“I see.” Morgan drained the glass of the brown liquid, slapped his hands against his thighs, stood, and walked to the door to leave. With his hand on the latch, he said, “Guess I’ll get back out there.”
“Wait,” Walt said, looking up from his paperwork. “Did you talk to Anne?”
“I did. She agreed to marry me.”
“Well, that’s fine. After you’re married, you can take your bride on out to the ranch.”
“About that.” Morgan turned, his hands bracketing his waist above his gun belt. “I don’t have anything definite as far as the ceremony, and I won’t leave two women alone at the ranch. I did take them over to Mollie’s before I made my way back here.”
“Glad you got them settled in.”
“I did. Mollie’s full up, though, so I gave them my room until we can be married. I thought I’d stay here tonight and give you some time away from the jailhouse.”
“That sounds like a deal to me,” Walt said. “I’ll meet you back here at eight in the morning?”
“That’ll do.” Morgan gave him a salute and closed the door behind him.
Back out on the street, he wormed his way through the teeming crowd of people, mostly men, from all walks of life. Seemingly overnight, with the discovery of oil at Spindletop, the quiet little town of Beaumont had transformed into a city bursting at the seams with humanity. The crime rate had risen right along with the population, which was the reason Homer had requested help from the Texas Rangers before he died.
Morgan had originally thought about taking his bride-to-be to dinner at the Hotel but being in this horde convinced him they should stay at Mollie’s. Besides the inability to navigate the streets due to the number of people, the air was thick with the smell of gas due to the number of wells being drilled. It was unhealthy to breathe when you could smell it, and dangerous when you couldn't. A fire could ignite anytime, anywhere.
Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he believed a quieter, more relaxed atmosphere at Mollie’s boarding house would allow them both the opportunity to become better acquainted.
Anne woke to the sounds of banging and clanging, and the rumble of some sort of engine. She got up and walked to the window of her second story room to look out. The view was much better than the one she’d had at the train station. From here, she saw countless numbers of oil derricks protruding from the ground like black metal Christmas trees. The ones closest to the boarding house had men climbing back and forth, and up and down, like ants on their leafless branches.
A whistle, in the distance, announced the arrival of another train, just as a light knock sounded on her door.
“Yes?”
“It’s Iris, my lady.”
“Come in.” Anne turned and smiled as her maid came into the room. Sitting at the dressing table, she asked, “How long did I sleep?”
“Just about an hour, my lady,” Iris said, while smoothing the covers on the bed.
“Was Mrs. Abernathy able to find you a place to stay, while we’re here?”
“Yes, she has a small room off the kitchen that’s quite suitable.”
“You know I’m perfectly willing for you to stay here with me. We’ve certainly had our moments together over the past few months.” She had offered to share the room with Iris, even though she knew the young woman would never breach that line of demarcation between their social status.
“I know, my lady, but I’ve already placed my things in there.” Iris finished making the bed, and freshened Anne’s hair style. “Would my lady like to change out of your traveling clothes?”
“No, I think I’ll wait and change for dinner. It will make for less trouble for both of us.”
“Very good, my lady.” Iris placed a pearl encrusted, butterfly-shaped comb into the curls fashioned atop Anne’s head, and stepped back. “Mrs. Abernathy has tea ready in the parlor, if you’d like to join her.”
“Why, yes, I believe I would. My stomach might be able to handle it now.” She checked her reflection in the mirror and smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt. Straightening her jacket, she set off to join Mrs. Abernathy for tea.
Downstairs, Anne observed her surroundings with a discerning eye. The boarding house gave her the feeling of a home rather than a place that rented rooms. There were personal photographs strategically placed around the parlor, and a few exquisite items decorated the shelves.
She was accustomed to expensive heirlooms, but most had no real connection to her. The paintings, furniture, and fixtures in the castle where she’d grown up, were from too many generations ago for her to care much about.
“Oh, here you are. Have a seat, and I’ll pour you a cup.” The woman she’d met earlier sat in one of two chairs separated by a small round table. The tea service rested on the table on a tray.
“Thank you, Mrs. Abernathy, that would be lovely.”
“Please, Anne, call me, Mollie.
Anne winced inwardly at the woman’s use of her given name. In England, only a family member would have addressed her without using her title. To anyone else, she would’ve been Lady Medvale, Lady Anne, or your Ladyship. She’d learned, though, since she’d been in America, people were more familiar, and titles weren’t used.
