Intimacy
1903 Words
*Wade*
I cross my forearms over the fence railing. Sorrel snorts and nudges my elbow.
"No apples." I scratch behind the horse's ear. Most cowboys wouldn't be caught dead riding a she-horse, but I have discovered I can approach a herd of wild mustangs with more success when I ride a mare.
Although wary of a strange horse, a stallion is more likely to accept a female into his domain. He would viciously fight another stallion. Also I find that mares are often more intelligent. "You have best get some sleep, old friend. I sure as hell won't get any tonight."
The horse nudges my elbow again and when no apple is forthcoming, she trots away, leaving me to enjoy the solitude I crave.
I know it isn't uncommon for people to offer their bed to visitors, even when the travelers aren't married. The lack of towns and hotels has resulted in a code of hospitality across the plains that I can't help but admire.
Still, I'm not certain that Chase would appreciate our neighbors' generosity. I can only hope that my brother would understand that Julieta couldn't have spoken truer words: Nothing is going to happen in that bed. Nothing at all. Hell, I probably won't even be able to sleep.
I feel someone watching me, the gaze more of a tickle than a stare. I glance down. Big eyes look up at me. Incredibly innocent. I wish I could give the little girl a smile, but I know no matter how hard I try that the left side of my face won't cooperate, and I would end up giving her something distorted and uglier than what she's looking at now, something that might frighten her.
"I got a hurt," she says. She lifts her skirt until her white bloomers come into view along with her scraped knee. "My ma kissed it and made it better." She releases her skirt and points her finger. "You got a hurt."
"Yeah, reckon I do." Right in the center of my heart.
She scrunches up her face. "I can kiss it and make it better."
Something inside my chest grows so tight that I think I might not be able to breathe. She crooks her little finger and wiggles it at me. "Come here."
Holding on to the railing for support, I bend my knees, squatting until I'm as close to her height as I can get. Her eyes grow large and serious. She puckers her tiny lips, bobs her head forward, then runs off. The brush of her mouth against my cheek had been as faint as the first breath of dawn. Deep inside, I smile.
*Briony*
Standing a few feet away and slightly behind his left side, I know that his hampered vision prevents him from seeing me.
I also realize with awe that he is smiling. Not on the outside where it would show, but within a secret place where he harbors his fears and his doubts, where I imagine a fifteen-year-old boy mourns the loss of his youth.
I know that I am wrong to watch him without his knowledge, but I want to understand him as much as I need to understand Chase. With Chase, I will have an advantage. I am certain he will talk with me and ask me questions. His brother will hold his hurts, his longings, his dreams close to his heart where no one can share them.
I turn and walk back to the house, where my bath waits. I haven't seen Wade's smile, but it hovers around him, like a whispered sigh, sweet and unexpected.
*Wade*
I sink into the steaming hot water and let out a slow, appreciative breath. Julieta has been thoughtful, draping blankets over the back porch railing for a bit of privacy. The cool night air brushes against my skin. In the distance, the sky is painted with strokes of orange and lavender.
A man couldn't ask for much more than this.
I close my eye. Briony was in this water before me. Julieta added more hot water after Briony got out, but if I focus, I think I can still catch her sweet scent. It's floral, but not one I recognize.
I picture her tiny feet where mine are now, the lye soap gliding over her skin before mine. The intimacy of sharing the same water, soap, and air that has touched her envelops me.
My mouth feels as dry as the West Texas breeze. Here I am, sitting in a tub of water, yet I'm dying of thirst. I open my eye just as the soap slips from my grasp, spirals through the air, and skids toward the dirt.
Briony is there, bending down to pick it up.
"What are you doing out here?" My voice comes out rough.
She straightens, leaning against the porch railing, meeting my gaze. "I have never seen you enjoy anything."
"I was enjoying the bath until now." I point out.
"I know." Her smile is so sweet I worry she can see right through me.
I extend my hand. "I need the soap back. And some privacy."
She hands me the soap then offers a cup full of shaving lather. "The beard doesn't suit you."
I touch my rough jaw. "I'll shave it, then."
"I'd be happy to help." She says.
"I can manage." I mumble.
She bites her lip, hesitant. "I shaved Mr. Bryant every morning. I'm quite good at it."
I watch her expressions dance, and I know she's waiting for me to ask. But true to form, I keep my silence.
Then she's beside the tub, her courage wavering as I splash her in my panic.
