Callie Mae and the Marine

by Stevie MacFarlane

  *

  There were only three bedrooms upstairs and by the process of elimination he found Morgan’s room, his room for the time being. Matthew’s room was at the top of the stairs and enough of a mess that had he been under Morgan’s command, he would have drawn latrine duty. Emma’s room was neat as a pin, the white lace curtains blowing in a gentle breeze from the open window. His room was neat also. A metal bedstead covered with a hand sewn quilt, a dresser complete with bowl and pitcher, and a single chair at a small writing desk. A razor strop hung on the wall next to a slightly cloudy mirror. On the dresser there was a hairbrush, straight razor, and a shaving cup and brush. A duster hung on a hook next to the door, with a pair of worn down boots under it. In the dresser were several neatly folded shirts, some trousers and long johns, as well as thick, hand knitted socks. The books on the desk showed a wide range of interest. There were books on farming, animal husbandry, and law. Above the bed was a gun rack holding both a shotgun and a rifle. Apparently, the original Morgan was a man who knew his way around firearms.

  Unbuckling his gun belt, he hung it on the bedpost and sat, pulling off his boots. Padding to the window, he opened it, letting the breeze sweep in and lay on the bed. It had proven to be an interesting day so far, and it was quite a while before he was able to fall asleep.

  *

  “So what do you think?” Mead asked his mother as they all sat around the table.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, stirring her coffee. “He’s the same, yet different somehow. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I think what surprises me the most is how calmly he took the news about you and Lilly. At the very least I expected resentment and he didn’t show a lick of that.”

  “I know,” Lilly sighed, slipping her arm through Mead’s. “I’ve been so worried about his reaction. I did have feelings for Morgan, but they were nothing like what I feel for Mead,” she said, blushing and resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m so thankful he took it well. I’d never want to come between brothers.”

  “I already told you, Lillian. If Morgan came back and wanted you, I’d step aside. After all, you were practically engaged at one time.”

  “You’d do no such thing, Mead Whittaker,” she cried, getting to her feet so fast her chair tipped. “If I mean so little to you that you could just walk away, then maybe we shouldn’t be getting married at all,” she continued, planting her hands of her hips as she glared at him.

  “You know that’s not what I meant. Of course it wouldn’t be easy to walk away, but if…”

  “Take me home, right this minute,” Lilly demanded.

  “Oh, I’m going to take you somewhere, but it won’t be home, not just yet,” Mead replied, standing and taking a firm grip on Lilly’s upper arm. The lips under his mustache were compressed into a disapproving line as he towered over her small frame.

  “Now, Mead,” Emma began.

  “I’ll handle this, Ma. My future bride and I need to have a discussion about respectful behavior in my mama’s house, in front of my family. She’s twisting what I said around to justify her little fit and I won’t have it. Come along, Lilly,” he said sternly.

  As soon as Matthew heard the screen door snap closed, he made to rise from the table.

  “I think I’ll take a little walk,” he said causally.

  “Oh, no you won’t,” Emma replied. “This is between Mead and his intended and you’ve got no business listening to what doesn’t concern you.”

  Matthew sat.

  “I just don’t understand it, Ma,” Missy remarked as she got up to clear the pie plates away. “Lilly never raised her voice to Morgan in all the time they were courting. Truthfully, I didn’t think she had an ounce of spunk in her.”

  “All marriages are different,” Emma replied. “Just think of how sweet and shy you were before you married up with Cole here,” she said nearly choking on the words.

  “Sweet and shy?” Cole roared, slapping his knee. “She was a firecracker from the day I met her, always gettin’ into trouble and stirrin’ up a hornet’s nest. Still is for that matter,” he grinned. “There is somethin’ though, that Morgan said this mornin’ after I found him. He asked me if I ‘hit’ his sister. I thought that was mighty strange comin’ from a man whose taken a switch to her shirts more than once.”

  “How did that come up in conversation?” Missy demanded, turning on her husband.

