The Purveyor of Love

He nodded, "I see. Maddie, when did you last have your bleedin' days?"

She shrugged, "I dunno, maybe a week? No, more like ten days or so... not two weeks. Why?"

He thought about what to tell her. Instead he returned to rubbing her back and shoulders, and made his way under her shirt, cupping her breasts and massaging her nipples. He wasn't as slow this time, nor quite as gentle. When his fingers made the journey around to her mound, he found her slick, ready, and from the way she sounded and moved, more than eager.

He took his time and showed her how a man could make a woman feel when he cared to be gentle with her. By the end of their lovemaking, sweat was running down both their brows, between her shoulders and down his chest and stomach, and they were both exhausted.

"Lordy, Mr. Hartmann, that suppose' to make me feel better? It sure did that. Bet you have some satisfied customers, huh?" She fiddled with her clothes, straightening and smoothing them back into place.

He smiled, tucking his shirt into his trousers and buttoning them up.

"Here, smear this salve on your wrists and your buttocks, and wherever else you've got marks on you. It'll help heal them faster. Got that recipe from my Granma, she had a great way with healin'." He searched around and his eyes alighted on the butter dish. "Maddie, next time you and your husband get intimate, smear some of the butter on him before he enters you. You can smear some yourself around where he'll enter you. He'll slide in much easier, and you'll perhaps get some pleasure out of it. He gave her a hard hug. "I hope you feel better, Maddie. Don't let him hit you. If he keeps doin' it, talk to your family or to your friends. Go stay with them, you hear?"

She nodded noncommittally. "Do you come back around these parts often, Mr. Hartmann?"

"Call me Cole, Maddie. I come around these parts now and again."

"Please, I want to give you something, in thanks." She looked around the kitchen a bit, then cut a good chunk of pie, wrapped it in some paper and handed it to him. He took the pie and, with a quick kiss on her forehead and a nod, let himself out.

*****

In the next year or so, he traveled through neighboring towns and villages, venturing as far as three hundred miles away, selling his medicaments and salves, and administering his "laying on of hands" cures. On clear nights he slept in the back of his cart on a makeshift mattress, wrapped in threadbare blankets, unless the cold snuck between his joints and insinuated itself into his bones. He'd try to arrange it so he would fall asleep looking up at the sky, staring at the North Star, greeting Orion, then the Pleiades. He'd count the stars as they popped out, first one by one, then more and more until he'd lose track of them all. He thought of each one as a happy memory.

And then there were the bitter memories, like the night one of his mother's occasional visitors, reeking of whiskey fumes, sour sweat and week-old fermented socks, had lunged at the ten-year old Cole. His mother had come between them, protecting Cole from the man's reach.

"You stay away from him, or you can go back to your own wife and kid right now. You can do to me whatever your conscience will let you get away with, but you don't touch my child unless I say so," she'd said in a voice that had turned hard with intent from the girly voice she normally used with visitors like him.

"I pay you so I don't have to treat you like my wife," he'd said, voice dripping condescension.

"You pay to touch me, not him!" my mother had answered, her voice abiding no dissent.

Thwarted from his original aim and blinded by frustration, the brute had grabbed their cat, just a kitten really, and thrown it against the wall so hard they'd heard the crack of bones and the animal's startled squeal. His mother told Cole not to pick the kitten up, that he might hurt her worse than she already was. It had never gotten up again, barely even whimpered. Cole had run and hid in the neighbor's shed, crying himself to sleep and wishing all kinds of violent death on the wretch. The next morning, his mother wrapped it up in a towel and took it away. Shamefully, he'd even wished his mother harm for bringing that sorry excuse of a coward into their house and into their lives. But mostly he'd cried for the sweet kitten who had kept him company and brightened his days with her antics and affection. He didn't know it then, but he'd cried for the loss of whatever scrap of innocence he still had.

On wet nights, he'd find shelter where he could, putting his tent up in a pasture or in a bale of hay in a dilapidated shed. If he was in the town, he'd try to make it as long as he could in the warmth of a pub or tavern, where he'd try to find a room for a few coins. Truly unlucky nights he spent under the eaves of a closed storefront or in an alleyway, keeping himself warm as best he could. Finding some cardboard to lie on in the back of a mercantile would keep him drier, and he'd thank the Seven Sisters for their small kindness.

