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  “Well, I suppose we should leave them to their sparkin’,” Ann suggested.

  “We certainly should,” Cricket agreed. “Let’s head home and get some sleep, ladies. We’ll leave Marie to being breathless in Hudson’s arms and get ourselves to bed.”

  Ann giggled. “And maybe I can dream about Mr. Keel, and you can dream about your kiss with Mr. Thibodaux, right, Cricket?”

  “Right,” Cricket answered, forcing a smile.

  Ann looked to Vilma. “And since Vilma refuses to tell us who she spends her nights dreamin’ about…we’ll just have to say sweet dreams about whoever he is, Vilma.”

  Vilma smiled, curtsied, and said, “Thank you, Ann Burroughs. I’m sure they will be very sweet.”

  With one last glance at Hudson and Marie, who hadn’t yet lessened the intensity of their passionate kissing in the least, Cricket turned and followed Ann and Vilma into the night. Another night of mischief was finished, and Cricket felt the familiar descent of her spirits with it. As wonderful and satisfying as it was to do nice things for other people, Cricket always experienced a somewhat melancholy hour or so once the shenanigans were over. For one thing, she was always very tired. But the thing that disappointed her most was that it was over.

  Oh, she always perked up after a while—once she’d gotten home, changed into her soft nightgown, and collapsed onto her comfortable bed. Once she’d begun to review the shenanigans over in her mind—to envision the smiles, laughter, and tears of those whose hearts had been lightened—then her feelings of being let down would disappear.

  Still, as Cricket made her way back home, quietly climbed in through her bedroom window, and readied for bed, she wondered whether this time her spirits would ever rebound the way they normally did. She thought of Mrs. Maloney—her joyful tears at having found the teapot waiting for her on her front porch. She thought of Mr. Keel and how Ann’s quilt would brighten his lonely home and bring him comfort. She thought of Marie, no doubt still locked in the arms of her lover—imagined how blissful she must feel. Yet no amount of forcing her thoughts to linger on the other townsfolk of Pike’s Creek who had been touched that night kept them from returning to her experience with Heathro Thibodaux.

  At first she thought that the only way her exchange with Mr. Thibodaux could’ve been worse was if he’d actually pulled his gun and shot her. Yet in the next moment, even that didn’t seem more dismal an outcome.

  Cricket climbed into bed, closed her eyes, and attempted to go to sleep. But sleep didn’t come—only visions of Heathro Thibodaux—only a fascinating tingling on her lips each time she thought of kissing him.

  His voice resounded in her mind, repeating the warnings of what men who were not to be trusted might do to innocent girls. Cricket knew his experience the year before—the death of the abducted girls he had been unable to rescue—was what caused him to be so threatening and calloused toward her. The fact was that people made judgments and decisions based on their personal experience—and Ranger Thibodaux’s experience where men and young women were concerned had been far, far more than merely tragic. They’d been depraved, heinous, and wretchedly mournful.

  Perhaps she should have expected him to be wary, harsh, and reprimanding considering what he’d been through, seen, and felt responsible for. But Cricket knew she could have had no way of knowing it.

  She felt so saddened for him. A good man would blame himself for what happened to the abducted girls, even though it was no fault of his and could not have been in any way avoided. Good men were like that. Her father was like that.

  When Cricket’s mother had fallen from her father’s horse and died instantly of a broken neck, Zeke Cranford blamed himself. He had been the one who had purchased the horse, ridden the animal for four years. It was his fault the horse was in the corral in the first place. At least, that was the way Zeke saw it. He never considered the mountain lion that had spooked the horse or the rock that had been where it lay for hundreds of years or the happenstance that his wife’s neck would strike the rock when she was thrown. No. To Zeke Cranford, his wife’s death had been his fault and his alone.

  Cricket knew it was just what Heathro Thibodaux felt. In his mind, he should’ve been able to kill all those outlaws with his bare hands in one sweeping moment—or grip the arm of the last girl to go over the cliff and save her and the other seven tied to her.

  Thus, she began to feel somewhat comforted about his treatment of her that night. He knew true evil and ugliness—had walked hand-in-hand with it—had been beaten, shot, and nearly killed by it. It was no wonder he should warn her to be careful.

