If Wishes Were Kisses: Six Beloved Americana Romances, a Collection (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  If the liquor had sent Hannah spinning before, the tender contact of Henry Lee's lips seemed an overwhelmingly devastating brew. The giggles that were threatening to escape only moments before had dissipated instantly in the onslaught of passion. His warm lips toyed with her own, testing and teaching as they explored. He deepened the kiss and she wove her arms around his neck, eagerly offering him her mouth. There was no shyness in either as they sought knowledge of the other and pleasure for both.

  Henry Lee pulled away slightly, only to return with tiny little nips for the corners of her mouth and she opened for him, anxiously craving the taste of his tongue on her own. As he accommodated her, they pressed more tightly together, and Hannah felt his rigid reaction against her belly. With instinct as old as time, she pressed against that heated hardness and squirmed in appreciation.

  Henry Lee was panting like a racehorse in the last furlong, he wanted her nearer, much nearer and he wanted her now. Grasping her bottom, he raised her up against him so that his aching desire pressed directly against the hot core of her. It felt wonderful and his tongue did a dance in her mouth to demonstrate his admiration. He began thrusting against her, demonstrating how it could be with them, giving her a preview of the wonderful dance they could make together. Because she had no ground to brace her, Hannah could only helplessly accept the lusty passion that was being offered.

  Aching, straining against each other, the need for closeness, the ultimate closeness, overrode all other considerations. Neither thought of where they were or the danger that was waiting dose by.

  Henry Lee's arms began to ache with the strain of holding her up and against him, but he was unwilling to let this hot gratification cease. Raising his knee he brought it up between her legs and she willingly opened for him. She straddled his thigh and he braced his knee on the wall of the building. It wasn't as close as before, but he could still feel the heat of her womanhood against his urgent enthusiasm. And his hands were now free to tease and treasure the breasts that pressed so willingly against him. The stiff aching nipples needed attention that only he could give them, and he gladly gave it.

  For Hannah it was wonderful. Straddling him somehow shattered all her preconceived notions of how a lady should behave. The inflexible maleness of his thigh between her own seared her with sensuality. She wiggled and squirmed against him, writhing with desire and pleasure that was almost pain. With the whiskey dulling her normal inhibitions, she found herself anxious to spread herself for him. Mother Nature had meant for her legs to be wide before him and she gratefully complied, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling herself as tightly to him as possible. She wanted him to feel the effect he had on her. It was her last rational thought. Thinking or planning or considering her actions was no longer possible, her total concentration was on the man whose thigh she rode and the feelings that he evoked in her body.

  Her enthusiasm was about to unman him. He'd not felt such loss of control since he was a green kid. She was so hot, so hungry, but with no pretense of practiced ways. She wanted him as the mare wants the stallion, with all her being and as nature intended. And the stallion was about to spill his seed too soon. . . .

  Henry Lee pulled away from her kiss, wanting to clamp down on his ardor. To gain control at last, or to get her out of that dress; he was not sure which he wanted, but he knew that another minute like the last would be his undoing.

  “Oh God, Hannah!" His words were loud in the quiet night.

  He immediately realized his mistake. He had kissed Hannah to keep her quiet and then he had completely forgotten where he was and had cried out her name.

  With her still riding his thigh he clasped her to his bosom and tried to listen. Were the footsteps coming down the alley? Had a deputy heard them and even now was coming to drag them off to jail? Henry Lee couldn't tell. The surging of his own blood, the pounding of Hannah's heart, and the mingled panting of their passion drowned out all other sounds.

  "Shhh," he whispered to her as he gently lowered her to the ground. She clung to him as he tried to pull away.

  “Let me make sure we are safe," he told her and promised to return quickly.

