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memories, so many good times. She had danced her first dance with him, shared her first grown-up kiss with him behind the door of the livery stable. He knew her so well, knew that she loved blackberries and cream, kittens and Christmas, but despised yellow squash and baying hounds. He knew she was fearless when it came to snakes and spiders or thunder and lightning, but terrified of deep water after nearly drowning in the riverboat disaster that killed her parents. Surely that was a firm enough foundation on which to build a life?
    “I do love you, too, Caleb.”
    A soft exclamation left him. He leaned closer and pressed his mouth to hers.
    It was a kiss of warm and careful affection. The dry smoothness of his lips was pleasant. She felt the abrasion of his beard stubble at their ridges as he caressed her mouth with gentle movements. Then he drew back, sending a quick glance around, as if checking to be sure no one had seen them. They were safe. He lifted the reins, slapping the horse into motion.
    He looked down at Melly once more and smiled. She felt her lips curve in a faint response.
    Yet all the while she was distracted, almost fearful. It was wrong to compare the staid embrace of her future husband with the wild, reckless kisses of his brother, but she could not help it.

 
    Chapter Seven
     

     
    The day of the picnic dawned breathlessly hot. The air was still and heavy with a sulfurous scent in it. The molten sunlight that poured over everything had a metallic, brassy sheen.
    The very idea of building a fire in the cook stove then standing over a pan of hot grease to fry chicken was enough to make Melly feel lightheaded. To actually do it was like descending into the pits of hell.
    She was all for calling off the outing. There was a thundery, oppressive feeling in the air that she did not like. Moreover, the chance of any enjoyment being gained from sitting beside the river seemed remote
    Aunt Dora laughed at Melly’s misgivings. This little spell of heat, she declared, was like a breath of spring compared to the ones she had endured in her younger days. The only problem might be if the hot weather broke with a cloud burst. Anyway, it was bound to be better beside the water.
    It was indeed. The site chosen for spreading the picnic cloths and pallets made of old quilts was a couple of miles out of town. It was an oak-crested ridge, once part of the bank of an old river channel, that merged with the river's natural levee to form a wooded platform higher than the water. A hot breeze wafted over their vantage point now and then. It ruffled the glassy surface of the water below so it sparkled in the sun like millions of glass shards. Whispering in the leaves of the oaks overhead, it stirred the leaf shadows that patterned the quilts where they sat. The touch of it fanned their moist faces, sifted through their hair with delicate, cooling fingers, and lifted the light summer skirts of the young women now and then in indolent billows.
    A steamboat churned past, spreading a froth of foam over the water—the Cincinnati Star on her way down to New Orleans. It gave them a blast of its steam whistle that startled a nearby flock of crows into flight. Passengers on the boiler deck and deckhands and chambermaids on the main deck below waved and called across the water. The steamer's wake rocked an old piece of raft tied up just along the way, causing it to thud against the bank with a sound like distant thunder.
    Still, nothing could banish the heat-induced lethargy that held them in its grip. When they had eaten, they all sat around in a kind of daze, talking in fits and starts and staring out over the endless glide of the river.
    “Oh, I ate too much,” Biddy said, pressing her hand to her abdomen.
    “My, yes, we can sure tell.” The wry comment came from Esther as she surveyed the other girl's tiny, corseted waist and slender shape under her full skirts. “You really should get yourself right up and walk it