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

by Pamela Morsi

  But Tom had been equally curious about Colonel Teddy and his friends. They were college men, athletes mostly, bent on living the manly life and having a grand time. At first they appeared as unnecessary as the two-headed calf at the traveling show. Later Tom had learned to appreciate them in many ways, and to envy them in many others.

  Tom watched and listened and soon began to mimic "the cravats," the elegant eastern dudes who spurned the cotton neckerchiefs of the regiment for the same item made of silk. In the hot, tired aching boredom of military life, cravat watching quickly became a source of entertainment. Tom imitated the way they talked and walked and what they said. He did it as an amusement for the other fellows and could have a whole company of cowboy troopers clutching their sides and rolling on the ground with laughter.

  Ultimately the inevitable happened. Ambrose Dexter, who answered to the nickname of Ambidextrous, had caught him in the act. Surprisingly there were no

  hard feelings. The fine eastern gentleman actually thought it great fun and suggested that Tom quit the army and take up the stage.

  Ambi began to help him with what they all jokingly referred to as "Tom's vaudeville act." He taught him the things to say, the way to behave, the niceties of fine manners, and brought him to the attention of the other young men of his circle.

  The character, life, and antecedents of Gerald Tarkington Crane came out of a barrel of Mexican beer that Ambi had confiscated for a night's encampment. They concocted the whole story. The man, his past, his family business, and his reasons for being in the U.S.V. It was just an hilarious way to pass the time.

  Within a week, they were putting Gerald to the test. Since Colonel Teddy's friends were always welcome guests at parties and soirees, Ambi and the cravats took him along. They let him rub shoulders with the finest people in south Texas. It became sort of a game among them, laughing at the joke they played on the unfortunate locals who were unable to tell the difference between a real gentleman and a pretend one.

  It was at that time that Tom had discovered the power Gerald had with women. Thanks to Reverend McAfee's diligence, Tom had been untutored in the ways of the feminine sex when he'd arrived in San Antone. He had, upon his first liberty, gone looking for female companionship. The women with painted lips standing around in saloons seemed to find him attractive enough. But the fine, fresh-faced ladies on the avenues looked through him as if he were invisible, and the pretty girls in their charge were as unapproachable as princesses.

  "Princesses." He said the word aloud.

  Amazingly, he'd learned that when he allowed "Gerald" to do the talking, both the girls and their mothers came after him almost panting.

  Ladies, he discovered, much preferred the attentions of the very wealthy and sophisticated young man from Yale, rather than the ordinary attentions of Tom Walker, part-breed orphan.

  As he slicked back his wet, black hair from his well-scrubbed face, he ruminated upon Miss Calhoun, who would undoubtedly feel the same.

  This morning his uniform was safely stowed once more in his grip. He checked his belongings, not trusting any of his roommates further than he could see them. It was all there. Everything he owned. Two worn shirts, frayed at both collar and cuffs. A pair of blue denim overalls, the clothing typical of the working man, that he immediately put on over his underwear. There was a fairly presentable pair of black leather shoes, a deck of playing cards, and a paper of Doctor Joe's Miraculous Headache Powders. He got out his shaving gear, a bone-handled brush, a bent tin mug, a cake of shaving soap, and a hollow point razor. At the bottom of the traveling bag he spotted the slim, mother-of-pearl box that Ambrose had given him jokingly as a gift. It contained his business cards.

  He checked the inside bib pocket of his overalls that was unobtrusively pinned shut. The ten dollar greenback was still there. Along with the forty-three cents he already had, it wasn't much of a stake. He needed clothes. His overalls were showing some wear and couldn't be expected to last much longer. But if he really intended to pursue Cessy Calhoun he'd need finer clothes than these. The ten dollars he'd made at the picnic could go as an investment in Gerald's pursuit. Or he could use it to tide him over until he managed to get another job.

  He was thoughtful.

  In his arms last night, she had been eager, willing. It would be almost too easy to seduce her. Then he could offer to do right by her and marry. It seemed like a reasonable plan.

