Tatiana March - From Runaway To Pregnant Bride

Annabel hung her head, ashamed. What she was doing now, interrogating him about his past while dressed as a boy, was a betrayal, in a way. Uneasy, she got to her feet. “I’ll go and see if I can find my way to the creek.” Casually, she added, “Do you ever bathe in the stream?” Her scalp was starting to itch, from the way her hair was coiled tight inside the bowler hat.

“Sure, kid. There’s a good spot for bathing.” Benign again, Mr. Hicks gestured at her bandaged hands. “Take your time, kid. If you peel off the dressings, the cold water will soothe your skin. I have some mending to do. There’s a hole in my boots the size of Alaska. When you get back, you can help me prepare supper.”

* * *

Clay lowered the pickaxe and blinked against the dust in his eyes. A lantern hanging from an iron peg hammered into the rock cast a dull sphere of light. Normally, Clay didn’t mind the sense of being trapped inside the earth. There was peace in being underground, surrounded by silence, and the hard physical labor of a miner cleared a man’s troubles from his mind.

But today his mind found no comfort in the steady clink of the pickaxe against the seam of ore. Clay told himself it was because the thin vein of gold was petering away, threatening the future of the mine, but he knew it was a lie.

The cause of his unease was the kid. The scrawny kid who filled his thoughts in the way no scrawny kid should be allowed to do. With a grunt of frustration, Clay lowered the pickaxe and bent to pick up the canteen by his feet. He uncapped the lid, tipped his head back to drink. Not a drop of water left inside. Clay sighed, reached to the rock ceiling to take down the lantern and used it to guide his way out. At the mouth of the tunnel, the bright sunshine made him squint.

As he waited for his eyes to adjust, Clay spotted the kid emerging from the cavern. There was something stealthy about the kid’s movements, the way he glanced all around, as if to make sure no one was watching. Curious, Clay drew back against the sunbaked cliff, hiding behind the dried-up oak that shielded the mine entrance.

He watched as the kid set down the path, heading toward the creek. The kid was not carrying a bucket, so he was not fetching water. An empty flour sack hung draped over one skinny forearm, like a towel. In his other hand, the kid carried the bar of soap he’d been so proud about.

Clay hesitated. The kid seemed to relax, sauntering along. He was humming one of those sea shanties, not taking the time to study his surroundings. There could be anything out there in the forest. A bear. A mountain lion. Rattlers liked to coil up on rocks that reflected the heat of the sun.

Clay set off to follow the kid, but he kept his footsteps quiet and hung back, remaining out of sight. His gut seemed all tied up in knots. Guilt and shame and a terrible sense of confusion filled his mind, like a headache pounding at his temples.

The kid came to a halt by the creek. Bright rays of sunshine cut through the canopy of trees, like rich seams of gold. The water made a merry gurgle as it rippled over a boulder, gathering into the tiny pond they had dammed for bathing.

The kid hopped onto a flat rock and ducked to set the flour sack and the cake of soap by his feet. Then he removed the bandages from his hands and took a moment to study his palms. Next, he lifted his hands to the buttons on the front of his threadbare shirt. Peeking between the trees, Clay held his breath.

What was wrong with him?

Why did he want to watch the kid strip down?

Curious. He was curious. And concerned. There had been something odd in the way the kid had glanced about him before setting off to bathe. And those baggy clothes the kid wore, and the way he never took off his hat. Maybe he was covering up some injury—scars from an accident, or some defect he was born with.

Clay kept watching, the turmoil of emotions anchoring his feet to the ground. The kid pushed the cotton shirt down his narrow shoulders. Clay’s brows drew into a frown. He’d guessed right. A wide bandage circled the kid’s torso, covering him from armpit to waist.

With nimble hands, the kid undid the clasps that held the bandage secure and began unraveling it. Loop after loop, the fabric fell away, revealing an expanse of smooth, white skin. His shoulder blades protruded slightly on either side of the narrow groove of the spine. Angel’s wings, Clay had once heard someone describe such a feature, but that had been on a woman.

He could see nothing wrong with the kid, no deformity, if you didn’t count the lack of muscle and the oddly tiny waist. The final loop of the bandage fell away and the kid bent to set the bundle of fabric down on the stone. When he turned to pick up the soap, the curve of a small, rounded breast peeked into view.

Clay’s mind seized up with the shock. He took a step back and sank on the ground, elbows propped on his knees, head cradled in his hands. The vegetation formed a barrier between them, but the sight remained burned in his memory.

The kid was a girl.

A huge wave of relief crashed over Clay. There was nothing wrong with him, no sudden change in his mental makeup. He didn’t think of boys in such a way. It was simply that his body had figured out the truth before his mind knew.

Of course. Of course.

Fragments of recollection ricocheted around his brain. The voice. Mostly, the kid spoke in a low voice, but sometimes he forgot and the pitch climbed high. And that soft skin...those big eyes...the slender shape...and sometimes, when the kid prattled on, there was something downright feminine and coquettish about his manner.

Her manner.

A girl.

As the shock of the discovery faded, Clay’s senses began to function again. He could hear the girl singing, could hear the splashing of water. He felt his body tighten. She was bathing.

Temptation tugged at him like a physical pull. He shouldn’t look. It was not the gentlemanly thing to do. But he was powerless to resist the masculine inclination. Easing up onto his feet, he peered between the leaves of a scrub oak.

She was kneeling on the stone, bending forward, washing her hair. Long and black, it cascaded down in a sleek curtain. Now Clay understood why the kid never took her hat off in front of others. She couldn’t have been pretending to be a boy for very long, for if she had, she would have been forced to cut her hair.

Turn around, Clay urged in his mind. Turn around.

But she did not. His eyes lingered on what he could see—the nape of a slender neck, the narrow span of those angel wing shoulders, an impossibly slender waist and the feminine curve of hips, hidden inside the mended wool pants.

Would she strip completely? Would she take off her pants? Would she turn around, giving him another glimpse of those small, rosy-tipped breasts? Clay felt his heart hammering away in his chest as he watched the girl. She was singing again, in breathless snatches while she soaped and rinsed her hair.

Cape Cod girls ain’t got no combs,

They brush their hair with codfish bones...

Cape Cod kids ain’t got no sleds,

They slide down the hills on codfish heads...

Cape Cod girls ain’t got no frills,

They tie their hair with codfish gills...

As the afternoon sun burned in the sky, the girl straightened in her kneeling position. She canted her head to one side and wrung the water from her hair, taking care not to hurt her blistered hands. And then, turning a little, she reached for the flour sack on the stone, and Clay got the peek he’d been waiting for. The sight of those firm, tip-tilted breasts made his gut clench.

After patting her skin dry, the girl rose to her feet and picked up the long strip of linen and used it to disguise her feminine shape again. Hurrying now, she pulled her cotton shirt back on and leaned down to gather up her soap and the makeshift towel and the bowler hat propped beside her feet.