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

by Pamela Morsi

  "I am not willing to settle," he insisted. "I am marrying the woman I love."

  "No, I will not do it," Pru said firmly. "I have my pride, and I won't throw it away for you."

  "I believe it was you who told me that pride is a meager emotion when compared to love."

  "It may not be much," she agreed. "But it is all that you left me with, and it has kept me safe all these years. I won't relinquish it."

  "It has kept you safe?" he asked incredulously. "It has not been enough to melt your heart, to teach you to love again."

  "Is that what you are doing? Loving again?" she asked.

  "I would think that after last night you would know that I love you," he told her furiously. "And as to what the rest of the world thinks, what should I care."

  "Yes, that's the same old Gidry Chavis," she said snidely. "Suit yourself and let the rest of us sort out things like propriety, honor, reputation."

  "Propriety! Honor! Reputation!" he bellowed. "How interesting that you should choose those words. I'm not fooled by this ridiculous argument you are making. You are not refusing me because of what happened eight years ago. You just don't want to give him up, do you?"

  Gidry turned and furiously kicked the little cot, splintering it into a half dozen boards and a pile of bedclothes.

  "You just want to keep your little secret rendezvous and your illicit lover and your . .."

  "Illicit lover?"

  "Who is he?" Gidry questioned angrily. "I wasn't going to ask, I felt it wasn't my right, but now I demand to know."

  "I don't know ... why would you ... how dare you demand anything of me!"

  "By right of what we did here last night, I dare it!" he answered. "What if you are already with child? That can happen, you know. Good God! You could be carrying his child as easily as my own."

  "I'm not carrying anyone's child," she snapped.

  "Oh right, the blood, you just finished your courses," he said. "Thank God for that."

  "Thank ... get out of here!" Pru screamed at him.

  "I'll leave in my own good time," he told her. "And I'll find out who it is. You think you can keep it a secret? In a town this small it is impossible to keep a secret this big. I'll figure it out. It's just a matter of time."

  "I have no secret lover," she insisted. "You are being ridiculous."

  Gidry was incensed at her denial.

  "I've watched you walk out here to meet him every night since I've been home," he admitted. "And saw a note you wrote to him. In fact I remember it vividly. It was written on a postcard of a naked beauty in her boudoir. Guaranteed, I would think, to set a man's mind to rutting."

  She gasped in shock and her eyes widened. The bright pink tint to her cheeks clear indications of embarrassment and guilt.

  He was so furious, he wanted to break something else. He wanted to bring the building crashing down. He wanted to hack every board to bits. He grabbed a long, rounded stick with the intent of smashing it upon the table. He didn't do so when he realized that it was not simply a bat or wand. One end of it had some sort of padding and leather straps. Disgusted he threw it toward the other end of the room. Why in the devil would Aunt Hen have a wooden leg in her milk shed?

  "Gimp Watkins," he said aloud.

  "What?"

  He retrieved it from the other side of the room and held it up in near disbelief.

  'This is Gimp Watkins's wooden leg."

  Prudence looked disgusted. "My heavens, what is it doing here?"

  Gidry began wildly sorting through all the shelves and boxes.

  "What are you doing?" Pru asked him. "What are you looking for?"

  He began tossing items on the floor in front of her.

  "A pearl inlaid hairbrush," he answered, retrieving it from a pile.

  "Horse blankets." They fell in a heap.

  "And if I am not mistaken," he said, pulling down the photogram from where it hung on a rusty nail, "this will be Mrs. Hathaway's uncle Lucius, killed at Manassas, 1861."

  "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "You didn't know, I guess," he said.

  "I didn't know what?"

  "He is the one."

  "He who? Is the one what?"

  "Your lover, the man who brings these things here, he's the thief.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Pru realized it was the truth the minute Gidry made the accusation. Not having been burglarized herself and having her attention taken up with other things, Pru had not listened with great concentration during the crime wave talk. But she did recall that valuables were often overlooked while strange and sometimes purely undesirable things were sneaked off.

