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

by Pamela Morsi

  "I don't want somebody to wed," she countered. "I . . . met Gerald and I fell in love with him, Daddy."

  She'd glanced up at Tom. He nodded at her to give her courage and wrapped his arm protectively around her waist.

  "I met this man and I fell in love," she said. "So I just had to marry him."

  King Calhoun had not been impressed.

  "That's the stupidest thinking I've ever heard in my life," he stated flatly. "Good Lord, Princess, I thought you had more sense. You fell in love," Calhoun repeated her words in near disbelief and exasperation. "Well, there isn't even no such thing. Love between a man and a woman is just something written about in storybooks."

  "Daddy, that's not true," Cessy told him, aghast. "I love Gerald. I truly love him with all my heart."

  "There is no such thing as love between a man and a woman. There is mutual respect and there is sex," King Calhoun declared. "Princess, you just met the man, so you can't possibly know anything about respect. But from what I see, he's already given you a bit of an education about sex."

  Tom could hardly allow Cessy's father to continue to berate her. And he certainly was not willing to allow the older man to tell her that she was not in love with Gerald.

  "Mr. Calhoun," he began.

  Cessy's father continued as if Tom had not spoken at all.

  "I always thought you were like your mother," he said. "She was Presbyterian clear to the bone, never had an earthy desire in her whole life."

  The cheeks of Tom's young bride were flushed bright red.

  "Mr. Calhoun," he tried again.

  King ignored him and continued walking as if still unable to face his daughter. "Lord knows, it's my fault."

  "Your fault?" Cessy's question was incredulous.

  "It is not a thing I would ever wish my daughter to know about me," he said. "But the truth is, Princess, your daddy has a very physical nature and I suspect that along with your looks and your good health, you've inherited it."

  Cessy appeared nearly rigid with her own embarrassment.

  "Mister Calhoun!" Tom practically bellowed his name.

  The big man stopped his pacing to turn and give Tom a long, perusing once-over from head to toe.

  "Have I directed a question to you?" Calhoun asked sarcastically.

  Tom's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps you should," he had answered, blatantly refusing to be intimidated.

  "Oh, I should? Why in the devil would I do that?"

  Tom took a step forward, putting Cessy slightly behind him, not so much for her protection as for illustrating his point.

  "Because I am your daughter's husband and this is our home," Tom told him smoothly.

  He heard Cessy's small intake of breath behind him, but it was nothing compared to the sheer red-faced rage of his father-in-law.

  Tom continued, his words quiet but firm.

  "I am of age, your daughter is of age. We have been united in marriage before God and in the eyes of this territory. You have raised a very loving and dutiful daughter, Mr. Calhoun. And one of the things that you have taught her so well is to trust her own mind and her own judgment. I think you are now mistaken in calling that judgment into question."

  "It was not judgment," Calhoun insisted. "It was an impulsive decision."

  "That is your opinion, sir. But Cessy and I are very happy with our marriage. We have every hope that you will be happy with us. You will be a very welcomed guest in our house."

  Finally it had sunk into Calhoun's brain. The power had shifted. Cessy owed her loyalty to her husband and if her father wanted any influence with her at all, he would have to deal with Gerald. Cessy's father was up to the challenge.

  He had ceased his pacing, and the three of them sat in the front parlor for a more polite and civil discussion of the facts.

  Cessy had spoken with gushing sincerity of how much she loved Gerald and how happy she was to be married.

  Clearly Calhoun had not liked it, but he kept his opinion to himself, at least until she went up to bed.

  The two had shared a glass of port in the library. Tom had barely touched his. He was certain that he would need a clear head for any discussion with his new father-in-law and he was not wrong.

  "I don't like fancy men and I don't like fancy ways," King Calhoun had stated flatly. "I suppose you could interpret that as, I don't like you."

  Tom had smiled without warmth.

  "Yes, I suppose I could," he agreed.

  "I've seen your kind all my life," he said. "Soft, slithery snakes you are. Thinking you're better than the rest of the world, but couldn't earn an honest dollar if your good name depended on it."

