Untethered Page 11

  “Run, girl! Get your fanny over that fence!”

  The shouting startled Cricket, and she stopped dead in her tracks, frantically looking around her to see who was calling out. Quickly her attention settled on none other than Heathro Thibodaux. He was advancing from her right at a dead run and waving his arm toward the fence.

  “Get over that fence!” he shouted.

  But Cricket was confused and paused. “Why?” she said—although not loudly enough for even the grasshoppers to hear her.

  “Run! He might gore you right through! Go!” Heathro shouted, still running toward her.

  Cricket gasped as she heard it then—the mad pounding of approaching hooves—and she knew at once why Mr. Thibodaux was running at her and shouting for her to get to the fence.

  She didn’t pause to look back over her shoulder, for she knew the bull was there—Mr. Thibodaux’s ornery, mischievous stud bull!

  Panic washed over Cricket as she broke into a dead run and headed for the fence. It hadn’t seemed so far to Mr. Burroughs’s fence line moments before, but as Cricket focused her attention on it now, it felt as if it might as well be a mile away.

  The thundering of hooves rumbled the ground beneath Cricket’s feet, moving closer, and she dropped her shoes and stockings in order that she might run faster.

  “Run!” Heathro shouted as he approached. He was nearly to her, but she imagined that even if he intercepted her, there was little he could do to fend off a charging bull.

  Cricket reached the fence, reaching out and taking hold of the top rung as she stepped up onto the bottom one, gasping when she felt a strong hand on the seat of her skirt—felt Heathro Thibodaux lift and shove her hard to hurry her over the fence. The ground felt like stone as she tumbled over the fence and landed on the other side. Even for the soft, cool grass she landed on, the fall knocked the wind from her body. Mr. Thibodaux hurled himself over the fence in one smooth leap, landing with a jarring thud in the grass next to her. Cricket blushed with humiliation and quickly rolled over to sit on her sitter as he raised himself from a sprawl and hunkered down next to her.

  “Have you lost your hearin’, girl?” he grumbled, brushing grass from the front of his shirt. “I thought sure you’d hear that bull chargin’ you long before I started hollerin’.”

  Cricket was not only embarrassed that she’d been caught daydreaming while wandering through Mr. Burroughs’s pasture but also wildly unsettled by Heathro Thibodaux’s proximity. Other than the night she’d welcomed him to town, she’d never been so close to him.

  Thus, her defenses were a bit piqued, and she retorted, “Well, maybe you oughta do a better job at keepin’ him penned up, Mr. Thibodaux.”

  “Well, I admit that goes without sayin’,” he grumbled. “But what on earth were you thinkin’ on? I swear I hollered at you for five minutes before you finally turned and looked at me.”

  “I-I was just thinkin’ on…things,” she stammered. It was then she noticed a sharp pain in the bottom of her right foot. Reaching down, grasping her foot, and studying the large, long splinter lodged in the arch, she moaned, “Ouch!”

  “Let me see it,” Mr. Thibodaux demanded.

  Without waiting for her to show the injured foot and splinter to him—without even waiting for her to consider whether she should—he reached out, gripping her ankle in one hand and raising her foot to investigate it.

  He frowned. “Ooo…that is a nasty splinter. It’s shoved way down in there too.”

  “Wh-why was he chasin’ me so hard anyway?” she asked as she tried once to pull her foot away from him. But he held tightly to her ankle. Oh, Cricket knew she should be thoroughly mortified at having a man take hold of her naked ankle—horrified at his investigating her bare foot the way he was. But she wasn’t. In truth, she was entirely fascinated by the way goose bumps were breaking over her arms and legs. She was so affected by his touch that the pure delight of his handling her caused her to reflexively try to pull her ankle from his grasp once more.

  But Heathro tugged back, frowning as he continued to study the splinter. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “He don’t usually charge.” He glanced up from her foot then for a moment, grinned, and said, “Maybe he mistook you for a pretty little heifer he wanted to consort with.”

  His smile broadened when Cricket blushed, gasping in astonishment. “That was entirely inappropriate, Mr. Thibodaux,” she forced herself to scold—more out of knowing she should than really wanting to.

  She caught sight of the gold top incisor at the right of his smile as he laughed. She could’ve sworn the sunlight caught sight of it too, glinting it with a flash of sparkle for a moment.

