Inspiration:

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

― Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

Disclaimer: Still don't own it.

Chapter 36

Leif promised to return to the Fontaine's after supper and to spend the night there and to get up early with Alex, who wanted to show him around more and discuss further innovations on the workings of a farm.

The children were overtired from playing with the puppy, and apparently the new play they'd written and practiced all day down at the theater cabin. The entire troupe retired upstairs with Prissy after supper without much fanfare. Will and Suellen turned in early as well, leaving Leif and Scarlett out on the porch to enjoy the last fading light of the sunset.

"What do you have there?" He peered into her work-basket at the pile of crystal prisms and velvet ribbons, before taking a seat in the rocking chair beside her.

"It's something Ella and I are working on for Wade's arbor." She felt a little hesitant to discuss it, and he must have sensed it because he did not question her further.

"Aren't you going back to Mimosa?"

"Yes, after a while."

She threaded another prism, tying the ribbon delicately through its tiny hole. "You and Alex seemed to get on quite well."

"He's a good fellow," Leif rocked back, surveying the green rolling grass down the hill, the sun as it shone just a few more moments before slipping behind the horizon. "I invited him to the supper event Saturday night."

"You did?" He nodded. "Is he coming? To Atlanta?"

"He said he'd be there. I thought it would be good for him to see what we're doing, the other side of this business, the scope of it."

He glanced at her again. "He also said you're an extremely loyal woman, and your family would not have survived the war and its aftermath without you."

She peered at another crystal prism as the holes were becoming harder to see with the fading light. "As we have discussed before, you must know my reputation in Atlanta."

He shrugged. "The population in general likes to talk about beautiful people, rich people, people who rise above and accomplish what they can't, overcome the obstacles that defeat them. It's how they ease their pain over failure and discontentment. It's like that all over the world, not just in Atlanta.

"Being a woman makes it that much worse, though, especially in the South. And you," he waved his hand at her. "Well, you would stand out plowing a cotton field in an old calico dress."

She laughed. He seemed to remember everything.

"I always suspected, but I didn't understand until today, how you take care of your own," he continued.

"I never felt that was a choice to make."

"Yet you hurt yourself, ensuring their wellbeing."

She shrugged. "It had to be done. They were my people and had no one else to turn to for help. What would you do in the same situation?" He studied her for a moment before looking back across the land.

"Rain's blowing in," he said instead of answering. "A storm trailed me from Atlanta from the time I left. Looks like it's just getting here. The weather service said it was long gone."

"The weather service," she snorted lightly.

She looked out over the rolling fields, the long driveway, and her face lit up with the love she felt for it. As vain as she was, she had no idea how beautiful she appeared in such moments.

Leif cleared his throat, and when she looked at him she felt moved to comment.

"Your eyes are as dark blue as the night sky right now," she looked back down at her basket; again not wanting to use her usual flirty and coquettish ways with him, and not knowing why. "I wonder if they'll turn gray when it starts to rain."

"And your eyes are the green of the Aurora Borealis, and change just as easily," he smiled enough to show the dimple in his cheek at her questioning look.

"You spoke of those lights that night when we sat on the lawn moon-gazing with Tate and Babette." It seemed so long ago.

"According to legend, the lights are the reflections of the armor and shields of the Valkyrie, female warriors of yore who predicted which men would survive in battle, and which would be killed."

"The women fought? Alongside the men?"

"Alongside them, and against them. The lore of my culture is filled with tales of strong women. Women who fight battles, discover countries, rule the land. Our mothers teach us the stories from a young age."

He looked as if a thought had just occurred to him. "You know my people fought yours for the Hill of Tara a thousand years ago."

"Yes, my father told me all about it, many times."

"You are so Irish."

"I won't deny or act ashamed of it."

"You shouldn't." He rocked his chair, once. "Back to the legends. Sigrid the Haughty wanted to rule by herself after her husband died. Lesser kings, however, had designs upon Sweden and insisted on courting her. So she set at least two on fire, as a warning. It worked," he smirked at her, "eventually. Aud the Deep-Minded built a ship secretly in the woods so she could escape capture after her husband and son were killed. She captained the ship, filled with her family and servants, and went on to settle Iceland. Brynhild avenged herself—" he stopped suddenly.

"I fear I'm boring you with all this."

