and we should give a program for the parents. And....” I was
rambling, searching for excuses, and I knew it. Worse, Ellen knew it. I gave a
faint smile of apology and turned to leave.

“Abby...” Ellen called softly, and I looked back questioningly at
her over my shoulder. “Abby, dear, whatever is bothering you... if you ever
want to talk about it, I’m always here. And I hope you know that whatever you
say to me will be kept in strictest confidence.” Her tone was gentle and
sympathetic. How much did this intelligent woman see?

“Yes, I know.” I nodded, unable to say more. I turned away, hoping
she had not seen the tears. I shut the door quietly behind me and then leaned
back against it. I loved Ellen Greer like a mother. I longed to put my head on
her lap and cry out the whole dreadful story. But I was afraid that her
affection for me would change to shocked disapproval.

Rubbing the tears away quickly, I told myself I had to get
control. What was done was done, and I couldn’t change anything. I had made a
fool of myself, giving myself to a man who cared absolutely nothing for me. It
had happened, and I couldn’t alter that fact. It was best not to dwell on what
had happened, not to relive the shame and hurt of his blunt assessment of me
only minutes after making love.

Jordan had said I was no lady, and I had not been when I had given
myself to him with such abandoned wantonness. I remembered his triumphant laugh
and the way he had looked at my body, like something he owned. I should hate
him. I should tear him from my mind. Yet, I only felt a longing for him that
grew worse as the days passed. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Jordan had
been right when he said I hated myself, not him. I wondered if other women felt
this aching need for a man’s possession.

Drawing a deep breath, I left the boardinghouse. I smiled at
Margaret Hudson’s mother as she called a greeting to me from the opposite side
of the street. I paused to gaze in pretended interest at the new display in the
milliner’s window.

The bell on the door tinkled as someone started out.

“Good afternoon, Miss McFarland,” Marba Lane said in her husky
voice. I looked up from the lacy confection in the window and smiled warmly,
very pleased to see her.

“Hello, Miss Lane.” She was wearing a beautiful lilac dress,
trimmed with ivory lace and pink ribbons. A glorious flowered hat crowned her
elaborately dressed raven hair.

“What a lovely ensemble,” I breathed candidly. “Are they Mrs.
Apperson’s creations?”

“Thank you.” She smiled, well pleased with my reaction to her
finery. “But, no, they’re not Georgia’s creations. I saw the designs in a
French magazine and asked her to copy them for me.”

“Well, you look very beautiful. Lilac suits you.”

“Don’t pay her such compliments, Miss McFarland. She’ll get
bigger-headed than she already is,” came a teasing voice. Ross Persall walked
out of the shop, just behind Marba.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Persall,” I greeted.

“And to you, ma’am.” He grinned, and there was a teasing light in
his eyes at my formality.

“Katrina tells me that she has a part in the school play,” Marba
said, ignoring Ross’s taunt. She seemed pleased and proud of the prospect.

“An angel, no less,” Ross added dryly. Marba shot him an annoyed
glance. She appeared to be very defensive of her daughter.

“Yes,” I answered. “She’s going to sing one of the carols. She has
a charming voice.”

“It’s very kind of you to let her be in the play, Miss McFarland,”
Marba said gratefully, and I looked at her with some surprise.

“No, Miss Lane. It has nothing to do with kindness. Katrina is an
intelligent child with a definite talent. I’m proud to have her in my class and
very glad that she wants to be in the play.” Marba’s face was very still and
controlled. She smiled tightly. “Even if her mother happens to be a dance-hall
entertainer?”

“I don’t see how that should make any difference,” I said, but
understanding what she meant. “Besides,” and I smiled, “I happen to like
Katrina’s mother very much. She’s a very charming lady.”

Marba’s eyes grew bright. “It’s no wonder Katrina thinks so highly
of you,” she said softly. “Come on, Ross.” She looped her arm through his.
“We’d better go before other less open-minded people use this chance meeting
against Miss McFarland.”

A natural impulse made me reach out and touch Marba’s gloved hand.
“Miss Lane?” I redrew her attention. She hesitated. “It’s more important what
we think of ourselves.”

“Not always,” she answered, her dark eyes clouding.

Again, I reacted on impulse. “As soon as school is out and the
confusion dies down, I’d be very pleased if you’d come for tea.” Marba Lane
looked astonished.

“I don’t think... I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” she said.
Ross Persall had an odd look on his face. He seemed totally unaware of Marba’s
fingers clutching at his arm. He was looking at me.

“I have a few people in this town I would call real friends, Miss
Lane,” I said, thinking of Ellen and Charles Studebaker, Elvira Hudson and Ross
Persall. “I would like to include you among them.”

Marba’s mouth trembled slightly, then she smiled. “I’ll remember
that, Miss McFarland. Thank you. But because I like you, I won’t accept your
offer. Good day.”

***

It was well past ten p.m., and my table was still strewn with the
children’s homework assignments. I had corrected most of them, but had got
caught up in writing suggestions on a few. That lead me on to an idea for a
class project, which I jotted down on a separate sheet and added to yet another
pile of papers. Stopping, I got up, stretched my aching muscles and went to the
stove to replenish my cup of coffee. I stood with a chipped mug in one hand,
while the other rubbed mechanically at the small of my back. How I would
appreciate a nice, soft chair for these long hours of paper-correcting, rather
than the straight-backed wooden one someone had probably discarded years ago.

A tap at the back door startled me. I glanced questioningly at the
closed portal, wondering if I had really heard something. Who would be coming
by at this time of night? The three discreet taps sounded again.