  "One never knows when one's good name might depend upon it," Tom replied, fastidiously picking a tiny piece of lint from his trousers.

  "My Princess is a sweet and loving girl, honest and kind-hearted clear to the bone."

  "Yes, I know," Tom replied.

  "She's tough and strong-minded though," Calhoun said. "She ain't a bit missish at all. And it don't seem quite right that such a fine-faced feller like you would take up with her."

  Tom shrugged elegantly.

  "I am curious about this business of falling in love at first sight," he went on. "Was this like a spiritual attraction, like the merging of two celibate souls?"

  The man's tone was disagreeable.

  "Certainly there was a physical aspect to it also," Tom replied.

  "A physical aspect also," Calhoun repeated. "Tell me, Mr. Back-East, Better-Than-Everyone-Else, what was it about my daughter that stiffened your pecker? Her frying-pan figure or those bottle-thick spectacles?"

  Tom straightened his shoulders and deliberately glared at his father-in-law as if he were a worm.

  "Crudities about my wife, Mr. Calhoun, even from her own father, will not be tolerated."

  The two men glared at each other.

  It was King Calhoun who relaxed first, almost chuckling as if he admired Tom's defense of his daughter.

  "Princess likens you to one of those English remittance men that come out to adventure in the West, while being supported by their families back home," he said.

  Tom nodded. He'd heard Cessy's explanation.

  "What I'm wondering is if you are actually more like those impoverished aristocrats who broker their honor and titles to marry into the fortunes of the five hundred."

  Tom's only answer had been to take a generous sip of port.

  "Gerald," a sleepy voice called out to him.

  "I didn't mean to wake you," he said as he followed the sound to her bedside.

  He sat down and she raised her arms for his embrace. In the darkness she was warm and soft and scented with soap. She was dearly familiar and innocently seductive.

  "You smell good," he told her.

  "And you taste good," she replied. "Daddy broke out the port for you. That's a good sign."

  Tom's response was noncommittal as he nuzzled her face and neck and gathered up a generous handful of her hair.

  "Oooh, sweet Cessy," he whispered. "I want to be with you, inside you, tonight again. But perhaps you are . . . ah . . . sore. Remember, you can tell me no."

  "Yes!" she said, teasingly pulling at his necktie. "Yes, yes, yes. I want to be with you inside me tonight, too."

  He kissed her long and lingeringly, but with lots of good humor and loud sucking noises until she was giggling rather than passionate.

  Tom stood in the darkness and began removing his clothes. From the darkness of the bed, he knew that she watched him and he made the task as seductive and sensuous as possible.

  "What on earth did Daddy keep you talking about for so long?" she asked.

  "He's doing just what you wanted. He's trying to get to know me," Tom told her.

  "Oh, I'm so glad," she said

  In fact, he was trying to get to know more than Tom had bargained for. The old man had brazenly asked to see his financial statement, his war records, and his bank balance.

  Tom had agreed easily, knowing th
at any hesitation would be viewed as an attempt to conceal. Tom had nothing to conceal. He had no financial statement and no bank balance. And the war records were all in the name of Thomas T. Walker. Even the most casual glance at the Muster-Out Roll for the U.S.V. would reveal that no person named Gerald Tarkington Crane had ever been a Rough Rider.

  "At least it is over," Cessy told him. "Daddy was a little angry at first, but I think he's accepted you."

  "I don't know what your scheme is," Calhoun had told Tom in the library, his eyes narrowing to slits. "But if you hurt my little girl, if you break her heart or misuse her trust, I'll stomp you 'til there is nothing but a greasy spot left on the floor."

  As Tom removed the last vestiges of his clothing and eased himself into the comfort of the bed and the embrace of his wife, he hoped that Calhoun would never be called upon to fulfill his threat. Like Calhoun, Tom didn't want to see Cessy hurt. But the whole plan was looking more and more like a house of cards, and the wind was picking up.

  With movements in tune, as if this were their thousandth night of love instead of their second, he divested her of her nightgown and luxuriated in the feel of her flesh against his own as he ran his hands down the length of her body.

