by Jo Goodman
Morgan unfastened the belt and held it out to her. “Would you like to see it?”
Jane leaned in for a closer examination but kept her arms at her sides. “Is it safe for me to touch?”
“If you don’t squeeze anything. Here.” Morgan unstrapped the holster and removed the revolver by its pearl handle. He tossed the belt over his shoulder, freeing his hand. He opened the Colt’s cylinder, took out the bullets, and pocketed them before he reversed his grip and held the gun out to Jane by the barrel. “It’s empty. Now I’m certain it’s safe for you to touch.”
Still, she took it gingerly. The pearl grip was cool and smooth in her palm. “Is this what is called a six-shooter?”
“Some call it that. Folks also call it a Peacemaker, though I’ve always thought that name mocks it some. It’s a .45- caliber centerfire, made by Colt and mostly favored by lawmen and shopkeepers. I like it because it’s lighter than other models, accurate, and the short four-inch barrel means it clears the holster easily.”
“The fast draw,” she said. When he did not comment, Jane looked up at him. She sighed. “It’s another fiction, isn’t it?”
“Afraid so. Leastways, I never saw it practiced or done. No shootouts at high noon either, none that are actually scheduled anyway. I guess it made for some exciting reading for you.”
She had to admit that it had. “I’m not disappointed by the facts,” she said. “Only surprised by them.”
Morgan took back the revolver, holstered it, and then set the belt on the entry table. “For a rifle, I favor a Winchester. There are three resting in a rack by the back door. More in the bunkhouse. No one rides the property without a rifle in his saddle scabbard. That’s something you’d have to get used to. I don’t suppose you had guns in your home.”
“Not a one.”
“Do you object to learning how to shoot?”
“Object? No. I should like that.” Given the way Morgan was studying her, Jane was not certain that he believed her. “I have always admired Annie Oakley.” She paused, frowned, and regarded him with consternation. “She’s real, isn’t she? Annie Oakley is real.”
Morgan nodded solemnly. “Yes, Miss Middlebourne. Annie Oakley is real.”
“Well, I am heartily relieved to hear it.”
He pointed to the left. “Come, I’ll show you the rooms.”
Jane stayed at Morgan’s side as he escorted her through the house. A stone fireplace dominated the front room. The sofa had wide arms, a curved back, and was covered in navy blue velvet that was shiny in places from wear. There were two armchairs similarly covered. One showed evidence of more use than the sofa while the other showed less. The upright chairs had seat covers that revealed skilled embroidery work. The French knots numbered in the thousands. There were two tables with lamps, and candles on the mantelpiece. Other than an empty vase, the room was devoid of items that might grace other front rooms. There were no photographs, no figurines, no little boxes that could hold small treasures or even a deck of playing cards. The piano was unexpected, but Morgan told her that it came with the house, a gift from Uriah Burdick to his wife. It neither kept the wife faithful nor kept her on the ranch. She ran off with a railroad surveyor, and as far as Morgan knew, the piano had not been used since.
He did not ask Jane if she played, and she did not volunteer the information. Instead, she lightly dragged her fingertips across the keyboard’s lid as she passed.
In addition to the front room, there was a dining room, a study that Jane judged to be seldom used, two bedrooms, one half the size of the other, and a loft space that Morgan told her had two more beds. The ladder to reach the loft was put away since he had no use for the space now. Someday, he had said, rather more offhandedly than not, and Jane kept her eyes averted, afraid he would know all her secrets at this casual reference to a future that figured children into it.
They ended in the kitchen. Jem Davis was waiting for them, one hip cocked against the sink while he drank his fill of water from a jar. Jane observed a broad face, square jaw, shoulders that extended like planks from an iron ship, and without conscious thought, she edged closer to Morgan. If Morgan was aware that she had inched toward him, he gave no indication. He made the introductions and told Jem to wash his hands before he offered one to Jane.
Far from taking offense at the directive, Jem grinned so widely Jane thought she could count his entire mouthful of teeth.
