Between Earth and Sky(63)

Minowe nudged her. “Hand me the rolling pin.”

Without taking her eyes from the window, Alma groped around the counter until her hand touched the smooth cylindrical pin. She held it out and Minowe took it with a huff.

George reappeared from the cellar and disappeared around the house. Alma frowned, but her eyes were rewarded a minute later when he reappeared carrying two more sacks. Despite the falling snow, he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The sleek, taut muscles of his forearms showed beneath his snow-kissed skin. Wisps of black hair, wet and glossy, fell across his forehead.

Perhaps it was the warmth of the oven Mrs. Simms had stoked for the pies, but Alma felt a flush of heat. Her eyes clung to , following his every step, taking in his expression of placid concentration.

He had just reached the cellar entry when Mrs. Simms’s stocky form moved in front of the window, blocking Alma’s view. Seven large jars teetered in the woman’s arms. Her small eyes scanned the room, her fleshy face bobbing as she glanced at each pair of bakers. “Six, seven, eight, nine . . . We’ll need more cherries. Alice, dear, will you go down to the cellar and—”

Alma’s arm shot up. “I’ll go.”

She bounded out the back door with the cook’s voice trailing behind her, “Very well. Two jars . . .”

Gray afternoon light spilled through the open cellar door, illuminating the dusty flight of stairs.

She left the falling snow and descended. The smell of wet earth, tinged with the scent of onions and brine, hit her nostrils.

No answer.

George? Are you down here?”

Reaching the final step, she looked around, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Stacked barrels cast oblong shadows against the clay walls. She pushed past strands of dried apples that hung like Spanish moss from the ceiling and ventured a few steps deeper into the room. Damp, stale air filled her lungs. A hand grabbed hold of her and pulled her from the waning shaft of overhead light into the darkness.

Alma screamed, but a calloused palm quickly covered her mouth, muffling the sound. Lips brushed against her neck and a soft shh filled her ears. Her muscles relaxed, but her heart continued to flutter. She turned around, facing the dark outline of her assailant. He leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled back. “You frightened me.”

“You scare too easy.”

His arms circled around her waist and drew her close. They kissed frantically, pausing only for breath. His hand flattened on her lower back, pressing her hard against him. Her fingers twined in snow-slickened hair. His lips, at once sweet and salty, tasted delicious against her own. After what seemed like forever and no time at all, they pulled their faces a few inches apart. Neither spoke. Their chests heaved in concert together. She brushed the snow-wetted locks from his forehead and traced the line of his face with her forefinger. When she reached his lips, he captured her hand in his and kissed it.

she said just to feel the syllables tumble over her lips. “What does it mean?”

He considered for a moment. “Sound of the thunder.”

She grinned. “Fitting.”

“My mother took me before the because I had stopped attending to the Catholic school. She thought a spirit worked in me. I stood before the men of the medicine lodge and shouted I had no more need for the white man’s education. My uncle, he was there, and gave me the name.”

“And you didn’t have to go back to the nuns?”

“In the eyes of my uncle and the I was already a man.” paused. “The agent didn’t agree. He came to our home with his fake lawmen, said I must come here. My uncle could do nothing.”

“Here’s better than the Catholic school, though, right?”

He shrugged. “You’re a more better kisser than the nuns.”

At that, she batted him across the shoulder. He staggered theatrically back, bumping into a stack of bagged turnips, pulling her down with him as he fell. Vegetables rolled helter-skelter. They laughed and kissed and laughed some more. His hand drifted from her waist up to her breast. It rested there a single, thudding heartbeat before she brushed it away.

Footsteps sounded above them. “Alma, dear, have you found those cherries?”

She and leapt to their feet and shrank back into the shadows. “Yes, Mrs. Simms. I had some trouble, but I . . . ah . . . I just found them. I’ll be up presently.” She pressed a silent kiss against lips, grabbed two red jars from the nearby shelves of preserves, and hurried up the stairs.

*

That night, Alma lay awake in the darkness of her room. Behind her closed eyelids, she could see handsome face. Her hand trailed over her cheek, down the length of her arm, and along the curve of her waist. She inched up the hem of her nightshirt. The sweep of soft fabric sent a delightful shiver over her skin. Her breath hitched.

The doorknob rattled and her door opened with a whisper. Alma froze. Cold air whirled in behind the faint patter of footsteps. Her hand shot toward the bedside table, groping for matches.

“Who’s there?”

Before she could light her candle, the mattress sagged with the weight of a new occupant. She opened her mouth to scream, but the breath caught in her throat, allowing for only a meek whimper. Her heart flapped against her breastbone.

“Shh, Azaadiins!”

The familiar timber of the voice dampened Alma’s anxiety. Her hand steadied enough to light the bedside candle. Not one but two forms appeared in the flare of yellow light.