Cupid’s Confederates Read online

  “Looks fine,” Grady said finally, totally bored. “Must be a good moisture base in the soil, just like Zach said. Taken on growth even this last week in the heat. Probably make a fortune on the damn things.”

  Bett relaxed. “It was nice of you to take the time, Grady. I have to admit that for the entire last month both of us have barely set foot in the orchard.”

  “’Course you haven’t. You two are too busy taking on too much; wouldn’t kill you to hire a little extra help, you know. Useless talking to you,” Grady said disgustedly.

  Bett interpreted that as high praise. Working oneself to death rated respect from Grady. “We’re doing okay.”

  “You don’t know where I could catch up with Zach?”

  From the cloud of dust coming from the hill beyond the barn, she could make a shrewd guess. “Could I help you in the meantime?” she asked.

  “Got a tractor needs an O-ring, and Brown’s is out.”

  “Out of my bailiwick,” Bett admitted.

  Grady gave her a sidelong glance. “I’ve seen lots worse with a tractor than you.”

  Bett stuffed her hands in her back pockets. The cloud of dust came closer; Zach was driving the old 350 tractor. She didn’t try to continue the conversation with Grady. At first she’d been offended by his brusque attitude, until she’d caught on. Grady was basically terrified of women. Such casual compliments as the one he’d just handed her made him turn beet-red. Lobsterish at the moment. And one of these days she was going to give him a big hug and probably scare the pipe right out of his hand.

  Zach sprang down from the tractor with a welcoming smile for his neighbor. He did not, Bett noticed, even glance her way. As he strode forward, she couldn’t help but notice that his shirt had dried in a disastrously wrinkled fashion since his dunking some three hours before. She was about to inquire innocently about his disgraceful appearance when she felt a solid slap on her backside, followed by the welcome weight of his arm around her shoulders. She returned the hug. Grady, as usual, ignored any hint of a personal exchange between them.

  “What’s up?” Zach asked him.

  “O-rings. Damn Brown can’t get his till tomorrow, and I got a field needs spraying tonight. And the only tractor I got free-”

  “Your John Deere or the Massey?” Zach questioned.

  “The John Deere.” Grady paused, jutting a wiry leg forward. “And I wanted to tell you those young peaches look good. You keep a fresh mow like I told you. Don’t want weeds leaching any moisture in this weather.”

  Bett only half listened to the farmer talk, more interested in the feel of Zach’s arm on her shoulders, the graze of his shirt against hers. Her husband radiated warmth, strength and the exhaustion of a man who took too few ten-minute breaks-plus a purely virile message that raised her blood pressure. He still hadn’t looked her in the eye.

  “Can you give me some idea of what time you want dinner, Zach?” she interrupted them finally.

  “I’ll be in as soon as we’ve fixed up Grady’s tractor. Bett.”

  She was about to make for the house when he hooked an arm around her waist and turned her. He was definitely looking her in the eye this time, from about four inches away. Those eyes of his were promising endless retribution for her mischief at the pond.

  “You go in, take a shower and relax with an iced tea,” he ordered. “You were up before I was this morning. I’ll worry about dinner.”

  “Sure,” Bett agreed, and added demurely, “sir.” She did like a dominating man. And in the meantime, knowing that Grady had a penchant for long-winded conversations, she figured she could at least get the bills opened and the house in livable order before Zach came in.

  “I mean it,” Zach said roughly.

  She kissed him on the cheek. Grady packed his pipe a mile a minute. After a moment, the two men strode off toward the shop in the barn. Bett stood for just a minute longer in the yard, surrounded by fading sunlight and the dust of an impossibly hot day.

  The huge old barn cast gray shadows on the yellow farmyard. Every muscle in her body ached from weariness, yet Bett’s mind was on the semi due in after dinner to load up their peaches from the morning’s pick. Only Zach looked tired. Overtired.

