Beneath the Apple Leaves(81)

“I can’t.” He shook his head, back to reality. “Got to get back to the fields.”

She laughed. “Mr. Kiser’s asleep on the couch. Passed out as soon as he finished gulping his meal. Think you have a little time. Besides, won’t take long.”

Her face was so beautiful, smiling as if all of nature were part of her skin, and his heart leaped to her. She picked up a dandelion and placed it behind her ear.

“No.” Andrew waved a finger in dissatisfaction and took the flower from her hair. “You’re too pretty to wear weeds.” He leaned back and plucked a yellow daylily and tucked it behind her ear. “That’s better.”

She touched the petals, gave him a slight wave before heading toward the woods. “Take your time and eat,” she reminded him. He watched her thin yellow dress flow with the breeze, and if he hadn’t been suddenly starving he would have chased her into the clouds.

*

“So, where are we going?” Andrew asked as they weaved through the shady pines.

“A spring.”

“A what?”

“A magic spring,” she insisted as if he should know it.

“Think you’ve been reading too many fairy tales, Lily girl.”

“You’ll see.” She took off at a run, her long wild hair trailing. She was like a tree nymph, made of the land and all the colors of nature. He did his best to keep up as she darted through the browning needles of the forest floor. Down a slope, the air cooled considerably as if in a cloud.

Lily slowed and finally stopped. “Listen,” she directed quietly.

Andrew listened. The sound of tiny trickles of water came from the distance like raindrops in a meadow. When she saw that he heard them, she beckoned him with a curved finger. Around the bend, a wide pool glistened deeply at the base of the hill. The rock wall was covered with wet moss, the individual rocks deep black and shining as they filtered each drip of mountain water into the spring.

She peered into the black water. “Don’t know how deep it is, but it’s so clear, like you can stare into it forever.” Lily reached her hands into the water and took a long drink, wiped her lips with her sleeve.

There, among the moss and the shade and the canopy of chirping birds, she was a woman from another time, another existence. A fairy or a flower. She blended into the forest, belonged within the magic of the place. But it was the woman who made it magic, who made the world seem as if it shimmered from the heavens.

“Give me your hand.” She took his injured hand and slowly placed it on the surface of the water, the cold instant and chilled throughout his body. She gently pushed the hand and fingers into the ice-cold water. “Is it all right?” she asked.

He nodded. The pain melted into the cold, disappeared, and all the while her eyes were on him, flooding him with warmth even while their hands chilled beneath the water. Their fingers intertwined, the palms pressed, skin upon skin, warmth and cold that left his senses reeling.

He tugged her hand closer, the movement causing ripples in the smooth surface, and her body followed, pressed against his chest as their hands had done. Her eyes were wide and scared, but her lips parted and he bent his head to catch them before they could speak. He melted into the delicate lips, found the tip of her tongue against his own. He withdrew their clasped hands from the icy water and let go, placed his wet fingers against her back and etched the buttons of her spine. Her hands found his hips, held on with clenched knuckles as if she might fall into the pond.

The ground held them. The birds surrounded the air and drowned out all thoughts so only senses lived, breathed. He traced the curve of her mouth with his lips, moved his hand up to her neck and kissed her fully, felt her body bend to his, grow limp in his arm.

He wanted to know her. He needed to know her just as he needed to touch her. The woman in his arm, against his chest, against his lips, was something wild, something that dies slowly in confinement—a hummingbird in a cage. And he wanted—needed—to know her. He wanted to watch her sleep, wanted to hear her heartbeat beneath her skin, to carve into his memory every word she had ever spoken.

Andrew pulled back, stunned momentarily by the beauty in his embrace. Lily’s hair blew around her face, long and unbraided like that of a woodland goddess, and the sun drew to her as if she were the only figure worthy of its rays. The fingers laced in his were where they should be. Skin atop skin. Her palm against his. He saw his life in advance. Saw him aged and walking forward with this woman. He wanted to take Lily into the future—a future where their touch would never separate. The tiny green stone sat in the deepest corner of his pocket and he felt it intensely and with new significance.

He moved closer. Her body rose to meet his. His thighs pressed against the thin fabric of her dress. Her hair swayed slightly and tickled his cheek. His palm moved from her hip to the small of her back and her lips parted completely. He bent his neck, found the lips with his own, melted into the ground with their touch. Her hands inched up his back and her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. He leaned into her; she leaned back for support, leaned back to raise her hips to his. He turned his lips to her neck, rolled slowly into the bend, into the length of it. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades, her breathing quick in his ear.

He rocked his pelvis between her thighs. Small, futile thrusts against the clothed parts, but they both fell into the rhythm, moving into each other with pounding hearts.