  And who in the world would be most likely to abscond with something no one else would even want. No one but her little friend Milton "Sharpy" Kilroy. She berated herself for not making the connection before. But then she never expected the thief to be anyone she knew.

  "Who is he?" Gidry demanded.

  Pru just stared at him, wondering what to answer. Where he had come up with the notion that she had a secret lover, she did not know. But if his belief could be used to protect the child, she would.

  "I will never tell you," she answered.

  "Then you'll have to tell the judge," he threatened. "He's using your property to store his loot, and you knowingly allow that. It makes you an accomplice to burglary."

  "This is your father's property," she pointed out. "At least until after the terms of his will are settled. Then it will be Aunt Hen's. I only live in the house."

  Gidry visibly made an effort to control his anger and took long, deep breaths to calm himself.

  "Pru," he said more quietly, "this is not about you and me. It's not about what happened between us last night or eight years ago."

  He squatted down and placed his hand upon the pile of stolen goods in the middle of the floor.

  "Crimes have been committed," he said. "People have been robbed of their possessions. Things that had real or sentimental value to them. Things that are irreplaceable. You are not the kind of person to be a party to that."

  "You may return the items you've found," she told him.

  "Return them? Do you think that will make everything all right?" he asked. "Do you think that once people have their things back they will sleep unconcerned? We have a criminal in our midst. He makes us feel threatened in our own homes. He violates our sense of privacy. He has used you, Pru, he has used you very underhandedly. You must tell me who he is."

  Determinedly she shook her head.

  "I will under no circumstances ever reveal his name," she said.

  She turned without another word and walked out the door. Her thoughts were in a whirl. She had to protect Sharpy, the thieving little scamp, and she didn't know how she would do it.

  "Prudence Belmont, you get back in here this minute!"

  The loud bellow from behind her was so reminiscent of Old Mr. Chavis that she momentarily hesitated, accustomed to doing his bidding. But she need not obey Gidry. He was not her husband, her father, not even very much her elder.

  He had been her lover last night. But in the clear light of morning nothing really had changed. She would never allow herself to be so much in his power again. And she would protect young Sharpy, Gidry's only son, she would protect him with her very life if necessary.

  "What is all the shouting about?"

  The question came from Aunt Hen, who was standing in the back doorway.

  Pru was torn between the desire to share what she knew with a sympathetic heart and the need to keep the truth as closely guarded as possible. How much could Aunt Hen know without getting involved herself? Her aunt loved Gidry almost as much as she did Pru. And she hated scandal. How much would she do to protect him from one? And how much detriment to another could she allow?

  "It's Gidry. He's ... oh, never mind," she said.

  Aunt Hen was not so easily dissuaded.

  “Tell me what's going on with Gidry."

  The gentleman in
question was now coming out of the milk shed and heading in their direction. Prudence slipped past her aunt and into the kitchen. Her eyes widened in dismay.

  "Milton! What are you doing here?"

  The little boy looked up from his plate and answered with his mouth full.

  "Eating biscuits."

  "We've got to hide you," Pru said.

  Aunt Hen looked at her as if Pru had lost her mind. But without further discussion the little boy grabbed up an extra biscuit in each hand and made ready for a quick getaway.

  There was not time to run to the front door.

  "Here," Pru said, opening the narrow pantry doors. The child squeezed inside, and she hastily closed them and turned just in time to see Gidry walk into the kitchen.

  "I haven't finished talking to you, Miss Prudence," he bellowed.

  "Gidry Chavis, for heaven's sake," Aunt Hen piped in. "What are you thinking, using that tone of voice in this house."

  He cleared his throat thoughtfully and apologized to the older woman.

  "I'm sorry, Aunt Hen," he said. "But your niece has information about the rash of burglaries that we've been having, and I insist that she tell me what she knows."

  Aunt Hen's jaw dropped open in disbelief.

