touched dry lips with the tip of her tongue.
When she answered him, her voice was so low he had
to bend down to hear her.
"I need the extra room for myself. I will not be an
audience to your carrying on with squaws."
Matt straightened up. He had thought right. He
began slowly to realize that this simple, young hill girl
wasn't so simple after all. She was highly sensitive and
had a deep awareness of decency. Guilt stirred inside
him. If it bothered her that much, he wouldn't bring
other women to the cabin.
He gazed down at the tangled mass of hair, trying
to see the face behind it. Blue eyes stared back at him.
A slow anger began to grow in him. Why should he
have a guilty feeling about a female who was so dirty
she stank?
Turning from her, a surprising truth hit him. Mama
was, in most ways, clean and sweet-smelling. There was
a scent about her that reminded him of wild roses that
grew in the hedges back home. He recalled the milky
white of the perfectly shaped breasts and grew more
confused. Certainly they had seen soap and water, and
often, too. He turned back to gaze at her, his eyes
drawn to the white column of her throat and the full
breasts pushing against the thin material of her dress.
He fought the urge to lay hands on her, to rip open the
buttons and feast his eyes on the cherry-tipped mounds.
He took a step toward her, and Marna bent over to
pick a burr from her skirt. Her action broke the spell
that held him. "All right," he grumbled, "you can have
your damned two rooms."
He picked up the ax and attacked the pile of logs
with a consuming exertion. He must rid himself of the
overpowering obsession to possess the rich, ripe body
of his wife. Sweat gathered on his forehead and rolled
down his face. Marna was about to move away from
him when he swore softly and threw down the ax again. She looked up at him and asked, "Did you say something?"
Angrily, Matt stared down at her. "Why don't you
wash your face and brush your hair? You look like an
old crone, do you know that?"
Crushed by his words and tone, Marna could not
answer immediately. She stared down at her trembling
fingers, asking herself what sensible answer she could
give him. It would sound so childish to say, "Grandma
told me not to." Matt would never understand that kind
of reasoning. She finally answered sullenly, "I will,
someday."
Matt took a step toward her. "Why someday? Why
not now?"
Marna searched her mind frantically for words that
would satisfy him. If only she hadn't promised
Grandma. She started when Matt repeated his question,
"Why not now, Marna?"
"The sun makes my face blister when I wash it," she
blurted out, hardly aware of what she said.
Matt narrowed his eyes at her. "Why don't you put
bear grease on your face the way the Indians do? If it
protects against mosquitoes, it would do the same
against the sun."
Marna felt an uncomfortable heat rush over her
body. She was unused to deception. In all her life she
had practiced it only on Grandpa, which didn't really
count. She didn't love the evil old man. But her
husband - She took a deep breath and mumbled, "It
gives me a rash. Besides, I can't stand the smell of bear
grease."
Exasperation clouded Matt's eyes. "Are you tellin'
me that you're never gonna wash your face?"
There, was almost pleading in Marna's eyes as she
gazed up at him. "I will, someday. When I am older.
Grandma says that my skin will toughen as I grow
older."
Matt stared back at her for a long moment Then,
muttering something about a strange woods queer creature, he got back to work.
In the late afternoon, when he called a halt for the
day, the pile of logs accumulated would have been
enough for a one-room cabin. He looked down at his
blistered hands and swore softly. He would have to cut
as many tomorrow.
Marna saw him examining his hands and reached out
to take them in her own. Turning them palm up, she
ran a finger lightly over the puffs of
When she answered him, her voice was so low he had
to bend down to hear her.
"I need the extra room for myself. I will not be an
audience to your carrying on with squaws."
Matt straightened up. He had thought right. He
began slowly to realize that this simple, young hill girl
wasn't so simple after all. She was highly sensitive and
had a deep awareness of decency. Guilt stirred inside
him. If it bothered her that much, he wouldn't bring
other women to the cabin.
He gazed down at the tangled mass of hair, trying
to see the face behind it. Blue eyes stared back at him.
A slow anger began to grow in him. Why should he
have a guilty feeling about a female who was so dirty
she stank?
Turning from her, a surprising truth hit him. Mama
was, in most ways, clean and sweet-smelling. There was
a scent about her that reminded him of wild roses that
grew in the hedges back home. He recalled the milky
white of the perfectly shaped breasts and grew more
confused. Certainly they had seen soap and water, and
often, too. He turned back to gaze at her, his eyes
drawn to the white column of her throat and the full
breasts pushing against the thin material of her dress.
He fought the urge to lay hands on her, to rip open the
buttons and feast his eyes on the cherry-tipped mounds.
He took a step toward her, and Marna bent over to
pick a burr from her skirt. Her action broke the spell
that held him. "All right," he grumbled, "you can have
your damned two rooms."
He picked up the ax and attacked the pile of logs
with a consuming exertion. He must rid himself of the
overpowering obsession to possess the rich, ripe body
of his wife. Sweat gathered on his forehead and rolled
down his face. Marna was about to move away from
him when he swore softly and threw down the ax again. She looked up at him and asked, "Did you say something?"
Angrily, Matt stared down at her. "Why don't you
wash your face and brush your hair? You look like an
old crone, do you know that?"
Crushed by his words and tone, Marna could not
answer immediately. She stared down at her trembling
fingers, asking herself what sensible answer she could
give him. It would sound so childish to say, "Grandma
told me not to." Matt would never understand that kind
of reasoning. She finally answered sullenly, "I will,
someday."
Matt took a step toward her. "Why someday? Why
not now?"
Marna searched her mind frantically for words that
would satisfy him. If only she hadn't promised
Grandma. She started when Matt repeated his question,
"Why not now, Marna?"
"The sun makes my face blister when I wash it," she
blurted out, hardly aware of what she said.
Matt narrowed his eyes at her. "Why don't you put
bear grease on your face the way the Indians do? If it
protects against mosquitoes, it would do the same
against the sun."
Marna felt an uncomfortable heat rush over her
body. She was unused to deception. In all her life she
had practiced it only on Grandpa, which didn't really
count. She didn't love the evil old man. But her
husband - She took a deep breath and mumbled, "It
gives me a rash. Besides, I can't stand the smell of bear
grease."
Exasperation clouded Matt's eyes. "Are you tellin'
me that you're never gonna wash your face?"
There, was almost pleading in Marna's eyes as she
gazed up at him. "I will, someday. When I am older.
Grandma says that my skin will toughen as I grow
older."
Matt stared back at her for a long moment Then,
muttering something about a strange woods queer creature, he got back to work.
In the late afternoon, when he called a halt for the
day, the pile of logs accumulated would have been
enough for a one-room cabin. He looked down at his
blistered hands and swore softly. He would have to cut
as many tomorrow.
Marna saw him examining his hands and reached out
to take them in her own. Turning them palm up, she
ran a finger lightly over the puffs of
Similar Books