And so the days spun out, one after the other, endless and without distinction. Rarely did he spend a night in an inn or a house. He spoke to few, and few spoke to him in return.

The visits once a fortnight or so were the exception. There was the wife whose husband had gone off to the big city and had never come back, leaving her with a couple of toddlers weaving between her legs, a babe in her arms, still crying to suckle. She put the babe down for a nap and took the toddlers to play with a neighbor's child for an hour while she ostensibly cleaned the bathrooms. Instead, he'd started with his usual backrub and ended up with her sideways in his lap, her dress pushed down to her waist, and him massaging her breasts, full to bursting with milk. He suckled each nipple and swirled his tongue around each one, teasing and chilling them with a small bottle he'd found in her refrigerator. He relieved the pressure by sucking the milk, sweet and warm, as he snuck his hand up her skirts and down her knickers, running his fingers through the short rough curls between her legs. He'd rubbed her clit with his fingers at first, then with the butt of his palm, parting her now slippery lips with his fingers. She was lost to her pleasure, rubbing her ass against his hard cock underneath her in rhythm with his hand, and although only his fingers had made contact with her wet flesh, she'd brought him release just as she herself had screamed loud enough he'd worried her baby would wake.

*****

The day had spilled into evening and bled out into night, helped along by a cold and dreary rain that was enough to drive everyone indoors. The tavern was nearly empty, only a few regulars left. The barkeep was washing glasses in a small sink behind the counter when the door blew open, a gust of wind bringing a man drenched head to toe. He left pools of water as he walked up to the bar. He took off his hat and shrugged off his overcoat, looking around as he did so.

"Whyn't you hang those over there on one of 'em hooks by the fire? They won't dry all the way but they'll at least shed some of that water. Still pourin' out there, ain't it?"

"Thanks. Yea, as you see," The newcomer wiped the rain off his face with his sleeve. "A mug of coffee, if you please, an' whiskey on the side."

The bartender gave a short nod. As he busied himself filling out the order, he snatched brief looks at the stranger hanging up the coat and hat on the rack near the fireplace. He set an empty cup and a small glass of amber liquid on the bar, then went back to check on the coffee pot.

As he did so, he gave a half-amused, half-annoyed look at a man already sitting at the bar.

"Whatcha still doin' here, Spelling?"

The stranger seemed to perk up at the name and looked over at Spelling, hunched over, a sparely made man with a ferret face.

"What's it any of your business, Tommy? Just you keep filling my glass and I'll keep paying you."

The barkeep ignored the insulting tone, as if used to it. "You waitin' for Kitty? I think she full up tonight. You might be waitin' till tomorrow." Tommy the barkeep shook his head. "Why'nt you just go home to that wife of yours, Jake?"

"Like I said, Tommy, why don't you mind your own business? I don't come in here to hear your yakking at me. Keep doin' that an' I'll take my business elsewheres."

"Aww, we'd miss your sorry mug, Jake. 'Sides, you think I don't know you got thrown out of ev'ry other pub in town? You like a splinter under my fingernail - irritatin' and too hard to get rid of. I just have more patience than ev'ry other barkeep in Springs."

"That or you're more desperate," a melodious voice laughed, its owner approaching the bar.

"The usual for me, Tommy. Damn it's powerful ugly out there!" She shrugged out of her own drenched overcoat and shook her long, dark mane free. It fanned across her shoulders and fell nearly to her waist. "Com'ere, love, give us a kiss," she said, and propping herself up on a barstool to give herself a lift with a booted foot, she leaned across the bar and met Tommy's lips with her own.

Jake snorted and turned back to his pint glass with a sour look.

Tommy grinned like a cat who'd just had a taste of a forbidden bowl of cream. "Lindy! Good to see you, gal! What brings you in at this late hour?"

"I was supposed to meet Kit here. You seen her yet?"

"Here?" Tommy wiped the bar counter unnecessarily, lingering in front of her. "She told me she was... ahh... occupied."

"Hmmm.... " She rummaged about and pulled out a watch hooked on a gold chain, though the chain didn't seem to be attached anywhere. "Shoulda been done about now," she said, furrowing her forehead. "Oh well, somethin' musta come up. I'll catch her another time. Well, pour me a half pint of ale, Tommy. Since I'm here. I need something to warm me up, though your company has already helped."

