BODACIOUS Read online

  “They come at him all at once with a banshee yell. Bo, he picked out the biggest and loudest and drew a bead on him with his eyes. That’s not the way they’d planned it, I could tell. Boys runnin’ in a pack like that wants to lay back, biding their time, waiting to see if a feller needs to risk hisself or not.

  “When the big one fell under a single blow--him with a knife and Bo bare fisted--the others circled Bo, darting in, worryin’ him one at a time, but their hearts wasn’t in it.

  “When he’d laid out a couple more of ‘em, the others sobered up sudden and ‘peared to lose their taste for fightin’. Bo stepped back and let the ones that was able carry off the others.

  “It took two to manage the big man--big red-haired fellow, he were--carrying his two arms, draggin’ his feets.” Sara squirmed in her chair, remembering big, red-headed Holthus, the leader of the band of robbers that had kidnapped her. “They clumb back down that mountain and, far as I know, to this day, they ain’t been back, except that scrawny tetched one, Cappy, coming up to make his deliveries.”

  “Maybe Bo got hurt that night,” Sara mused aloud. “Did he talk after that?”

  “Same as always. Not much.”

  “When did he lose his voice altogether then?”

  Mrs. Johnson looked surprised. “I didn’t know he had. Fate and me figured he just decided talk weren’t no ‘count.”

  Nodding, Sara narrowed her eyes as she studied the older woman. She bit her bottom lip, stood, and donned her layers of clothing again. Now how was she going to get home?

  Home? A bed of hay in a shed? What was she thinking?

  Mrs. Johnson stood and regarded Sara curiously. “What’s your name, child, and whereabouts d’ya come from?”

  “My name is Sara Loomis, and I’m supposed to be in Overt. Cappy and Franklin and a big red-haired man named Holthus kidnapped me when they robbed a convenience store. Cappy was supposed to murder me out in the woods, but he took me to Bo thinking Bo would do the killing for him. Lucky for me, I guess.”

  Mrs. Johnson nodded sagely. “Well, you’re a heap better off with Bo.”

  “Mrs. Johnson.” Sara posed her request quietly. “I need your help. Can you tell me how to get to a main road from here?”

  “Yes, I can, but you’d best be goin’ on back over to Bo’s place tonight. It’s nearly six mile to the road and you never know if there’ll come some civil person a drivin’ over that old stretch or not, especially at night.”

  “I don’t know the way back to Bo’s place. I might just as well try for the road and get myself out of his hair.”

  Mrs. Johnson eyed her oddly. “He’ll be waitin’ for ya. He wouldn’t leave ya to face the varmints or them sneaky devils at night all alone. That ain’t his way.”

  “Please, Mrs. Johnson.” Sara’s voice broke. “Please tell me the way to the road.”

  “Child, child. You got nothin’ worth crying about. You got to go back Bo’s way anyhow. Ask him. He’ll show ya.”

  Sara cleared her throat and her mind with one barked cough. “What’s the closest town around here?”

  “Except for Settlement, Caesar’s closest.”

  Sara tried to steady herself. “Tell me the shortest way to Caesar then.”

  “Shortest way’s by boat, down river, maybe seven, eight mile, but it’s too swoll. You can’t go that way tonight.”

  Sara grimaced. She’d seen all she wanted of that river this night but she could walk it, follow the channel on foot.

  “How about the road below the ridge at Bo’s? Where does it go?”

  “Straight to Settlement. Cappy’s ma, Queenie, runs Settlement. If she caught you, she’d give you over to one of them addled boys a’ hers again, and next time you might not get off so good. Like I said, you’re better off with Bo, at least for the time bein’, water up the way it is.”

  Sara stepped out the door from the Johnson’s cozy home into the wintry night. She started to her right, toward the river. She would walk, stay on the bank, follow the boiling waters back to civilization.

  She heard a low whistle and looked over her shoulder. Something big and black loomed at the edge of the woods. She recognized Bo’s form outlined as he stepped forward into the night’s natural light. He grunted once. She turned toward him, took a deep breath, and glanced back at the water.