“Sure, and I was going to do just that,” said Jem. He set the jar down, turned to the sink, and scrubbed up while he hummed “Sweet Betsy from Pike.” He shook off his hands, looked around for a towel, and when none magically appeared, wiped his hands on the front of his green flannel shirt. He stepped around the table, nodded, and waited for Jane to extend her hand first.
She did. His hold was gentle and put her immediately in mind of Walt back at the Pennyroyal. Something of her surprise must have shown on her face because Jem gave a lopsided, oddly endearing smile.
“Renee says I have hands like hams and fingers as thick as sausages, but it’s all tender cuts.” He added, “Renee’s my fiancée, except she doesn’t always own that she is.”
“I see,” said Jane. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Well, that’s what I would call a mutual feelin’ except I know there’s more pleasure on my side.” He looked at Morgan. “So you finally gone and done it. Hired yourself a cook and housekeeper. And none too soon. We were just jawin’ about having to cook for ourselves this winter, and there wasn’t one of us looking forward to it. Me and my brothers probably could survive, but that runt Max Salter hasn’t got but a minute’s worth of meat on his bones and no stores of fat. He wasn’t going to make it, Morgan.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. It was going to be a problem.”
Jane found herself once again the target of Jem’s hopeful expression. “Do you make fritters, ma’am? Corn. Apple. Cauliflower. Celery. Calf’s brains. Tomato. It don’t matter much what you put inside it. I’m partial to corn, but I like them all.”
Before Jane could respond, Morgan put up a hand. “Jem, settle yourself and give her a chance to breathe. I noticed you are less concerned about her housekeeping talents.”
“Sorry, ma’am. My mouth runs and the rest of me is hard-pressed to keep up.” His eyes shifted to Morgan again. “I figure the housekeeping doesn’t include the bunkhouse. Hard for me to get excited about that. Unless she’s going to do our laundry?”
“No.”
Jem shrugged. “Well, maybe we can pay her under the table.”
“I’ll beat you with the table.”
Jane heard no rancor in Morgan’s tone and saw no fear in Jem’s expression. She reflected on what Morgan had said about telling Jem who she was. I won’t have to. If I know Jem, he’ll figure it out. What Morgan hadn’t revealed was that he’d known all along that Jem would figure it wrong. She was aware that Morgan had subtly influenced Jem’s assumption by introducing her as Jane Middlebourne, not Miss Middlebourne. It would be in keeping with Jem’s assuming nature that he thought there was a man somewhere. Then again, Jem was single-minded about the fritters. Perhaps it was no matter to him if she was single, married, widowed, divorced, or had two heads. Propriety was about the only thing she could not batter dip, fry, and serve to Jem Davis.
• • •
Morgan could not interpret Jane’s silence on the ride back to Bitter Springs. She responded when he spoke, but in the absence of her questions, it was too difficult to know what to say. He did not have a good sense of what she thought of the house. Her expression, except for the brief exchange with Jem, was largely neutral. There had been her interest in the gun, but for all he knew that interest was a prelude to shooting him.
Before they left, he took her out back to see the garden, the pigs, and the henhouse. The chickens scratched the ground when he scattered corn for them and ignored Jane, but the rooster marched right up and tried to peck at her shoes. He was encouraged when Jane ben
t, firmly picked up the bird in both hands, and tossed it away. The bird left her alone after that. She looked over the smokehouse, saw the woodhouse was full, and stood beside him at the corral until one of the mares came over to see if Morgan had anything for her. He noticed that Jane was initially shy around the animal until Morgan told her the mare’s name was Periwinkle, but answered better to Winkle. For whatever reason, that seemed to make a difference. She stroked the white star on Winkle’s nose with increasing confidence. It was only when Winkle tried to nuzzle her that Jane backed away.