Tommy turned to take care of her order, a pleased smile blooming on his face. He placed a glass in front of her, then directed his attention to the stranger at the end of the bar.

"Are you new to these parts, sir? Haven't seen ye in here before. What's your name?"

"Cole. Cole Hartmann. I come around once a month or so, doin' my rounds. Sellin' lotions and medicines and the like."

Lindy tilted her head toward the stranger, intrigued.

"My wife believes in them lotions," Jake said. "I think they're a waste of money myself. Nothin' a pint of beer or a jigger of whiskey won't cure."

"Well, who says there ain't whiskey in them medicines of his?" Lindy piped in.

"I do reckon there's that in some of them," Cole Hartmann answered, downing the rest of his.

"And who's to say what's most important, the whiskey or the other ingredients?" Lindy continued, shrewdly, a smile dancing on her lips.

Hartmann nodded slowly and gave a shrug.

"You got any medicines for turnin' a plain-faced woman into a beautiful one?" Jake Spelling cut into the conversation.

"Don't know that there's any medicine needed for that. I find a woman's beauty rarely lies in her face or her body."

"I find her beauty generally lies in her ass, meself," Jake answered in his harsh and grating voice. "It's sure not in her face, least where my wife is concerned." He was staring into his glass as he spoke, and didn't see the frown on Cole Hartmann's face.

"Spelling, mind yer language! There's a lady present!" Tommy warned.

Jake Spelling raised his head and threw a dismissive look in Lindy's direction. "I wouldn't call any woman shows up in a tavern a lady."

"It's a good thing the same doesn't define whether a man is a gentleman or not," Lindy mused aloud.

Thunder cracked loudly outside, interrupting the conversation.

"I find there's lots of things affect whether a medicine works or not, or is even needed at all." Cole Hartmann said softly, returning the conversation to its previous track. "Some work best on their own, others are helped along by rest, and most work a lot better administered along with kindness."

Lindy turned to look at him more carefully, then agreed. "No better medicine in life than a little kindness. Or the layin' on of hands, I find," she added, giving Hartmann another smile.

Cole addressed himself next to the barman. "Usually I'd be traveling on, but with this rain and the long day, I sure could use a place to stay. Do you know of any?

*****

He'd passed the mouth of the alley off the so-called Main Street numerous times before without giving it a second thought. He barely recognized it in the dark, especially as he was trying to avoid the puddled water along the way. This wasn't his usual manner, far from it. But he'd told the truth back at the tavern — too little rest over the last few days. And frankly he wanted a bed underneath him for a change, his own home days away still.

As soon as they entered the alley, the houses and the hard-packed mud between cobbles swallowed up the little light that leaked through. Water from the blue-gray cotton clouds spilled their water in big fat drops that splattered on the roofs and into gutters, gathering into thin streams and waterfalls.

"Here we are...," Lindy said over her shoulder as she walked up a few steps to an old door ill-fitted into the jamb. He heard her slide her key and turn it with a screech. He made a mental note to oil it for her as he stepped into the small hallway. She rummaged in a basket set on a small table by the door, then lifted up on her toes. He heard the scratching of the match soon after and saw first weak, then stronger amber-gold light spreading and flickering against the walls covered in what looked like a patterned wall paper. She closed the door behind him and indicated the wooden clothes tree for his wet coat. He set down his worn leather satchel and hung up his coat.

"You hungry?"

"No thanks, ma'am. Don't mean to trouble you anymore 'an I have to. I'll jus' go..."

"You wouldn't be troublin' me, Mr. Hartmann. I'd appreciate the company. Not sure I have much, but you can share my bread and butter'n cheese with me, if you'd like. And the kitchen fireplace will warm you up before you go on up, where it's considerably colder."

Cole nodded, helping her shed her own coat, then hung it up for her, then followed her from the small hall into the kitchen. It was a larger kitchen than any he'd seen, and had been arranged more as a sitting area, two armchairs set in front of the fireplace.

She observed him as he measured up his surroundings. "I do spend a lot of time in here. I like to stare at the fire occasionally as I read, or knit, or just daydream. Keeps me company."

He nodded, waiting for her to direct him. She gestured towards one of the armchairs, then went about starting a fire.

"Let me do that. I think I'll be fine on my own if you point me to your matches." He busied himself piling a few small logs in the hearth and crumpling some newspaper underneath them, then striking a match against the sooted stone of the hearth.