  “If you don’t quit wrigglin’ around like a worm, I’ll show you something inappropriate that’ll really ruffle your britches, Miss Cranford,” he said as he drew a small knife from his boot. “Now hold still.”

  Cricket’s mouth gaped open in astonishment at his even more inappropriate remark. But being that his knife was at the sole of her foot, she didn’t dare scold him. Instead, she held her breath as she watched him use his thumb and the blade of his knife to begin working the long splinter out of the bottom of her foot. She really should reprimand him—or at least ask him to explain what he meant—what the something inappropriate was that he’d show her if she didn’t quit wriggling. But the splinter was causing her pain.

  “Ouch!” she squealed as he gave one final tug, slipping the splinter from her foot at last.

  “There now,” Heathro said, frowning once more as he studied the wound. “Just scrub it out good when you get home, and it oughta be fine.”

  Cricket’s eyebrows arched in marvel as Heathro proceeded to spit on her foot and fiercely rub his saliva into the wound with his thumb.

  “Y-you just spit on me,” Cricket stammered—though she found it peculiar that the action didn’t disgust her. In fact, she felt an oddly delighted giggle bubbling in her throat and struggled to keep it there.

  “Yep,” he affirmed as he wiped the sole of her foot on his knee. “I don’t know why,” he began, grinning as he glanced up to her, “but spit always soothes a wound for some reason, don’t it?”

  Cricket couldn’t stifle the giggle in her throat any longer, and it tumbled from her mouth as she said, “So you’re claimin’ your spit is medicinal somehow, Mr. Thibodaux?”

  Heathro chuckled. “You bet. That’s what I’m known for…medicinal spit.”

  He studied the bottom of her foot again, and Cricket bit her lip in an attempt to control the smile begging to spread across her face. His hand was so warm and strong where it gripped her ankle. She knew she shouldn’t enjoy his touching her so inappropriately—but she did!

  “Yep,” he sighed, releasing her foot. “It’ll hurt for a while. But like I said, a good scrubbin’ will clean it out good enough, I reckon,” he instructed as casually as if he were explaining how to fry an egg in bacon drippings.

  Mr. Thibodaux sat down in the grass and stared at her for a long, silent few moments. “Seems to me I see you runnin’ around barefoot more than I do with shoes on,” he said at last.

  “W-well, I like to be without shoes,” she awkwardly explained. “They make me feel so confined somehow…and I just have to take them off. I just don’t like shoes, if you must know.”

  He nodded, arching his eyebrows with an expression of understanding.

  She’d had nearly forgotten about the bull—until it butted its head against the fence, startling her. She growled a little as she frowned at the animal. It responded by puffing a breath at her, sending tiny beads of bull mucus into the air to lightly spray her face.

  “And I don’t like your bull either,” she exclaimed, squeezing her eyes closed and grimacing at the feel of the bull’s nose moisture on her face.

  “Oh, he ain’t so bad once you get to know him,” she heard Heathro chuckle.

  She felt something wiping her face and opened her eyes to see him offering a handkerchief to her. “Sorry about that,
” he said, flashing the dazzling smile the sun liked to kiss. “I think he likes you. Ol’ Conq don’t blow his snot on just anybody.”

  “I’m flattered,” Cricket mumbled with sarcasm.

  “I could moisten that hanky up with some of my medicinal spit if you like there, Miss Cranford,” he teased.

  “No thank you, Mr. Thibodaux,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Cricket was thoroughly disconcerted by the way the aroma of leather clinging to the handkerchief caused her stomach to flutter for some reason.

  Heathro Thibodaux stood and leapt back over the fence, taking hold of the big bronze ring in the bull’s nose. “I’ll admit, he’s got a mean streak of mischief runnin’ in him.” He chuckled to himself and added, “But I suppose that’s why he’s so good at what he does.”

  “And what’s that?” Cricket asked. Oh, she well knew that Mr. Thibodaux’s bull was a stud bull. But for some reason, the mischief in her wanted to see what Mr. Thibodaux would answer. Would he tell her bluntly and rather improperly exactly what the bull’s purpose was? Or would he work his way around just coming right out and saying it?