  “I don’t rightly know. I was tellin’ him we was married and I guess I may have mentioned that I’d only taken a hand to you a few times. For some reason he thought I was talking about somethin’ different than paddling your bustle now and again.”

  “Well, I like that. It’s hardly gentlemanly of you to discuss such a personal subject with my own brother,” Missy huffed, pumping water into the sink with a vengeance. “Come on, Matthew, Cole can dry while you put the dishes away. Ma, why don’t you go sit for a spell in your rocker? There’s a nice breeze out on the porch.”

  “I think I will,” she replied. Getting up from the table, Emma went out and settled in her chair. Closing her eyes, she set the chair in motion. Lilly was likely getting her fanny warmed out in the barn. Cole would get quite an earful on the way home and Matthew would head to town and try to find a little excitement at soon as the dishes were done, but none of that mattered. Her oldest son was home. Morgan would tell her about his travels and the hardship of war, or he wouldn’t. It didn’t make no never mind to her, and she said a prayer of thanks before she dozed off.

  Chapter Four

  It was nearly a week before Morgan ventured into town. Content to enjoy Emma’s wonderful meals, he stuck close to home, giving Matthew a hand with the chores and learning everything he could about the day to day operations of the farm. There was stock to feed, stalls to muck out, and a multitude of other tasks to set his hand to. Matthew tried several times to lure him into town after supper, but Morgan was content to spend his evenings with Emma, either listening to stories of days gone by or reading one of his counterpart’s books on a variety of subjects.

  He was tired by the time evening rolled around, having worked harder in the last few days than he had in the last year. The wholesome, hearty meals and the quiet, restful company was a balm to his soul and he slept like a baby each night. He could feel his body getting stronger, his mind sharper, and the lethargy that had plagued him for so long falling away. Each morning he went for a run, something that amused and mystified his family. Frequently, Matthew caught him in the barn doing pull-ups from a beam he’d secured between two walls.

  “Good Lord, Morgan. I can think of better ways to work up a sweat,” Matt sighed, shaking his head and walking away, a bale of hay on each shoulder.

  Morgan dropped to his feet and wiped the sweat from his body with his shirt. Sitting, he pulled on his boots, wishing with all his heart there was a near-by Kmart where he could buy some sweatpants and sneakers. There were enough gold coins hidden in the heels of his boots to purchase anything he wanted, but no place to spend it. Even a set of fatigues would be cooler and more comfortable than the heavy denim jeans and thick knitted socks. Walking to the pump in the yard, he bent and let the cold water douse his head and neck. After cupping his hands and drinking deeply, he headed off to give his brother a hand.

  *

  On Saturday morning, after a breakfast of ham, eggs, fried potatoes, and biscuits, Morgan kissed his mother’s cheek and climbed into the buckboard. With a list for the mercantile tucked in his pocket, he waved her money away, noting her shocked expression.

  “It’s the least I can do after eating you out of house and home,” he said with a smile.

  “Morgan, how can you say such a thing? This is your home and I am your mother, young man. Cooking for my family is my responsibility and my pleasure and don’t you forget it,” she scolded.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, flicking the reins and heading down the drive. Apparently, Emma Whittaker was quite a scrapper when she got riled up and he made a mental note
to stay on her good side. There was no way he was giving up her cooking!

  Thoughts of his ‘deadline’ flittered through his mind and he pushed them away as he pulled onto what passed for a road and encouraged the team to pick up speed. While he didn’t know precisely where he was going, the ruts were a map of sorts and the horses seemed to know the way. On the forty-five minute journey, he passed several homesteads, ranging from the soddies he’d seen on the internet to stick-built houses with well-kept yards. As he neared town, the houses got closer together, some having picket fences and resembling a Norman Rockwell print.