  "Pru? What on earth could Pru know about the thievery?"

  "The stolen goods are in your milk shed," he replied. "She knows who put them there, and she's not willing to say a word."

  He was speaking to her aunt, but his eyes never left Pru's. It was as if he was staring right inside of her. As if he were looking to find her heart. Pru thought of the warmth in those eyes when he'd held her close last night. The tenderness with which they had beheld her. And the languor of lust that had shone there.

  "Gidry," Aunt Hen said, breaking into the moment, "isn't it a mite early for you to be paying a call?"

  Pru got the minor victory of seeing the man blush. He stammered an inconsequential answer, but her aunt was not so easily put off.

  "You come bursting in here upon us," she said. "I'm just now dressed and still eating breakfast."

  She pointed out Sharpy's plate on the table.

  "And Prudence has not even had time to put her hair up this morning."

  Pru's hands flew to the wild tangle of curls that still untidily graced her shoulders.

  Her aunt continued. "I think, Gidry, that it quite an ungentlemanly hour for you to be paying a call."

  "Aunt Hen, this business is very serious," he replied.

  "I'm certain that it is," she agreed. "And it will be just as much so at, shall we say, two o'clock this afternoon. My niece and I will be receiving visitors at that time."

  Gidry opened his mouth to protest, but apparently thought the better of it.

  "I'll be back at two o'clock," he said.

  The words sounded more like a warning than an announcement.

  "We will be glad to receive you at that time," Aunt Hen told him formally.

  He nodded with exaggerated politeness.

  "And Gidry," she added, "I do believe that a shave would be in order before paying a call."

  He ran a hand along the roughened stubble on his jaw and left without another word.

  The two women waited, simply looking at each other for a long moment. Then Aunt Hen crossed the room and opened the pantry doors.

  Sharpy was squatted chewing upon his biscuits, his young face as innocent as an angel's.

  "Is he gone?" the little boy asked.

  "Yes, Milton. He is gone for the present," Pru told him.

  "Come out and finish your breakfast now," her aunt admonished.

  The child did not need to be asked twice. He returned to his place and began eating again immediately.

  Aunt Hen seated herself as well and motioned for Pru to take the other chair.

  "We obviously have some things to talk over," the older woman said.

  Pru sighed with resignation and took her place at the table. She didn't know where to begin. She didn't know what she should say. She didn't know how much to tell.

  "I take it," Aunt Hen began, helping her out, "that the stolen items in my milk shed have something to do with this young man sitting here."

  She was looking at Sharpy. He hesitated, a spoonful of grits halfway to his mouth.

  "I was just borrowing," he explained. "The folks wasn't using them, so I just borrowed them."

  Pru nodded sympathetically. "See, Aunt Hen," she said. "He wasn't stealing at all."

  Her aunt shook her head and gave Pru a long suffering look before turning her attention to the child.

  "How old are you now, boy? Six and a half? Seven?"

  "He's almost eight," Pru answered for him.

  Sharpy's mouth was full of food once more and he made no comment.

  "He doesn't look that old," Aunt Hen insisted. "But no matter, you, young man, are plenty old enough to know the difference between right and wrong. Taking other people's things is wrong."

  He nodded sorrowfully, but still offered his excuse.

  "I didn't have nothing," he told her. "Other folks have so much."

  "I'm sure that's true," Aunt Hen agreed. "But it is better to have nothing in this world than to take what does not belong to you. Promise me that you won't do it again."

  Without hesitation Sharpy replied. "I promise not to steal nothing again," he said.

  "All right, young man," she said. "I'm going to take your word on that. Prudence, you'll have to make up that little sewing room for the boy. We can't have him out in the milk shed anymore, with the place under scrutiny."

  "Yes," Pru agreed.

  "You should have brought him into the house from the first."

  "I didn't want people to know that he was staying with us," Pru answered.

