Chapter Two
“I’LL BREAK HER FOOL neck,” said Ben amiably, without heat. “She did this all on her own, without consultin’ any of you? Doesn’t the girl realize what kinda men there are in this world, just waitin’ to prey on innocent people?”
“Well, you were a mail order husband,” Camellia pointed out, “and you turned out all right.”
“O’ course I did.” Grinning, he puffed out his chest just a little, like a peacock strutting for its hen. “You got the pick of the crop when you chose me, darlin’.”
Now feeling comfortable enough in their marriage, and sure enough of his prize, to take all sorts of liberties, he pulled her close, tucked under the good arm (the bad one, so grievously wounded in the Putnams’ gun battle, still ached on occasion, and he was careful how he used it). This was the perfect position, snuggled together in the front porch swing, to steal a few engaging kisses from cheek and throat and lips and snatch a few surreptitious caresses from territory still kept so enticingly under wraps.
With a sigh, almost purring in content, Camellia let her hand trail down the front of his shirt, slowly undoing a few buttons to play with loosened tendrils of chest hair. If she had a chance to think things over, it was clear she was becoming quite hedonistic.
“Huh. I’m likin’ that. Real—fine... But you seem kinda distant to me, like you’re still considerin’ somethin’ else. Anything wrong?”
Good man. He was definitely beginning to rightly read and gauge her moods. Perhaps the fact that he had been able to do so, at the moment, was balanced by the fact that he had erred so dramatically this morning—when he was looking to find a pair of missing socks, and she had only culinary tasks on her mind. A few not-so-friendly words had been exchanged.
“No. Well—other than my worry about Molly. But—no...”
A lifetime of walking warily around an emotional minefield prevented Ben from entering into the free and easy discourse that he desired with his bride. But he tried. He would always try. “Are you happy, Cam?”
Even in the soft shadows of a summer twilit evening, her smile beamed with blinding radiance. “Oh, Ben! I am blissfully happy!” She lay her head against the shoulder she had learned could hold and shelter her with such gentle strength.
Crickets were chirping their night song in the tangled grasses all around, and thousands of fireflies were flickering here and there to rival the few stars starting to show themselves overhead. The heat of the day had burned away, leaving only coolness behind, as if the whole world had drawn in a collective deep breath of Juniper Creek’s damp freshness and slowly released it.
Now, shortly before bedtime, husband and wife were quietly communing with nature before seeking their well-deserved rest. Or, given the spark in Ben’s eye, rest as an eventual goal. Clearly he had other, more enjoyable pursuits that would be taken care of first.
Fortunate Ben had happily, and without an ounce of pride, finished off all the noontime leftovers. His compliments had led them to the front porch for a peaceful hour of conversation and canoodling.
“But you’re still feelin’ a tad concerned about Molly,” he made a shrewd stab at the possible problem.
“Yes, absolutely. I never dreamed she might declare her independence by following in my footsteps. She simply has no idea what she could be getting into.”
Using one stockinged foot, Ben eased the swing gently back and forth. “Nothin’s been carved in stone, has it? I mean, she ain’t gonna run away and elope right off the bat?”
“She says not.”
“Reckon the best thing is, then, to wait till this Hennessey character gets here, and we can look him over, see what’s goin’ on. Will that work for you?”
“I suppose it will have to.” Dissatisfaction tinged Camellia’s voice. “The last six months or so of being in St. Louis was so hard. It was emotionally draining, and physically demanding. So I just assumed that my marriage, and settling down with you in Turnabout, would be all smooth sailing from here on.”
The man tilted his head back to laugh loud and long, while Camellia was caught up by an involuntary admiration of those strong muscles and that smooth brown throat. She had fallen deeply, madly, unashamedly in love with her husband, and she didn’t care who knew it.
“Honey, you ain’t never gonna have smooth sailin’,” he continued to chuckle, like a bubbling coffee pot, “unless you plan to be a hermit on some desert island. That’s people, and that’s life, and you just gotta deal with whatever comes along.”
Straightening, she reached up to frame his dear rugged face with both hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry. For what?”
“For bringing my whole family with me. When you agreed to our marriage, you expected you would be getting one woman. And, instead, you ended up with four of us.”
“Well, I must admit to bein’ a tad kerflummoxed, just at first. But, then, when I got to know you, I realized you couldn’ta done anything else. I don’t think you’da rested easy, if they’d all stayed b’hind in St. Louis, and you were here frettin’ and worryin’ about ’em. You, Camellia Forrester, are just plain too responsible. So,” his shoulders moved in a small shrug, “I got me a package deal.”
“Oh, Ben.” Her eyes filled with tears. “When I think of the kind of man I might have yoked myself to... How did I get to be so lucky in you?”
“Well, now.” Gazing down at her with a benevolent smile that quickly turned roguish, he touched a gentle thumb to the wetness. “Reckon I can think of a few ways you can show me how grateful you are.”
Chapter Three
THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS followed the usual routine all four Burtons had come to expect. Nothing out of the ordinary; rise willingly (or not) with the crow of someone’s energetic rooster, wash and dress, break the overnight fast, plan for what would come along.