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

by Pamela Morsi

  Gerald immediately released her and Princess turned guiltily toward the sound. Muna and her fiancé were hurrying up beside them. Her friend's eyes were wide with curiosity. Clearly she had seen their embrace.

  Princess held her chin high. She was, in retrospect, a little surprised at her own behavior, but she had never been in love before and she was far too happy to be embarrassed about the fact.

  "Muna, come meet Gerald," she said without apology.

  As the two approached, Princess saw her friend's eyes narrow with suspicion as she stared at Gerald.

  "Muna Nafee, this is my friend Gerald Tarkington Crane of Bedlington, New Jersey," she said. "Gerald this is Miss Muna Nafee, my best friend and this is her fiancé, Mr. ... ah ... I seem to have forgotten ..."

  Muna's escort stepped forward promptly and offered Gerald his hand. "I am Maloof Bashara, I speak English no good, yes?"

  Gerald shook his hand and murmured a friendly reply. He nodded politely to Muna who continued to eye him warily.

  "You are new around here, Mr. Crane. I don't believe I've seen you before. We have all known each other for years now," Muna said. "Princess and I met as girls in the drilling camps of West Virginia. We've been together in Jackson and Corsicana and Spindletop. All the people who follow the oil fields, the drillers, the merchants, the laborers, we all know and trust each other from way back."

  "This is my first time to visit an oil field," Gerald admitted readily. "I find it very different and exciting." He offered a small, intimate glance to Princess. "And I find the people here much to my liking."

  Princess couldn't help but smile back at him. Muna was being overly protective. That's what friends did for each other. But once Muna understood that Princess had found her true love, she would come to care for Gerald as her friend, too.

  "Enough talking," Princess declared. "This is a dance and we must dance. Do you dance, Mr. Bashara?"

  "Oh I am fine dancer," he declared. "In my country I am fine dancer. There men dance with men, women dance with women. But this dancing, dancing with the woman, it is different. I think I like it."

  "Then you will dance with me," Princess said.

  They hurried to the dance floor, with Gerald and Muna in their wake. Princess glanced back at them, walking uncomfortably together. She wanted to let the two of them get to know each other. She wanted to let Muna see what a fine, wonderful man he was. But only one dance, Princess decided. The night was too important, too perfect, too much a dream come true and she didn't want to spend it in the arms of any man but Gerald Tarkington Crane.

  Chapter Three

  Queenie McCurtain awakened unexpectedly with the first light of dawn. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly as the strong odor of sweaty men, spilled beer, and stale tobacco drifted up from her place of business downstairs and assaulted her senses. The queasiness was unexpected. She rarely drank, thinking it poor business to consume anything that she could sell to somebody else. Maybe she was coming down with a fever, or perhaps it was just the earliness of the hour.

  Through the thin wall at the far end of her room she could hear Frenchie LaRue, still at work. Or rather she could hear the man Frenchie was at work upon. His wrenching, pleasurable groans clearly indicated another satisfied customer. At least Queenie hoped it was a customer and not that no-account Tommy Mathis, who paid for his pleasures with sketches and paintings until the whole place was a gallery of pictures.

  Tommy was a favorite of Miss LaRue and although Queenie had made it clear to the painter that this was a cash business only, Frenchie might well have offered the fellow another barter deal.

  It was said by fellows who might well know that Frenchie LaRue had the best mouth in three states.

  That's why Queenie had her working out of the bar. Unfortunately, it was also true that Frenchie was extremely charitable and gave away for free almost as much business as she got paid for. She was one of those rare whores who truly enjoyed her work.

  Queenie McCurtain was not. She'd begun whoring as a way to get by, to ward off starvation, to support herself in the wild new territory. She no longer did that kind of work. She no longer had to. Queenie's Palace was one of the most popular "joints" on the Topknot. A hard-working oil man could always find a mug of beer, a joint of beef, and a pretty girl at Queenie's. And if he knew Queenie and she thought he could be trusted, there was blackjack, poker, and craps in the back room.