"I'm not wearing a stitch!" I half yell.
She's seen me unclothed before, though I don't bring it up. She would argue the past was different, and I had have to concede. She pulls a blanket from the railing, covering the tub. "Now, I can only see your face and shoulders. Let me shave you. It's a small thank you for taking care of me."
I survey the porch.
"Julieta and Sarah are in bed. Dean's in the barn." She says.
I swallow.
She sees the fear in me. "I won't hurt you," she says, her smile gentle. "I want to help you forget."
"You're using my own words against me," I grumble.
"They're unforgettable. You don't speak much." She says.
I huff. "You're aggravating."
But she smiles, and I can't help but soften a little as she prepares the brush, both of us trying to ease the tension before the night closes in and we end up in the same bed.
"My father owned a plantation before the war," she starts, and suddenly she has all my attention as she applies the lather to my face. "I had two sisters, no brothers. I was the favorite, the little chubby pumpkin."
I frown. "Can't picture you pudgy."
"War changes everyone," she says, and the weight of those words fills the space between us.
My brow relaxes. "Yeah, I reckon it does."
She sets the lather cup down and slips the razor out of her pocket, giving me time to ask a question, but no question comes.
Placing her finger beneath my chin, she tilts my head back. "I told you that Papa died. It was just before the war ended. Mama said he took the fever, but I think he just grieved for the South he loved, the South that was disappearing. My sisters died shortly after he did. Then it was just Mama and me."
She takes a moment to enjoy the sound of the razor scraping over my unmarred jaw. "Mr. Bryant came from the North and paid the taxes on the plantation. He let me and Mama stay on to serve him. We moved to the slave quarters."
My jaw drops. She pushes it back up. "You need to keep still so I don't cut you."
"He shouldn't have done that." I say.
She shrugs. "I'm just grateful he didn't make us sleep in the fields or turn us out completely. When he planted cotton, we picked it."
"Me and Chase used to pick cotton when we were young." I tell.
She sits back on her heels. "You did?"
I nod. "I didn't mind it so much, but Chase hated it. Swore when he got old enough, he'd find himself a job that didn't involve plowing fields or picking crops. Reckon that's why he likes cattle."
She stands and walks to the other side.
"I can finish shaving," I say, reaching for the razor.
She bats my hand away. "I can do it." Carefully, she begins to shave the area below the patch, to work her way around my scars. "Anyway, eventually, Mr. Bryant let Mama work in the house. When she died, I took over her chores. I tended to his needs when he got too feeble to take care of himself. He was such a proud man. In the end, I grew rather fond of him, even though he was a Yankee."
She angles her head to study my face. "Shall I leave the whiskers above your lip so you can grow a mustache?"
"If you want. A man with a face like mine doesn't put much stock in how he looks." I admit.
*Briony*
But he does care, I realize, thinking back to the day I met him. He was clean-shaven then. The morning we were to leave, he bathed and shaved. And he brings along his shaving equipment and a tiny mirror so he can keep up his appearance as we travel.
If he wants a mustache, he would grow one without me suggesting it. I purse my lips and narrow my eyes. "No, I think a mustache would hide your mouth, and you have such a nice-looking mouth."
In the fading light, I see the blush creep over his face. Gingerly, I shave over his lip. A shiver shimmies up my spine when his breath fans my knuckles.
I wipe the remnants of lather away and trail my fingers along his smooth jaw, across his chin, and up his cheek until my palm cradles the side of his face, my fingertips resting lightly against the patch. It pleases me that he doesn't grab my wrist and pull my hand away. "Does it still hurt?"
I watch as he swallows. "Sometimes... when a Northern wind blows through, it will ache."
My gaze drifts back to his lips. They look incredibly soft and out of place on a face as rugged as his. I lift my eyes and discover that he's studying my mouth as well. Self-consciously, I lick my lips.
His gaze slowly roams over my features until they settle on my eyes. "It'll be dark soon. You'd best get inside. All manner of animals come out at night."
Withdrawing my hand from his cheek, I stand up. "I set some towels by the fire to warm. The breeze can be quite chilling when you're wet. I'll get them for you."
As calmly as I can, my stomach quivering, I stroll away, knowing that I shouldn't have enjoyed shaving Wade as much as I did, knowing that I shouldn't wonder if his lips are as soft and warm as they appear. I make a silent vow that on the morning following my wedding, I'll shave Chase.
- Writer