  Scolding him would do no good at all. Seducing him directly after dinner might-yes, a nice, totally degenerate, wanton, explosive interlude of lovemaking should do the trick. She could guarantee that Zach would fall asleep afterward. Then she could load the truck by herself and finish up the rest of the next day’s work preparations. He’d never even know.

  The plan was excellent. Bett nodded approvingly and headed for the house. She was hotter than an iron, her feet were killing her, and the nape of her neck was prickly under the weight of her shoulder-length hair. But handling her difficult-to-manage husband took priority over her own physical discomforts.

  They took care of each other. They had that kind of marriage. Zach was her strength, her laughter, her entire definition of love. There were times when it took every ounce of imagination she had to subtly keep him in his place. Next to her.

  Chapter 2

  Bett slipped out of her work boots and her socks at the door, wiggled her toes and padded barefoot on the cool terra-cotta floor toward the kitchen. Ignoring a disgraceful layer of dust and casual clutter, her eyes swept over the rest of the downstairs en route, loving it. Their underground house was in the shape of a half-moon, and except for the structural dome and the glass, she and Zach had built it all themselves last winter.

  The main floor sprawled around a central double-opening fieldstone fireplace. Sunlight poured into both the living room and kitchen from their shared southern exposure; hidden in the rear of the house were the pantry, the bath, the laundry and Zach’s study. Gently curving walls on the main floor climbed to a vaulted ceiling above, where huge semicircular windows encouraged sunlight to pour into the bedrooms. An open stairway led upward.

  There was a mood of space and openness to the entire house. Plants in carved crockery brought the outside in; two leaf-green couches formed a conversation cluster; an old deacon’s bench leaned against the curved wall of the living room. The bookcases were generous; Zach and Bett were both insatiable readers, at least in the winter. Generally, there was a splash of fresh flowers somewhere.

  The place wasn’t overcrowded with furniture. Neither wanted to burden their space with excess furnishings, even if they’d had the money to do so. Truthfully, the last thing they’d needed was the expense of a new house, but Uncle John’s derelict old farmhouse had forced the decision. Not only had that ancient structure been crumbling from the foundations, but the furnace worked only from June until August; lights gratuitously went on in the middle of the night; and the plumbing only made a tired effort. It would have taken more money to fix up Uncle John’s house than to build their own. This one, at least, hadn’t been outrageously costly, both because they’d done most of the work themselves and because Zach was a maniac about energy conservation.

  And to Bett, their place was distinctly theirs. In summer, they could collapse into a chair in filthy jeans, drinking iced tea while waiting for the next crisis. In winter, they could dress up on a special evening and sip honey wine in front of the fire and feel very, very luxurious. The house just fit them. And where else could a married couple say they’d made love on a gently sloping, grass-cushioned roof?

  You’re digressing again, Bett told herself, and opened the refrigerator. Stop thinking about sex. Think about…money. Or babies.

  Nothing in the refrigerator announced itself as irresistible. She closed the door and ambled back to the desk in Zach’s study to attack the bills. Slitting the first envelope, she noted that the local fuel deliverer had put a sticker of a smiling face on the invoice, which indicated that they owed him a whopping $939. George had such a sense of humor. She hoped his humor would last until they were paid for last Monday’s peaches.

  Babies were more fun to think about than money, anyway. Actually, the diapered specie
s was another of their motivations for building a house. Upstairs there happened to be three spacious rooms-one the master bedroom, one a combination spare room and storage niche that Bett promised herself regularly she would organize, and the third…the third room was still unpainted, still empty. Waiting. This was the room she and Zach had designated as the nursery.

  This year they hoped to finish paying off their major loan from the bank, and next year they had additional orchards finally coming into production. Babies were just about ready to be slotted into the agenda. They’d been practicing to make them for some time. Zach, probably because he had been orphaned as a teenager, wanted a hundred. Bett would have settled for one. At times, the nesting urge would fill her with longing, but then Zach would really get in the spirit of practicing again…

  You have a one-track mind this evening, she scolded herself and went upstairs. After taking a quick shower, she donned a pair of old white jeans and a T-shirt of Zach’s, then padded barefoot down to the kitchen again. After swiping the counter with a sponge and popping the lunch dishes into the dishwasher, she reopened the refrigerator, hoping that this time a decision about dinner would miraculously occur to her.

