But, Sophrona had slapped him.
Esme felt guilt swell up within her. She had teased Cleav about being a gentleman, but she had intended for him to try out bad behavior on her, not on Sophrona. Sophrona reaped all the rewards from Esme's flirtations, and she didn't even appreciate it.
Moving down, branch by branch, Esme carefully made her way to earth. The lowest limb of the maple was a good eight feet above the ground. Esme swung, tomboy fashion, from the bough for a moment and then dropped to the grass, rolling to deflect the fall.
Rising, she scrambled over to her shoes and stockings at the foot of the tree. Esme gathered them into her arms. Without bothering to put them on, she hurried, barefoot, after Cleav.
He was already out of sight, but Esme had a good idea where he was headed. The proud young man who had worn his homemade cracker clothes despite the cruel taunts of his peers would seek solace in nature as he always had in the past. Esme headed directly for the trout ponds.
She was right, of course. When she topped the rise near his house, she saw him. Standing alone and lonely, staring at the trickling rush of water across the tops of the ponds.
She slowed her pace to a leisurely walk as she came up behind him.
"I'm sorry," she said as she neared him.
Cleav glanced back at her, his face devoid of feeling. "Whatever for?" he asked tonelessly. "For spying? Apology accepted." He shook his head as he continued to gaze into the depths of the water.
"I meant for getting your face slapped," she said.
There was no humor in his answering chuckle. "You were neither the kisser or the slapper," he observed. "Doesn't seem as if you have a great deal for which to apologize."
Esme took a step toward him. Wincing, she stopped abruptly.
"Ouch!" Her exclamation was like an oath whispered under her breath. When Cleav turned to see what had happened, she had raised her leg, intent on examining the bottom of her foot.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Just a goat-head," she answered, pulling at the pale blue cocklebur that was lodged in the tender flesh of her instep.
"You shouldn't be running around here barefoot."
"I've seen plenty of summers when I had no shoes at all," she said lightly.
Gritting her teeth, she grasped the painful thorn in her fingernails and jerked it free. Goat-heads were long and sharp and had a poison in them that sometimes raised a welt. Esme watched the rising blossom of a bead of blood. Relying on the common cure, she spat on the wound and hurriedly rubbed it into the soreness.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Cleav said. "That's not the way you treat it."
In two strides he was beside her and casually swept her off her feet. "You need to wash it off and sprinkle some alum on it."
"I always use spit," Esme insisted. She enjoyed being held in his arms.
"Well, you're about to learn something new. Here," he said, seating her at the edge of the pond. "Dunk your foot in there and let me go get some alum from the shed."
Esme watched him walk away, but her mind was not on the slight sting of her instep. All she could feel was the warmth that had been his arms around her. He had held her, and her heart was still pounding from the experience.
It was only when she saw him on his way back that she remembered what he'd told her to do. Thrusting her foot in the freezing mountain water, she attempted to wash. The cold, however, raised gooseflesh all over her and dissuaded her from any thorough cleansing.
"Are you usually so adverse to washing?"
"The water's like ice!" she complained.
Cleav nodded as he sat down beside her. "It's got to be cold to raise trout," he told her. "That's the way they like it."
"Well, I'm no trout," Esme snapped. "And it's too dang cold for me!"
"Let me see if I can help," Cleav answered and began rubbing his hands together rapidly. After a few seconds he dipped them in the water and quickly brought them out to wash Esme's feet.
"Better?" he asked.