She left him to it to fuss between the coldbox and the counter, leaving Cole to sit and stare at the flames. She returned with a loaf of bread and chunks of cheese, then made another trip to bring each of them a mug of ale before settling herself in the other arm chair. She interrogated him, asking him about his travels and his trade.

"How often do you come by these parts?"

"Now and again," he said.

"A year or so ago?"

He thought about it, and wondered why she asked so specifically. Not seeing any reason to deny it, he nodded. "Probably more like six months ago, I'd say."

She stretched out her legs, her hem riding up to reveal her soft leather boots with narrowly rounded toes. His eyes were drawn to toes and traveled up, taking in how her dress hugged her thighs and dipped between them.

"Pardon me, Mr. Hartmann. I've been walking too long today and my legs are just killing me. But I'm just too tired to take off them boots."

"I could help you with that."

"Would you mind?"

In response, he simply got out of his arm chair and kneeled at her feet. His hands traveled from the toes up the shaft of her boots to the top, the leather cool against his skin. He undid her laces, loosening them enough to ease out first one foot, then the other. She stretched her toes like a cat stretches its paws, and he took that as an invitation, taking her foot up on one of his own knees and kneaded the ball of her foot, smoothed up her instep, and massaged her toes, pulling on each one. It looked like she had her eyes closed, whimpering occasionally when his fingers dug in a a bit deeper but never pulling away. After he finished with both feet, he moved up her calves, feeling their roundness through the cotton stockings. He reached the tops of the stockings not far above her knees and found the ribbons that tied them on.

"May I, Miss... Lindy?"

"Mmmmmm... that feels divine, Mr. Hartmann. And anyone who is that good to my feet has my permission to call me Lindy." She smiled saucily down at him.

He pulled on the bows and rolled one of her stockings off, his fingers sliding against her skin. He took her foot in his large hands and squeezed it, feeling the bones, pulling on her toes one at a time. When he looked up at her, he met her eyes, the lids half hiding dark pupils whose color he couldn't quite make out in the dim light. Whatever their color, there was no shyness in them, only curiosity, and a smile hovered on her lips. He took that as encouragement and slid off the second stocking, repeating the kneading of her foot.

"Mr. Hartmann, that feels so fine," she said. "Your hands sure are as talented as my sister claimed."

"Your sister?" He stopped his attentions to her foot.

"Yes. My sister, Maddie Spelling. I believe you met her on your last trip to these parts? She was quite impressed with your... .talents."

He nodded, leaning back on his heels. "Yes, I remember her well. I was worried about her. I hope my salve helped her. I gave her some advice but I'm not sure she took it. You don't look much like her, I might add, though now that I know you're sisters, I can see some vague resemblance."

"You must have quite a memory for faces. That surprises me. We have the same daddy but different mothers, and I'm afraid my sister inherited our daddy's looks. He wore them well, but they don't suit a woman so much. Still, she's got a gentle and patient soul, which she needs every day to put up with that jackass of a husband of hers." She took a sip of her mug, then went on. "My sister was rather unlucky, Mr. Hartmann. My daddy was quite well off and was able to set each of us up comfortably enough, but he didn't have much faith in Maddie's being able to fend for herself or get a husband. When Jake Spelling came around, he behaved himself quite differently. Respectful to our father, very attentive to Maddie. He'd been an itinerant carpenter. Not so different from yourself, I presume. In trade, anyway."

Cole drew his shoulders up sharply. "I beg your pardon, ma'am. I try to treat women well and kindly. And leave them happier than they were before."

"I don't doubt it, sir. I don't doubt it, if your treatment of women is anything like Maddie said, and what you've been givin' me a sample of here," she smiled. "At any rate, I meant no disrespect towards you, sir. Maddie truly appreciated your ministrations. All she's ever known of lovin' between men and women was from Jake Spelling, and you've seen something of what that looks like. I've tried to talk her into leaving him, but he's got his claws deep into her. Made her feel worthless and useless and like she won't have anything left if he leaves her. Now, however, I think that may not be true."

Cole waited, wondering where Lindy was headed with her words.

"You left my sister with a bigger present than you intended, I do believe." She laughed at his cautious look, and continued. "Jake, with his sexual...ahh... preferences, would hardly be able to give her what you've given her, though he's stupid enough not to know it."