"That's not true. You're a wonderful storyteller, and I happen to like these stories," she did manage to bat her eyelashes at him just a bit then, and he laughed.

Then they just sat, sometimes rocking, for a while. She felt like they could have done that for hours, and it would not have been awkward or boring. Time passed as she worked on her basket. He seemed content to merely be there, in her presence. When it got too dark to see at all she set the basket aside.

He started talking again then, of his homeland, and she could hear the murmur of the sea and the salty wind in his words, in the tone of his voice. He spoke of ice hunting on the fjords of Norway, on the huge ships of his family. Of summer days that never grew dark, of winter ones that never saw the light of day, other than the greens and reds of the Borealis, changing like sunbeams through the prisms in her basket. He spoke of the midnight sun, in the northern part of his country, and the polar nights. Of forests so deep and snow-filled they appeared surreal, out of a fairy tale.

"It sounds beautiful, but brutal with all that cold. So there are snowstorms and blizzards all the time?"

"Fairly frequently, but probably not as much as you would think. The snow just doesn't melt until spring, so what we get, we keep for a long time."

"I'd go crazy inside, cooped up."

'You can get cabin fever, as you call it here in the winter. And during the rainy season, it can be monotonous. Yet also a chance to get better acquainted. Most babies are born in the summer, which means they were made during the winter months.

"Oh," Scarlett said, not knowing how to respond to that.

"You adjust to the cold. And the sun shines a great deal, even in the most bitter months. We have a good bit of vindusvær." She waited for his explanation. "Window weather. It's when the outdoors looks deceptively beautiful and sunny from inside your house, but freezing if you go out."

She nodded and he went on again. She found she enjoyed the sound of his voice, as well as the words he uttered, the cadence and rhythm of them.

When he paused after a while she spoke, talked of the freedom of a child, a beloved and treasured child, who roamed and played at will, who felt enchantment in every bent tree limb, every gesture of her parents, every breeze that blew across this ground, every crystal-clear moment of her youth, until suffering took her innocence and, it felt like too often, much of her potential for tenderness away.

The rain became a steady patter and they watched as it hit and danced along the red dirt. A forgotten memory reached the surface of her mind and she turned to him, urgent, lest it disappear.

"Right now, before it gets too dark and the rain gets heavier—when I was little we would race to that tree down by the stables, race the water coming down. If you got there first, and without getting soaked, you won. Of course, you got soaked on the way back, but we were children and didn't plan that far ahead!"

He watched her as she spoke with such animation, his eyes reflecting off the rainwater just as she thought they might. He stood up and reached out for her hand.

"Come," he said, and there was nothing in the world she wanted to do more.

"Why? What for?" she asked as she stood, because she felt she must.

"To be little with me," he whispered as he tugged on her hand, a beautiful golden boy who wanted to play with her, and she became a girl again, the girl she had been, the one she missed so much, and before she knew it they were off the porch, laughing and running and she let go his hand and lifted her skirts because he might be a foot taller but by God! She could run!

She might not have passed him but she did keep up and they were wild, elemental things, fire and water racing down a hill. When they reached the tree she tripped on a root and crashed into him, the momentum nearly taking them down.

He leaned against the tree trunk and caught her by both arms and pulled her up while lowering his head, and he kissed her, then, as if it was nothing and everything and the most natural thing in the world to do, the only thing, and she gave herself up, over to the kiss, that seemed to go on and on forever. When finally she came up for breath he cradled her head gently against his shoulder, much as he had cradled that puppy earlier in the day, as if he were holding a delicate and precious thing.

They breathed together for a mere heartbeat and then he turned her head and kissed her again, this time not serendipitously but with purpose, completely and thoroughly and in a manner that only men who know exactly how to do so can. She felt enveloped by him, swallowed whole by the maleness and the smell of him; the practiced skill of his lips, his mouth, his tongue.

She reveled in the moment, closed her eyes and willed herself to just be, as long as she could. She warmed and melted, longed for something that became bittersweet as she realized she couldn't have it; not at that moment, anyway.

The slightest of prickling sensations started and then became stronger. She pulled back and looked over his shoulder to see a huge gray wolf, the wolf, standing in the clearing just beyond the trees, illuminated by the lighted windows of the plantation house and staring straight at her through the pouring rain.

"Leif," she said.

"Hush," he returned, his lips traveling down her neck.

