From Runaway To Pregnant Bride. Tatiana March
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final loop of the bandage fell away and the kid bent to set the bundle of fabric down on the stone. When he turned to pick up the soap, the curve of a small, rounded breast peeked into view.
Clay’s mind seized up with the shock. He took a step back and sank on the ground, elbows propped on his knees, head cradled in his hands. The vegetation formed a barrier between them, but the sight remained burned in his memory.
The kid was a girl.
A huge wave of relief crashed over Clay. There was nothing wrong with him, no sudden change in his mental makeup. He didn’t think of boys in such a way. It was simply that his body had figured out the truth before his mind knew.
Of course. Of course.
Fragments of recollection ricocheted around his brain. The voice. Mostly, the kid spoke in a low voice, but sometimes he forgot and the pitch climbed high. And that soft skin...those big eyes...the slender shape...and sometimes, when the kid prattled on, there was something downright feminine and coquettish about his manner.
Her manner.
A girl.
As the shock of the discovery faded, Clay’s senses began to function again. He could hear the girl singing, could hear the splashing of water. He felt his body tighten. She was bathing.
Temptation tugged at him like a physical pull. He shouldn’t look. It was not the gentlemanly thing to do. But he was powerless to resist the masculine inclination. Easing up onto his feet, he peered between the leaves of a scrub oak.
She was kneeling on the stone, bending forward, washing her hair. Long and black, it cascaded down in a sleek curtain. Now Clay understood why the kid never took her hat off in front of others. She couldn’t have been pretending to be a boy for very long, for if she had, she would have been forced to cut her hair.
Turn around, Clay urged in his mind. Turn around.
But she did not. His eyes lingered on what he could see—the nape of a slender neck, the narrow span of those angel wing shoulders, an impossibly slender waist and the feminine curve of hips, hidden inside the mended wool pants.
Would she strip completely? Would she take off her pants? Would she turn around, giving him another glimpse of those small, rosy-tipped breasts? Clay felt his heart hammering away in his chest as he watched the girl. She was singing again, in breathless snatches while she soaped and rinsed her hair.
Cape Cod girls ain’t got no combs,
They brush their hair with codfish bones...
Cape Cod kids ain’t got no sleds,
They slide down the hills on codfish heads...
Cape Cod girls ain’t got no frills,
They tie their hair with codfish gills...
As the afternoon sun burned in the sky, the girl straightened in her kneeling position. She canted her head to one side and wrung the water from her hair, taking care not to hurt her blistered hands. And then, turning a little, she reached for the flour sack on the stone, and Clay got the peek he’d been waiting for. The sight of those firm, tip-tilted breasts made his gut clench.
After patting her skin dry, the girl rose to her feet and picked up the long strip of linen and used it to disguise her feminine shape again. Hurrying now, she pulled her cotton shirt back on and leaned down to gather up her soap and the makeshift towel and the bowler hat propped beside her feet.
Without a sound, Clay retreated up the path to the small meadow where the horse and mule stood grazing. While he took a moment to allow the storm of agitation inside him to ease, he stroked the floppy ears of the mule and mulled over the situation.
How long could the girl protect her secret? Should he let her know he’d stumbled upon the truth? And what about Mr. Hicks? The gruff old man hated women. What would happen when he found out? And he would find out, for there was no way the girl could keep up the pretense for a month. No way on earth.
As they sat down to supper, Clay stole curious glances at the girl in the fading twilight. The loose shirt and trousers swamped her slender frame, and the bowler hat was pulled low, but even then, how could he have failed to notice it before?
In his mind, he tried to recall their conversations. He’d never really talked to a woman before. Had he said things that might have offended her delicate sensibilities? He could not think of anything.
After they finished eating, Mr. Hicks lit his pipe, as was his custom. Using a mix of tobacco and herbs, he puffed out fragrant clouds of smoke that helped to disperse the insects swarming in the air.
Clay got to his feet. “I’ll crush a bit of ore. The arrastre is too full.”
Mr. Hicks spoke around the stem of his pipe. “Daylight’s almost gone.”
“I’ll light another lantern.”
Clay fetched a storm lantern from the cavern, topped up the coal oil, lit the flame and turned the wick high. Then he walked over to the stone slab, set the lantern on the ground and picked up the big hammer. Putting all his worry and troubled thoughts into the blows, he pulverized piece after piece of the gold-bearing ore.
Mr. Hicks tapped out his pipe, called out his good-night and took himself off to the cavern. Clay did not cease his pounding. From the periphery of his vision, he kept an eye on the girl. She’d finished clearing up and was standing on the edge of the kitchen, silhouetted in the glow of the lantern behind her as she watched him.
“Shall I leave the light on for you?” she called out.
“Take it with you,” he called back. “I have mine.”
The girl took the lantern down from the hook in the kitchen ceiling and used it to illuminate the short walk over to the cavern. It was a warm night, and they hadn’t lit a bonfire under the overhang.
Clay saw her settle under a blanket, with the rounded bowler hat still covering her head. The lantern light went out. Up to now, he’d been puzzled why anyone might prefer to sleep with their hat on, the brim squashed against the ground, but now he understood she needed to hide her long, glossy hair from prying eyes.
For another hour, Clay labored, grappling with his thoughts, trying to decide on the right course of action, as well as attempting to drive his body into exhaustion, so he could overcome the needs that the sight of the half-naked girl had jolted into life.
Only when he felt certain she would be asleep did Clay cease his pounding. He stopped for a quick wash at the water barrel. Seeing his reflection in the mirror, he ran his palm over the stubble on his jaw.
Not pausing to consider the merits of the idea, he scooped fresh water into the enamel bowl and spread a thick layer of soap over the lower half of his face. He pulled out the knife tucked into his boot and scraped away the week-old beard.
By now, the moon had risen. He put out the flame in the lantern and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When he could make out the layout within the cavern, he eased over, keeping his footsteps silent.
He sat down, pulled out the gun tucked into his waistband, checked the load and laid the weapon down within an easy reach. Without a sound, he took off his hat and wrapped into a blanket. Then he rolled onto his side and let his gaze rest on the small shape next to him.
A man like him had little chance to meet decent girls. Up to now, those encounters had been limited to exchanging a few words with a girl working in a store or serving food in an eating house. And he’d never slept with a woman before. His only experience of closeness had been a few tumbles in a whore’s bed. And now a girl lay beside him. A beautiful girl, with milky-white skin and hair as black as midnight and sleeker than an otter’s pelt.
If he reached out, he could touch her. And he wanted to, so much it hurt. If nothing else, he wanted to simply rest his fingertips