  It didn’t. The only thought that did occur to her was that her mother would disown her for the way she kept house and organized meals. The thought of her mom instantly sent a wave of uneasiness through Bett’s mind. Elizabeth was in Milwaukee, only a few hours’ drive by car. When Bett was being honest with herself, she considered that distance exactly enough; she was able to see Elizabeth often without the two women being on top of each other. Not that they didn’t care about and love each other, but having such very different values, they inevitably, and sometimes sadly, clashed.

  Bett stared at the offerings in the refrigerator, unconsciously biting her lip. Her father had died exactly thirteen months and four days ago; she was not likely to forget. She and her dad had been a matched pair; they both liked football games on Sunday afternoons and fooling around in the yard and talking with their feet propped up on the coffee table. Her mother was not at all that way. Elizabeth had not been coping well since Chet’s death. Bett was at a loss, not knowing how to help her mother, who was so different from her in every way. That geographical distance had begun to seem something she should feel guilty about.

  “Bett?”

  She chuckled at Zach’s growl, other thoughts chased away. Her husband was hardly likely to forget her desertion at the pond. Zach strode into the kitchen and paused, hands on hips, watching her as she started to prepare a picnic dinner of ham slices, cheese, fresh fruit and raw vegetables with dip. It was too hot for heavier fare, anyway.

  “Did I or did I not tell you to come in here and put your feet up?” he asked mildly.

  “Oh, Lord. I haven’t disobeyed another order?”

  “You have.” Zach took a tray from above the refrigerator and nudged her aside with his hip to finish what she’d started. “You were in enough disgrace already,” he mentioned over his shoulder.

  “Oh?” The sun had turned his skin bronze over the summer, a bronze that delightfully set off his light eyes. She’d always basically disliked the muscle-bound type, but she was extremely fond of Zach’s muscles, primarily because his sinew was attached to a lean frame that radiated sheer maleness whenever he moved. Fluid was the word. His body was tough and hard; inside, though she’d never tell him, there was tender stuff. Gentleness, even, when no one was looking and the lights were off. “So your swim felt good?” she asked idly. “Lord, it was hot this afternoon. Did you get Grady’s tractor fixed?”

  “The tractor’s fixed, the semi’s already been here to pick up the peaches, the equipment’s all ready for tomorrow…and anyone could have been driving around the farm while you were streaking about naked.”

  She followed Zach into the living room, carrying the smaller tray with iced-tea glasses and silverware. “I wasn’t streaking about naked. I took a quick dip in the pond to cool off. The bees have to be separated or they’re going to swarm,” she added seriously.

  “How’s the honey production?”

  They settled themselves on facing couches. “Absolutely stupendous. Mead time this fall.”

  “Oh, Lord.” His wry grin made her chuckle. There was nothing messier than making mead, or honey wine. It took them a full fall afternoon of sticky-sweet messes that had become a tradition…as was the one evening a year when they both became perfectly silly on the stuff, once it was finished fermenting.

  Zach didn’t waste any time dipping into the platter of fresh food. “You were not just taking a quick dip in the pond to cool off. You were flaunting again.”

  “I never did understand why I married a man with such a dirty mind. I was simply swimming,” Bett said virtuously, and dove into her own plate.

  “Bull. You knew I’d come after you.”

  She leveled him a scolding frown, between grabbing a slice of cucumber and smothering it with dip. “You’ve accused me of this kind of thing before, you know. And I’ve explained to you that my mother raised a shy, modest type, hardly an exhibitionist… Did you check the peaches for tomorrow?”

  “The north fifteen. We’ll probably spot-pick in the orchard behind the house as well. They’re nearly ready, and with this heat they could turn by tomorrow. Did you get the baskets?”

  “At a discount.”

  “How’d you manage that?” Zach shoved a foot against the coffee table.