  Queenie was a successful businesswoman with enough money stashed away to insure that she would never have to entertain a sweaty roughneck or manure-stained rancher again. Any man found in her bed was there by invitation only. And the only man these days getting that invitation snored quietly beside her now.

  In sleep, King Calhoun looked every one of his forty-nine years. He was ruddy, heavyset, and his hair was thick and curly only at the back and sides of his shiny head. His left hand lay splayed upon her naked breast. The wide gold band that encircled the third finger of his left hand glimmered in the morning sunlight. King Calhoun had been a widower for fourteen years. But he'd never removed his wedding ring. It was a symbol of the other world he lived in, the world that he wanted desperately, but within which he was not wholly comfortable.

  Frenchie's customer was groaning louder now, his pleasure rising to a crescendo. Queenie should get a house, she thought. It was long past time that she quit living over the bar. But, in truth, she didn't trust anybody to look after her interests except herself.

  She'd learned early that people could turn on you. They could let you down. They could throw you away. The only thing a woman could count on in this world was herself. That was Queenie's credo. A lot of people would have been surprised to hear that. A lot of people thought Queenie was owned lock, stock, and barrel by King Calhoun. A disenchanted cowboy had once asked her if she had ROYAL OIL tattooed on her backside.

  Queenie had just smiled and flippantly reminded the cowboy that he would never know.

  Certainly she'd done a few things to please Calhoun. She had followed him to the oil fields. And then from one strike to another. She'd kept herself as his exclusive property for the last five years. With her ear to the ground and her eye on business, she'd been able to give him a tip or two that had benefitted him.

  And, of course, she'd changed her name. But then Hilda Prudence McCurtain was not a particularly good name for a scarlet woman. Undoubtedly when her parents had chosen it they had envisioned her as a quiet, pious farm wife with a half dozen well-scrubbed children on their way to church on Sunday. That was not at all how her life had turned out. She had become Queenie, King Calhoun's Queenie.

  Frenchie's customer gave a loud holler that was indisputable evidence of salacious satisfaction. Beside her King Calhoun stirred restlessly.

  He'd arrived at the Palace last night, having been host to a Fourth of July picnic all evening. He was in a tremendous temper. Queenie knew better than to question him about it. When Calhoun wanted to talk to her, he would. Talk was not what was immediately upon his mind. He'd hurried her upstairs, to the sounds of hoots and encouragement from the men in the bar.

  When Calhoun was angry, when he felt the world out of his control, it was sex that he wanted, rough, fast, and aggressive sex. Queenie knew that mood well and she knew the blend of wantonness and passivity that suited him perfectly.

  It had taken him the better part of an hour to work off his passion. Spent and exhausted, he'd apologized.

  "Sorry, Queenie," he'd whispered as he rolled off of her and then pulled her into his arms. "I'll make it up to you tomorrow, darlin'."

  In truth, though she preferred him gentle and tender with her, she was as satisfied as he was by an occasional wildness. And she knew this morning that he would be especially sweet and conciliatory.

  "What time is it?" he groaned beside her.

  "Still early," she answered. "Frenchie's got a customer, that's what woke us."

  "Good Lord, does that woman never stop?"

  "Let's hope not," Queenie answered. "She
's a gold mine."

  King chuckled and pulled her closer. "You okay this morning, Queenie? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  "I think I'm all right," she told him thoughtfully. Then she drew his hand down to the juncture of her thighs. "But maybe you ought to inspect me for damage."

  He snorted with humor and did as she had bid him, his touch more caressing than clinical.

  "Everything seems right and tight, darlin'," he said.

  He kissed her then, slowly, leisurely. She loved his kisses. A lot of men never bothered to kiss a whore. King Calhoun seemed to want to taste her mouth as frequently as the rest of her.

  "His sweet, loving kisses and the caress of his hand continued pleasurably for several minutes. She reached between their bodies to stroke him and found him still flaccid.

  He sighed and pulled away from her.

  "You want to talk about it?" she asked.

