Tarsy's guests returned eagerly, their party mood enhanced by the brandy and the success of the first game. When everyone was seated, once more in a circle, Tarsy explained, "The object of Poor Pussy is for two people to try not to laugh. I'm going to be a cat, and I'll choose anyone I want to play to. The only word I can say is 'meow,' and whoever I say it to is only allowed to say, 'poor pussy.' Three times is all we can speak. If either one of us laughs we have to pay a forfeit of the other one's choice, all right?"
Tarsy's guests murmured approval and settled into their chairs for more amusement.
"Of course," Tarsy added, "all of you can talk all you want—you can prod and tease and offer any suggestions that come to mind. Here we go."
Poor Pussy was so ridiculously simple, it succeeded for its sheer absurdity. Tarsy dropped to her hands and knees and affected a kittenish pout that began everyone laughing immediately. She arched her back and sidled up to several knees before finally adopting a supplicating posture at Tom Jeffcoat's feet. She batted her eyelashes up at him and gave a pitiful "Meoooow." The observers chuckled as Tom sat cross-armed and consoled, "Poor pussy."
From Tom's left, Patrick Haberkorn nudged his elbow and teased, "You can do better than that, Jeffcoat. Stroke her fur a little!"
Unable to speak, lest he end up being the one owing a forfeit, Tom looked her over as if with piqued interest, tilting his head to one side.
Tarsy tried again with a doleful, feline, "Meeeeeeowwwwww." She made a winning cat, preening herself against Tom's knee and putting on an appealing pout.
"Poor pussy looks like she's starved for attention," Haberkorn improvised.
Tom reached down and petted Tarsy's head, then scratched her beneath the chin, running his fingertips down her throat. "Poooooor pussy," he sympathized. He was in no danger of laughing, but the dimple in his cheek deepened and his mouth took on a half grin as he teased her overtly.
The others got into the spirit of the game and strengthened their efforts to get either of the pair to laugh.
"Who let that mangy cat in here!"
"Hey, pussy, where's your sandbox?"
Tarsy was in the midst of meowing and rubbing her ear against Tom's pant leg when Charles called, "Anybody got a mouse to feed her?" and Tarsy collapsed in merriment, followed by everyone else in the room. Tarsy knelt on the floor, head hanging, too overcome with mirth to get to her feet, having too much fun to try. Tom caught her arm and drew them both to their feet, enjoying himself immensely. "All right everybody, you heard Tarsy. She has to pay me a forfeit."
Yes, yes, a forfeit. Everyone in the room recognized a budding romance when they saw one.
In the center of the circle Tom kept Tarsy's elbow while perusing her with mock lasciviousness. "What'll it be, puss?" he asked, to everyone's amusement.
Two suggestions were thrown at Tom simultaneously.
"Make her spend the night on the back-porch step."
"Make her take a bath—cat-style!"
Tom knew perfectly well what Tarsy was hoping for. His eyes dropped to her lips—pretty lips, full and pink and slightly parted. A kiss would certainly seal within the minds of everyone here which way the wind blew for Tom Jeffcoat. But this was Tarsy's party: if she wanted to start risqué forfeits, she'd have to instigate them herself.
"Bring her a saucer of milk," he ordered, still holding her arm while her flush grew becoming.
Somebody brought a saucer of milk and set it on the floor. Tarsy promised in an undertone, "I'll get even with you, Tom Jeffcoat. You can't escape me forever." With a flourish of skirts, she gamely dropped onto hands and knees to pay her forfeit.
She made a provocative sight, kneeling bustle-up, lapping milk from the edge of the saucer, as provocative a sight as she'd made rubbing her breast against his knee. Watching her, Tom laughed with the rest, but when she'd been in the ignominious position for a mere fifteen seconds he relented and hauled her to her feet. "Poor pussy is excused," he said for all to hear. Then privately to Tarsy, "…for the time being."
Not a soul in the room doubted that there was a genuine spark of interest between the two.
Emily Walcott watched the entire farce with a queer tightness in her chest and a strange, forbidden heaviness in her stomach. It had been highly suggestive. Sometimes she'd tried not to laugh, but had been unable. Sometimes she'd felt embarrassed, but could not drag her eyes away.