  “Seduced Kramer.”

  “That must have taken dedication.”

  “It did,” Bett said fervently.

  “Dedication, courage and a cast-iron stomach.”

  “Well, you know me,” Bett agreed. “I was desperate. Couldn’t get anyone’s attention down by the pond…”

  “For two cents, Mrs. Monroe, I’d probably beat you.”

  By some coincidence, Bett found three pennies in her jeans pocket. She tossed him two, and waited interestedly.

  Zach got up, all right, but only to answer the second ring of the telephone. The phone inevitably rang off the hook in the early evening. Farmers calling farmers, primarily to encourage each other’s heart attacks. The forecast was for the heat wave to continue tomorrow, and once the weather report was over the anxiety attacks began.

  Bett leaned back against the couch, half closed her eyes and felt gentle waves of weariness invade every limb. At least they didn’t have to go back out again tonight, since the semi had already been in. Not that their garden wasn’t begging for an hour of attention, but her priority was a little intimate time with Zach. December was full of leisure time, but minutes had to count in August.

  “It’s your mother.”

  Zach watched his wife’s face instantly change from serene, satisfied weariness to taut stress as she lurched up to reach for the phone.

  “Mom? How are you?” Unconsciously, Bett pushed back her cloud of yellow hair, jerked off the couch like the coil of a spring and started winding and rewinding the phone cord around her finger.

  Zach began piling empty plates on the tray, resisting the urge to clatter them together. Bett had always called her mother at least weekly; lately, Elizabeth had taken to calling every other day. Zach was fond of his mother-in-law and certainly felt sympathy for her trouble adjusting since Chet’s death. But that sympathy had been gradually eroding away for months. Bett was torn apart every time the phone rang.

  “Stop crying.” Bett’s gentle voice was laced with anxiety. “Mom, you can’t keep doing this. It’s been well over a year. Did you get involved with that women’s club you said you were going to join?”

  Silently, Zach carted the trays to the kitchen. By the time he’d taken care of the few dishes, Bett had the phone cord wrapped around her waist and one slim hand was raking through her hair. She was facing away from him as he stood in the doorway. Her spine was as taut as a violin string, and when she half turned again her eyes were tightly closed.

  “Mom, I know the house has memories for you. Have you even a
sked Martha if she wanted to move in with you? Since her husband died, she’s had the same problem sleeping nights, hasn’t she?” Bett twisted the cord around and around her finger until her finger turned white from lack of circulation, then uncoiled it impatiently. “No, of course I’m not saying you should sell the house if you don’t want to. It’s just that if staying there is still making you unhappy after all this time…”

  Zach set a glass of sun tea on the coffee table for Bett, and carried his own over to the fieldstone fireplace. He leaned back against the rough stone, staring outside at the last of the sunset.

  Bett rubbed her temple with two fingers, denting the soft flesh and making white marks. “Mom. Please, please, just tell me what you want me to do! Do you want me to come for a couple of days? Do you want me to pack the things up and sell the house for you? I’ll do whatever you want; you must know that. You just have to tell me what you want. Mom, this has to stop-” Bett could feel her eyes filling up with ridiculous, overemotional tears.

  Zach’s tea glass clattered down on the mantel. In four long strides, he reached her, untangled enough of the phone cord to claim the phone and all but jammed the receiver against his ear.

  “Liz? This is Zach. Your daughter’s in trouble.” The words, however impromptu, were calculated to bring an instant cessation of feminine tears at the other end. They worked. Bett was staring up at him blankly, her lips parted in shock. He unwrapped the phone cord from around her and, with a brusque motion of his hand, urged her to sit on the couch. He kept on talking. “What would you say to coming to stay with us for a while? Bett’s got so much to do she’s running herself down… Yes, I know, but then she wouldn’t ask for help if she were sitting in the middle of a flood; we both know that… I don’t know. Does it matter? Why don’t you just pack a suitcase and close up the house, and we’ll worry about the how-long of it another time. No, Liz. We are not thinking about selling the farm and going sane again.”