  It would probably be best not to attempt to make her way down river at night, especially with Bo not fifty feet away. But there would be another opportunity. He wouldn’t try to hold her. Now that she knew a way out, she could slip off during the daylight, sometime when he was hunting or cutting wood. But why was she so reluctant to go? Of course, she didn’t want to cause some big scene, telling him good-bye.

  She was annoyed by her own lame excuse. In her heart Sara knew Bo would not make a scene, or try to make her stay. But, after tonight, she was suspicious of her own volatile emotions. It would be better for everyone if she simply walked away.

  The most distressing thing about her situation was that after the glimpse she’d had of him wet, she was entertaining all kinds of strange, new thoughts about the man.

  She chided herself. The bond between them was growing stronger. She definitely needed to leave, and the sooner, the better.

  Chapter Nine

  There seemed to be no confusion in either of their minds that night when they got back from the Johnsons. Sara went straight to the shed; Bo, to the cabin for the lantern.

  He waited inside the shed while she took the lantern to the outhouse, returned, and arranged her bed. When she was ready, settled on her knees in her nest, he walked over close to her.

  From his coat pocket, he produced the mysterious object he had spent so much time whittling. He held it in the full light of the lantern, then offered it to her.

  “A comb?” Amazed, delighted, she smiled uncertainly, first at the gift, then into his face.

  “Thanks.” She took it, touched it carefully, feeling the many, oversized, uniform teeth, each perfectly smooth, without a snag or a rough place anywhere. He had made it with his own hands--spent hour after hour of his time on the gift--for her. Her chin quivered as she squinted up into his face. What was wrong with her, getting emotional over a comb? Ridiculous. She had received much nicer gifts.

  But never had a gift from anyone moved her as this one did. His regard seemed crafted into each small, perfect tooth.

  Turning away from him, averting her eyes, she raked the comb through her hair. It caught in the tangles accumulated in days without grooming.

  She continued, slowly, cautiously, persuading the comb through her dark curls. She didn’t need a mirror to comb the hair she had fussed over hundreds of times in front of one.

  “Thank you, Bo.” She turned to find her benefactor gone and heard the wooden plank fall into its metal braces, securing the door.

  Sara did not understand the sensations fomenting inside her. She wanted to giggle, to whoop, to weep. She found herself being drawn closer and closer to him; felt a special warmth for him, even for this strange lifestyle.

  “Fight it,” she chided aloud. Her throat ached. She mustn’t let herself feel this tenderness toward him. She was beginning to understand him and his decision to live as he did, away from fools and threats, comfortable setting his own pace, doing things his own way.

  “No, no,” she said aloud. “That kind of thinking is a bad thing. A very bad thing.”

  Sara tossed the comb into the hay, careful to note where it landed. Standing, she bit her lips, clasped her arms over her midriff and paced. She felt restless, annoyed at her situation, at herself, all over again. She was supposed to be in Overt beginning her new life, her new job, finding a posh apartment, buying new clothes. Bo, life here in the mountains, was knocking her priorities all out of whack.

  She continued to pace in the dark, thinking. She needed to get out of here, needed to get her priorities straight, needed to formulate a plan.

  How long would it take her to get down river, walking o
r floating? It was seven or eight miles, according to Mrs. Johnson. At the jogging trail in the city, Sara could walk a mile in fifteen or sixteen minutes easily, jog it in nine. She should be able to reach Caesar in less than two hours. Easy...except for trees and uneven landscape and mountain lions and Queenie’s half-wit sons bumbling around.

  “No excuses.” Sara scolded herself, mumbling the words out loud. “You’ve got to get out of here before...”

  Before what?

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Before you begin to think about touching him, about him touching you.

  “That crude old mountain man?” She hissed, answering herself. “Give me a break.

  “Old, huh? You saw those wet clothes clinging to him. That was not an old man’s body. That guy is one very nice piece of work.

  “Stop it.” She grimaced. “What are you thinking? You know how you are.”

