pieces of his childhood lingered. Shaking off the urge to watch until her hair was dry and she went back inside, he forced himself to move instead.
Noah tied the beavers together by the legs, slung his burden over his shoulder and let the animals hang against his back. He took his rifle in the same hand as the rope and then started up the crude wooden steps nailed to the tree. When he was halfway up she sang the chorus aloud and the words came rushing back to him along with the rest of the tune. Without thinking, he began to whistle along.
“Fa-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la.”
He whistled all the way up the ladder as the words flowed merrily through his head, their meaning nonsense at first; a miracle really, that his mind could recall them from so very long ago.
“
Soldier, O soldier, a-comin’ from the plain / Courted a lady through honor and through fame / Her beauty shone so bright that it never could be told / She always loved the soldier because he was so bold / Fa-la-la-la-la
…”
When his head cleared the edge of the porch, Noah stopped abruptly. Olivia was no longer singing. She was still seated on the stool, her dark hair clean and partially damp, flowing around her shoulders. His mother’s butterscotch doeskin dress covered her completely except where the open neck skimmed her collarbone and her forearms showed at the ends of the short sleeves. Her bare toes and ankles were revealed beneath the fringed hem. The shawl had slipped, draped itself over the crooks of her arms.
He pulled himself up until he was standing on the porch. She grimaced when he dropped the beaver carcasses on the wooden deck, so he picked them up again and carried them around the corner out of sight. When he came back, she was standing with one hand braced against the rail that surrounded the porch. Her slight figure was almost lost inside the dress. He took in the rest of her. Dirty, she had been lovely. Clean, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.
In that moment he knew that he could stand there forever just for the privilege of watching the sunlight shimmer on her hair, to see the soft breeze lift the ends of her flowing curls and tease them around her shoulders. To see her stand there and look back at him made his head swim and his mouth go dry. Surely his physical reaction had nothing to do with her. Surely there was something else wrong with him, something behind this strange surge of longing, the overwhelming need for something elusive and far more than he had ever wanted out of life before.
Olivia seemed hesitant to step away from the rail. Why
would
she dare move, he wondered, with him standing there staring at her with his one good eye like some kind of a madman? The only way to break the spell was to concentrate on anything but her.
“The dress and shawl were my mother’s,” he said abruptly.
She ran a hand over the smooth doeskin. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not fancy.” He felt as if his throat were closing up and could not get more than two words out.
“Still, it’s very nice. It feels like velvet. The shawl is wonderful.”
“You look better.”
He almost told her she looked beautiful.
He was no saint, just a flesh-and-blood man, and right now his flesh and blood were taking over his rational thought. If the whore down in New Orleans had not laughed in his face, if he had ever had a woman, maybe he would not be standing here salivating over Olivia Bond, wondering what it would feel like to take her in his arms and make love to her. As it was, he could only imagine how it would be to run his hands over her smooth skin, to wrap himself in her long hair, to bury himself inside her.
His heart was thundering in his chest, his blood hammering at his temples. He was either going stark raving mad with desire or coming down with some terrible disease.
He forced himself to concentrate. Her color had faded except for two bright spots high across her cheeks. It was a
Noah tied the beavers together by the legs, slung his burden over his shoulder and let the animals hang against his back. He took his rifle in the same hand as the rope and then started up the crude wooden steps nailed to the tree. When he was halfway up she sang the chorus aloud and the words came rushing back to him along with the rest of the tune. Without thinking, he began to whistle along.
“Fa-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la.”
He whistled all the way up the ladder as the words flowed merrily through his head, their meaning nonsense at first; a miracle really, that his mind could recall them from so very long ago.
“
Soldier, O soldier, a-comin’ from the plain / Courted a lady through honor and through fame / Her beauty shone so bright that it never could be told / She always loved the soldier because he was so bold / Fa-la-la-la-la
…”
When his head cleared the edge of the porch, Noah stopped abruptly. Olivia was no longer singing. She was still seated on the stool, her dark hair clean and partially damp, flowing around her shoulders. His mother’s butterscotch doeskin dress covered her completely except where the open neck skimmed her collarbone and her forearms showed at the ends of the short sleeves. Her bare toes and ankles were revealed beneath the fringed hem. The shawl had slipped, draped itself over the crooks of her arms.
He pulled himself up until he was standing on the porch. She grimaced when he dropped the beaver carcasses on the wooden deck, so he picked them up again and carried them around the corner out of sight. When he came back, she was standing with one hand braced against the rail that surrounded the porch. Her slight figure was almost lost inside the dress. He took in the rest of her. Dirty, she had been lovely. Clean, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.
In that moment he knew that he could stand there forever just for the privilege of watching the sunlight shimmer on her hair, to see the soft breeze lift the ends of her flowing curls and tease them around her shoulders. To see her stand there and look back at him made his head swim and his mouth go dry. Surely his physical reaction had nothing to do with her. Surely there was something else wrong with him, something behind this strange surge of longing, the overwhelming need for something elusive and far more than he had ever wanted out of life before.
Olivia seemed hesitant to step away from the rail. Why
would
she dare move, he wondered, with him standing there staring at her with his one good eye like some kind of a madman? The only way to break the spell was to concentrate on anything but her.
“The dress and shawl were my mother’s,” he said abruptly.
She ran a hand over the smooth doeskin. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not fancy.” He felt as if his throat were closing up and could not get more than two words out.
“Still, it’s very nice. It feels like velvet. The shawl is wonderful.”
“You look better.”
He almost told her she looked beautiful.
He was no saint, just a flesh-and-blood man, and right now his flesh and blood were taking over his rational thought. If the whore down in New Orleans had not laughed in his face, if he had ever had a woman, maybe he would not be standing here salivating over Olivia Bond, wondering what it would feel like to take her in his arms and make love to her. As it was, he could only imagine how it would be to run his hands over her smooth skin, to wrap himself in her long hair, to bury himself inside her.
His heart was thundering in his chest, his blood hammering at his temples. He was either going stark raving mad with desire or coming down with some terrible disease.
He forced himself to concentrate. Her color had faded except for two bright spots high across her cheeks. It was a
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