  Cricket closed her eyes and called up the memory of kissing him—of the moment her lips first pressed to Mr. Thibodaux’s. Instantaneously her body erupted with goose bumps, her lips tingling with the fleeting feel of kissing him—with the sudden awareness of the manner in which he had crushed his mouth to hers. However lascivious it had been, the memory of it whisked Cricket to moments of sudden breathlessness. She thought of the true intimacy of the kiss Heathro had forced upon her, and she was suddenly and overwhelmingly distraught that she did not accept it and, in truth, bathe in the wonder of it when she’d had the chance.

  Heathro Thibodaux had kissed her—fairly made love to her right then and there while she stood on the watering trough! And she had failed to realize the wonder of it until that very moment.

  Yes, he’d scolded her. Yes, he’d threatened her and implied she was ignorant. But the fact remained that, though his intentions were certainly to frighten and horrify her, he had indeed kissed her! His lips had taken hers; his mouth had tasted hers. His hand had carefully cradled her chin and cheeks, not brutally pained them as his mouth had worked to discourage her from trusting the men in Pike’s Creek. It had not been a tender, loving kiss he’d forced to her mouth—but it had been his kiss.

  Cricket realized then that although it was certainly not the kiss she would’ve dreamt of receiving from him, still it was Heathro Thibodaux’s kiss. He’d kissed her, and that was that. It was what she would choose to remember from that night. Not his harsh manner or reprimanding words. Not his vexation or no doubt painful memories. No. Cricket would cherish the simple truth that, in the end, Heathro Thibodaux had returned her kiss after all.

  Chapter Seven

  “Well?” Ann prodded.

  Marie was grinning like a mule eating briars. She’d been with Hudson, and it had made her late arriving at the old Morgan place.

  Friday night had been epic for many reasons where Cricket and her friends’ do-gooding shenanigans were concerned. Of course, for Cricket the evening had been bittersweet. For the four days and nights since she’d kissed Heathro Thibodaux in welcoming him to Pike’s Creek, she could hardly think of anything else—her emotions constantly vacillating between euphoria and humiliation.

  But for Marie, the outcome of confessing her feelings to Hudson Oliver couldn’t have been more perfect. And now Ann, Vilma, and Cricket waited very impatiently to hear what had happened when Hudson informed his parents he wouldn’t be moving to San Antonio with the rest of the family.

  “Come on, Marie!” Vilma whined. “We’ve been waitin’ on pins and needles all afternoon!”

  Marie’s smile broadened. “Well, when Hudson told his folks that he was plannin’ on stayin’ here in Pike’s Creek to court me…all they did was ask him to help them move down to San Antonio. They weren’t even angry or anything!”

  Cricket squealed with delight, clapping her hands together as Ann threw her arms around Marie in an affectionate, happy embrace.

  Vilma pursed her lips and exhaled a heavy sigh. “Thank the Lord!” she exclaimed. “I was so afraid somethin’ might happen to interfere. Oh, I’m so happy for you, Marie.”

  “Oh, Marie!” Cricket giggled. “You are gonna be Mrs. Hudson Oliver before the summer is out. I just know it!”

  Marie laughed, looked heavenward, and said, “Oh, I do hope so.”

  “You will,” Cricket assured her. �
��I’m tinglin’ from my head to my toes with knowin’ it!”

  Vilma smiled and, winking at Cricket, teased, “That’s pill bugs tinglin’ your toes, Cricket Cranford. You’re standin’ in a whole mess of them…and that’s what you get for always strippin’ off your shoes and stockin’s the way you always do in the summer.”

  Cricket squealed—this time with horror—and began hopping around as she looked down at the old Morgan house floor.

  “She’s only teasin’ you, Cricket,” Ann giggled. “There ain’t any pill bugs underfoot.” Ann looked to Vilma and scolded, “You’re awful, Vilma Stanley. You about scared her to death.”

  “Vilma!” Cricket scolded, lightly slapping Vilma on one shoulder. “You gave me a fit of the willies! For Pete’s sake!”

  “Well, one of these days you’re gonna get caught in a predicament without your stockin’s and shoes on…and heaven help you when you do,” Vilma nagged. “You’re lucky your feet aren’t covered in slivers and burrs.”

  “So Hudson’s gonna go with his family…just long enough to move them?” Ann asked as everyone returned to Marie and the delicious, romantic love story unfolding between Marie and Hudson Oliver.

