Chapter Twenty-Six; I'll Crawl Home to Her
Lark buntings trilled just outside the window above the bed. The curtains distorted and diffused the dawn, casting the light in a muted maroon tint. Arthur's nose was buried in silken caramel tresses, cocooned in cotton, flannel warmth. He breathed deep the clean lemony scent of bergamot and the sweetness of rosewater and something else too. Something earthy and feminine that stirred his pulse. Arthur released a sigh he did not know he held and tightened his arms around Emelia. Emelia… nestled with him, like a dove in a cote. All mild and trusting.
How on God's green earth had he managed this?
Arthur had given himself a proper start with Mary. Given her a ring and a promise and for a few weeks, at least, it seemed that they would convince her daddy to let it be. She buckled under pressure, in the end. Whether from her daddy or her own ideals it did not rightly matter no more. Eliza wound up in his path, offering him pity and brief comfort. Too late he learned that consolation could not be found in the bed of a woman he did not love and got her in trouble besides. She accepted money but not himself, preferring to go it alone with a baby than wed a filthy outlaw.
But not Emelia.
Even after robbing her and killing three men before her eyes, she chose him. She said yes before he even showed her the ring. Why? Why did this beautiful, intelligent little thing take a chance on him?
They would need to wake soon. He for work with the horses and she to head into Blackwater for everything from arranging affairs to tending patients. Much too soon. Cool spring air, damp with dew, seeped in during the night and Arthur wanted Emelia to remain comfortable and content. Careful not to wake her, he untangled himself and slipped from beneath the quilt. He went quietly to the stove and stoked the flames. Opened the damper and loaded the box to get the chill out of the room. Arthur flinched when the door to the firebox squealed in its tattletale way. Why did it seem so much louder in the closing? He turned and found Emelia staring at him. Blushing and doe-eyed and chewing her lower lip, her eyes firmly fixed on his own.
"Didn't mean to wake you yet," he murmured, sheepish. Emelia only smiled and drew back the blanket in a shy, soundless invitation.
"When do you need to go," she asked as he slid back under cover. Already Emelia reached for him, laying a hand to his waist, drawing him very near.
"Not fer awhile yet," he said, taking her into his arms. Arthur threaded his fingers in her tousled hair and brought his lips to hers, her mouth soft and supple and he felt all at once the stirring of wild need. This had been a long time coming. A lifetime of lonely nights and cold beds and Arthur was so done with it. He held Emelia fast for another, more carnal, kiss. Emelia. So smooth beneath his dangerous hands, quivering and eager. He dragged his lips across her skin and kneaded the soft small swell of her breast with just enough pressure to have her arching beautifully into his palm with a tiny gasp.
"I love you, Arthur."
"An' I love you, sweet girl," he replied, a little amazed at how often she declared it. He plucked at a nipple with his lips, felt it harden beneath his tongue and Emelia cooed, wordless and content. Oh, what sounds she made… "My girl," he sighed in a fog, lips against her skin.
Her fingers twisted in his hair and she urged him, wordlessly, to return his attention to her lips. As they kissed, Emelia drew her fingers across his skin, feather-light and he shuddered beneath her enjoyable touch.
"I want to chart your body," she said with clinical interest, retracing the same path, along the side of his chest, just under his right arm. Arthur shivered again with a little grunt and Emelia grinned. "Every nerve and dip and scar."
"Why on earth would you want that?"
"To understand you," Emelia replied, sliding a hand across the muscles of Arthur's back. To his waist, his hip, the firm curve of his backside. She moistened her lips with a little dab of her tongue and smiled. "You're so perfect."
"Naw," he deflected with an embarrassed little huff of breath. The heat rose up in his cheeks and Arthur ducked his head to the hollow of her lovely neck to hide.
"Well, I think you are," Emelia insisted, still stroking. So sweet and sincere. "Oh, I love you so, Arthur, and… I do very much wish to, um…" she paused a moment and Arthur lifted his head to look at her. Her cheeks grew rosier. "Well… to please you."