  “Okay, so I don’t want sex. I liked the preliminaries, didn’t I?”

  “Bo doesn’t seem like a man who’d be satisfied with preliminaries.”

  She began nodding. Vigorously she took off her clothes and donned her nightshirt. She slung the quilts around her shoulders and dropped down into the hay.

  It didn’t matter how Bo looked, how kind he was to her or how courageous he was in helping his neighbors. She had to leave. And she needed to go before winter weather prevented it.

  One thing was clear: her resolve was withering. She admired him more every day, had begun thinking of him as a man, perhaps, after tonight, even as a desirable man.

  “Get real.” She rumbled under her breath, scolding herself again. The grumbling came out as a growl. “Heaven help you. You’re even starting to sound like him.”

  Suddenly she was on her knees, digging through the hay for her comb. When she found it, she ran her fingers lovingly over every tooth. She allowed herself to think of Bo; to remember how strong, how virile his body looked as he emerged from the river; his dark, probing eyes; to ponder his puzzling lack of interest in her physically. After all, they had slept side-by-side in his bed and he had not touched her.

  She recalled how he did touch her, his big hands warm, gentle, even at first, despite the growls and snarling.

  He had nearly stopped making all those guttural noises when they were alone, at least he had before Cappy showed up on the ridge with his delivery.

  It seemed odd to her that Cappy was not a significant player in her thoughts. In fact, she had almost forgotten the prospect of being rescued by the little dolt.

  She was surprised by Bo’s reaction to Cappy’s being at the ridge, talking to her. He was definitely angry, maybe a little jealous. She smiled at the idea, then shook her head. No, Bo didn’t have to be jealous of anyone, certainly not Cappy.

  Occasionally, however, she caught Bo’s dark eyes studying her face, scanning her body and she recognized the look. Men and boys had admired her that same way since she was fourteen years old, the year the abundant breasts blossomed on her slender frame.

  At school, boys bumped into her, brushed against her, whispered together as she moved down the hallway.

  On dates, they tried to touch her. She didn’t mind, even liked it.

  It ddn’t take long to learn, however, that the more liberties she allowed, the more a boy wanted.

  When the first unfastened her bra, she marveled at the sensation, thought the excitement might be love. It wasn’t.

  Sara lay back in her nest in the stall and pulled the quilts tightly around her. For the first time, she felt secure enough, remote enough, to dig up those hated memories and examine them. How odd.

  When that first boy had bragged about his success--told everyone he’d gotten into Sara’s bra--she felt betrayed, hated him. She later analyzed it, thinking her reaction verified the adage about there being a fine line between love and hate.

  It was a long time before a boy’s hands were allowed to roam into her underclothes again, but eventually, it happened.

  Sara liked being fondled above the waist and rationalized that there could be nothing wrong with doing something that felt so good.

  A girlfriend said Sara had a reputation as a tease because she encouraged guys, egging them on, then wouldn’t let them into the inner sanctum, the area from her waist to her knees.

  “You are so green,” a college roommate told her.

  “Spell it out for Sara,” another said when girls in her dorm confided their sexual exploits. “You’ll have to draw a picture or Sara won’t know what we’re talking about.”

  Finally the taunts and the chiding had Sara mad at herself. Her friends were having sex. She needed to catch up. But she was a college senior before she “went all the way.”

  She was a student advisor overseeing a freshman women’s dormitory. Even the young girls in her dorm teased her about being nearly twenty-two years old and still a virgin.

  One night that spring she told a girlfriend she was ready. The girlfriend “set her up.” Sara was to go to Wesley’s apartment at three-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon.

  “You’re a looker,” Wesley said when he opened the door, then grinned. “They tell me you’ve never done it?”

  She’d been mortified.

  “Don’t worry. It’s easier than learning to ride a bike. Can you ride a bike?”

  She nodded. She thought he was kidding but she was too tense to enjoy his humor.

  Wesley needed to hurry. He didn’t have a lot of time. His study group would be there by four.

