Tyree huffed with disapproval. "I may be half-blind," he stated. "But that don't mean I cain't see what's right under my nose."
"You think those two have been frolicking in the path of damnation?"
Tyree avoided the straight answer. "I'm thinking that if’n I was Yohan Crabb, I'd be coming down off that mountain with my shotgun loaded!"
As the temper of the community heated up, Esme remained blissfully unaware. The thrill of Cleav's wonderful kiss could still bring a blissful glow to her cheeks whenever she thought of it. And she thought of it often. Even his wounding words about never marrying her couldn't darken her optimism. He just needs to get used to the idea, she assured herself. He wanted a wife, and one wife was pretty much the same as another. Once he became accustomed to having her around, it would just seem natural to marry up.
Any self-reproach that she felt about Sophrona, she quickly explained away. If Sophrona wanted him, and it wasn't clear any longer that she did, she only wanted Cleav for herself. Esme needed him for her whole family. Humming to herself, again she imagined the Crabb family sitting comfortably on the porch of the biggest white—no, make that blue—house in Vader.
Cleav was too caught up in handling his own errant thoughts to worry about what others were thinking.
At first, he was angry that Esme hadn't run from him after his deliberately wounding comments. It had taken all of his strength to treat her so coldly, and she appeared unaffected. Then he became angry at himself because he was glad she was still around. Although he was a gentleman, where Esme Crabb was concerned, he couldn't keep his thoughts in check. She'd reach for an item on the top shelf, and he'd imagine running his hand from her wrist to her ankle. He would imagine molding her soft breast with his fingertip, exploring her nipped waist and caressing the generous hip, before staking his territory on those long, luscious limbs.
He had vivid memories of the hot, secret kiss they had shared and the eager way she had pressed her body against him.
He'd told himself that he'd been trying to frighten her, make her understand that her reputation was at risk. But he knew, in all honesty, that he'd kissed her because he'd wanted to. And he'd only stopped because in another minute he wouldn't have been able to…
Clearing his throat, Cleav focused on his surroundings. Rog Wicker was still looking around the store, Esme was searching down his horseshoe nails. She'd immediately gone to the correct bin, not five feet from where Cleav was standing, to fill Rog's order. That didn't please Cleav, but what she did there pleased him a little too much.
Since the bin was nearly empty, Esme had to lean far into the wide cask to retrieve the nails. The position raised her derriere, prominently outlining the curve faultlessly. Cleav's eyes flew to Wicker in anger that he made such a request. The man had continued to browse through the store, completely unaware of the vision of shapely buttocks that was being exhibited on the far side of the room.
Imprudently, Cleav's gaze returned to the bountiful backside of Esme Crabb. His mouth went dry as he realized he need only take one step closer and he'd be able to touch her.
He did not allow himself to take that step, but warmth pooled to his groin as strongly as if he had.
"Damn it!" he cursed silently and slammed his fist in fury against the counter.
Both Wicker and Esme glanced up at him questioningly.
Cleav flushed with embarrassment. "I've made an error in the accounts," he explained lamely.
It was an especially lame excuse for Esme, who could see that he did not have the accounts in front of him, but rather a drummer's catalog. She looked at him curiously but didn't comment.
Cleav felt her gaze and moved closer to the counter. The last thing he needed was for her to learn how easily he could be affected by her.
Esme carefully weighed the nails at the scale, dropping two back into the bin before she got the amount exact. She folded them in paper so that none of the horseshoe nails would spill. After laying the package on the counter along with Wicker's other supplies, she returned to her dusting of the washtubs.
Perhaps his mother was correct, Cleav concluded suddenly. This was undoubtedly the perfect time to get married, and Sophrona Tewksbury was the perfect person to marry. Esme had not believed him when he'd said that he would never wed her. A betrothal to another woman would surely go a long way in convincing her.
As he surreptitiously adjusted the fit of his trousers, he decided that a betrothal was not enough. He might not sleep more with a woman in his bed, but he would certainly sleep more contentedly. And a man who was satisfied at night was surely less bothered by temptation in the daytime.
Yes, he resolved to himself. This afternoon he would propose to Miss Sophrona. And he would insist that the engagement be as short as decently possible. If he'd married her months ago when he first thought of it, this whole regrettable situation with Esme would never have occurred.
Stealing unwelcome into his thoughts was the knowledge that he didn't exactly regret these past weeks with Esme. It was a heady feeling to be the recipient of a woman's adoration and longing. Never had any female made him feel so desired, so fascinating. If only his own passions had remained uninvolved. If only the woman in question were more suitable. If only it were Sophrona, not Esme, who lusted after him.
That brought him up short. Sophrona feeling lust? It was difficult to imagine. Certainly, she'd be a dutiful wife, and he would try to please her, but the hungers of the flesh were surely incongruous to a lady of Miss Sophrona's refinement.
The fantasy of Sophrona Tewksbury whining and begging as she wrapped her legs around his neck was not only difficult for him to imagine but strictly ludicrous. A good part of the reason that he had never attempted to take liberties with the young lady—except on one fateful occasion—was simply that he couldn't imagine her allowing them. And if the slap he'd received under the maple tree was any indication, his judgment had been correct.
Still, a wife would be a wife, and a wife was exactly what he needed to get Esme Crabb out of his life for good.
Rog Wicker, apparently finished with his inspection of the available goods, walked to the counter to settle up.
"Will that be all?" Cleav asked as he totaled the price of the goods for purchase in his head.
"Need some tobacco," Wicker said as an afterthought.
"Red Leaf?" Cleav asked, already reaching for it.