  Main Street opened up, and Morgan slowed the team, taking in the small community. He passed the stockyards and continued, glad he was up wind. On the left side of the street was the livery. Next to that was Harper’s Feed and Grain, followed by a small building that housed the post office and the telegraph. The right side was taken up by what appeared to be a blacksmith and the undertaker. No problem there, he realized. The noise from the hammering of hot steel wouldn’t bother any of the folks in that building. The Marshal’s office was next, followed by Murphy’s Mercantile, where two old men sat arguing as they played checkers on top of a barrel.

  He slowed for a side street and continued on. The First Bank of Kansas, where Mead worked, took up the entire corner on the left and it was directly across the street from the much maligned saloon, The Duchess. Lilly’s millenary shop was sandwiched between the bank and the Blue Bonnet Café. After that was Barkers Boarding House, a large home with a wide porch, and several rocking chairs.

  Straight ahead was the church, complete with a steeple and bell as well as a circular drive way. The cemetery was off to the left of the building and obviously well-tended. As he made his way back down Main Street, he passed a lawyer’s office and a combination doctor’s office and apothecary before pulling up in front of The Duchess. Setting the brake, he got out of the wagon and tied a lead to the hitching post.

  The young woman standing on a crate washing the windows was struggling to reach the top. On her tiptoes, she barely made it three quarters of the way and every now and again she would give a little jump in her efforts. For a moment he admired the view. Tied with a pink bow, her long brown hair hung down her back. The green dress she wore was light-weight, proven by the breeze that plastered it to her sweetly shaped bottom. The window reflected her determined expression with each leap. When the crate started rocking, Morgan stepped up and steadied her with a hand on her arm as he took the bucket out of her hand.

  “Oh, thank you,” she murmured turning to face her rescuer. “Why, Morgan Whittaker, it is you! I’d heard you finally made it back, but with the way this town gossips, I didn’t believe it. You were gone such a long time; I figured you were either dead or hightailing it to California.”

  Morgan stared into clear gray eyes, not sure how to respond. If this fresh-faced young woman was Callie Mae, she was nothing like he’d pictured her. Yes, she was curvy, and in all the right places, but she definitely looked more like a preacher’s daughter than what he imagined a saloon keeper would look like. With her standing on the crate, they were eye to eye and she gnawed her lower lip when he didn’t answer immediately.

  “I hope you’re not going to lecture me about this,” she said, waving her hand toward the building. “Believe me, there isn’t a thing you could say that I haven’t heard a hundred times before and from nearly every man in town. Not to mention the cackling hens that won’t sit next to me in church but peek in my windows every chance they get,” she finished, pulling her arm away, dropping her rag in the bucket, and planting her hands on her hips.

  Morgan smiled as he sat the bucket down and plucked her from the crate, carefully placing her on her feet. At least now he was sure of her identity.

  “No, I’m not going to lecture you, Callie Mae. At least not until I finish cleaning these windows,” he said with a wink as he took the rag out of the bucket and pushed the crate aside.

  Callie Mae sighed with relief. There weren’t a great many people she thought highly enough of to care about their opinion, but the Whittaker’s were one of the few. Emma and Hank Whittaker had produced fine church going, hardworking, respectful sons and Callie Mae was glad to call them friends. Even Matthew, who occasionally had a little too much to drink, always treated her with care, despite that fact that she’d caught him ogling her backside a time or two. Mead and Lilly were one of the few couples who would sit in her pew, and Emma always made a point to speak to Callie Mae whenever she saw her. The very last thing Callie Mae wanted was grief from Morgan.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asked, wiping the back of her hand across her brow as she watched him work. “I have beer, whiskey, and a new drink…”

  “Go on in out of the sun, Callie Mae. I’ll be in when I’ve finished and a glass of cold tea or lemonade would be nice if you have it. If not, water will do,” he said before rounding the corner of the building to work on those windows.

  A few minutes later when Morgan entered the building, he noticed two things immediately. The building was recently remodeled as the smell of fresh cut boards hung in the air, and it was spotless. There was no saw dust on the floor; the tables were highly polished as was the long mahogany bar. The brass foot rest and spittoons gleamed, and behind the bar the bottles were neatly arranged without a speck of dust that he could see.