  Marie nodded. “Mmm-hmm. He thinks he’ll be gone about ten days to two weeks.” An expression of worry briefly passed over Marie’s face, but then resplendence renewed itself there. “But then he’ll be back, and we’ll just set into courtin’, I suppose.”

  “Oh, Marie,” Ann sighed, “it’s just all so romantical! I just love hearin’ about you and Hudson…all your sparkin’ and such.”

  Marie bit her lip with barely restrained delight and sighed. After a moment, however, she gasped, obviously having just remembered something.

  “Oh, but, Ann,” she began, “did you tell them about Mr. Keel yet?”

  Ann shook her head—blushed the color of Rhode Island radishes.

  “Did you tell us what, Ann?” Cricket asked.

  When Ann only continued to blush, Marie answered, “Did she tell you about what happened with Mr. Keel?”

  “No, indeed,” Cricket answered, her eyebrows arching with charmed anticipation as she looked to Ann. “Do tell, Ann Burroughs. What happened between you and Mr. Keel?”

  “Well, nothin’ really,” Ann said, tucking a strand of loose hair behind one ear. Cricket smiled—for the pleasure on Ann’s face would’ve been obvious to a blind duck.

  “Oh, go on, Ann. Tell them!” Marie prodded. She looked to Vilma and Cricket and added, “And it wasn’t nothin’.”

  “Ann?” Vilma began, “are you holdin’ back some scandalous information concernin’ yourself and Mr. Keel?”

  “No. Not at all,” Ann admitted. She began to wring her hands and blush an even deeper hue of red. “It’s just that…well…yesterday in town…I was walkin’ along to the general store. Mama needed some buttons.”

  “And…” Vilma prodded.

  “And…and I was just walkin’ along…when all of a sudden, I hear the most divinely deep, masculine voice say, ‘Afternoon, Miss Burroughs.’ And I looked to see it was Mr. Keel!” Ann explained breathlessly.

  “Oooo!” Cricket cooed with delight. “Did he look right at you too?”

  Ann nodded, blushed almost violet, and said, “And he smiled and winked at me! He winked…right at me! He knew it was me he was winkin’ at!”

  “Mr. Keel?” Vilma exclaimed. “Mr. Cooper Keel…the same Mr. Keel who never smiles…ever?”

  Ann nodded. “And he winked! I mean, he truly did wink at me!”

  “When Ann told me about it,” Marie began, “she said she thought Mr. Keel only winked at her because he thinks she’s a nice little schoolgirl. But I told her…no, sirree! He winked at her because she’s a beautiful woman who caught his eye.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Cricket agreed.

  “Definitely!” Vilma affirmed.

  “I just thought I might faint dead away with happiness!” Ann sighed. She closed her eyes for a moment, a dreamy smile caressing her sweet face. “I can still hear his voice in my head.” She opened her eyes, nodded, and added, “At night…when it’s very quiet…I can still hear his voice speaking to me if I listen very hard.”

  Cricket sighed too, for her heart was fluttering just as if it were a giant butterfly caged in her bosom instead of a vital organ meant to pump her blood. She could feel Ann’s joy—and Marie’s—and it was wonderful!

  “In fact, I was in such a hurry to get here to tell you all about Mr. Keel speaking to me—and the wink—that I rode Harley as fast I could!” She giggled. “I’m sure that horse is wondering what in all the world had gotten into me.”

  “He’s probably hopin’ Mr. Keel will wink at you every day…if it means he gets to ride like the racehorse he was born to be,” Vilma offered.

  “Probably,” Ann giggled.

  “And surely you’re still floatin’ on air after that…that exchange between you and Mr. Thibodaux, Cricket,” Marie teased. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Absolutely!” Cricket half fibbed, half told the truth.

  “Well, now it’s Vilma’s turn,” Ann suggested. “Who do you fancy in Pike’s Creek, Vilma? I’ve had a smile and wink from Mr. Keel, Marie is about to become engaged to Hudson Oliver, and Cricket will always know what it’s like to kiss Heathro Thibodaux. Now how about you? You never have told us who you fancy.”

  Vilma sighed. “Well, that’s because…well, in truth, I just haven’t fancied anyone in quite some time.” She quickly added, “But I’ll let you girls know as soon as I do.”