  Cricket smiled, pleased when the ex-Texas Ranger simply answered, “He makes me a lot of money, Miss Cranford. That’s what he’s good at.”

  She watched as Heathro tugged on the ring in the bull’s nose, forcing the animal away from the fence and in the opposite direction.

  “I suppose I should thank you for warnin’ me he was comin’ at me, Mr. Thibodaux,” she offered. “And for removin’ that nasty ol’ splinter.”

  “I’m sorry he went after you in the first place, Miss Cranford,” he said with a nod. Reaching down into the pasture grass, he picked up Cricket’s shoes and tossed them over the fence to her. “You have a good day now, all right?”

  “You as well, Mr. Thibodaux,” she offered with a smile.

  Cricket watched him go—watched the sinfully handsome Heathro Thibodaux swagger through the pasture, leading his naughty bull behind him. She must’ve sighed a dozen times with pleasure as she gazed after him for a long while. But finally, she turned and started back toward town.

  She wasn’t ready to settle into evening chores with Ada yet, so she determined she’d pay a short visit to Mrs. Maloney. Cricket had been so impatient to visit the old gal—to see if the subject of the gifted teapot arose. She’d planned to wait a few more days, maybe even until her regular Friday afternoon visit, but she was too eager to see just how much Mrs. Maloney was enjoying the pretty teapot Vilma Stanley had sold her hair for.

  As she meandered toward Mrs. Maloney’s house, Cricket thought how odd it all seemed—she and Mr. Thibodaux sitting in the grass, having just barely outrun a charging bull and talking like nothing else had ever happened between them. She was certain then—certain that he did not know it had been Cricket Cranford who had kissed him only a few nights before. Surely if he had known it was she, he would’ve continued the angry scolding he’d given her that night. But he hadn’t. He’d simply spoken to her as if he’d never in a thousand years suspect it was she who’d kissed him—she who he’d kissed in return.

  Brutal or not—forced in anger or not—the fact remained that Heathro Thibodaux had kissed Cricket Friday night. Cricket rolled her eyes in humiliated exasperation with herself at having referred to his spit as “medicinal.” Yet the thought traveled through her mind that the moisture in his mouth that had blended with hers Friday night when he’d kissed her so forcefully was the same that had soothed the bottom of her injured foot. She blushed, wondering why the thought was somehow thrilling to her instead of offensive.

  ❦

  “So then I opened up the door…and what was sittin’ right there on my front porch but this beautiful little teapot,” Mrs. Maloney chirped as she and Cricket sat in her kitchen. She sighed with admiration as she studied the teapot sitting on a doily on her silver tea tray.

  “Unbelievable!” Cricket gasped, shaking her head with contrived disbelief. “Someone just…just left it there?”

  “Yep,” Mrs. Maloney confirmed. “The only way I even knew it was meant for me was because of the little note that came along with it.”

  “There was a note too?” Cricket asked. “How intriguin’.” She smiled. “Maybe you’ve got yourself a secret admirer, Mrs. Maloney.”

  But Maymee Maude rolled her eyes and puffed a breath of skepticism. “Not a chance, Magnolia. And besides, I’ve got Nobody to keep me company.”

  Cricket giggled. “Ah yes! Mr. Nobody MacGee…your secret beau.”

  “Oh my, yes!” Mrs. Maloney exclaimed. “Why…just the other day he was over for supper, and, my oh my, did we converse!”

  “About what?” Cricket loved Mrs. Maloney’s good-natured sense of humor. Of course she felt bad that the elderly woman had only an imaginary male companion to talk to at supper, but it seemed to make her happy enough.

  “Oh, everything under the sun and more, honey,” the old woman answered. Her eyes twinkled like the stars as she spoke. But suddenly, Mrs. Maloney reached out and took Cricket’s hands in her own. “But let’s talk about you,” she said. “Have you roped that handsome ol’ Texas Ranger in for yourself and convinced him you’re the one he wants?”

  Cricket laughed, shook her head, and answered, “Of course not! Don’t be silly.” However, she paused, smiled with triumph, and said, “But I’ll tell you what I did have a hand in.”

  “Mr. Hudson Oliver and Miss Marie King sparkin’ out behind the Olivers’ barn every night like a couple of fireflies?” Maymee offered with a wink.