Arthur blinked. He would slave the rest of his life to be worthy of such blind adoration. Emelia had worked him into a crisis of pleasure the night before, to his great shame. With little more than the warmth of her body and his name tumbling from her sweet lips. Those pretty lips now swollen from the hunger of his kiss and a day and a night worth of scruff.
"Tell me how you like it, Emma," he said. "I wanna make you feel good, somethin' fierce."
Emelia's dark eyes seemed to grow darker, her pupils blown wide with wanting. She took his hand in hers and without a single word, guided Arthur to touch her most intimate place, and discovered her petals already slick with desire. He surveyed her face in the weak grey light as he caressed her, watched as Emelia's guileless brown eyes seemed to soften. She licked her lips and swallowed. "Would you believe… I think about you," she asked. Emelia paused, often, to guide his palm, savoring his touch with little appreciative sighs. "Since that day in the meadow… when you gave me those bluebonnets?"
No. No, Arthur could not, did not dare, believe it. Nor could he find his voice.
"I would lay in bed," Emelia confessed. Her voice so soft and high, curling under pleasure. "I would lay there and dream of you…of the things you said. The sound of your voice. Of who you are, and…oh… all you've done for me and I could not help myself…"
Then she pushed two of his fingers inside her, so hot and soft, and he gasped. Overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of what he felt and the threatening memory of having lost or broken something close to it before. He weren't no poet. Arthur did not possess the great bard's gift for pretty turns of phrase or metaphor. Nor could he spin yarn like good ol' Dutch. He'd try to set it down on paper, later, but Arthur preferred the truth in action. In the proposal and the going straight.
And in this. He had gone so long without ever even knowing this.
So he tended Emelia. Reverent and so careful. Listened to her and watched her between kisses, trying to caress her as she wanted to be caressed. Stroking slow and pressing firm, and with a curl of his fingers Arthur felt something rough and Emelia arched and moaned, and her beautiful eyes slipped closed.
"Oh…" she sighed warmly, biting her lower lip. "Oh my…"
"Yeah…," Arthur purred, bringing his lips back to her throat. Yes. Yes. Yes. He eagerly wished to satisfy her. He pressed again, and Emelia moaned. "That's what I wanna hear, baby girl."
Emelia said she wanted to chart his old, battered body for love. Arthur would do the same for her. Dedicate the same effort to learning the steps of this dance as he had with riding or drawing or all the ugly business of the gang. He continued with this gentle priming, savoring the song of her pleasure, all breathy whispers and moans. Continued, despite his own aching desire, until Emelia clawed at his hip with a frustrated little whimper, wordlessly begging. Arthur shifted, laying atop her, in the valley of those lovely thighs and eased into the hot silken slickness of her. He watched her lips part and curled in to kiss them, breaking apart only to moan with the rolling of his hips. Oh… the promise of sweet relief…Easy… not too fast… Short, shallow strokes, scrapping that same sweet spot he had found with the tip of his cock. Rewarded with Emelia's exquisite little cries, spurring him to a tender and sensual stride. Jesus, she did not make it easy, rising to meet him, increasing the friction, hugging and pulling at the height of each purposeful warming nudge. They were not kissing anymore; the pleasure too intense to linger quietly. Sharing breath now, panting and moaning in turn, Arthur stared into Emelia's warm, brown eyes, lost in the sensations of this intense, physical loving. Emelia's voice trembled to a higher, more desperate note, sounding almost pained and he understood. Felt the same urgent, mounting tension within, in the young body beneath him, around him. The sudden ecstasy, all clenching and flooding of heat and the keening sounds Emelia made, digging her nails in his skin. Oh, he had her. He had her…
Arthur let go, submitting to his own pleasure. "Christ…" he gasped. Emelia did not let him withdraw. Her calves hooked over the backs of his thighs and her hands splayed desperately along the arc of his lower back, she hugged Arthur tight as he spent himself inside her. He was not one for sentimental nonsense, but he would swear the earth moved. Breathless and blissfully satiated, tangled, and linked and kissing until their sweat cooled and Arthur softened inside her. Everything warm and quiet and so, so peaceful.