What would her parents say? Mother, in particular.
She and every girl in the room had been raised upon rigid, Victorian mores. Blatant flirtatiousness was strictly forbidden and physical contact with the opposite sex was limited to a brief touch of hands in greeting or holding an escort's elbow when walking. Yet these games encouraged a good deal of tactile and vocal innuendo.
She wondered if the other girls felt as she did, drawn and repelled at once, flushed and uncomfortable. Was it the subtle naughtiness of the games themselves or was it Tom Jeffcoat? Watching Tarsy rub against his trouser legs, Emily had felt an insidious stirring inside. When he'd petted Tarsy's hair and run his fingers down her throat Emily had experienced a startling rush of excitement. And something more. Prurience, she was sure, which made these games indecent. Yet she'd been unable to turn away. Not even when Tom had gazed into Tarsy's eyes and employed his flirtatious grin had she turned away. She'd stared, galvanized by a bewildering jolt of jealousy while everyone in the room expected him to demand a kiss as a forfeit. Then he'd called for the saucer of milk and she'd released her breath carefully, hoping Charles wasn't watching her.
Whatever had Tarsy started here?
Tarsy knew precisely what she had started, and she'd done it consciously. At the end of the evening she asked Tom Jeffcoat to stay after the others had gone, to help her push the furniture back into place.
It was a convenient ruse, Tom knew, but he was a red-blooded American male with a little brandy coursing through his veins, and Tarsy was a tempting young lady whose admiration wasn't exactly unwelcome. Furthermore, Miss Emily Walcott was off limits and he'd been too aware of her all night long.
When the punch bowl was carried to the kitchen, the chairs put back in place, and all but one lamp wick lowered, he decided to take advantage of Miss Tarsy Fields's thinly veiled invitation. She had walked him slowly to the door and was reaching for his jacket, which hung on the newel post.
"Come here," he ordered quietly, catching her around the waist and swinging her against him. "Now I'll take the rest of my forfeit."
She forgot about his jacket as he tipped his head and kissed her, chastely at first, then with growing intimacy. He invited her to open her lips and she did. He brushed-his tongue across hers and she responded. He ran his hands up her back and she did likewise up his.
He found, to his enjoyment, that it stirred him. Lifting his head slowly he let her read it in his eyes. "I think you've been planning that all night," he told her.
"And you haven't?"
He laughed and ran the backs of his fingers along her jaw. His lips softened into a speculative crook as he continued caressing her jaw, letting his gaze rove from her eyes to her mouth and back again. "I wonder what it is you want from me."
"To have fun. Innocent fun. That's all."
"That's all?"
She took another kiss, in lieu of anything more she might want. She had lush lips and knew instinctively how to use them to best advantage. When she pulled away Tom's lips were wet and he found himself pleasantly aroused.
"You're looking for a husband, aren't you?" he inquired pleasantly.
"Am I?"
"I think so. But I'm not him, Tarsy. I might enjoy kissing you and being your partner for parlor games, and letting you rub against my pant leg, but I'm not in the market for a wife. You'd best know that from the start."
"How honorable of you to forewarn me, Mr. Jeffcoat."
"And how tempting you are, Miss Fields."
"Then is there anything wrong with"—she shrugged—"enjoying each other a little?"
He kissed her once more, lingeringly, resting a hand at the side of her breast, delving deep with his tongue. Their mouths parted reluctantly.
"Mmm … you do that so well," she murmured.
"So do you. Have you had much practice?"
"Some. Have you?"
"Some. Shall we have another go at it?"
"Mmm … please."
The next "go" was wetter, more promiscuous. When his hand strayed to her breast she drew back discreetly—a woman who knew how to leave a man with something to anticipate. "Perhaps we'd better say good night now."
He found himself mildly amused but scarcely heartbroken. She was a pleasant diversion, nothing more, and as long as they both understood it, he was willing to dive as deep or shallow as she'd allow.
"All right." Unhurriedly he reached for his jacket. "Thank you for a truly amusing party. I think everyone agreed it was an unqualified success."
"It was, wasn't it?"