  He leaned up on one elbow and look down at her.

  "Bankers! Damn all bankers!" he said, as he angled her a little differently and shook his head. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

  Queenie nodded, her eyes full of concern. "You still haven't been able to find any financing." she said.

  King sighed heavily. "We're drilling and it looks good, Queenie. It looks dang good. There's oil aplenty trapped in that salt dome and I can get it out of there. But what in the devil am I going to do with it? Build a hundred miles of pipeline? I've got to have a refinery. And I've got to have one here."

  Queenie nodded sympathetically. She'd been a confidant of King Calhoun's aspirations and dreams for years.

  "The dang bankers. They want their safe investments. Farmers, merchants. Oil's just pie in the sky to them. Or maybe a dream in the ground. I introduced that Kansas City fellow all around the party last night. He was laughing and joking and eating my food and drinking my beer. Then he says right to my face that he thinks I'm 'too risky.'"

  Queenie rubbed his face comfortingly. "I'm so sorry. I bet you wished you could rearrange his teeth."

  "I just kept on smiling," he admitted. "But honestly, I could have happily stomped him to a greasy spot."

  "It's so hard to figure. They are all willing to let you put your money in their bank, but it's tough as nails to get them to loan you some out."

  King nodded. "They'll take money from the devil himself, they just have preferences about where they lend it," he said. "The oil business is new, it's speculative. And the truth of the matter is, the people making money in the oil business are not the fellows these bankers are used to dealing with."

  She nodded sympathetically and began rubbing the thick tufts of hair on his chest.

  "It takes money to make money," he continued. "And the folks that have got money are not so willing to take a chance on somebody who's not one of their own."

  "But you've made millions of dollars, they should know that they can trust you."

  "They don't trust anyone like us, darlin'," he said. "You know that firsthand, Queenie. When you started your own business would one of them puffed up, down-their-nose-at-you yahoos, would one of them have loaned you the money?"

  She shook her head. "If I'd have asked, they'd have thrown me out of their fancy office on my backside," she said. "If you hadn't helped me, I'd probably still be setting up sweethearts in a camp tent."

  King waved away her gratitude. "You're a good businesswoman, Queenie. Backing you was the best investment I ever made. You've made a damn fine return on a small stake. Most of these banker fellows couldn't hold a candle to you."

  She snuggled up against him and closed her eyes, breathing in the scent that was him. She wanted to remember it always. For Queenie, loving King Calhoun was a complicated and dangerous avocation. They'd never spoken of love, nor a word of commitment. It was there. It was there between them. But Queenie was certain that if something happened, if something tipped their fragile little boat to the left or right, they'd be swamped in minutes. And he would be gone. He would be long gone without even a good-bye.

  "It's not fair," she whispered, thinking about both him and herself. "It's really not fair."

  "Darlin', if anybody told you that life was fair, they was just plain lying."

  She huffed with appreciation and agreement.

  Nothing in her life so far had seemed very fair. She'd had more than her share of troubles, sorrows, and sadness. Now she'd finally found success and had a man that she loved. She didn't want that or him to go away.

  "Can I help?" she asked him. "I've got a pretty good nest egg laid by. I wouldn't be averse to investing it in the oil business."

  He sat up a little and looked at her for a long minute before planting a kiss on the end of her nose.

  "Queenie, refineries are big money. We could sell down to the shirt of every man in this town and it wouldn't be enough. If I don't get a bank to back me, I'm going to lose my shirt. There is not a soul in this world that I'd tell that to but you," he said. "I don't want to lose my shirt, but if you lose yours too He shook his head disagreeably and with the end of his finger gently flicked her nipple. "Well, darlin', let's just say I don't want the whole town to see you with your tits bare."

  She smiled, accepting his judgment but remaining serious enough to add her own admonition.

  "If you lose it, at least promise me that you'll look this direction for a new stake," she said.

  "I can't promise nothing, darlin', but I'll keep it in mind," he agreed. "Right now, I just got to come up with a new banker and a new approach. We've got to find somebody to get us some cash."