  Cricket felt her eyes narrow as she studied Vilma. There was something Vilma wasn’t telling them.

  When they’d been schoolgirls, it had forever and always been Vilma who had been the one to fall so desperately in love, with a different boy every other month, that Cricket, Marie, and Ann began to wonder if there were something wrong with her. When they were nine years old, Vilma had fallen in love with Isaiah Bentley one week and then turned right around and fell in love with Taylor Samuels the next. After that, for about a month, Marie was certain that Vilma was set on a bad path where men were concerned and would surely end up working as a saloon girl in New Orleans.

  But now that Cricket thought about it, Vilma Stanley had not mentioned being in love with anyone in over a year—and that didn’t seem right. There was definitely something Vilma wasn’t telling her friends. Yet Cricket sensed that they should not press her—not yet.

  “Promise you’ll spill your secret when some cowboy does steal your heart, Vilma?” Marie asked.

  “Of course!” Vilma giggled. “Now…let’s sit down and talk about our upcomin’ shenanigans, shall we? These things take some plannin’, you know.”

  “Yes, they do,” Cricket sighed, pulling up one of the old Morgan chairs and taking her seat. She could see Vilma was uncomfortable, and Cricket was determined to soothe her. “I was thinkin’ on makin’ a doll for that little Pomroy girl. She seems so sad since Mrs. Pomroy died havin’ her baby last spring.”

  “I think that’s a lovely idea, Cricket,” Vilma said, taking a seat of her own and picking up her pen and inkwell from their place at her feet. “Now…who’s next?”

  ❦

  Cricket inhaled the comforting fragrances of summer—the green pasture grass, wildflowers, trees—everything beautiful nature offered in warm weather. The grass was cool and refreshing to her feet, and she smiled at the way it tickled when it slipped between her toes. Meadowlarks called back and forth to one another from opposing sides of the pasture, and the slight breeze that breathed through her hair now and then caused the leaves to whisper.

  Cricket imagined for a moment that they whispered about her—about the scandalous, brazen kiss she’d given to Heathro Thibodaux and the one she’d received in return. But unlike the folks of Pike’s Creek, who would’ve frowned at her and harshly scolded their disapproval, the summer leaves seemed amused or delighted in the knowledge.

  She sighed as she thought then of Hud
son and Marie. Oh, it was so romantic! Surely they’d be married by the summer’s end. And then Marie would spend the autumn and winter wrapped in the arms of her adoring husband—and no doubt beneath a beautiful quilt stitched lovingly by Ann.

  “Ann,” Cricket breathed as her smile broadened. So Mr. Keel had winked at her, had he? It was wonderful! He’d taken note of her—even not knowing who had gifted the quilt to him. Perhaps Ann would be married soon as well. How delicious that would be to witness. Surely Ann and Mr. Keel would cause more whispering and gossip than even Ada and Cricket’s father had when they’d married.

  But what of Vilma? Cricket frowned as she continued to meander through the pasture. Vilma was so obvious in so many ways, but not when it came to the romantic feelings of her heart. It was almost as if she was afraid to speak of them—afraid speaking of them would ensure her dreams of whatever man she dreamt of would never come true.

  Cricket wondered if it was because Vilma was Reverend Stanley’s daughter. Just as Vilma’s brother Wyatt was the town imp, always stepping into or causing trouble, Vilma seemed determined to remain a spinster or something—perhaps to balance out her brother’s undesirable character. Whatever the reason Vilma was so this way and that about everything, whatever the reason she would never admit to Cricket, Ann, and Marie who it was that made her heart beat faster, Cricket was certain it had to do with the fact that she was Reverend Stanley’s daughter.

  Mrs. Stanley was a nice enough woman—kind, caring, compassionate. But she was entirely controlled by her husband. She rarely spoke to anyone, unless it had something to do with the church bazaar or Sunday school. Thus, the more Cricket thought it over, the more she determined that Vilma was probably torn between wanting to rebel against her father (for her dominated mother’s sake if nothing else) and wanting his approval.

  Cricket sighed, thankful that her father was simply a hard-working blacksmith who owned the livery stables. She was certain that being Reverend Stanley’s daughter would truly be miserable—on so many levels of misery.