In response, a low, rumbling groan escaped his throat, and he eased away from her nipple. "Angel May, if you keep that up, I will turn your hips up across this table and have you."
Her body rippled with desire at his gruff words. The fog of passion lifted from her a bit, and rationality crept in. As much as the idea of making love with him appealed to her, she knew this wasn't the right time or place. She wasn't exactly a proper lady of society. Running a saloon precluded that. Still, whatever reputation she did possess would be dragged through the mud if they were caught trysting in public. Aside from that, Gregory would lose his job, ruin any chance of ever becoming sheriff, and likely be run out of town on a rail.
A look came over his handsome face, one that told her he was regaining his good sense, as well. He drew a deep breath as he gently tucked her breast back into the corset, then righted her shirtwaist. "Forgive me, Angel. There's something about you that hinders my good judgment, sweetheart."
Hearing the endearment made heat fill her cheeks, and she stroked his jaw. "I could say the same about you, Gregory. No apologies are needed."
He grasped her hand, sprinkling it with soft kisses. "I do want to continue this. Just not here."
She straightened, shifting from his lap. "I agree. What's happening between us can't be denied." Her body still tingled from his touch and his kisses.
He was silent for a moment. Then, his expression turned serious. "I don't want to deceive you, Angel. My intentions aren't for marriage."
She shrugged, kept her face impassive. "There's no reason we can't enjoy this thing sparking between us."
"Is that so? And what would you call it, exactly?"
"Desire. Wanting. It's only natural between a man and a woman." She was no innocent, and she knew full well the special joy that could be found in the arms of man with a talent for all things carnal. She sensed the heat he possessed, and she wanted to experience it, even if it didn't lead to her becoming Mrs. Simmons.
He seemed skeptical. "So, you'll make love with me, even though you know I don't want a wife?"
She hesitated. Should she tell him that she did want marriage, that she was falling in love with him? Exposing her heart to possible pain that way didn't sit well with her. So, she chose to play into his sentiment. "I've made a life on my own for many years now, and I like it just fine."
He ran his hand over his chin, as if thinking over her words. "Then we're agreed. We'll enjoy each other’s company, but that will be the balance of it."
She smiled, knowing it didn't reach her eyes. "Yes. That sounds wonderful."
He kissed her on the cheek.
She turned her face to his, and kissed his lips, before sprinkling a few kisses around his jawline. "I want you, Gregory, and I'm not sure how much longer I can wait."
He groaned again. “Then name a time and place, my dear, and I'll be there."
"Sunday evening, at my apartment. Say, around seven?"
He nodded. "My shift ends at six. I'll be there."
"Good." Already, her body tingled with anticipation of the pleasure she would undoubtedly experience with this rugged, well-built man.
He stood, offered his arm. "Come. I'll walk you home."
She rose, linked her arm with his. They shared one more sweet kiss, then stepped out into the misty rain.
***
Saturday morning found Buck's Barbershop crowded with men, looking to get their weekly shaves and trims. Gregory sat in one of the chairs lined against the wall next to the door, which was propped open to allow in the fresh air.
The interior of the barbershop smelled of cigar smoke and aftershave. The exposed timbers that comprised the walls held little decoration, other than the sign that alerted newcomers to Buck's prices, a dartboard, and the rail of hooks for hanging hats. The sawdust floor was kept clean, and uncluttered by any fancy rugs. There were no lace curtains by the windows facing Founder’s Avenue, no frilly doilies on the backs of the old rough-hewn oak chairs. Buck's Barbershop lacked all traces of the so-called "woman's touch".
Two of the waiting men had turned their chairs and placed a barrel between them, and were playing a spirited hand of cards. Another fellow was engrossed in the reading of a leather-bound book, and yet another was catching twenty winks as he waited for his turn in the barber's chair.
Next to Gregory, Noah reclined with his newspaper and a cup of coffee. Every one of the five other seats were occupied, as were both of Buck's barbering chairs. Buck's apprentice, Levell, worked on Saturdays to help stem the tide of customers.
Gregory asked, "How's the missus? Haven't seen her around lately."