"I… I can't put into words how that felt…" she said on a sigh, pulling her fingers through his hair. Her soft voice doped and sublime.
Arthur could not help the chuckle that escaped him. "Oh, I know," he said, redeemed and content and finding it difficult to feel inadequate in her arms.
"I love you," she murmured, smiling up at him. Arthur stroked her hair and drew a thumb across her petal-soft freckled cheek. He swallowed; his throat too tight with emotion for proper words to come out. Feeling utterly unstitched, he could only smile and nod.
There was no way round it anymore. Though the gang would pillory him for leaving, he could not do as John did, run away without so much as a thank-you. But leave he would.
They cleaned up, with cool water from the basin and a clean cloth. Got dressed. After a simple breakfast of coffee and dried bread they walked, hands clasped, to the stables. By this time, the sunlight peeked over the horizon, spilling gold across the grass and stable walls, greeted by the swelling chirps and quorks of birds.
Arthur helped get Belladonna ready and he wished he could go with Emelia. He missed the freedom, being able to simply do as he pleased, master of his own time. Gallivanting the wilds with Boadicea, going where the wind and happenstance took them.
Until the gang needed someone shot or battered, he reminded himself. You weren't so free as you thought. Why did the dream require so much robbing and killing? What would be enough money?
Emelia did not need his aid getting into her saddle anymore, but he liked helping her all the same. To help smooth her skirts and kiss her hand, the ring still displayed. Emelia blushed, smiling down at him.
"Be good," she said.
"I shall certainly try," he replied.
Arthur watched them go. Watched the sensual sway of his woman in the saddle before heading into the main barn. Lined on either side with stalls, twelve in all. Samson, the handsome quarter horse stallion, sullenly endured his confinement.
"Feelin' silly now, ain't ya?" Arthur asked him. Samson whickered and shuffled to the stall door, ears pricked to attention. "Oh, I know you can smell her, boy," Arthur continued, entering the stall. He rubbed the sorrel horse down, talking in soothing, hushed tones. "A pretty new mare and you all shut up like an invalid."
Samson snorted and Arthur chuckled. He worked gently, unwinding the bandages and wiping the residual poultice from that injured left leg, pleased that the inflammation had gone down plenty.
"That's a good sign, boy," he said. Arthur gave the big fella a final good scratching along his neck. "Might be able to get you exercisin' tomorrow."
Sam tossed his head with a stomp.
It sure was something. To put in an honest day's work with folk doing the same and to hear them talk so plainly. The ranch hands did not need to pause and consider if their name was safe to give or if someone might recognize them from some grand foolishness two states over. There was a strange freedom in the honesty. That Arthur enjoyed the work, with horses, did not hurt. It seemed odd to be getting paid for something he liked, something that weren't shameful. And there was something to, in the knowing that at the end of the day he'd have the privilege of going home. Home. To his sweet woman.
Arthur was surprised all the same to find her there. He saw Belladonna turned out in the small pasture near the cabin with Boadicea. The two thick as thieves, cavorting in the last light of day. He pushed the door open and found the air warm with the smell of wood and something savory. Emelia sat at the table, working in her journals by lamp and candlelight and he could not help but smile.
"Emma, darlin'?"
She looked up and smiled at him, rising from her seat.
"Welcome home," she sang, all bright and winsome. Arthur removed his hat as she came to him, her hands reaching for his face and pulling him down for a kiss. He saw she had moved in proper. Her trunk sat near the foot of the bed. Mason jars of poppy tincture, still suffusing and not quite ready, lined the top shelf of their little kitchen space. On the table sat a glass jar loaded with dried Bluebonnets.