  “We’ll save the lesson on foreplay for next time,” he said, grinning agreeably, and locked the apartment door. “Go ahead and take off your clothes. All of them.” His tone was businesslike as he unbuttoned his shirt.

  Stepping out of her sandals, Sara did exactly as he said, removing her shirt and bra first.

  Wesley had just unzipped his pants when he saw her nude from the waist up. His mouth gaped open, his eyes rounded, he dropped to his knees and grinned a silly grin. He kept staring at her whispering, “Thank you, thank you...” She was embarrassed, angry and flattered all at the same time.

  Recovering a little, Wesley picked up her castoff clothes and carried them along as he ushered her into the bedroom. He sat on the end of the bed to watch as she removed her jeans and panties. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him but assumed his heavy breathing meant he liked what he saw.

  He motioned her onto the bed as he wriggled out of his underwear. He kept his undershirt and socks on. She sat staring at the floor. When she ventured a look, his penis was like the rest of him, long, and thin, and stiff.

  Grudgingly, he put on a condom. She insisted. The girls in the dorm had said she would have to make him do it. Sulking then, he leaped on top of her. He kissed her hurriedly, used his hands to force her legs apart, and tried to cram the narrow shaft into her. It hurt.

  Alarmed, she fought him, trying to get away. She arched her back and raised her hips in an effort to bounce him off. He stayed aboard like a rodeo cowboy astride a bucking bronco. His efforts became frantic as he rammed the shaft against the front of her over and over again.

  She screamed as he finally jammed it into her, and drove it straight through the resistant membrane.

  Clamping a hand over her mouth, he pumped furiously, up and down, in and out. The friction of the hard little shaft burned. She pounded him with her fists and yelled, but his hand over her mouth muffled the cry.

  Frightened, miserable, she watched his small, white butt bob up and down, in and out of her line of vision. He looked ridiculous. She would have laughed except for the pain that came with each determined thrust.

  Someone knocked on the outside door. She heard a key turn in the lock then voices in the living room. Wesley finished with a noisy groan and jumped off of her.

  Sara felt cold, and wet, and sick to her stomach. Barely able to roll onto her side, she tried to get her bearings and locate her clothes.

  “Yuck!” Wesley said, making little effort to keep his voice down. “Look
what you did.”

  Beneath her on the bed was a smear of bloody mucous.

  “I can’t believe you made me do this when you were having your period.”

  Mortified, Sara shook her head. “Made you?” He was obviously an imbecile. “I’m not. I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s not normal, I can tell you that. You aren’t supposed to leave a mess on the bed after. You’ll have to clean that up.”

  She didn’t answer. She wanted out of there. “Is there a fire escape out this window?”

  “No. You have to use the door, like everybody else.” He dressed in silence, glowering occasionally at the soiled spread, obviously angry.

  Sara had not finished dressing when Wesley flung open the bedroom door and stalked into the living room, gushing greetings to his study group.

  “Is that a girl I see there in your bedroom?” a female voice chirped.

  Sara leaped to close the door. She finished dressing then, head lowered, she hurried through Wesley’s classmates, feeling every eye on her as she ran outside. She hadn’t attempted to clean up the mess on the bed.

  Back in her dorm room, she closed the door and sat gingerly on the side of her bed. Her hands limp in her lap, her shoulders bowed, she cried.

  Now she had made love. Ugh. All she knew was it hurt like heck, smelled ghastly, was messy and joyless. She hated it.

  There was no doubt. She was one of the frigid ones, coldly resistant to the greatest recreation known to men.

  What should she do? What could she do? She shook her head hopelessly.

  When her girlfriends asked how it went, Sara said everything was pretty much like she’d expected.

  * * *

  Looking around the darkened shed, Sara drew a deep breath and clutched the comb tightly. She was safe from that here. Franklin wanted to force her to have sex but he was far away. Cappy she could control. Bo wasn’t interested. Here, safe, she could take out old, torturous memories and examine them without being afraid.

  It was nearly three years after the episode with Wesley before Sara experienced sex again. She stiffened with the memory.

  * * *