Noah took a swig of coffee. "Fine, fine. She just hasn't been out much lately. She is complaining of being tired though. I think she might be carrying again."
He nodded. "You ready for another one?"
"If she's carrying, I don't have much choice, do I?" He lowered the paper to give him a wink, then raised it again. "Heard from your pa lately?"
"Yeah. Got a letter from him yesterday. He says crops are good, Ma is keeping busy with her church meetings, and they're still waiting for me to find a wife and settle down."
"Still riding you about that, eh?
He groaned at the thought. "Yes. Ever since Jack married four years ago, Ma and Pa have been on me and Luke to do the same." His brother Jack was two years his senior, and Luke was four years younger. His parents' fondest wish seemed to be to see all their sons married off and saddled with wives and children, as soon as possible. Gregory wasn't sure he was so inclined. To his mind, there was nothing missing from his life. He had his work, his freedom, and his room over at the Taylor. What more did a man need, really?
"Don't worry. Eventually they'll leave you be."
Gregory hoped for his sanity's sake Noah was right. He leaned back in his chair, letting his head drop back to rest against the wall.
Noah, his face still hidden behind the open pages of the Ridgeway Tribune, nudged him with his elbow. "Hey, Greg. Have you seen this so-called Murchison Letter?"
Taking a sip from his own mug of coffee, he shook his head. "Nope. Haven't read this week's edition yet."
Buck, working his shears on the head of town blacksmith and liveryman Henry Carl, commented, "I haven't read it yet, either. What's the story, Noah?"
Noah folded his paper and set it on his lap. "McCormack picked the story up from the AP wire and ran it. Seems a British man named Charles F. Murchison, living here in California, wrote a letter to the British Ambassador Slackville."
Henry shrugged. "What's that got to do with anything?"
Noah cut him a look. "Hell, Henry, let me finish, will ya? Anyhow, this Murchison fellow wanted advice from the ambassador on who he should vote for in the presidential race."
Gregory smiled. "So, there's the rub. What did the old Brit say?"
Noah grinned. "Sir Slackville has thrown his support behind Cleveland. Says he's the best man for British interests."
A series of grunts and groans, and few chuckles, could be heard around the shop.
Buck brushed the fallen hair off Henry's shoulders. "Well, that ought to seal it for Harrison, then!"
More laughter followed that observation.
Gregory shook his head. He still hadn't decided who he'd vote for, or if he'd even bother to cast a ballot. Either way, listening to his buddies talk politics always amused him.
One of the card playing men stood as Buck gestured him toward a chair. "Well, my vote's going with Cleveland either way."
Buck asked, "Why would you throw your support behind the man the Brits like?"
The man shook his head as he slid into Buck's chair. "To hell with the Brits, and who they like. All I know is my brother works for a shipping company in San Fran. He says if the tariffs go any higher, he's likely gonna be out of a job. Boss man can't keep the outfit open at these rates, and Harrison'll only raise 'em more."
Levell, the youngest man in the shop at nineteen, cleared his throat. "Cleveland's agai
nst pensions for veterans of the Great War. My granddad, my pa, and my uncle served bravely for the Union. Far as I'm concerned, Cleveland's full o' horse shit."
Raucous laughter filled the room.
Buck slapped his apprentice on the back. "He don't say much, but when he do open up his mouth, watch out!"
Gregory shook his head, laughing along with the rest of his buddies. The boy was shy, but also pretty damn smart. "What about that other guy-the brigadier general. Haven't heard much about him."
Noah scratched his chin. "Oh, yeah. Clinton Fisk is his name. Served with the boys in blue during the war. He's done a lot of good work in the South, as I hear it-Freedman’s schools and such. But I don't expect him to go far."
Gregory asked, "Why not?"
"He's running for the Prohibition party."
Buck nearly dropped his shears. "What? A man, a veteran at that, and he don't want us to be able to have a cold brew now and again?"
Noah chuckled. "Told ya he won't get far."
The other man who'd been playing card suddenly spoke up. "You're one to talk, Noah. You and your deputy there are in cahoots with the women."