"Leif." His eyes followed hers and before she knew it he'd picked her up silently, quickly moving them both into the stable.

The door closed and he hesitated before setting her down, severing the physical contact between them. They stared at each other, neither one wanting to break the silence, but then she spoke.

"I can't." She backed up from him. He inclined his head, never taking his eyes from hers.

"I'm not—I don't do this." Well, she kind of did, a long time ago.

His countenance became defiant. "I won't apologize for it." His voice lowered, becoming huskier as he spoke, deeper, more deliberate. "You are a primordial being, one that demands warmth and touch, the way a flame demands air. How a man could be married to you and not give that to you is beyond my comprehension."

"Yet I am married." Her mind flashed to another man and an orchard, the same orchard only a short walk down the way, and she cursed at the despair the similarity of the memory loaded onto her heavy heart.

"For how long? He is never here, and you know he is not going without— affection." She ignored the bite of those particular words.

"I don't know, and I don't know what I want, what would be the best in the long run for my family." She couldn't give a more honest answer than that. "I thought I wanted a divorce, but Ennis says it's complicated for the wife to file, and I don't want to hurt my children. That's why I'm working with General Hampton, to give them better chances."

He turned quickly and looked out the window as thunder boomed and lightning lit up the sky. The horses shuffled and whined in their stalls.

"I can't leave for Mimosa yet, the horse will be spooked until it lets up. We're stuck here for a while."

"There's something I need to tell you," he led her by the hand to a bench by the door. She felt the curling of dread in her stomach. He sat beside her and began to speak in a conversational tone, just as he had on the porch, like they hadn't been frolicking in the rain only minutes before.

"I came to this country after several years in the family ice trade, as I told you earlier tonight. I liked it well enough, but my wife wanted to try something different, and we were tired of the cold and the long, dark winters. We had two small children, wanted to bring them to this new world, let them see somewhere else, somewhere full of promise and adventure.

"But my wife and son died soon after, as you know. I wandered south after the war to get away from the pain, and had only been in New Orleans a year or so, and made a nice living for myself, if not a fortune. It was soon time to stop licking my wounds and up the ante, so to speak. I found the perfect place for a small venture: a restaurant and art studio. My—female companion— helped me. She was of the merchant class and became a working woman after hardships of the war, and my mistress eventually.

"I kept rooms and lived above the studio, to guard it, protect it. I was proud of that studio. I'd culled artwork from all over the South, much of it purchased from old plantation owners and gentility that had managed to hang onto it during the war. Quality people started frequenting my businesses, and so next door I wanted to start my first hotel.

"Unfortunately he," here he paused, and she knew exactly who 'he' was, "wanted it as well."

A pause before he continued. "It was late in the summer of '66. Annalise ran the coffee house for me and he started coming in and talking to her, luring her in. We both knew of his money, his reputation. I was not without funds, but my collateral was still tied up in the ice trade ships, and all the artwork I purchased, waiting for the market to recover. I'd made deals to sell enough to secure the property and was merely waiting on the funds to come through.

"But he wanted that building as well, to bankroll a sporting house as a silent partner," he cut his eyes at her sideways. "He'd done it before.

"While I was out tending to business he stopped at the coffee shop every day, charming my mistress and trying to extract the details of my arrangement. Somehow he got enough information out of her to compromise my deal. He had my price, he bettered it with a cash offer and took the building out from under me.

"And my Annalise along with it. I think he just wanted the building. She was a boon.

"The sporting house took off, they usually do. Of course, it turned out to be the death of my little arthouse and cafe, as well as the relationship with Annalise."

Scarlett fell silent. She'd been married to Frank, about to have his baby. And this is how Rhett had spent her confinement and the first month or two of Ella's life. It was just another little sting on a huge pile of hurts, after all.

"What did you do? After that?"

He shrugged. "He'd effectively run me out of business, at least at that perfect location that I held so dear. I sold the property at a loss but kept the artwork inventory. I kept buying what I could, some of it on consignment. Eventually, the market came back, and I made out quite nicely. I built one hotel, then another, then bought a few more. My father died, and I still own half the ice trade with my brother. It's highly profitable. I have my fortune, albeit much later than it would have been had he not interfered."

"And Annalise?"

"She quit working for the sporting house some time before he sold it." Ah. She wondered when he'd done that, but didn't want to ask. "She tried to contact me again, but it wasn't the same."

