Cay stayed out of sight, but she was laughing. When he said nothing more and she heard a lot of splashing, she cautiously peeped around a tree and looked out at the water. He was standing chest deep, lather on his head, and he was shivering. As she watched, he dove into the water and she saw his naked behind above the surface. Turning back, she giggled and began removing the rest of her own clothing.
What would he do if she did get into the water with him? she wondered. In her group of female friends, it was Jessica Welsch who was the flirt. One time Cay’s mother said that it was a wonder Jess hadn’t run off with a man when she was thirteen, considering what her mother Tabitha’s past was like. Cay had wanted to know all the story behind that remark, but her mother wouldn’t elaborate on it.
“What would I do if I were Jessica?” she wondered aloud. It came to her that she’d remove all her clothing and walk naked into the river. The pale evening light, the warm air, being alone with a man . . . It all seemed to be right.
But Cay leaned against a tree and sighed. What was wrong was that this wasn’t the right man. This was a man she hardly knew, he was much too old for her, and he wasn’t the sort of man her family would be proud that she’d chosen. Even if he were proven innocent of murder, there would always be the stigma of the accusation and the trial attached to him.
No, she thought, and gave another sigh. Maybe the circumstances were right, but the man wasn’t.
She waited until she heard him leave the water, then she went in. She stayed a good distance from where he had been, and even though she wanted to swim and play in the water—which was colder than it looked—she didn’t. She soaped and washed her hair, rinsed, then used one of the two towels that had been in Uncle T.C.’s supplies to dry off.
When she went back to their camp, he had built a fire and was sitting there in his clean clothes, and he looked and smelled much better. In fact, maybe it was the light, but he looked younger and maybe even a little bit handsome.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much. Except that now I’ll not be able to find you by smell alone.”
He was leaning over the fire and seemed taller than he had when she first met him, and now his hair was wet and clean and no longer standing out from his head.
Cay held up the brown bottle of jasmine oil. She’d seen the bottle of oil, probably made by the storekeeper’s wife, and known that it would work on nits and lice and all manner of vermin. But then, so would several other oils. The object was to smother the creatures so they couldn’t breathe. She’d chosen jasmine over the other oils that the storekeeper had because she liked its smell so much. She’d had to retrieve it after Alex had tried to hide it. He’d been so involved in his flattery of her that he’d not seen her slip the bottle into the bag.
Alex didn’t say anything, just nodded that she could pour the oil on him. When she sat down behind him, a comb in her hand, his eyes widened.
“What do you mean to do to me, lass?” he asked in a soft voice.
“Not what you’re hoping. Bend down so I can see your hair.”
Smiling, he sat in front of her, but when she did nothing, he looked back at her.
“You’re too tall for me to reach.” She spread her damp towel across her lap. “Stretch out and put your head on my lap.”
“Lass, I don’t think—”
“That you can control your ‘passion’ for me?” she asked without a smile. “Are you afraid you’ll touch me and fall in love instantly?”
He knew she was making fun of him and he didn’t like it, but on the other hand, she had a knack for making him laugh. “I’ll save myself for someone older and let Michael have you.”
“Micah,” she said as he put his head on her lap and she began to comb his hair. When she had the tangles out, she poured the oil on it, and began to work it through. The heavenly fragrance of jasmine filled the air around them.
“I did this once to my brother Ethan when he got honey and beeswax in his hair. My father wanted to shave his head, but I couldn’t bear that, so I said I’d get it out.”
“How old were you?”
“Eleven, I guess.”
“So that means he was . . . ?”
“Fourteen.”
“Were you always like a mother to them?”
“Not at all.” She massaged the oil into his scalp. For all that she’d complained often about his having lice, she didn’t feel anything, just his scalp and his too-long hair. “Maybe I was a bit of a mother to Ethan, but he’s the sweetest of my brothers, and the most gentle and the prettiest.”
“Pretty? Like a girl?”
“No. At least no girl thinks he’s pretty in that way. Women old and young make such a fuss over him.”
“That must be pleasant.”