167:

It was much, much later. Tracy found herself outside, alone for once. The sky was so huge and frigid and dark. She hugged her jacket to her, even though it was made for this kind of cold, and she had on two sweaters underneath. Was the sky the same everywhere? Hadn't she stood on deck not two days ago and looked at the sky and it hadn't looked anything like this? It had been warm, for one thing, warm and wet... lighter somehow. Or would she always look at night skies after her children had gone to bed and wonder if all night skies were the same? Would she remember this moment forever, freeze it in her mind? 

She walked a few steps away from the old homestead house, off a dilapidated porch and over a couple of embedded rocks. Ahead, if she remembered correctly was the wire fence that separated the garden area from the yard. Part of it was wooden also, if she wanted she could lean against a post. She was really tired...

It had been more than a day. This wasn't a day, she thought, reluctantly, it was a double day. Started out in Florida, after having disembarked the ocean liner they'd spent almost two weeks on, happily enjoying the sun and sound of the surf and tennis balls. Tan, rosy, the kids had thrived. She'd had Michael arrange for her Cessna to be brought to Orlando, and Blaze was her tutor as she flew to Park City and retrieved their winter gear. 

They hadn't even stayed an hour. But had raced back to the airport and hopped back in the Cessna for a short hour ride to the new property in Montana.

The tour, the decision to stay in the homestead house, setting up the tent in the living room, making the place safe.... Dealing with screaming twins, tired beyond measure, and Danny's racing around, getting into everything, not to mention the chimney-fire, the pack rat, or whatever it was upstairs, the sticks and wood having to be chopped and hauled inside. 

And Blaze was alternately helpful and then moody, going outside to smoke, coming back and apologizing, making her feel guilty for imposing her wishes on him, even though she really hadn't asked him not to smoke. She knew he was here under duress, somewhat, even though he had declined that thought as well.

Ghosts of the past swirled around her. Moonlight reflected off the metal barn roof, and the creaking of timbers probably over a hundred years old met her ears. People had been here. They'd built this place, and lived in it, winter and summer. They'd raised families here. She could feel it all around her. 

The rutted footpaths, the different fences, repaired and remodeled as supplies changed and became available. The homestead was its own little ghost town. The house, the barn, the sheds, the granary, silos, still stood. The interior of the house was padded with not insulation, but old newspapers. The walls were 18 inches thick. The chimney needed to be replaced, the upstairs of the house leaked smoke. 

The whole place now smelled like wood smoke, it probably wasn't safe to sleep there. She knew she wouldn't sleep. The proximity to fire was too disconcerting.

"Wanna dance?" he'd snuck up on her, or she'd been so lost in her thoughts she hadn't noticed him come out. He leaned against her from behind, grabbing the post in front of her, effectively trapping her there, loosely though, not threatening in any way. He wasn't. That was the nice thing; he'd never been pushy at all. 

She didn't answer, and didn't turn; something about the previous quiet was too pervasive. He whispered low, nuzzling her hat aside to speak into her ear, perhaps feeling the quiet too. "Wanna hug?"

"Don't wanna move." She whispered back, turning her head just a fraction to let him catch her softly spoken words. "It's quiet."

He nodded in agreement, feeling around for the wavelength she was on. Quiet then. She was feeling quiet. Well, after the cacophony of little voices and demanding babies, quiet would surely be appreciated, but that wasn't the quiet she was referring to. As soon as he thought it, he knew that wasn't it. She could have relief from that kind of noise simply by getting them all to sleep, and they were. But then music could be heard or the TV, if there had been one, or sounds of cars going by, or others talking or bumping around, if you were in an apartment, but they weren't.

 This quiet came from lack of proximity. There was nothing around. No machinery, no other people, no cars, no airplanes. She was listening to the quiet. 

He pressed against her back a little, more for warmth than anything else. Tracy allowed touch most of the time, in fact, gave it as well, expected it, lived it. Not just anonymous touch, but deliberate closeness, perhaps this kind of touch would be unacceptable in another person, but she actually invaded space. 

And he responded.

"I like to touch you." He said, following that train of thought and wanting some input. She moved her hand that had been gripping the post in front of her and covered his hand, and then swayed back against him, letting him support her weight. He smiled inside. That was the kind of touch.

"Touch is important. It's a developed quality." She said her voice still very soft.

"How so? Developed in what way?" he nuzzled her hair aside to speak to her, and she turned to give him better access. A different kind of movement, one he would have taken in any other woman to be inviting, but he knew from experience in the last several days for sure, that she didn't mean it that way.

"If you weren't raised with intimate touch, like what we are doing, then you have to become accustomed to it. Some people never do, they don't like to be touched. It's threatening to them, leads to other things."

"In most people it would, you're right. A lot of folks aren't comfortable with this kind of touch."

"But we've been touching like this since moment one." She acknowledged his thoughts as well, realizing where he was going with the conversation, and realizing a need for it. There were unanswered questions.

His chuckle reverberated a bit through her jacket. He pushed her. He knew he did. He took liberties with her. Originally, it had been in the dance, that night at the festival, the first dance.

Their first contact had been non-verbal. And he'd handled her the same as any other female he touched then, her hand in his, their bellies pressed together, hips and thighs in close frictionalized movement, his other hand on her lower back, the gentle swell of buttock. And within minutes of touching her, he'd changed to an upper back position, not-laced fingers, space from the chest down. How had he known to do that? It was in her.

Not the current, no, he could feel it and its allure, but she kept it pretty low key around him, grounded out a lot in the dirt of the earth. Or the water.

No, it was her old-fashioned elegance. She mystified him.

Which also annoyed him.

He had changed how he touched her even from that very first dance. Even though the memory of that night was one of the things that kept him there with her. The feel of her at the piano, the feel of her kiss against his lips, burning. And yet, a subconscious knowledge of limits and barriers. 

The more he'd gotten to know her this past week and a half, the more he'd come to think it was her religion. There were parts of her religion so deeply ingrained in her they overtook everything else. Parts about Sabbath worship, about prayer,  who she was and where she was going and about how her actions dictated a future proximity to God. Those things were so deeply ingrained in her they were incontrovertible.

They simply were her, and he accepted them. Much in the same way she had accepted that he had no such knowledge or convictions after the initial discussions had shown that her doctrine was in contrast to his lifestyle, and he had no intention of changing.

But there were parts where another Tracy insinuated herself. Parts right now, in another person he would have called it her creative side, but Tracy's actual creativity was also governed somewhat by conviction. She had herself almost completely mastered, was his thought.

However, there was this that captivated. He nuzzled her ear, not speaking, pushing her.... Using his breath and his lips to stimulate her. And it worked. Not always... and he did it a lot.... Deliberately.... Reassuring himself that what he'd felt from her that night and on other similar occasions was still there. 

*****