  "It will never work," he said aloud.

  But it was the best idea he'd had. In the eight years since being mustered out he'd tramped around from one end of the country to the other. First he'd followed Ambi home. Tom had still been recovering from his wound and Ambi wanted his family to care for him. He'd liked Bedlington, he'd settled in nicely to the world there. Only to discover that among the wealthy an Army comrade, even one who had saved your life, was not truly fit company for your friends and neighbors. All he could reasonably be offered was a cast-off bit of condescending charity. Hurt and angry, he'd stormed out of Ambi's handsome, twelve-room cottage, never to return. Determined to make his way on his own.

  He'd tried his hand at ranching and railroading. He'd sold pitcher pumps, tended poultry, and played poker. He'd seen the outside of the society life and the inside of the San Saba County Jail. There were only four ways to get the kind of money Tom wanted. He could beg it, borrow it, steal it, or he could marry it. Of all his schemes and dreams, Tom was sure that marrying for money was the quickest and maybe the most honorable way of becoming rich that he'd ever thought up.

  He grabbed up his gear and began heading down the road. He'd rarely given a thought in his life to taking a wife. He was still young, he reminded himself. And life was often long. Binding himself to a woman, for better or worse, was not for the unrooted and unemployed. A man made a commitment to care and provide, not just to the bride, but to the inevitable children that followed. Tom had never thought himself settled enough for such responsibility. But what if the woman didn't need providing for? What if she could do the providing? Then all he'd be vowing to do would be love, honor, and cherish. That didn't seem like too big a price to pay.

  He could love Cessy Calhoun, after a fashion. And as for honor and cherish, that wouldn't be much of a stretch. Who wouldn't honor a woman worth a million dollars? Her bank account was something any fellow would cherish.

  "It will never work," he reminded himself once more. It just couldn't be as easy as it now seemed. Nothing ever was.

  A wagoner passed him with a great load of pipe piled high. Tom hailed him.

  "You need a lift, fella?" the driver asked, pulling up.

  "Thanks," Tom answered, hurrying to find a seat on the top of the pipe stack.

  "Where ye headed?"

  There was only a moment's hesitation before Tom answered. "P. Calhoun Number One," he said.

  Chapter Four

  The Nafee Emporium was the only brick building along the raw, hastily constructed street that represented the commercial district of Topknot. It was adorned with long, covered porches along the front and side, where benches and rockers encouraged loitering. Bunkhouse men and drifters were to be found there any time of the day or night. It was said that the quickest way to hire a man or find a job was to spend a half day chomping crackers and chewing pickles on Nafee's porch. Mrs. Nafee fussed and fretted over the men and personally scrubbed the floorboards every day in her constant battle against fellows whose aim missed the spittoon.

  An effusive welcome to strangers and the clean homeyness of the porches were the Nafees' chief ammunition against their competitor, J. M. Nell General Merchandise on Main Street in Burford Corners. Nell had founded his business twenty years earlier upon trade with the Creeks and Osage, who still patronized him faithfully. Later the cotton farmers became his patrons and the little town that grew up around the store was built upon land Nell had once owned.

  Nafee was the upstart, the foreigner. But the oil men all knew him. He had followed the oil speculation, he had been a peddle
r in their camps back east to Corsicana, Jackson, and Gladys City. Several of those men paused in the middle of the stories they were swapping to rise to their feet and nod deferentially to his daughter, Muna, as she passed them on her way inside.

  She hardly noticed. For more than a week now her thoughts were a muddle and her mind was continually elsewhere.

  It was not as if she had not known that one day she would marry. And it was not that her parents had not warned her that it would be they, and not her, who would choose the proper husband. But somehow she had thought it would be different. She'd thought that it would feel more romantic, more right.

  The tiny bell tinkled over the doorway announcing her arrival. Her mind and heart full, Muna entered the store without so much as a hasty glance to the finery and fripperies in the locked glass case by the door, specifically intended to catch the attention of every female who passed beside it.

  "Mama, I'm here," she called out, with little enthusiasm.