"I think you've really started something with these parlor games. The men loved them."
"So did the girls, though they don't think they should admit it. Even Emily who's as prudish as they come, and Ardis, who's decided to have the next party. Will you be there next week?"
"Of course. I wouldn't miss it."
"Even if it's you who has to pay the forfeit?"
"Forfeits can be fun."
They laughed and she smoothed his lapel. On her porch they shared one last lingering good-night kiss, but in the middle of it he found himself wondering if Charles was doing the same thing with Emily right now, and if so, how obliging she was.
* * *
He caught only glimpses of her that week. He chose his carriage horses without her aid, and signed a hay contract with a rancher named Claude McKenzie who said he'd be cutting his crop by mid-July. He talked with the local harnessmaker Jason Ess, about the harnesses he'd need. Ess told him Munkers & Mathers Hardware down in Buffalo handled new Bain wagons, and he made the thirty-mile trip to place an order.
Emily, Charles said, had been called out twice that week: to diagnose and treat a cow whose paunch was bound up by a hairball, and to extract a decayed tooth from a horse. In both cases she'd been paid in hard cash and was elated to have earned her first money as a veterinarian.
Frankie came by and said his sister had been trying to ride Fannie's bicycle and had fallen and knocked the wind from herself and gotten so angry she climbed back on, fell a second time, and scraped a patch of skin off her hand and another from her forehead.
"You should've heard her cuss!" Frankie exclaimed. "I never knew girls could cuss like that!
Tom smiled and thought about her for the remainder of the day.
On Saturday night she showed up at Ardis Corbeil's house sporting a pair of strawberry-red scabs, one just below her hairline and another on her nose Tom was near the door when the two of them walked in. He offered Charles a congenial hello, but glanced down at Emily and made the mistake of chuckling.
"What are you laughing at!" she snapped, scowling at him.
"Your battle scars."
"Well, at least I tried riding it! If you think it's so easy, you try!"
"I told Fannie I'd love to."
Charles put in, "The subject of the bicycle is a touchy one right now."
Smiling, Tom tipped a shallow bow of apology. "I'm sorry I brought it up, Miss Walcott.
"I'll bet you are!" She turned and stalked away.
"Mercy, she really doesn't take teasing well, does she?"
"Especially from you, I'm afraid."
The crowd played a new game that night called "Guessing Blind Man" and what Tom had feared, happened: when it was his turn, he was blindfolded surrounded by a ring of seated players, and ended up on the lap of Emily Walcott. Something told him immediately it was she. The reaction of the others, perhaps. To his left he heard a soft "Oh-oh!", then "Shh!"
Everyone in the room knew that from the moment Tom Jeffcoat had come to town Emily Walcott had considered him her archenemy. She would as soon bury him as look at him. Yes, she'd helped him buy horses, but she'd done it begrudgingly, at Charles's request. Even tonight, at the door, she'd snapped at Jeffcoat the moment she'd stepped into the house.
Now here he sat, blindfolded, on her lap, surrounded by titters.
The rules of the game were simple: he had a free pair of hands and three tries to guess who she was.
The tittering stopped. The silence grew pregnant and Tom imagined Charles looking on. The games were getting more and more daring. There was no cushion in use this time, and if his hand groped in the wrong place, no telling what it might touch. Emily sat stone still, scarcely breathing. Someone snickered. Someone else whispered. Beneath him he felt the contact with her slim knees but he let them bear his full weight—anything to make this look as if he were continuing to nettle her for his own amusement. Behind his blindfold he pictured her cheeks, burning with embarrassment, her breath indrawn, her shoulders stiff.
He reached … and found her right hand gripping the edge of the chair seat. For a moment they engaged in a silent tug-of-war, but he won and lifted the hand by its wrist, much smaller than the circle of his fingers.
The game gave him license to do what he might never get a chance to do again and he'd do it, by god, with Charles watching, and satisfy his curiosity. Those looking on would see only what they'd been seeing all along—a teasing man having his fun with a woman who could scarcely tolerate him.