The talk and laughter fell silent for a moment. Only the sound of Buck's shears could be heard.
Gregory narrowed his eyes at the fellow, who looked familiar, but wasn't someone he knew well. "What do you mean, in cahoots? You off your rocker or something?"
The man pressed on. "Noah's out campaigning for 'em to get the vote, as if they got enough sense, and you're sniffing behind the barmaid like she's the last piece of tail 'tween here and Mexico."
Someone whistled.
Next to him, Noah stiffened. "Look here. You just better watch your mouth, before you start any trouble."
The man, unrelenting in what seemed like a quest to get Gregory's goat, stood, and pointed his finger at him. "I'm not the one who lets some barmaid go around with his balls in her handbag."
Gregory was on his feet in a flash.
Buck's eyes widened. "Oh, hell."
Noah got up and sidled away, nearly tripping over the man napping in his chair.
Gregory took a couple of long steps to the where the man stood, and grabbed him by the shirtfront. The other man being a good seven or eight inches shorter, and forty pounds lighter, Gregory had no trouble lifting him until his feet left the floor.
All activity in the room stopped. The singing of the metal shears ceased as Buck and Levell quit their barbering to watch the fracas unfold.
Dangling the man a few feet above the floor, Gregory spoke through gritted teeth. "You seem mighty concerned about my personal business. What goes on between me and Miss Lane ain't none of your concern. Did you come here for a shave, or to have your teeth shoved up into your empty head?"
Trembling visibly, the man located his voice. “...C...C... Came for a s..sh..shave."
"Good. Then keep your mouth shut and you might stay conscious long enough to get one." Gregory let go of the man's shirt, letting him fall in a heap on the sawdust floor.
The man got up, dusted himself off a bit. Red-faced, he got his deck of cards and went to the door.
Before he left, he spoke. "You'll see. Those women are gonna learn their place. One way or the other."
Then he was gone.
Buck broke the silence. "Damn it, Greg, you just cost me a customer. You owe me five dollars."
Gregory shook his head as he returned to his seat. "I'll gladly pay it, rather than listen to that jackass."
Noah, now moving into Levell's chair for his trim, whistled. "I'd haul you in for assault, but he had it coming."
"Damn straight. He was asking for it. He'd just better be glad I didn't kick his ass." He leaned back in his chair and blew out a pent-up breath. As a law officer, he tried to keep his temper in check, so he could do his job without worry of making costly mistakes. But that fellow had tested his patience a little too much by making all those declarations about what went on between him and Angel.
By the time he'd had his turn in the chair, his anger had faded enough for him to recall the stranger's words as he left the barber shop.
Those women are gonna learn their place, one way or the other.
It hadn't been a threat, exactly, but Gregory felt an innate mistrust for the man. His cryptic words made him feel unease, and as a lawman, he knew to trust his instincts over all else. From now on, until the election proceedings were finished, he'd be keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of trouble from Mr. Big Mouth.
If that fellow decided to bring trouble to Ridgeway, Gregory would make sure he regretted it.
* * *
Chapter 10
Sunday morning, Angel rose early; but not as early as her aunt. When she emerged from her bedroom, still rubbing her sleep-heavy eyes, she found Myrna seated on the settee, tucking a few items into her valise. She'd been planning for a few weeks now to visit an old friend in Oakland.
Inhaling the aroma of the coffee her aunt had made, Angel greeted her. "Good morning Aunt Myrna."
"Morning, dear. Hustle, now. I've got to be at the depot in an hour."
Stifling a yawn, she nodded, and went to get a little coffee. After she'd gotten a bit of the brew in her system, she put on a pair of moccasins, then slipped a muslin cloak on over her simple skirt and blouse.
Aunt Myrna got to her feet, valise in hand. "Ready?"
She nodded, and escorted her aunt out the rear door. The saloon was closed, as it always was on Sundays, so they walked around the Taylor Hotel, then crossed the street and headed for the depot.