  The Emporium was heavily stocked with everything from bathtubs to Brussels lace. With only three windows, all on the north side of the building, the big store was dark and gloomy. But the pine planking beneath her feet gleamed with devoted care and the white washed walls and shelving made things look spotless and new. Mrs. Nafee believed strongly in the selling power of cleanliness and had taught her daughter to do the same.

  She located her mother busily demonstrating the ease of the new twist-off lid canning jars to a small circle of portly matrons. They shared a quick glance and the older woman gestured toward the back room.

  "A shipment just arrived on the train," her mother said. "There is much sorting to be done this morning."

  Muna nodded. She hoped it was the ladies' wear. Just a few weeks past she had selected and ordered all the new summer styles. She could purchase, sort, organize, and price bolts, brass fittings, or bearshot. But the lacy confections of ladies' lingerie were her specialty and her weakness. She loved just looking at the latest offering and simply touching the fine, sleek fabrics gave her a cheerful lift. Of course, she had never worn any of it. Mama made up her underclothing in serviceable unbleached cotton. But in her naughty fantasies she could imagine herself in corset covers of delicate lawn and cambric, trimmed with dainty Brussels lace. She would wear pink tinted petticoats with a hundred glace flounces. And beneath it all, French satin pantalettes cut close to conform to the body, not disguise it.

  Her thoughts were so pleasantly distracted as she pushed past the curtain-covered doorway into the back room. Then her reality came crashing back. He was there.

  Almost as startled to see her as she was to see him, he appeared to fumble for the correct words in English and greeted her in Arabic.

  "Sabah elker."

  "Good morning," she said.

  Her words were less a reply than a reprimand. Her father insisted that Maloof learn English very quickly. The only way to do that was to completely forego speaking in Arabic.

  He nodded, not taking offense. "Yes, good morning," he said. "It is good morning, yes?"

  "Yes," Muna answered, not quite sure if he meant the words were correct or that he truly appreciated the day.

  He was smiling at her. It was a big, broad smile. It was open, friendly and somehow disconcerting. She never knew what he was thinking.

  Her parents had told her that he had been sent for. A fine, worthy young man, he was to come to America, join the business and be her bridegroom. His father was a childhood friend of Nafee. Still Baba hadn't accepted him carelessly. He'd taken the train to greet Maloof in Kansas City and had spent a week with the man before he'd struck a bargain and brought him to the Indian Territory to meet his bride.

  He had never asked her to wed him. It was all just handled by her father and assumed by everyone that she was well pleased. She was not unpleased. She was not anything, except perhaps confused.

  "It is rude to stare," she told him sharply. "You must not stare."

  Maloof's brow furrowed curiously. "What is stare?" he asked.

  "To look at me so . . . so, to look at me like that," she answered.

  Maloof shook his head, puzzled. "How can man be wrong to look at woman so beautiful."

  Muna felt her cheeks suffuse with warmth.

  "It is right word, yes? You are beautiful."

  "I . . . it is an acceptable word, I suppose."

  Embarrassed, she turned to the nearest packing crate, already opened, and began to peruse the contents. It contained her favorite goods: ladies' wear. She hardly noticed.

  "I think you very beautiful," Maloof said.

  Muna glanced nervously around for her father. But he was nowhere near.

  "When I am in Tarablos and my father say the daughter of his friend need husband, I am angry. I think, ah poor Maloof, I must wed to loud American woman. She will be old, skinny, and with pig face. I am angry. I am disappointed. I bite my heart and take duty to family." He hesitated a moment and then spoke more softly. "God rewards me. He give me beautiful wife. I am not angry now. Not disappointed."

  Gooseflesh skittered along Muna's arms and the back of her neck. His words were halting, disturbing, and somehow enticing. She could not even glance in his direction. Determinedly she put her mind to her task and efficiently sorted the finery in her hands without one thought to the frilly styles or delicacy of the fabrics.

  She heard a gasp beside her and suddenly he was right at her elbow.