Still holding her wrist, he explored with his free hand each long, thin finger, each nail clipped veterinarian-short; calluses (surprising) at the base of her palm, then the palm itself, working it over mortar-and-pestle fashion. Sure enough: a scab—undoubtedly caused by her fall from the bicycle. He felt an acute forbidden thrill.
"Ah, tough hands. Could it be Charles Bliss?"
Everyone roared while Tom concealed his own disturbing reaction beneath a veneer of teasing. He lifted his right hand and found her cheek. She stiffened and drew back sharply. His hand pursued, examining everything but the two scabs he knew were there—one silky eyebrow; one eye, forcing it to close; a soft temple where a pulse drummed crazily; a velvety earlobe. He leaned close and sniffed: lemon verbena … a surprise.
"Mmm … you don't smell like Charles."
More laughter as he examined her gauzy hair and the curls outlining her face. "Charles, if it's you, you've done something new with your hair."
Laughter intensified as he touched Emily's cheek—hot, hot, afire with self-conscious-ness—and finally her mouth, which opened, emitting a faint gasp. She jerked back so sharply he imagined her head bowed over the back of the chair. When he'd discomfited her to the degree that he was certain everyone in the room knew he was doing it intentionally, he touched her scabbed nose and forehead.
"Is it you, tomboy?" he asked, loud and clear, then bellowed, "Emily Walcott!" leaping from her lap and ripping the blindfold from his eyes.
She had ripened like an August tomato and was staring at her skirt as if trying to suppress tears of mortification.
Tom swung toward Charles. "No offense intended, Charles."
"Of course not, it's all in fun," Charles replied.
Emily's expression turned mutinous and Tom knew he must do something to alleviate the tension. So, there before all her friends he bent swiftly and dropped a kiss on her cheek. "You're a good sport, Walcott," he declared.
She shot up from her chair and skewered him with a feral glare, planted her hands on her hips and came at him with slow, insidious intent while their ring of friends laughed at their antics. Tom retreated behind Charles's chair, extending his palms as if to stave her off. "Charles, help me! Tell your woman to back off!"
Charles joined the parody, pretending to subdue Emily, who strained toward Jeffcoat, warning, "Next time, hostler, I'll dump you on the floor!"
Though Emily had drawn upon feigned vitriol to escape having her incipient feelings for Tom detected, the incident had been unnerving. Not nearly so unnerv
ing as one that happened later in the evening, however.
It was bound to happen sooner or later: Tarsy insisted on playing French Postman. The rules of the game needed no explanation for Emily to guess that its outcome would be kissing. She herself escaped being sent a "letter," but before the game was over, Tarsy sent one to Tom, and when it was delivered, Emily watched with derelict fascination as the two of them stood in the middle of the room and kissed as she had never observed anyone kissing before, with Tom's hands running freely over Tarsy's back, and their mouths open—wide! For a good half minute! A lump formed in Emily's throat as she watched. Hot tentacles of unwanted jealousy and undeniable prurience painted blotches on her neck. Even before the game ended she vowed she would never attend one of these parties again.
* * *
To Tom, kissing Tarsy had been nothing but a false show, a convenient opportunity to further divert memories from how he'd made free with Emily Walcott.
For that was the encounter that had rocked him.
Just a game to some, but to him it had been the first feel of her skin, the first scent of her hair, and a telltale gasp that she'd been unable to control when he'd touched her lips. Whatever outward appearance Emily Walcott maintained, she was far from indifferent to him, and the knowledge put a tension around his chest that refused to go away.
During the days that followed, while he worked beside Charles, Tom pretended casual disinterest or amusement whenever her name was mentioned. But at bed-time he fell onto his pillow to stare at the ceiling and ponder his dilemma: he was falling in love with Emily Walcott.
He dreamed up an excuse to avoid the next party, spending instead a miserable night at the Mint Saloon, listening to veiled slurs from his competitor, Walter Pinnick, who sat with a group of his drunken henchmen and blubbered about his failing business. Next he went to the Silver Spur where he played a few hands of poker with a handful of weatherbeaten ranch hands. But they were a poor substitute for the company of his friends who were gathered across town.
The following week he and Charles completed work on his livery barn and Charles suggested, "You should have a party in the loft before McKenzie delivers the hay."