  "Oh, Cessy, I love you," he said.

  The words coming from his mouth surprised him. But she was his wife. And as such, of course he loved her, he assured himself. And it felt so good to say so. It felt as if he had waited all his life to say those words. And this was the woman he wanted to say them to.

  "Cessy, I love you," he repeated, taking pleasure in hearing the phrase a second time. "I love you. I love you. I love you. Forever."

  She sighed so prettily, alive and eager against his touch.

  "I love you too, Gerald."

  The sound of another's man name on her lips momentarily startled him. His hands stilled and his shoulders stiffened.

  She felt it.

  "What's wrong?" she asked him.

  Tom swallowed. Unsettled by the wave of sadness that had so unexpectedly engulfed him. She loved Gerald. Of course she did. All the women loved Gerald.

  "What is it?" she asked again.

  He kissed her forehead and hushed her question. It was not her fault. His pain was very much a self-inflicted wound.

  "Nothing, nothing my Cessy," he told her as he parted her legs and settled himself between them. "Just a little twinge, I guess."

  “Are you in pain?" she asked.

  "I have perhaps been a little too enthusiastic a lover," he said.

  He could hear her concerns slip away as he stroked and caressed her.

  "Have I been overworking you?" she asked, teasing. She ran her hand enticingly up the inside of his thigh before tentatively touching him. "I thought it was the bride who was supposed to be sore."

  Kissing and coaxing, he eased himself inside her fully and then set her ankles up on his shoulders so that he might delve even deeper.

  She gave a startled "Oh!" of exclamation and appreciation.

  "Be gentle with me, my darling," Tom told her in the same playful tone. "I've never been a husband before."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "I tell you, Queenie," King Calhoun complained as he paced her back room, empty this morning of both games and gamblers. "There is something strange about that fellow and I just can't like him at all."

  Queenie had listened to the man rant and rave for the better part of a half an hour.

  It was the middle of the afternoon, but the windowless room was locked and lamplight illuminated the week's worth of Palace receipts that lay spread out on a poker table. Queenie had counted them all in neat stacks and was totaling them in her folio ledger.

  "King, she married him," she stated flatly, hardly pausing to look up from her work. "Princess is of age and she is certainly a young lady who knows her own mind. It's completely out of your control."

  "It may be out of my control," he answered her. "But it still feels like she is my responsibility."

  Queenie didn't deign to answer. King had come in madder than a hornet in a rainstorm. He stomped and threatened and slammed his fist on the table. He was furious at his new son-in-law, annoyed with his daughter, and upset with himself. But he'd come to the Palace for the express purpose of picking a fight with Queenie. It might have made him feel better, but Queenie had neither the time nor inclination to humor him. She had her own situation to think about.

  She'd contacted a barber in Ponca. For the right amount of money he was willing to take care of her problem. Queenie was to take the train up Thursday morning, have it over with and return home Thursday night. She had decided that she wasn't going to tell King anything more about it. He obviously wanted her to try to bring an unwanted, unlawful child into the evil world that she lived in. She was not going to do that. But it was her decision, not King's. He was her lover, not her husband. And lovers, she decided, could have no more say in her life than strangers.

  Besides, King had enough on his mind already. The bankers weren't being cooperative, his oil field was about to come in with no place to refine the oil, and now his daughter had eloped with a fellow she hardly knew. King's troubles and his anger would pass as it always did. As hard as he was huffing and puffing, she fully expected him to run out of steam very soon.

  "What do you know about him, Queenie?" King asked her. "What can you tell me about him?"

  "Me?" She looked at him dumbfounded. "Why would I know anything about him?"

  "Howard overheard him say that Queenie's Palace is his favorite saloon," King told her.

  "Now you've got Howard spying on the fellow?" she said, shaking her head. "It's no wonder that Princess eloped with him. She didn't trust her daddy to stay out of business that didn't concern him."

  "Get off my back, Queenie," King told her. "I'm just looking out for my daughter. You don't know what it's like to be a parent."