Morgan decided to bypass the barn after that and escorted her to the bunkhouse. Jem had already gone back there and turned out the troops. Wiry Max Salter was wedged between Jessop and Jake Davis, but he managed to get a hand out and gave a good account of himself. Jane was polite, reserved, and deeply thoughtful by then, and she sat beside Morgan in that same vein now.
“That’s the town’s cemetery on your right,” said Morgan.
“Yes, I know. I saw it on the way out.”
Morgan grimaced slightly. Of course she had. He might have even pointed it out to her; he couldn’t remember. “We’ll be at the Pennyroyal soon.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jane nod. “By the time we return, it will be almost exactly twenty-four hours since your arrival.”
“Yes. I’m aware.”
“I know what I want to do. Do you?” Jane caught him off guard by grabbing his wrist. There was considerable strength in her grip. She made him pull up on the reins.
“Stop,” she said. “Stop the wagon.”
Morgan slowed and then halted. She was still clutching his wrist in her gloved hand. He looked from it to her ashen face. “What is it?”
“Those bedrooms in the loft, and the small one beside your room, you said there might be use for them someday.”
Morgan frowned. “Yes. I said that.”
“You were speaking of children, weren’t you?”
“I suppose so. They’re a vague notion right now.” His ginger eyebrows drew closer together as he studied her features. “You’re going to have to tell me. Frankly, I don’t know if it’s what precedes the getting of them that has you twisted three ways from Sunday, or the having of them. It’s probably something we should discuss.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, Mr. Longstreet. Do you expect me to give you children?”
Morgan blew out a protracted breath that was part whistle, part sigh. “I don’t know that I expect it exactly. I figured it would happen in the course of things. Naturally, you know.” He had a sudden thought. “That’s been explained to you, hasn’t it? Someone’s talked to you about what’s natural between a man and a woman.”
“I am not completely ignorant.”
“Oh, I know you’ve done your reading. I’m just not sure I trust your sources.”
“Mr. Longstreet, it is my intention to have a serious conversation.”
Morgan thought she could not possibly be prissier, but then her mouth flattened in a prim, disapproving line, and he concluded he had been wrong. “Pardon me, Miss Middlebourne, but my intention is the same as yours. I meant what I said. I am not sure I trust your sources.”
“Please put that from your mind,” she said. “I am trying to understand what you want from me in regard to children. What if I am unable to give you any?”
“You’re not past your childbearing years.”
“I know. You are not being helpful. If I said to you now, I cannot have children, what will it mean to your proposal? Or if we marry, and time passes, and I never conceive, what will it mean to your vows?”
“Is this about that photograph? Do you think I looked at the picture of your cousin and thought about her childbearing parts?”
“Why not? You gave a good deal of thought to her bones.”
Morgan looked Jane over. Her face was no longer pale. There were rosy coins of color in her cheeks, but what put them there was frustration, and perhaps, he thought, fear. “You’re pretty riled about this.”
“Because you refuse to answer my question.”
“Well, I reckon that’s because I don’t know. You put it to me kind of sudden.”
Jane said, “I did.”
Morgan saw Jane shiver. A few more minutes in the wind, and her teeth would start to rattle like dice in a cup. “Can we go somewhere warm to discuss this?”
“We have no private place, and please don’t suggest my room. Not in the middle of the afternoon.”
“All right. If you’re going to pin me to the wall, then I guess the answer is I want children. I would be lying if I said my mind never came around to it. Probably Finn and Rabbit got me thinking.”
“Because of what they said about Mrs. Bridger being pregnant?”
“That’s part of it, but mostly it’s the boys being who they are. I like them. I like them just fine, and I wouldn’t mind a couple of rascals underfoot. That said, the particulars of begetting some rascals require two parties, and who’s to say that if there weren’t any children the problem would be yours? I don’t have any children, least none that have ever been presented to me. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand that you’ve had opportunity to beget.”
“That’s one way of saying it, I suppose.”
“It never occurred to me that you would be inexperienced.”
Morgan’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Do you mean to insult or flatter me?”
“Neither, but you can take it as you like.”