The newly built Transit Depot sat on the far eastern edge of town, just beyond the livery on Founder's Avenue. For now, it served as a hub for folks traveling via stagecoach, or those wanting to rent horses or vehicles. The nearest train station was in Oakland, and the Transit Depot provided a connection to the train route, as well as transportation to those other small cities not located along the route.
Angel carried her aunt's valise and escorted her right up to the door.
Ever the independent spirit, Myrna tried to wave her off. “You don't have to wait with me, dear. I'll be perfectly fine until the stage comes."
"I know. But I'd like to see you off, and make sure you get on the stage safely." She led her aunt to a bank of chairs near the depot's doors, and they sat.
"I can't wait to see Sam. It's been such a long time." Myrna smiled, her eyes holding a wistful look.
She watched her aunt's body language as she spoke of her friend. Angel didn't know anything about Sam, except that her aunt had met her years ago, during her days on the stage. "She must really be something.”
"That she is. In a lot of ways, she reminds me of your mother."
A moment passed between them in silence, and they shared the pain of missing her. Lucille Lane had been vitally important to both of them.
Angel squeezed her shoulders. "Now I know she's something special. Heavens, I miss Mama."
Myrna sighed. "I miss her too, dear."
She held back the tears that threatened to fall.
A chuckle escaped Myrna's lips as she said, "Do you remember the year you asked your mother for your first corset?"
A smile stretched her lips as she recalled that summer. "Yes. I had just turned thirteen, and was coming into my bosom."
"And your mother knew that. She and I had been talking about what to do. You were growing into your figure and your mama was just beside herself about it."
"I remember. When I asked her, she just kept saying, 'my baby, my baby.' Then she fainted!"
Myrna was in full laughter now, leaning forward and slapping her thigh.
Angel joined her, because telling the story always seemed to tickle her. As a girl of thirteen, Angel had been downright determined to get a corset as a sign that she was a "woman." Now that she was grown, she couldn't abide the uncomfortable, confining garment. She hated corsets so much she couldn't remember the last time she'd worn one.
She looked over at her aunt, who was
just now recovering from her amusement. Angel loved her aunt Myrna dearly, and part of the reason was this; their shared memories of her mother. They were the only two people left in the world who'd been fortunate enough to know Lucille Lane, to experience her gentle spirit, and to love her.
Once the stagecoach arrived, and Aunt Myrna and her valise were safely inside, Angel crossed the street and went back to her apartment. Alone inside the space, she drew a deep breath. Tonight, Gregory was coming over. Already, her body tingled with anticipation of what they would share. For now, she needed to get her apartment, and herself, ready for what she was sure would be a wonderful evening.
Yesterday, before she'd gone to the debate, she'd visited the beauty parlor. Christina, the town hairdresser, had fashioned her hair into the style that Gregory seemed to find so attractive. Angel planned to wear her hair down tonight, to symbolize the intimacy she hoped to share with him.
She spent the afternoon sweeping up and making sure her apartment was tidy. Since Gregory would be coming from a long day at work, she heated up the wood stove, and prepared a small hen, along with some diced potatoes and carrots. As she slid the pan inside and closed the oven, it occurred to her that this was the first time she'd ever cooked for a man.
While their dinner cooked, she went into her bedroom to choose the perfect gown, one that would tempt him with the promise of a very decadent dessert.
She flipped through everything in her wardrobe, and finally settled on a dark gown the color of plums. She'd never worn it before, since she favored trousers. Something told her that the cut of the dress, with its shoulder baring top, would appeal to her man.
She smiled at the possessive way she thought of him as she slipped into the gown, foregoing undergarments. They didn't agree on much, but their attraction was so strong, it could no longer be denied.
She was taking the roast hen out of the oven when the knock sounded on her apartment door. She quickly deposited the pan atop the stove and dashed to the door to let him in.
When she opened the door, Gregory stood there, smiling. He held a bouquet of colorful blooms, which she briefly regarded before letting her eyes sweep over his tall, muscular frame. He wore a white shirt beneath his brown leather vest, and a pair of denims that hugged his hips. He took off his Stetson, the dark eyes connecting with hers. "Evenin', Angel May.
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