"I'm glad he didn't damage you too badly, financially at least." Another thought occurred to her, a fresh bite, and it hurt that much more. She turned to him with wide eyes, pulling her hand out of his.

"Revenge. That's what this is about. You want revenge and you're going through me to get it, to have an affair with me and get even with him. He won't care, mind you, about me, but he will care about the public view. And he'll use it to hurt me, he always does."

"No," he moved forward, and she moved back. "No."

"That's what you don't understand. He's done it before, when he was trying to rebuild his reputation for our daughter, he stepped on my neck to push himself up. And now, if he wants to get a divorce by showing that I'm at fault, for whatever reason, he'll do it again."

She jumped up and began to pace. "You saw first hand how dangerous, how malicious he can be. And then he'll go riding off into the sunset, and I'll be left behind to try to clean up the disaster. This time I don't think I can clean it up. People aren't going to give me any more chances, and I'm out of heart."

He creased his brow in consternation. "Surely not. You're his wife and the mother of children he cares for …"

"You've wasted your time. It won't hurt him. Only me." She panicked. 'And my children! Oh god, my children, they will be hurt the most."

She wrung her hands, distraught. He watched her carefully, and then tried to move toward her again. She held up a hand to stop him.

"Don't try to play me for a fool any more than you already have. You knew all along who I was. You must have gone after me with this entire scenario in the back of your mind."

"Listen." His tone brooked no argument, and reluctantly she met his gaze. "I might have thought about it, very briefly, before we met. I may have even toyed with it for a moment that first night, but then within thirty minutes of meeting you at the National all those weeks ago, I knew I couldn't do it," he ran a hair through his hair, loosened and mussed a bit due to the rain.

"You were never a ploy. You said you were on your own, he wasn't a part of the project. I'd heard some things, it's true. I found very quickly that I wanted you to succeed."

Her expression said she didn't believe him. She stared at him with hot eyes, unseeing. He moved again and she jumped.

Something shone in his eyes that she did not want, something too akin to pity. "You are safe with me, and you always will be. There are others, Scarlett, that you do need to worry about. I will try to protect you, but you need to be careful in Atlanta, especially with the work you're doing for the Democratic Party."

"I can't worry about the others right now when it's you in front of me," she whirled toward the door.

"Just go, please, so I can think. Perhaps he'll stay busy wherever he is for a while, and we'll have time to fix this. At this point, that's the best we can hope for. I can't think about it here, with you here."

His posture stiffened, and he walked to the door and peered out. "The wolf's gone. You're safe now," he said, and she wondered if he spoke metaphorically.

"I don't think there's anything to fix," he didn't turn around. "It was just a kiss, Scarlett."

She started to speak again, but he was gone just like the wolf, the door swinging open behind him. She couldn't even make out his retreating back in the pouring rain.

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

Fun fact: The National Weather Service was first organized through the Organic Act passed by Congress on February 2, 1870, and signed into law by President Ulysses S. Grant on February 9, 1870. —NWS website. Yes. THAT Ulysses Grant.

This was accomplished under the umbrella of the USDA, as weather is so important to agriculture and farming. As always, it amazes me what people were able to accomplish without electricity.

Personal note: I don't have a citation for it at the moment, but apparently wolves aren't afraid of lightning and thunder the way domesticated dogs are, even though they are descended from wolves. There's nature and there's nurture, I suppose. I found this out long ago when I googled it after getting tired of dragging my rescue Pekingese out from under a low-to-the-ground, and therefore very tight-fitting bureau. He also likes to get under my clawfoot tub and refuses to come out. Good times. Once, after bruising myself deeply on a recovery mission I yelled at him that I had more wolf blood in me than he does. Still not sure I don't.

Yes, I still own brachy dogs, sigh, and yes, we have a little dog theme going on in this story. It's fun for me. Hope you don't mind.

More A/N Rhett returns next chapter. Don't worry, he's getting his mojo back. I have plans for that guy.

The more I finish these chapters, the less stressed I am, thank you to the guest who expressed concern! It's just I have been working on these words forever and ever, I was running on fumes and my groove was gone … like Mr. B I'm getting it back. Just in time, too. I don't know how much longer we could have made it …

And thank you as well to the others who have left kind messages and words. See you before midnight … let me know if you're still with me! Peace, misscyn