  "Where you going to start looking?"

  "I thought I'd take a trip up to Saint Louis," he told her.

  "Do you know somebody there?"

  "Darlin', I done asked everybody I know and most that I know of," he said. "The crazy thing is, I know that the oil is there. But as far as we are from a refinery, it might as well be tomato juice. I can't build a refinery without capital. They got some up there in Saint Louis and I'm going to try to get it."

  "When are you leaving?"

  "Tomorrow, I suspect, or rather today, I guess. It is today already. I need to get up to the well this morning and make sure things are set up and under control while I'm gone. Then I'll catch the evening train. I'll be in Saint Louis in time for a steak-and-egg breakfast."

  His words had a totally unexpected effect on Queenie. As the vision of steak and eggs flashed before her eyes, her stomach rumbled violently. With frantic haste she rolled out of bed and onto her feet.

  "Queenie?"

  All around her the world seemed to spin. Wave after wave of nausea coursed through her. Cold sweat popped out all over her skin. She dropped to her knees and barely managed to grab the chamber pot from beneath the bed before she vomited.

  "Queenie? Queenie, are you all right?"

  He was at her side immediately, solicitous.

  "It must be something I ate," she said.

  Naked, he hurried to the water basin where he dampened a towel and brought it to her.

  "I heard there was an influenza spreading through the camp at Gladys City," he said.

  Gratefully she pressed the cool towel against her brow. "I haven't heard a thing about that here," she told him.

  "Still, maybe I shouldn't go off to Saint Louis," King suggested.

  Queenie's eyes widened and she looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

  "You have to go, King," she told him incredulously. "I'll be fine. Frenchie and the girls are here, and you know that I can take care of myself."

  His brow furrowed, worried. "Even those who can take care of themselves sometimes need people to take care of them."

  Although the annoyingly constant rhythm of drilling oil had kept Tom awake most of the night, he was up early the next morning, but not by his own choice. The oil camp "bunkhouse" where he was staying went by the auspicious name CLEAN CHEAP BEDS. All three words were an exaggeration. One long room was crowded with fifteen less-than-pristine cots crammed up against each othe
r. To get out of bed, each man had to crawl to the end of his bunk and over the footrail. There was plenty of bumping, toe stubbing, and general mayhem as the morning shift prepared for work. After they'd finally left, Tom sighed with relief and snuggled down into the thin, straw-stuffed mattress that he'd rented for a dollar a day, only to shortly discover that most of the fellows in the bunkhouse were doubled up. They shared the rent on their cot with a fellow that worked nights. When the second round of noise and activity began, Tom simply gave up and roused himself out for the morning.

  The day was bright and as warm as expected in Oklahoma in early July. With the morning tour already on the job and the evening one eager to take their rest, the camp was quiet and peaceful. A feeling of familiarity that was almost nostalgic welled up inside of him. He had grown up not very far from this place. The Methodist Indian Home was only a half day's walk away. The sky and clouds and the scent on the air around him were all as well known to him as his face in the mirror. He could go there. He could see Reverend McAfee again.

  "It's all pride and it will be your downfall," he could almost hear the good man warning him. "Want less and work harder, that will better your life, young Tom."

  Tom shook his head thoughtfully and sniffed in disagreement. He'd tried Reverend McAfee's way. He had tried working harder, he had tried wanting less.

  But he'd seen too much to be satisfied; he'd learned too much to be content.

  The Methodist Indian Home—warm and sweet and happy as those memories were for him—could not bring him his heart's desire. He pushed those thoughts aside. The life he had been trained for there was not at all the life that he wanted.

  He had joined up with the Rough Riders at age seventeen. That, at least, was not a lie. He had been with Roosevelt in Cuba, but was no great friend of his. He was just a wild boy who could ride and shoot.

  Colonel Teddy had a natural curiosity about him, about all of the Indians and part-breeds. They made up a significant number of the regiment and Roosevelt treated them as if they were strange, exotic animals that he was being allowed to observe in unnatural surroundings.