  With stealth, he made his way down the alley toward the street where he'd heard the footsteps. With his back to the building, trying to make himself as small as possible, he managed to get a look down the street. It was completely empty. The owner of the footsteps had gone on and Henry Lee had been so involved with Hannah he hadn't even noticed. He shook his head in disbelief and leaned gratefully against the building, trying to catch his still gasping breath. He ran a disgusted hand over his face and through his hair. Here he was in a strange town, with a tipsy wife, who didn't know about his business, selling whiskey to strangers and being chased by Federal marshals who wanted to put him in jail for years. So what did he do? Well, he nearly serviced his wife in a public alleyway.

  Cursing himself in disgust, he hurried back to find Hannah slumped against the wall. As he knelt down to help her up, she immediately went back into his arms.

  "I love you, Henry Lee," she whispered desperately. "I love the way you make me feel. I never thought marriage would be so nice."

  Henry Lee could hardly resist her precious declaration and her welcome embrace.

  "Oh Hannah," he said, planting a chaste kiss on her forehead as he pulled her to her feet. "You are going to love being married, and I am going to make you the happiest, most satisfied wife in the territories. That is, if the marshals don't catch us and send us to jail."

  The two made their way through the alleys trying not to encounter anyone on their way back to the hotel. Henry Lee had spent a good bit of time in Muskogee and had always thought that he knew his way around, but the alleys and side streets necessary to avoid detection were mostly unfamiliar, and he just hoped that his luck held enough not to get them irrevocably lost.

  Hannah seemed to be fading fast. The liquor that had made her so happy earlier seemed to be making her slightly squeamish now. She was weaving and stumbling so badly that Henry Lee feared she would trip over something in the dark and hurt herself. He decided it was best to carry her, although it slowed them down quite a bit. Hannah was delighted with this arrangement. Being right up against his chest, feeling so safe and comforted. It was almost worth the dizzy stomach she was suffering.

  Henry Lee actually passed Williams Hotel without recognizing it. Backtracking, he found a service entrance that he gratefully utilized. With Hannah still in his arms, he quietly made his way to the front lobby. The clerk and several other men seemed to be having a poker game in the room directly behind the desk. Henry Lee easily moved past them and up the stairs.

  When he finally set Hannah down in their own room and carefully locked the door behind him, he felt such an overwhelming relief that he began to laugh. It started way down in his diaphragm, just a small amusement that worked its way up his chest, gathering momentum until finally he roared with laughter, leaning with his back against the door laughing as if the last two hours were the funniest he had ever lived. Hannah, leaning against him, began to laugh too. She wasn't quite sure what the joke was, but with the liquor still very much singing in her veins, it was not hard to bring back the giggling episodes that had so incapacitated her earlier. Henry Lee looked at her and remembered how he had to drag her up the stairway, and her inability to stand on the kitchen chair became even more hysterical and as his giggling Hannah leaned against him, the two slowly slid down the door until they were half sitting, half lying together on the floor in front of it.

  "What are you laughing at?" she asked him, scarcely able to talk through her own giggles.

  Henry Lee couldn't answer, he just pulled her close. With strength born of sexual desire, Henry Lee raised himself from the floor and pulled his wife up beside him.

  "Can I have this dance, Mrs. Watson?"

  Hannah's head was spinning from the sudden movement from sitting to standing, but she agreeably assumed her position as he led her in a waltz. Spinning,
spinning, spinning, the room seemed to be going too fast for Hannah. The light seemed to be getting blue, a strange dark unfathomable blue.

  She slumped against Henry Lee, getting his immediate attention.

  "Hannah! Hannah! Are you all right?"

  When she didn't answer, Henry Lee pulled her up into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. Laying her out on the bed, he fumbled with the lamp, finally managing to light it.

  She lay completely immobile on the bed, slightly flushed, but basically healthy. Henry Lee put his hand on her head to check for fever. She was cool and neither too dry nor clammy.

  He sat stunned, staring at her for a moment until a slight sound escaped her. It was a snore, a very ladylike and dignified snore, but a snore, nonetheless.

  She'd passed out. He continued sitting there just looking at her, not quite believing what he knew to be the obvious truth.

  Finally the humor of the situation got the best of him.