Those Bluebonnets. Kept and cherished despite all his foolishness.
"What do you think?" she asked, gesturing to the entirety of the space behind her.
"Looks like a proper home," Arthur replied. He would need to fetch his own possessions from camp, sooner than later. Emelia blushed, pushing a stubborn lock back in place and he saw the bright turquoise still on her finger, glowing against her skin.
"You wear that all day?" he asked, nodding to the ring.
"Of course!" Emelia looked at him curiously. "Why wouldn't I?"
Arthur looked down at the hat in his hands and rolled his shoulder. He did not want to own that he half expected her to bolt, but there it was, nagging all the same. She laid her hand against his cheek.
"I'll wear it every day until the day I die."
Arthur lifted his gaze at that. Emelia only smiled brighter, her eyes shining, so cheerful and compassionate. Oh, this girl…
"So," Emelia began, swaying in a sweet, feminine way. She did not dwell nor allow him to wallow on such stubborn silliness. "Are you hungry, Arthur?"
"Sure," he said.
"Good," Emelia replied. "Go on," she added, nudging him to the table before hastening over to the kitchen space. Arthur noticed the pot on the stove. "I… well… have something here for you to… um, test?"
He chuckled, seating himself at the table. "You don't sound too certain."
"Well…" Emelia paused to stretch, rising on her toes, reaching daintily for a bowl. "I've never in my life cooked anything."
Arthur swallowed any concern, mindful of her lack of confidence. It could be no worse than Pearson's spartan cooking. She lifted the lid and the smell, at least, held some promise. She scooped something into the bowl, and when she brought it over he found stew. Classic beef, potatoes, carrots, onions.
Arthur shrugged and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. Hot enough to burn and he nearly choked. "You… you made this?" he managed.
Emelia flinched. "Is it inedible?"
"No, not at all. It's… well, it's pretty good actually." Truly it did taste good. The gravy was thick and peppery, and the meat fell apart in his mouth. "Darlin', I…" He paused, trying to wrangle his feelings. "It's better than I'm used to, that's fer sure."
Better than he deserved.
"Really?" she asked, clasping her hands together and bouncing. So very pleased with her effort. With his mouth full, Arthur could only offer a firm and polite nod.
"I had help," she confessed, blushing. "Mrs. McCourt supposed, correctly, that I am a disaster in the kitchen. She gave me a tour of the kitchen yesterday… I… I don't know if I'd have ever sorted the cellar without her list. All these… things I never before needed to consider. A different breed of knowledge really. But knowledge all the same."
Emelia related all her ignorance and industry while they ate. Born to luxury, perhaps, but with the heart of pioneer. Going boldly into one adventure after another.
"And then today, when I got back, she came over and asked me what we planned for dinner and… well, I had no idea!" Emelia said, laughing at her own naivety. "It hadn't occurred to me that we can't just wander over to a restaurant. I mean… I knew we couldn't but I just hadn't thought…"
"So she offered to show you," Arthur guessed, and a small part of him remained a little wary of the McCourts' kindness. Such generosity was a rare thing.
"She sure did," Emelia replied. "Taught me how to coat and brown the beef and the science of dicing everything..."
"The science of dicing, huh?"
"Mm hmm," Emelia hummed. How easily she played along with his humor, resilient and unphased. "I had to write every step down," she added, as if confessing some sin. "But I can certainly read and measure and follow directions."
"That you can," Arthur said sincerely and finished his second helping. "With everything else you had to do today and still you managed this."
"Well… I got home first," she said with a humble little shrug.
"You're a good woman," Arthur declared. "I… I really shoulda helped you more with all this, sweetheart."
"You're going clean and working all day," she pointed out.
"You work too," Arthur replied, clearing the table.
"But I don't come home dusty and exhausted."
"You're never tired after them house calls?"
