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Chapter Three
Trevor led the mare to the alpine pasture and lugged open the
gate, wishing he had those metal hasps like the city folks used. The hinge
creaked and he eyed the strap, knowing that the leather was old and overdue to
break. It held but he added that to the list of repairs and maintenance that
kept him from his more lucrative tasks; soap making, woodworking, and cave
exploration.
Of the three, he preferred finding new caves and searching
their depths for forgotten treasures. The other two were heavy work, requiring
him to find the right trees, purify enough fat, and risk his skin, either from
the nick of a carving knife or lye burns.
He watched Nicka toss her head and frolic like the filly she'd
been three years prior. She was the last thing his father had obtained in his
ever-consuming obsession of carving out a real colony in this wilderness.
Douglas Campbell hadn't been one for the usual occupations of
the forest people. Though he hunted and trapped, fur trading was only a means
to an end. Though he did spelunk any caves he found, searching for new ones
never occupied his days, and the prizes uncovered were secondary to his true
purpose. It was he who learned the process of making soap from a wildie-witch
woman but the product of that labor simply fueled the original cause that
burned his imagination.
Everything he did was for the single goal of creating a
settlement within the forest. A stronghold would arise against the bandits and
the forest people would have a place to trade in good times, and a shelter to
harbor them from the bad.
Some of the closest neighbors had settled where they had
because of his father's dream. Dest's father had been a smith's apprentice and,
on the other flank, the Davis men knew tanning. Faith's mother was a potter's
daughter and Goodie Davis was a midwife and could set a leg, break a fever, or
cure a chill. She also had a way with livestock.
The Campbell's had been wood-workers since anyone could
remember and the ancient-looking tools were kept oiled though Trevor rarely
used any of them except the lathe. Douglas's first wife could mill grain and
brew beer and his second fermented wine from any available fruit and made fine
cheese. All their skills had been taught to the Campbell heir, the easier ones
mixed with praise and the more difficult ones punctuated with beatings.
Trevor sighed, remembering how hard it had been to live up to
his father's expectations and how adamant Douglas had been in trying to infect
his son with the same fanatic's dream. His death had cured Trevor of empire
fever.
So, he was a farmer who sometimes made soap or beer, and could carve a nice walking stick. He sat on a rocker, not a throne. The clack of a cloven hoof on a stone interrupted his reverie. Anna had led the cow up the twisting path, saving him the second trip. She loosed the beast into the field and helped lift the gate back into place. Trevor watched the cow a long moment, calculating the gestation and fixing the probable date of calving in another week or so. A fresh cow meant milk aplenty and he set aside time to make cheese. Trevor whistled and, a few minutes later, Tucker sprinted into view. Blue followed, pacing her ascent in a leisurely lope with swollen flanks rolling with each step. A calf and puppies coming this year. Poor Nicka. Full stallions were few and far between or she'd be pregnant too. All his girls with buns in the oven. Then he remembered his companion and wondered if Seder had started anything baking there. Anna retreated against the fence as Blue growled a warning. "Settle," he said and bent to ruffle the dogs' ears. "Scratch here." The woman stroked Blue's head, gingerly because of the low rumbling objection. Trevor growled back and the dog whined. "Good girl," he murmured, not necessarily more to one girl than the other. He waved a hand at the two animals intent on grazing, and ordered the dogs on guard. "Cats'll kill them." Blue migrated to the shadow of a rocky outcropping and Tucker crawled under the fence and settled in the shade of a thorn bush. As they passed the rain barrel at the edge of the barn, she paused. Cupping her hands, she splashed her face and scrubbed her neck. Spatters darkened her sleeves and sprinkled the front of her dress. She captured a handful and let it trickle down her cheek while turning to lean heavily against the solid barrel. Weariness slumped her shoulders and she heaved a deep breath. Damp circles and trails, left by her impromptu washing, darkened her bodice. Anna's face, bordered by wet hair that already sprung into spirals, tilted toward the westering sun and a sigh escaped her lips. While her eyes were closed, Trevor leaned in, blew softly and chuckled when she startled. Her lips were damp, tasting of the slightly stale rainwater, and cool. Water dribbled down his chest when she laid one hand on his neck. His tongue warmed her lips, and her teeth were smooth behind. Nothing was different than the last time, but nothing was the same, either. He hadn't known what power kissing held but hers drew him in like a tether on his passion. Her curves aligned with his angles and every part of her touched him. His desire, though several times sated, flared and he pressed against her. He felt her legs part under her skirts, and pushed his knee into the gap. She leaned back against the cask, arching on his thigh. Heat emanated through all the layers. Her hair trailed in the water, making dimples on the surface like a water-skitter's feet. Trevor licked her neck and the valley leading downward, tasting salt and hay and the dust of the chicken feed. Thigh to thigh, belly to belly, every breath lifted her breasts tighter to his chest. He slipped his hand between them and stretched his fingers around one firm roundness. The nipple stiffened, creating a point in his palm that brushed up and down as she panted. Unable to suppress the urge, he ground and thrust his erection against her pelvic bone. Her foot hitched up his calf and the bend of her knee caught behind his. Her fingers clutched at his hair and the other hand twitched at his waist, in rhythm with his hips. The rain barrel at her back rocked. A wavelet crested the rim and splashed over her shoulders. The water trickled down her collarbone and puddled in the hollow at the base of her throat. Another thrust and another wavelet. The hollow overfilled and a rivulet followed the furrow of his fingers and the soaked the fabric beneath his hand. The wet cloth adhered to her skin, her nipple a darker circle in the mound. What he didn't know about a woman's undergarments would fill a trunk but the realization that she wasn't wearing any pulled him two ways. First was the fire of knowing her bare beneath the guise of modest clothing, which set off a series of overwhelming physical sensations that would lead to an inevitable conclusion. He posted faster, wishing he'd waited to initiate sex. This wholly inadequate but completely unplanned episode of not-quite-fucking could have been all-the-way-fucking if they'd reached the cabin first - or if he'd just shimmied up her skirt. He was too close to change tactics. Too late to change anything. Still in all, no reason to regret the passion of the moment for what could have been. There would be other opportunities. Trevor looped his arm around her hips, shuddering as the orgasm built and tumbled through his cock, and let her writhe against him. Yes, the thought of her with no petticoat or chemise burned a pleasant picture in his mind but opposing his enjoyment was indignation. She wore all she owned. Bara, or Seder, should have provided something. No name. No underwear. Tattered clothing. It wasn't right. Even a dessert cake should have icing or a glaze of honey. Anna's head slumped forward as her body became loose and heavy in Trevor's arms. He caught her before she slithered through his embrace. Lifting her reminded him of trying to carry a newborn calf, no convenient handles and limbs jutting out in unexpected directions. At least she didn't kick and bawl, nor was there an overly protective mama cow butting him. Trevor wedged his knee under her rump and jimmied the door latch, while juggling her shoulders and head. The door popped open and he stumbled in. His bed was up a short ladder behind the fireplace. His father's bed nestled in an alcove and was much closer. Trevor dumped the woman onto the musty mattress, and plopped down beside her. There were so many things to do, he thought. Before the thought became action, Trevor fell asleep.
Go to: not ready
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