The Barefoot Bride by Joan Johnston Page A

closed over hers. It was a kiss of possession.
    His voice when next he spoke was hoarse with need. “Come to bed with me, Molly.”
    Molly blushed scarlet. “But Whit—”
    “We can go to the barn or—”
    “I can't! I never intended—”
    “I want you, Molly Gallagher Kendrick.”
    “I can't! James—”
    “You're my wife now!” he said fiercely.
    Seth's mouth was hard, and his embrace nearly crushed the breath out of her. His need, raw and honest, spurred her response. She thrust her fingers into his hair and opened her mouth under his. His tongue plundered, his hands ravished. He grasped her hips and pulled her hard against him. The cloth of his jeans abraded her tender skin, sending small tremors of pleasure rolling through her. Molly couldn't catch her breath; she felt out of control and couldn't catch up with the turbulent sensations roiling through her body.
    “Mama?”
    Seth and Molly broke apart like two teenagers caught spooning when the preacher comes to call. There was a mad scramble as Molly tried to scoot out of Seth's lap. He just grabbed her at the waist and stood. Her bare feet dropped to the ground, and the flannel nightgown surrounded her once more. He held her tight against him for an instant. Then with a monumental effort of will and a gusty sigh of resignation, he let her go.
    A moment later, Nessie shoved open the front door.
    “I couldn't find you, Mama,” the little girl said. “I got scared.”
    Molly scooped the child up in her arms as she tried desperately to regain her equilibrium. Her breathing was still ragged, her pulse thrumming. “I couldn't sleep, Nessie. I just came out to sit for a while on the porch with Seth. Come on. Let's go back to bed.”
    As she stepped inside the house, she threw a quick look over her shoulder. Seth stood in the shadows, tall and forbidding. It had been a narrow escape. She might even now be lying beneath him on a bed of straw, had Nessie not interrupted them. And how would she have felt tomorrow morning if she had?
    Wonderful! It would have been wonderful! a voice cried.
    But the grieving widow was appalled at what she had nearly done. It was nearly dawn before Molly closed her eyes at last.
    Seth didn't have much more success getting to sleep. He hadn't stayed on the porch much past Molly's departure, just long enough for his blood to slow and his body to settle down. When he finally returned to his bedroom, he found Molly's son sitting up in bed waiting for him.
    The whites of the boy's eyes showed his fright. “Who's there?” Whit asked in a small voice.
    “It's me, Seth.”
    He watched the boy visibly relax.
    “I woke up,” Whit said, “and no one was here.”
    Whit didn't admit he was scared. With what Seth had seen of the kid's pride, he knew the boy probably would have been appalled to know Seth even suspected such a thing.
    “I just stepped out for some fresh air,” Seth said. “You'd better get to sleep. We've got a hard day ahead of us tomorrow.”
    Whit lay back down, but his body was stiff. Seth pulled off his boots and socks, then skinned out of his jeans, leaving him in his long John underwear. Normally he wouldhave removed that as well, but in deference to the boy, he left it on. He slipped under the covers and lay as stiff as the youth on the other side of the bed.
    He closed his eyes, which made his other senses more acute. He heard Whit's indrawn breath and the muffled sound of what might have been a sob. And felt the small jerky movements of the body beside him. Seth wasn't sure what he could, or should, do. To notice at all would be to humiliate the boy.
    Suddenly, Whit rolled over and pulled the pillow hard against his mouth. His legs drew up into his stomach. Seth felt Whit's desolation; he couldn't ignore it.
    “I lost my father when I was only a little older than you,” he began. “I was fifteen. My mother died when I was born. Pa always told me if I wanted to see her, I could look in the mirror, because I had her