Read Online The Indiscretion by Judith Ivory - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judith Ivory
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be so hard as
that. We'll start a fire."
His hand and words calmed her. She let him lead her.
Just out from their roofless, one-walled shelter, Lydia dumped her
skirtful of branches and twigs, then, squatting, watched Mr. Cody's vague
shadow stoop over the wood. He began to arrange it, though she couldn't see
well enough to say how. It didn't matter. A fire. Oh, glory. Lydia was impressed
that he was going to be able to start one – she'd heard the American Indians
could do it by rubbing sticks together.
She watched his obscure movements intently, trying to determine
what he was doing, her hands in the squatting lap of her skirts. Finally,
frustrated, she couldn't resist asking, "How are you going to light it?
What do you do?"
A little pass of clouds revealed his silhouette in slightly better
definition, a man with one knee on the ground, his other foot under him, his
chest pressed against his thigh as he bent over their sticks. This shadow turned
its head toward her. "You reach in your pocket," he said as he
shifted his weight, "and pull out some matches." He let out a snort
of humor as he struck a tiny flame into existence.
"You had matches," she said flatly, disappointed. And
annoyed.
His face, over the tiny match, came alive for a moment: golden,
shadowed, lit faintly – devilishly – from beneath. But familiar and a relief to
see, even if he made fun. He threw her his teasing half-smile as he cupped his
hand around the flame, then disappeared back into shadow as he held it low,
applying it to the twigs beneath the heavier wood.
Some kindling lit. She watched the brighter light dance up into
his visage as he bent over their small fire. Under the brim of his hat, his
face drew sharp-planed, the injured side hidden by angle and darkness. She was
taken aback to realize how handsome he was. Had she known this? That, without
the distraction of bruises, cuts, and swelling, his features assembled in
mature, masculine good looks. It was in the flare of his nostrils, the width
and muscle of his jaw, the ridge and cut of his cheek.
She would guess he was in his mid-thirties, though his face seemed
older – from too much sun and perhaps, she thought somehow, too much sorrow. It
wasn't a youthful face. Even by firelight, lines fanned out at the sides of his
eyes, crinkles – they weren't from smiling. His were the lines of a furrowed
brow, of squinting and frowning into the sun. It came to her: He never smiled
from happiness, only from glee when he teased, when he tormented with his
quirky humor. His smile was ironic, sarcastic, faintly sadistic in a tame way.
As if the closest thing he knew to joy was a sort of mirthless confirmation
that, yes, life was as absurdly bleak as he'd always thought, so much so as to
be ridiculous, funny.
Speaking over the small fire, he said, "Besides matches, I
also have half a dozen cheroots in my pocket, mostly broken, but two, I think,
still whole. You'll pardon if I have one."
She was uncomfortable having to say, "I'd rather you wouldn't."
He glanced at her with a derisive lift of one brow. "I wasn't
really asking permission."
"A lot of smoke gives me asthma."
"Then this fire'll kill you." He didn't hide his
belligerence.
"Do you always do this? Get angry over everything?"
He turned to look at her fully, as if pondering the question, then
said, "Yes. Pretty much."
"Well, we have to have the fire for light and warmth, but I
don't have to have the cheroot smoke, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't make
any. Or, if you do, that you make it far from me, so I can breathe
easier."
He said nothing, returning his attention theoretically to the job
of lighting more sticks, spreading the ones that had caught to places where
they would best catch the rest. Until he said quietly, "All right."
He nodded, then added, "And I'm sorry. That was a jackass thing to say –
to make you into a priss for not wanting the extra smoke, whether you have
asthma or not." He glanced at her and offered his
that. We'll start a fire."
His hand and words calmed her. She let him lead her.
Just out from their roofless, one-walled shelter, Lydia dumped her
skirtful of branches and twigs, then, squatting, watched Mr. Cody's vague
shadow stoop over the wood. He began to arrange it, though she couldn't see
well enough to say how. It didn't matter. A fire. Oh, glory. Lydia was impressed
that he was going to be able to start one – she'd heard the American Indians
could do it by rubbing sticks together.
She watched his obscure movements intently, trying to determine
what he was doing, her hands in the squatting lap of her skirts. Finally,
frustrated, she couldn't resist asking, "How are you going to light it?
What do you do?"
A little pass of clouds revealed his silhouette in slightly better
definition, a man with one knee on the ground, his other foot under him, his
chest pressed against his thigh as he bent over their sticks. This shadow turned
its head toward her. "You reach in your pocket," he said as he
shifted his weight, "and pull out some matches." He let out a snort
of humor as he struck a tiny flame into existence.
"You had matches," she said flatly, disappointed. And
annoyed.
His face, over the tiny match, came alive for a moment: golden,
shadowed, lit faintly – devilishly – from beneath. But familiar and a relief to
see, even if he made fun. He threw her his teasing half-smile as he cupped his
hand around the flame, then disappeared back into shadow as he held it low,
applying it to the twigs beneath the heavier wood.
Some kindling lit. She watched the brighter light dance up into
his visage as he bent over their small fire. Under the brim of his hat, his
face drew sharp-planed, the injured side hidden by angle and darkness. She was
taken aback to realize how handsome he was. Had she known this? That, without
the distraction of bruises, cuts, and swelling, his features assembled in
mature, masculine good looks. It was in the flare of his nostrils, the width
and muscle of his jaw, the ridge and cut of his cheek.
She would guess he was in his mid-thirties, though his face seemed
older – from too much sun and perhaps, she thought somehow, too much sorrow. It
wasn't a youthful face. Even by firelight, lines fanned out at the sides of his
eyes, crinkles – they weren't from smiling. His were the lines of a furrowed
brow, of squinting and frowning into the sun. It came to her: He never smiled
from happiness, only from glee when he teased, when he tormented with his
quirky humor. His smile was ironic, sarcastic, faintly sadistic in a tame way.
As if the closest thing he knew to joy was a sort of mirthless confirmation
that, yes, life was as absurdly bleak as he'd always thought, so much so as to
be ridiculous, funny.
Speaking over the small fire, he said, "Besides matches, I
also have half a dozen cheroots in my pocket, mostly broken, but two, I think,
still whole. You'll pardon if I have one."
She was uncomfortable having to say, "I'd rather you wouldn't."
He glanced at her with a derisive lift of one brow. "I wasn't
really asking permission."
"A lot of smoke gives me asthma."
"Then this fire'll kill you." He didn't hide his
belligerence.
"Do you always do this? Get angry over everything?"
He turned to look at her fully, as if pondering the question, then
said, "Yes. Pretty much."
"Well, we have to have the fire for light and warmth, but I
don't have to have the cheroot smoke, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't make
any. Or, if you do, that you make it far from me, so I can breathe
easier."
He said nothing, returning his attention theoretically to the job
of lighting more sticks, spreading the ones that had caught to places where
they would best catch the rest. Until he said quietly, "All right."
He nodded, then added, "And I'm sorry. That was a jackass thing to say –
to make you into a priss for not wanting the extra smoke, whether you have
asthma or not." He glanced at her and offered his
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