The Waltons 1 by Robert Weverka Page B

conscious of taking her in his arms. The game was over, but in playing it they had said wonderful things to each other. Becky-Lee and Rome Walton had endured the hardships of settling virgin land in a hostile environment and in their experiences Jenny Pendleton and John-Boy Walton had found a tender, enduring bond. Their long kiss, and then holding each other seemed as natural and uncomplicated as might have been the embrace of the cabin’s original occupants.
    “I felt terrible last night, John-Boy,” Jenny murmured, “I thought something might have happened to you. Or that you didn’t care. Or that I might never see you again.”
    John-Boy held her closer, not trusting his voice. He gently stroked her hair, and then smiled at her as she looked up. He kissed her again, then kissed her cheeks and nose and forehead. “It’ll never happen again, Jenny. Never again. Nobody’s ever goin’ to keep us apart again.”
    For another minute they held the embrace. Then Jenny drew gently away and looked at the fireplace. She pushed a lock of hair from her forehead and laughed nervously. “Well, I guess I’d better get these dishes done.”
    “To heck with the dishes,” John-Boy said. He took her hand and headed toward the nonexistent front door. “You been workin’ hard for ’leven years now, Becky-Lee Walton. It’s time you enjoyed the scenery around here.”
    “But how about the wolves and bears? And Indians?”
    “No need to worry about them. I got my rifle and powder.”
    John-Boy had no idea what happened to the next two hours. Nor was he certain about whether Jenny Pendleton was really Jenny Pendleton or Becky-Lee Walton, and whether he was John-Boy or Rome Walton. It didn’t make a whole lot of difference. The girl who held his hand laughed and smiled and sometimes stopped for no apparent reason and kissed him. As abruptly, she ran away, and reappeared giggling in some hidden glen. They lay on their stomachs and drank water from fresh springs, and they took off their shoes and waded through cool, shaded ponds. Birds chirped and sometimes screeched angrily at them, and a deer watched suspiciously as they sat on a huge rock overlooking the valley.
    John-Boy saw places on Walton’s Mountain he’d never known existed, and each of them seemed beautiful and lush with the sparkling warmth of spring. And more beautiful than all of them was Jenny’s smile, the soft texture of her hair, and the liquid, dancing warmth of her dark-brown eyes. John-Boy held her close to him, and felt his heart clamoring with urgent desire. And there was a moment in which each of them stopped breathing, as if poised on the rim of a deep chasm. But they had closed their eyes and the danger passed.
    They must have walked at least five miles. Or maybe it was ten. They had gone down the back of the mountain, through moist-green meadows and virgin forests, and then circled slowly toward home, feeling no obligations to time or place or other people. When, finally, they reached the dirt road and the house came into view, John-Boy released Jenny’s hand.
    “I guess it must be about lunchtime,” he said.
    She smiled, understanding the need for caution. She touched her hair, feeling the wild flower John-Boy had placed there, and quickly removed it. But then she changed her mind. She put the flower back, hooked her arm through John-Boy’s with a final, quick smile, and then they continued with a respectable distance between them.
    It seemed incredible that everything at the Walton house was very much the same as they had left it. The frog pond was now filled, but the same mud-splattered people still surrounded it. Most of them were kneeling, watching the erratic activities of their captives.
    “Where you been, John-Boy?” Jason asked.
    “Oh, we just walked up to the top of the mountain.”
    Mary Ellen gave Jenny a hard look. “You goin’ to help with the tadpoles?’
    “I’d like to. What can I do?”
    “Nothin’ now. But we’ll be