  Cricket shook her head, laughing again. “I swear, nothin’ in this town gets past you, now does it?”

  Maymee shook her head. “Nope. Not much anyway. And I don’t know how you did it, Magnolia…but I’m glad you did. I thought those two were gonna see their heads explode if they didn’t kiss out some of that attraction pretty soon.”

  “Yes indeed,” Cricket agreed. “They are very affectionate…from what I hear anyway.”

  Mrs. Maloney and Cricket each giggled for a moment—like two little schoolgirls who had just spied their schoolmarm spooning with the mayor.

  “But…I still think you oughta tether up Heathro Thibodaux for yourself,” Maymee sighed. “He’s so good-lookin’! I swear if I were even twenty years younger, I’d tie that boy up, marry him, and have my way with him.”

  “Have your way with him?” Cricket asked. “What on earth does that mean anyway? And what did you mean when you said I oughta tie him up and set to work convincin’ him that I’m the one he wants?”

  Mrs. Maloney’s sparse, silvery eyebrows pursed in a wondering frown. “Well, Magnolia…you do know what goes on between married people, don’t you? Where babies come from and the like?”

  Cricket rolled her eyes with amusement. “Of course! Don’t be silly.”

  But one of Maymee’s sparse, silvery eyebrows arched with doubt. “Did your mother ever explain those things to you, honey?”

  “She didn’t have to,” Cricket said with a shrug. “Daddy did. When I was sixteen.”

  “And what did your daddy tell you…about where babies come from and what goes on between a husband and wife?”

  Cricket shrugged once more. “They sleep together…in the same bed. And when the time is right, a baby starts growin’ in a woman’s tummy. All us girls know about it…even Vilma Stanley.”

  “Oh, I see,” Maymee mumbled.

  Maymee was a bit unsettled in her stomach at the thought of Cricket’s mother having died when Cricket was so young—before she had the chance to talk to her daughter about the sorts of things that mothers should and need to talk to their daughters about. Maymee Maloney had married her husband when she was just fifteen and without any knowledge whatsoever about the intimate goings-on between husband and wife. If it hadn’t been for fact that she’d married such a kind, loving, patient, and understanding man as Butch Maloney, her wedding night—her entire intimate married life, for that matter—might have been thick wi
th self-doubt and a constant feeling of embarrassment rather than the joy borne of true, loving passion. When the time came for Cricket to marry, Maymee wouldn’t let the risk of astonishment and lack of understanding drive even the smallest wedge between Cricket and whomever she chose to marry. Maymee would prepare her herself—just as she’d prepared her own daughters. After all, she loved Magnolia Cranford like her own child.

  “But why are you askin’ me that?” Cricket asked, interrupting Maymee’s thoughts of maternal responsibility toward Zeke Cranford’s girl.

  “Oh, nothin’ all that serious,” Mrs. Maloney answered—though Cricket was certain the old woman was once again weaseling out of telling her something. “Just that you oughta kiss him the way he needs to be kissed.”

  Cricket’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You’re leavin’ somethin’ out, aren’t you?”

  “Anyway, as I was sayin’, there it was…this teapot, just sittin’ on my front porch like it belonged right there all along,” Mrs. Maloney said.

  Chapter Eight

  “Ada,” Cricket began, “do you think you and Daddy are gonna have any babies?”

  Cricket smiled, amused as Ada knocked over the bucket of clothespins at her feet.

  “Well…well, I don’t really know,” she stammered, blushing so bright a pink it looked as if she’d been out in the sun too long without a bonnet or hat. “Why would you ask?”

  Cricket shrugged. “I was just thinkin’ on it…how fun it would be to have a little brother or sister to dote over and cuddle.” And it was true. Cricket had been thinking on it—ever since her conversation with Mrs. Maloney the week before.

  When she and Mrs. Maloney had been sitting at Mrs. Maloney’s kitchen table talking about the teapot and Mrs. Maloney had, once again, brought up the idea that Cricket should rope up Heathro Thibodaux and convince him she was the one for him—well, it had been plain obvious that Mrs. Maloney was leaving something out. Cricket knew darn well that the old gal had weaseled her way out telling Cricket something, but she didn’t quite know what—and it had been bothering her ever since.