Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,24

of hair.

I “knew” some women at Fort Kearny—some Pawnee, one Blackfoot, and a handful of whores from Illinois—who set up in a row of lodges at the rear of the fort. Everyone knew who they were, and no one said a word. They just paid their visits and took their turns, and the women made their living. Captain Dempsey had a wife somewhere, but Dawn, the Blackfoot woman, was his personal favorite, and he didn’t like to share. When she smiled at me and touched my chest, it almost cost me my father’s spring contract. Captain Dempsey ordered me to take my attentions elsewhere, and I obliged him by heading back home. Women were trouble.

“You don’t think much of me, do you, John Lowry?” Naomi asks, pulling me out of my reverie.

“I don’t think about you at all, Mrs. Caldwell,” I lie, emphasizing her name for both our sakes. I don’t like it when she calls me John Lowry in that Jennie-like tone, and I am angry with her, though I have no real reason to be. “I’ve found that women can’t be trusted,” I say.

“And I’ve found that men are just frightened boys. God gave you stronger bodies to make up for your weaker spines.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I lie again.

“You are terrified of me, John Lowry.”

“Go away, little girl. I will not be your fool.”

“I am many things. But I’m not a little girl, and I’ve never befriended a fool.”

I think of the woman who wanted me to kiss her and then screamed when I acquiesced. I wonder if Naomi will scream and make a scene if I kiss her too.

“What’s your game, Mrs. Caldwell?” I sigh.

She gazes at me steadily, blinking once, twice, the long sweep of her lashes drawing me in. Her wrist is narrow, and my fingers touch as I wrap my hand around her arm and pull her toward me. She lifts her chin, her nostrils flaring like a mare sensing danger, but she comes willingly. Her breath tickles my face, and when my mouth nears hers, it is all I can do not to crush the small bones beneath my fingers.

I decide I will be rough. Harsh. Then she will run off crying and leave me alone. Or her father will come with his big rifle and insist I go. Fine with me. I am weary of the slow pace of the wagon train and can make it to Fort Kearny by myself. I’ll get there in half the time. Better to be done with the train and teach Naomi Caldwell a lesson she should have learned long ago.

But at the last minute I cannot do it. I can’t be harsh, and I can’t kiss her.

I avoid her mouth altogether, even though she’s lifted it to me. Instead of passion and punishment, the peck I lay on her forehead is soft and sweet, a child’s kiss on a mother’s brow.

She pulls away and looks up at me expectantly.

“That is not the way I want to be kissed,” she says.

“No?”

“No,” she answers solemnly. She takes a deep breath, and her words bubble out in a nervous rush. “I want you to kiss me like you’ve been thinking about it from the moment we met.”

I laugh at her pretty words so that I don’t feel them. I see her swallow, her throat working in discomfort. I have embarrassed her. Her fingers curl in her skirt, gathering it as if she is about to flee. Good. That is what is best for her.

Yet I reach for her again.

This time I am not gentle or timid, and her lips flatten beneath my mouth, but she does not pull back or push me away. She slides her fingers into my hair—my hat has fallen—and tugs so hard my teeth snap and my back bends. Her ribs are slim and dainty beneath my palms, and I encircle her, lifting her up and into me. For a moment I kiss her blindly, boldly, invading her mouth and suckling her lips, teaching us both a lesson.

But she is softer than I anticipated—softer lips and skin, softer swells and softer sighs. And she is sweet.

It stuns me, and I shove her away, ashamed of myself. She staggers and reaches for my arm, but I have stepped back, and she crumples, falling to her knees, catching herself with the palms of her hands.

I curse, long and low, a word Jennie would slap me for saying. My father says it all the time,