  "I must be born under an unlucky star!" he proclaimed raising his hands in a mock entreaty to heaven. "On the floor, on the ground, in alleyways, she's ready. But when I finally get her to a bed, she passes out!"

  He finally stood. Laughing and pacing the end of the room, he remained amazed at his bad luck.

  "Henry Lee," he told himself, "this marriage business is more trouble than meets the eye!"

  After a few moments he was finally able to accept his wife's unintentional rejection. He tenderly undressed her, trying, for his own sake, not to look at her scantily clad body. When he had her down to her chemise, he carefully covered her with the sheet and took a blanket for himself and headed into the sitting room to spend a miserable night on a too short settee.

  Tom Quick was furious. He had orchestrated a huge net to capture an annoying little minnow, and somehow that wily little fish had managed to get away.

  The raid on the Ambrosia Ballroom had taken seventeen men to capture forty-six local citizens. Of those arrested, the only charges that could be filed were three counts of "public drunk" and eleven of "consumption of intoxicating beverages." The three drunks were sleeping it off in the jail and the eleven others had paid their fines and gone home embarrassed and angry with the marshal's department. Threats from those arrested but not charged continued to pour in. They had managed to haul in several important local businessmen whose wives were not aware that they patronized Mrs. Byron's establishment, one off-duty deputy marshal, and the legal counsel for the territorial governor.

  But they hadn't been able to nail one no-account whiskey peddler.

  The gossip would start all over again. Marshal Quick is not too quick anymore, they would begin to joke. The retirement talk would begin soon. Suggestions that a new leader, a younger man, might be better suited to the job. The citizens would say that the territory no longer needed desperado hunters, but a civilized police force that concerned itself with the rights and property of the citizens of the territory.

  Tom Quick had heard it all before. He had fought it all before. And when he'd finally beaten it, he'd sworn to himself that he would never let himself in for that kind of criticism again But now he had. Henry Lee Watson had made a fool out of Tom Quick, and he was going to be right sorry, before it was over.

  A light rap on the side entrance got Marshal Quick's attention.

  ''Come in!"

  Neemie Pathkiller slogged through the door looking like he'd been ridden hard and put up wet. He had taken his eyes off Watson during the raid and had lost him in the chaos. It had taken over three hours to figure out where he'd got off to.

  "They left over the roof," he told the marshal. "He was the one that went up through Mrs. Byron's apartment. He removed a board from her balcony overhang, and they climbed up onto the roof and made their getaway by the rooftops."

  The marshal just stared at Pathkiller, boiling with anger.

  "You keep saying they, are you sure he took the woman with him?"

  "Seems likely since we couldn't find her. Also, I leaned on the Indian selling the whiskey. He spoke to the woman and she claimed to be Watson's wife, for whatever that is worth."

  "His wife?" The marshal considered this new development. "Wonder what kind of woman would marry herself up to a whiskey peddler."

  "Slutty little saloon girl, no doubt," Pathkiller offered.

  "Did she seem that way to you?"

  "No, not at all," he admitted. "I would have guessed her to be the prayer meeting type. But it could be that she's a good actress. She was drinking whiskey like it was water and those Sunday School girls sure aren't known to be partial to it."

  "It's certainly worth looking into," the marshal decided. "But right now we've got us a whiskey peddler to find."

  "The trail is plumb cold, Marshal. I could never follow him now."

  The marshal shook his head in exasperation. "Use your brain, Pathkiller. It's the middle of the night. What would a man with money in his pocket and a pretty woman on his arm be looking for?"

  Pathkiller considered for a minute, then a thin smile broke out on his face. "He'd be looking for a bed," he answered the marshal, who smiled back and nodded in agreement.

  Fortunately for Henry Lee, Neemie Pathkiller judged all men using himself as a yardstick. When he went looking for a bed, he generally looked for the cheapest in town. Assuming that Henry Lee would also, Pathkiller began a systematic search of the cribs and flophouses. It took time, since most of the proprietors of these establishments were not particularly willing to get up in the middle of the night to discuss who might or might not be sleeping upstairs.

