quieted, so did his thoughts. The young woman was obviously too innocent and unsophisticated to formulate such a plan. Cleav reminded himself that in indelicate situations—and this was as indelicate as anything Cleav could recall in recent memory—it was
always
the gentleman at fault.
With that in mind he turned to Esme, but his apology died on his lips.
Esme was standing before him, looking proud, controlled, and not even the slightest bit put out by the impropriety that she had just suffered. "Cleavis Rhy," she said, her voice strong, "I'm really sorry about that. Truth to tell, it's the first time I ever kissed anybody."
If a blush stained her cheek, it appeared more a fear of a loss of her pride than her virtue.
"I'm a quick learner," she told him. "I suspect if you give me another chance, well, I can be kissing better than most any girl before you know it."
He stood silent and staring. No experience in his life with women had prepared him for Esmeralda Crabb. How could he react as a gentleman if she knew nothing of the behavior of a lady?
Esme took an eager step toward him. One step was enough.
He held up one hand as if to ward her off, as if to say stay away from me, Esme Crabb.
But of course, staying away was not part of her plan.
----
Chapter 4
The sweet morning call of doves was joined by the splash of warm water filling the washbasin in the south bedroom of Rhy's big white house. It was still too dark to shave. Finding a match, Cleav lit the coal-oil lamp beside the dresser, which brought a warm orange glow to the silver light of dawn.
Carefully opening the tin of Fulton Brothers Fine Shaving Soap, he dipped a pinch into the mug and vigorously stirred it with his brush. Leaning forward, he examined the thick blanket of dark prickles that had appeared on his cheeks and chin. Yawning, he bent his head over the basin and splashed the water over his whiskers. With brisk, swirling strokes he painted the white lather like a crown mask on his lower face.
When the soap was distributed to his satisfaction, Cleav opened his razor and casually stropped it against the long piece of thick brown leather that hung next to the mirror. Testing the edge of it with the end of his thumb, he determined it sharp enough. He leaned toward the mirror again, holding his flesh taut at the earlobe, and began the first long stroke down the jawline.
His mind was blank. Or at least it was as blank as a man's mind ever gets. The day stretched out before him in the vaguest terms, the chores, the store, the fish. Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, adding to the serenade of wild birds that stirred along the fish ponds in search of breakfast.
From the corner of his eye he saw a movement outside the window. "Damn!" He flinched as he nicked himself.
She was back again.
In the gray light of the Tennessee dawn, Esme Crabb stood down by the sycamore tree gazing up at Cleav's window.
His first thought was to douse the light. The young woman could undoubtedly see right into the room, and he stood shirtless, his suspenderless pants hanging loosely at his waist. But he stayed his hand. If she saw something she shouldn't see, then she could damn well avert her eyes.
In the past few days Cleav had already learned that Miss Esme Crabb was a good deal like gnats in the springtime, a constant annoyance, difficult to avoid.
Leaning once more toward the mirror, Cleav continued his shaving, albeit somewhat self-consciously. He could feel her eyes on him.
"This nonsense has to stop!" he declared aloud as he rinsed a line of lather and whiskers in the water.
Yesterday she had actually been waiting for him on the path when he came back from the privy!
"Nice morning," she'd said conversationally. As if she had a perfect right to-be on his privy path at sunup!
Esme Crabb apparently thought she had a perfect right to act however she pleased, modesty and convention be damned.
It had started the day after that unfortunate encounter by