  Aunt Hen looked her sternly and then at the little boy. There was firm expectation in her expression as well as a tenderness that bordered upon a smile.

  "When you've finished your breakfast, fill up the woodbox and bring in a load of water for the reservoir," she said.

  "Yes, Aunt Hen."

  "Anything in this house that you want, simply ask for it," she continued. "I will not tolerate thievery of any kind."

  He nodded.

  "As long as you stay in my house, you'll have a clean place to sleep and plenty to eat. A young fellow shouldn't require much more."

  The boy agreed readily, and, stuffing the last bite of biscuit down his already overfull mouth, he rushed outside to get to work. After a couple of weeks of helping Pru, he was familiar with the morning chores and eager to prove himself to Aunt Hen.

  "What is it that you are not telling me?" her aunt asked as soon as the child was out of earshot.

  "Nothing," Pru insisted a little too quickly. She did not sound at all convincing.

  "That little fellow has been on his own for a year now, and nobody has even noticed," Aunt Hen said. "Why wasn't he taken in by somebody?" She shook her head and answered her own question. "I suppose because the poor fellow's mother was no better than she should be. You'd think at least the Hathaways would have been looking out for him."

  “They might want to send him away," Pru said.

  Aunt Hen nodded. "That might well be the right idea."

  "No!" Pru's tone was adamant.

  "Why not?" Aunt Hen asked her. "It might well be the best thing. A fine, clean orphanage where he'd get good care and a chance at an education."

  "He shouldn't have to leave Chavistown," Pru said.

  "A new place would be good," the older woman insisted. “In a city where no one knows his past, he'd have to be judged upon his own sins, not those of his parents."

  "He belongs here," Pru said with certainty. "His ... his heritage is here. His mother is buried here."

  Her aunt’s brow furrowed.

  "Your mother is buried in Iowa," she said. "Would you wish to be there because of her grave?"

  "No, it's not that," she assured her aunt. "It's ... it's... Befuddle Kilroy was not Milton's father."
r />   Now that the words were out, Pru felt better. She couldn't hold the secret to herself a moment longer.

  "If you think I'm near keeling over in shock," Aunt Hen said, "I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. Mabel Merriman was a wild young girl. And set on that path, her troubles as a woman just got worse."

  "Do you know who arranged her marriage to Befuddle?" Pru asked.

  Aunt Hen shook her head.

  "Peer Chavis."

  "Really."

  Her aunt did not seem unduly surprised or concerned.

  "She apparently came to him seeking help, and he gave Befuddle money to wed her and set up housekeeping."

  "It sounds like it was a pretty good idea," Aunt Hen said. "Mabel needed a name for her child, and poor Befuddle needed someone to take care of him."

  "Well, I don't think Befuddle's family were as pleased about it as you seem to be," Pru said. "They never gave the child so much as a second look. When Befuddle died, they erected a fine tombstone. But when Mabel passed away only months later, they put up no marker at all."

  Aunt Hen tutted with disapproval. “That Cloris, it's her doing, I'll avow. It's hard to imagine a human any more mean spirited."

  "Do you know who bought the tombstone on Mabel's grave?" Pru asked. "Peer Chavis bought it. Milton told me so himself."

  "So?"

  "So it makes perfect sense," Pru told her. "He's the one she ran to, he's the one who helped her, gave her money, arranged for her future, and he's the one who remembered her after she was gone."

  Pru watched her aunt's expression change from puzzlement to abject displeasure.

  "If you are trying to say that Peer Chavis is that little boy's father," she snapped, "then I've a good mind to go cut a peach tree switch! It's is absolutely untrue and shame on you for speaking such ill of the dead."

  "Oh I didn't mean Peer!" Pru corrected hastily. "I never... of course I never thought it could be Peer. He did what he did for Gidry."

  "For Gidry?"

  "Yes, of course. Gidry must be the father."

  "Well, I think it's rather doubtful with Gidry having been gone for eight years," Aunt Hen told her.