  Pathkiller was sure that Watson would not use his own name, so he merely gave a description of the couple. This led to two false leads, where Neemie broke into rooms to find that the "good-looking part-breed and the big blonde" were not the Watsons.

  It was midmorning before Neemie worked his way up to the Williams Hotel. The desk clerk was jabbering on the telephone contraption and Neemie had to cool his heels a good five minutes before the man deigned to speak to him.

  Pathkiller didn't hold out much more hope. If he'd been Watson, he would have split town at first light. He'd had someone check all the westbound trains, but Watson hadn't left on any of them. It was as if the man had been swallowed up into thin air.

  He was not, however, going to stop looking until he had covered every possibility. It was a matter of pride with him now. He had taken his eye off his target and had missed. He would be careful not to make another mistake.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  "I'm looking for some people. A married couple should have come in town yesterday or the day before. The man's tall, well-favored, dark, part Cherokee from his looks, and the woman's kinda blonde, kinda brown hair, a big woman but shapely." Pathkiller used his hands to describe the woman's shape.

  The desk clerk recognized them immediately.

  "Oh, you must mean the Watsons!"

  Pathkiller was stunned. "You mean they are here!"

  "Well, they aren't here right now. I think I saw them head out a couple of hours ago, but yes, they are still staying here." He quickly checked the register. "Yes, they have their room reserved for one more night."

  At 10:30 a.m. Marshal Tom Quick paid a visit to Hattie Byron. Ostensibly, he went to apologize for the trouble and inconvenience the raid had caused her. Actually he was there for information. He'd always believed himself to be very persuasive with the ladies, so with his shoulders dusted and his hair slicked down, he went to find out what the proprietress of the Ambrosia Ballroom knew about Henry Lee Watson.

  Hattie Byron was not in the best of moods. And seeing Tom Quick was just what she needed to set her off.

  "Good morning, Marshal." Her voice reeked with sarcasm. "I certainly hope that it is a good morning for you, because it has been one of the most terrible that I have ever spent in my life!"

  "I'm very sorry to hear that, Mrs. Byron."

  "You are sorry to hear it? Why, you should already know it, Marshal. After all it is
your fault, isn't it?"

  The marshal cringed slightly. She was some fiery woman, he thought. He secretly wondered if she was as excitable in the bedroom as she seemed to be in the parlor.

  "That is exactly why I came over this morning, ma'am. To apologize for the terrible ordeal you suffered through last night. I can imagine that you are devastated to think that criminal activities were taking place in your own establishment, against your knowledge."

  The marshal was no fool. She made money on whatever whiskey was sold last night, but there would never be any way to prove it and she could be of more help working with him instead of against him.

  Hattie wasn't about to accept his apology, even if he was offering her a deal.

  "You have no idea what I went through, Marshal Quick. First, my business is nearly destroyed. Many of the draperies are beyond repair. Then I am dragged to jail, actually to jail! Where I am forced to sit for hours, until I am finally allowed to come home. I find that my apartment had been broken into in my absence. Now tell me, Marshal, why weren't you busy arresting the person who broke into my house instead of persecuting an honest, hardworking widow woman?"

  Her flashing eyes and dramatic gestures intrigued the marshal and all during her tirade he found his gaze drifting to her ample breasts, so decently covered with black brocade.

  "Was anything missing in your apartment?" the marshall asked hopefully.

  "Not that I've noticed, everything was pretty much in place. But the lock on the door was destroyed and must be replaced."

  Tom Quick was grateful she was angry at the intruder. He was more than willing to use it to help his cause.

  "Actually, Mrs. Byron, I am looking for the man who broke into your apartment."

  He had her attention now. As if suddenly remembering her manners she said, "Marshal, please take a seat. Let me get you some coffee." She brought him a cup and a plate of cookies.

  "Thank you, ma'am," he said, mimicking a courtly bow.

  "I just hate the idea of strangers being in my quarters," she told him. "I want to know who they were and why they broke in."