Morgan faced forward. “You know, Miss Middlebourne, this is a peculiar conversation. Perhaps the most peculiar conversation I’ve ever entertained, especially when I account for the location and present company. You think you have another one like this in you before we reach the Pennyroyal?”
“I have no idea.”
He sighed. “Let’s finish this one, then.” He gave her a sideways glance. “What about you?”
“Me, Mr. Longstreet?”
“Children,” he said. “We are speaking of children. I’ve heard some women fear childbirth. Do you?”
Jane did not answer immediately. “No,” she said at last. “At least I don’t think I will.”
“And you’ll welcome children?”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” he repeated softly. “It’s been my experience that not all women do.”
“I am aware. It is difficult to imagine that I would ever count myself as one of those women.”
Morgan fell silent. He had one question left, the one he had never considered until Jane got him to wondering with her talk. He could let it sit, never say a word and hope for the best, but if the best turned out to be something literally ill conceived, he would have to live with knowing he could have asked her straight and trusted her answer.
He said, “I don’t know any way to put this to you except direct, and since that’s mostly how I am, it seems that’s how I should be.”
“What is it?”
“Are you already carrying some man’s child?”
Jane sucked in a breath.
Morgan waited, didn’t look away. He did not trust himself to read what he glimpsed in her eyes. She might have been stricken, embarrassed, shamed, or even hurt. What he needed was her word.
“No,” she said quietly, letting the breath ease out of her. “Let me say it plainly, Mr. Longstreet. I am not going to present you with anyone’s bastard.”
“You got me speculating with your talk,” he said. “I had to ask.”
Jane pressed her lips together, nodded faintly.
Morgan picked up the reins. “I think we’re done. You?”
She was long in answering, but finally she said, “Yes, I think we are done.”
“Very well, Miss Middlebourne, then I suggest we go back to the Pennyroyal by way of Grace Church. Pastor Robbins will make time for us, and I suppose we can scare up a couple of witnesses.” Morgan shifted so he had a clear view of Jane’s face, and then he regarded it for a long moment. Her emera
ld eyes were luminous, her smile just a cautious slip of a thing. “What do you say to that?”
“Yes,” she said on a thread of sound. “I say yes.”
• • •
By Jane’s reckoning, the ceremony took only fifteen minutes. It was formally witnessed by the pastor’s wife, and at Jane’s suggestion, Ida Mae Sterling, but this being Bitter Springs, there were also bystanders to the exchange of vows. Walt Mangold came courtesy of Mrs. Sterling’s invitation, and then Walt hailed the marshal on his way to the church and said sure, they could walk over together. Ted Rush had business with the marshal so when he stepped out of his hardware store and spied Cobb and Walt loping toward the church, he followed, partly for business reasons, but mostly out of curiosity. Buster Johnson, the sole customer in the hardware store when Ted stepped outside, finally made his selection among the hammers and went looking for Ted. Catching sight of Ted on the church steps, Buster took off after him, swinging the hammer as he went. Abigail Johnson left the mercantile in search of her son, who had been sent to the hardware store for half a pound of nails. It was simply in her mother’s nature to hurry after Buster before he hurt someone—or more likely himself—with a hammer he had no business carrying. She would later confide to Jane that her boy had a college degree and the sense of a squirrel.
Jane was entirely pleased with the ceremony. In Pastor Robbins’s capable hands, the reading was done with particular care for the serious nature of marriage and amusing acknowledgment of the adventure. Morgan demonstrated no hesitation in repeating the words that would bind him to Jane, and although he made every declaration quietly, it seemed to Jane that he was not reciting, but speaking from his heart. She wanted to hold that thought close, embrace it, no matter that it was the feeling of a moment, a wildly improbable notion that might annoy him if she shared it. Jane doubted that she ever would. The ceremony they had concluded had infinitely more in common with a business arrangement than a love match, and she cautioned herself that she would be wise to remember that. A business arrangement might end amicably. A love match never could.