She blushed. "Some days are challenging," Emelia conceded. "But there are also days when little happens."
"Well… I think your work is incredible, Emma," Arthur said, waving at the satchel hung by the door. "And there's times folk'll come knocking on that door, needin' you at all hours, and Lord only knows to what crazy parts of this godforsaken territory…"
"And you'd let me ride off alone? To those 'crazy parts'?"
"Of course not," Arthur said, bristling at the thought.
"My brave escort," she cooed, batting her lashes. Then, she grew serious. Emelia came to him, next to the sink and took up his hands. "Don't you see, Arthur?" she asked. "This only works if we take care of one another. So what if I tidy up or make a meal for us while I wait for a call? I love you. I want to take care of you."
Arthur kissed her then. He could compare her to a sunny Sunday morning, all grace and warmth and constancy and Arthur wondered what he had done in his no-good life to deserve a lady so fine.
He went out after that, to feed the horses and returned after the sun had set, with an armload of firewood. Arthur found Emelia brushing her hair at the small vanity. In a white nightgown, finer than anything Molly owned. Her dark hair unbound and gleaming in the lamplight and she smiled at him in the mirror. Arthur felt the tightness in his throat and could not help but watch her a moment. He set the wood down near the stove and cleaned himself up. Shed the dirty work shirt and washed away the day's grime from his arms and face and neck in the little wash basin.
Emelia had settled on the bed with a book, positioning herself against the headboard, so that the lamp light could readily fall across the pages.
"Watchugot there," he asked, drawing near.
"Come," Emelia beckoned, in her unique sweet way. She patted her lap. "Lay down."
Arthur sat on the bed and pulled off his boots before laying back as instructed. He settled his head in her lap.
"Comfortable?" Emelia asked, carding her fingers through his hair and Arthur could not stop from closing his eyes.
"Mm hm."
He heard the ruffle of pages as Emelia opened the book, and then brought her fingers back to his scalp. "Chapter One;" she read. "Treats of the place where Oliver Twist was born and of the circumstances attending his birth."
Dutch had read to him and John, both, his favorite most thought-provoking passages. Flowery and vacuous Evelyn Miller. That Emerson fella… he was alright. Some truth to his words, as far as Arthur saw it, even if too rich and fatty. To pass into a delicate realm of sunset and moonlight…
"Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse…"
This Dickens fella had a similar affliction. Taking a foot when an inch would do. Christ, did he get paid by the word? But Emma was a fine reader, her voice pleasant as birdsong, and with her delicate fingers stroking his skin Arthur could not muster a protest.
"And in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter."
"Careful, darlin'," Arthur warned. "Yer fixin' to lull me to sleep with all this here pamperin'."
Emelia gazed down at him. "Is it so terrible, Arthur?" she asked with an amused little smile, still petting him. "Finally getting 'pampered'?"
"No."
"Good," she replied, and that lovely smile only brightened. "Now shush."
Arthur grinned. "Okay."
His mother could not read to him. Arthur would have learned to read at a younger age had it been the case and he wished she had. He listened. To the silver tones of Emelia's voice, so soft and high and clear, and hoped she would read, anything and everything, to their children. Children… When God saw fit to grant him a second chance at such a thing. He could not help but wonder. How might it feel to watch the woman he loved grow heavy with his child.
Arthur let her get through the first chapters and his interest did warm to the woeful tale of an English urchin. But when Emelia started into the third, he took her hand to his mouth. Pressing warm open-mouthed caresses to the delicate skin of her inner-wrist. Emelia's voice faltered. Their eyes met.
"Can we continue tomorrow night," Arthur asked quietly.
A demure smile played across her lips. Emelia closed the book and Arthur took it from her. Set it on the little nightstand next to their bed as she scooted down lower. Coming, so willingly, into his arms. Arthur kissed her deep, drawing his hand against the smooth flesh of her thigh. He pushed the nightgown up to her hips.