  There was a long silence. Queenie didn't look up from her work. She held herself still, her body, her mind, her emotions, were all held still for that protracted moment. When she spoke her words were calm and civil, almost cold. "No, I don't," she said. "I don't know what it is like to be a parent."

  "Oh, Lord, honey, I'm sorry," King said, ceasing his pacing immediately. "It was a dang poor choice of words. I ... I would never say nothing to hurt you like that. I'm just piss-poor company today."

  "Don't worry about it," she said, waving away his concern as if it were nothing. "So the Palace is his favorite saloon. What's this fellow's name again?"

  "His name is Crane, Gerald Tarkington Crane. He's so fancy born he thinks he's got to have three names instead of two."

  She gave a half smile, acknowledging his attempt at humor. "What does he look like?"

  "Oh you can't miss him," King assured her. "He's a tall fellow, over six feet, I'd expect. Got an impressive physique, dark hair and eyes. He's handsome, I suppose, and a dandy, tight and true. All dressed up in fancy clothes, pale polka dot shirts, and silk suspenders. I'd like to see him up to his eyeballs in muck, that's what I'd like to see."

  "Now that's the most childish thing I've ever heard you say," Queenie told him.

  "I can't help it, Queenie. I don't like his kind and I never have."

  "Well, you'd better get to liking him cause he is family," she said. "You can have some choice with which friends you associate, but your family is whatever they happen to be."

  "I just want it to be some other bridegroom," King said, throwing himself down in a chair with a long sigh.

  Queenie gave up on the bookkeeping and rose from her chair to go to him.

  "I sure am annoying for a fun-time fellow, I suppose," he commented with a sigh.

  She grinned at him. "I'm glad you said it instead of me."

  Queenie stepped behind him and lovingly began to massage his shoulders.

  "Oh, that feels good darlin'," he told her with a little moan of appreciation. "It almost lets me forget that frilly pants blueblood calling my Princess's little house 'our hom
e.'"

  "He said that?"

  King nodded.

  Queenie tutted in appreciation. "He was out to tweak your beak, Mr. Calhoun, and that's a fact."

  "It worked, too," he admitted. "I just can't like the man. I know his kind and I've got no use for them at all."

  "What kind of man were you thinking about for Princess?" she asked. "You do want her to have a man, don't you?"

  King was thoughtful for a long moment. "Yes, I do," he said finally. "Truthfully, I'd about given up on her, Queenie. I thought she was like my wife. I thought maybe she just didn't need affection or sex or even the touch of another person."

  He reached back to take her hand in his own. Absently, he rubbed her palm against the side of his face and then lovingly kissed her fingers.

  "But I guess I just thought . . ."

  He hesitated as if embarrassed to speak his thoughts aloud.

  "Well, I thought that . . . Princess has always . . . well, she's always looked up to me and thought better of me than I ever deserved. I just thought that . . . that when she married, she'd marry someone like me."

  King shook his head and huffed in self- depreciation. "I sound like an old fool, don't I?"

  Queenie leaned down and planted a kiss on the side of his forehead. "You sound like a daddy whose baby girl is all grown up. And what makes you think this fellow isn't a lot like you?"

  "I told you, Queenie, he's a blueblood eastern dandy and sharpie if I don't miss my guess," King told her.

  "A sharpie?" Queenie rolled her eyes. "Then I know he hasn't been around my place. I can't abide those types. Except for you, of course, I make an exception in your case."

  "Woman, I'm taking you to the woodshed if you backtalk me once more." His tone was more amused than threatening.

  Queenie came around his chair and seated herself upon his lap. "Promise?"

  He kissed her then and clasped her tightly in his arms in a manner that was more a friendly bear hug than an embrace of passion.

  "Queenie, I don't know what I'd do without you, darlin'," he said. "If I couldn't talk to you, I guess I'd never talk to no one."

  "Then honey, if I can offer one more piece of advice, it would be better to talk to no one than to talk badly about your new son-in-law behind your daughter's back."