  Callie Mae came from the back room, carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. Setting the tray on a table, she took the bucket from Morgan’s hand and carried it away. When she returned, he was still standing, his hat in his hand and she waved him to a chair. As soon as she poured the lemonade, the questions began to fly.

  “Where have you been? Are you alright? Most of the other men who went off to join Sheridan were back long ago, at least the ones who were coming back. Even Mead made it home months ago. What took you so long? Were you injured?” Callie Mae fired questions at him without pausing for a breath or waiting for an answer.

  Morgan hung his hat on a chair and took several long swallows of his drink as she continued, sliding her fingers up and down her icy glass.

  “Did you forget where you lived, or maybe you met up with a woman on the way home? You’re not married, are you?”

  Morgan studied her face, noting the blush as her eyes darted away from his. So, little Callie Mae had a thing for Morgan Whittaker, he realized. It must have been painful for her, knowing Morgan was in love with Lilly. He wondered why she bought the place across the street from Lilly’s shop, where she would likely see Lilly and Morgan together frequently. That was a mystery. Her questions were a sample of what he could expect from others in town, friends of the real Morgan, and it might be best to get his story out now with someone like Callie Mae who would call him on any mistakes.

  “I guess you could say most of those things are true. I was injured and for a while I wasn’t myself. There was a long period of time when I couldn’t figure out where I belonged, so I just stayed put,” he told her quietly. “I won’t say that I lost my mind, but I was close. Each day was a struggle just to get out of bed. I had no desire to see anyone or go anywhere. Just being alive was exhausting,” he admitted looking away.

  “So what happened? How did you get well?” she whispered, brushing away a tear. Her heart broke thinking of this man, whom she’d always admired, laid so low.

  “Let’s just say a series of fortunate events brought me to my senses and leave it at that,” he replied with a small smile.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re home, Morgan,” Callie Mae said, taking in every detail of his face.

  “I’m glad too, Callie Mae,” he replied, reaching across the table and taking her hand in his.

  “You’ve heard about Mead and Lilly then?” she asked, her heart pounding in her chest. There was no possibility of him holding her hand if he was still interested in Lilly.

  “I have.”

  “And are you upset? I know Lilly was all but promised to you before
you went away. It doesn’t bother you that she’s going to marry Mead?” she asked hopefully.

  “Not in the least,” he assured her, absently rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

  “But… but you were in love with her,” she gasped out, snatching her hand away.

  “I may have been. I’m not anymore,” he said firmly.

  “Are you fickle?” she demanded. “How’s a girl supposed to know if you’re really in love with her or just think you might be in love with her. How can she be sure you mean it?” Callie Mae asked mortified at the direction this conversation was taking. Her heart always accelerated whenever Morgan Whittaker was near. She frequently felt short of breath and a bit light-headed when he smiled at her or called her name. When he hadn’t returned from the Indian war, she’d grieved long after Lilly had started seeing other men. The preacher’s daughter spent hours on her knees, praying for his safe return, and now that he was back she was badgering him with questions she had no right to ask.

  “I’m sorry, Morgan,” she said stiffly, rising and reaching for the tray. “None of this is any of my business and I should know better after what I’ve been through with nosey people in this town. Please forgive me.”

  Morgan quickly reached out and snatched her hand. “Sit down, Callie Mae,” he ordered. “It’s my turn now.”

  “What?” she asked, confused and embarrassed by her behavior.

  “It’s my turn to ask questions, so sit down and kindly give me the same courtesy I gave you.”

  “Oh,” she said as she dropped into her chair.

  Releasing her hand, Morgan picked up the pitcher and poured some more lemonade.

  “Why a saloon?” he asked bluntly, without an ounce of the previous gentleness in his expression. Clearly, this interview was going to be serious.