  "What is this?" he asked, picking up a pair of black washing silk drawers trimmed with red ribbon and Valenciennes lace. "I never see so fine thing. The sewing, ah . . . look, it is tiny, perfect."

  Muna had been embarrassed before. Now she was horrified as he held the black drawers up for her inspection, and waxed near poetic of their loveliness. Then he looked over at her, smiling, friendly.

  "You have like this?" he asked.

  "Of course not!" she answered, shocked.

  "Beautiful woman should have beautiful things. I buy you," he declared.

  "No! Absolutely not!"

  "Absolutely yes," he insisted, apparently offended by her response. "I have money. I have money, my own. I can buy. I can buy retail."

  Muna was too mortified and dumbfounded to even speak. Fortunately she was saved from the necessity of doing so.

  "Maloof!" her father called from the outside doorway. "You must get the rest of the wagon loaded and be on your way."

  "Yes, I must go," he agreed respectfully.

  It was then that her father apparently noticed what he held in his hand.

  "Don't spend your time going through the ladies' wear," Nafee told him. "Muna just adores the pretty things and always takes care of the stock personally."

  Maloof gave her one more questioning look before hurrying after her father.

  Muna could still feel herself blushing; she was jittery and off balance. Surely he hadn't ... he hadn't imagined her wearing the lingerie. When they married he would actually see her in her homesewn drawers. It didn't bear thinking about. But it seemed that she could think of nothing else. This strange, unfathomable man was going to be her husband.

  Muna looked up startled as Princess Calhoun swept through the curtain-covered doorway and pulled her into a warm hug.

  "Oh Muna, isn't it all so wonderful? Isn't he wonderful."

  It was a statement not a question. For an instant Muna was bewildered, thinking her friend spoke of Maloof. Then she recalled vividly catching her in an indiscreet embrace with a stranger. Muna's expression momentarily turned stern and disapproving.

  "I don't suppose you are talking about old man Wycoff out on the porch?" she said.

  "Oh you!" Princess scolded with exasperation. "I mean Gerald, isn't he so ... so perfect?"

  "Well you seem to think so anyway," Muna replied, holding her friend at arm's length and looking at her.

  "You don't?"

  "I hardly spoke to the fellow," she answered. "He's certainly attractive. And he seems so taken with you."

  The dreamy e
xpression on her friend's face turned serious.

  "Do you think so?" Princess asked. "Do you really think so?"

  Muna shook her head. "It doesn't matter what I think. What do you think?"

  "I think ... oh Muna, I more than think." Her tone dropped to nearly a whisper. "I know, I know that I am in love. I am truly in love, at last."

  Princess wrapped her arms across her chest as if needing to hold in the feelings of her heart.

  "It was just as I thought it would be, Muna, just as I dreamed. I saw him across the distance of the lawn and I knew, I knew instantly that he was the one."

  Princess closed her eyes as she pleasurably relived the moment.

  "Gerald apparently felt exactly the same," she said with a soft sigh.

  "Sometimes our feelings can be deceiving," Muna said, thinking of her own emotional confusion. "I don't think that we can always trust our initial impression of people."

  "What? Don't be silly, Muna," she said. "If we can't trust ourselves to know people, what can we trust at all?"

  Muna might have replied, nothing. But she held her tongue. She and Princess Calhoun were closer than sisters. They had grown up together in the half dozen oil boom towns between Pennsylvania and Topknot. They shared all and everything and swore to tell each other the truth.

  "Oh Muna, it felt exactly as I always knew that it would," she said excitedly. "I love Gerald. I loved him that first minute and I will love him always."

  "Oh Prin." Muna sighed.

  "I saw him and I knew, I knew instantly."

  "How did you know? How could you know?"

  Princess laughed and shrugged. "I can't explain it," she admitted. "It was almost otherworldly. I just knew immediately. It was almost as if I recognized him."

  "Like you recognized him?"

  "Yes . . . but no, not really. In fact he didn't look at all as I expected."

  "You were hoping for a blond man with blue eyes?"

  "No, not really. I thought . . . well, I thought that he would not be so dreadfully handsome."