She had also learned, since being on her own, that friends were a good thing to have and at a premium. It seemed prudent not to alienate the ones who stepped forward.
She smiled. “How very kind.”
Anne sipped her tea, and the warmth spread through to her fingertips, giving her a snug feeling of home. She smiled and said, “You make a wonderful cup of tea, Mollie.”
“Thank you, I learned from my grandmother.” The woman sipped from her cup, her cheeks turning a pleasant pink at the compliment. “She was from England with an Irish heritage, so if nothing else, I learned how to brew a good pot of tea. Oh, and by the way, I have drinking water in the kitchen. Before you go upstairs for the night, I’ll fix you a pitcher to set by your bed.
“When Mr. Abernathy built the house, he had it fitted with indoor plumbing. The toilets are nice, but the water for drinking or cooking is tainted due to the drilling. It’s soupy, and its odor clearly smells of fish, bullfrogs, and alligators. If you drink it before it’s been boiled, you’ll likely develop severe stomach cramps, or what we call, a case of the Beaumonts.”
“Heavens, it sounds dreadful. Your warning will be heeded. I’ll be sure to tell, Iris.”
“We spoke earlier while you were resting. She said she experienced a similar problem while on board the ship.”
“That’s true, she did. At one point, she could barely manage to help me with my corset.”
“A tragedy, indeed, your ladyship.”
Anne snapped around at the sound of a male voice. Her future husband stood in the doorway, hat in hand, and more handsome than any man she’d ever seen. His eyes, dark with an almost turquoise hue, stared at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted an extra set of ears. His mouth, while possessing lips that looked soft, spoke words that dripped sarcasm.
Unaccustomed to being provoked, she rarely felt the need to explain herself to anyone, and she wouldn’t now, especially to a man she barely knew. She stood and set her cup and saucer onto the tray. “Mollie, thank you again, for the tea and conversation. What time is dinner?”
“Food will be on the table at six o’clock. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
“I appreciate it, but I—”
“By all means, let’s cater to her ladyship,” he interrupted.
“Morgan,” Mollie said, as she snapped her fingers, and pointed to the settee. “Sit down.”
Anne bristled, narrowed her eyes, and glared at him. “I was going to say, there’s no need, I have a timepiece.” To Mollie, she said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be down at six, sharp.”
As she ascended the stairs, Anne wondered, once again, about her decision to become a mail order bride. Goodness knew, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d made a wrong choice.
Morgan ha
d over-stepped with his confrontational attitude toward the woman he was to marry. He knew it, as well as he knew he was about to be on the receiving end of a tongue lashing from Mollie Abernathy. More like an older sister to him, she had no problem sharing her opinions.
“All right,” she said, after closing the doors to the parlor, “What’s the matter with you? Where are your manners?”
“I—”
“And don’t say you don’t know,” she cautioned, as she joined him on the settee. “You’ve never had any trouble saying exactly what you meant. Now what’s put that burr under your blanket?”
He huffed out his frustration in a heavy sigh. What was it about Lady Anne Medvale that rubbed him the wrong way? She was as pretty as any woman he’d ever seen. Anyone could see she came from money, with her fine dresses, jewelry, and fancy manners. She hadn’t done anything to him, but . . . he just couldn’t figure it out.
“Maybe it’s her tone” he answered. “Her arrogance and that air of superiority sets my teeth on edge.”
“I think she’s scared to death,” Mollie said, “And why wouldn’t she be? All alone in a town that’s gone crazy, not to mention a strange country.” Mollie placed her hand on Morgan’s arm. “Why don’t you two have your cake and coffee here, in the parlor, this evening? Take some time to get to know each other before you marry.”
“I guess it couldn’t hurt.”
“I’d say not,” Mollie said. “Give her a glimpse of the good man I know you to be.”
He stood, picked up his hat, leaned down to kiss her cheek, and then walked to the door. “Can I bring you anything?”
“Just a better attitude.”
With a tip to the brim of his hat and a grin, he said, “I’ll see if I can dig one up.”
After a dinner of baked chicken, roasted potatoes, and biscuits, Morgan escorted Anne into the parlor. He rather wished they could sit outside on the porch but, in addition to the odor, the night air had a nip to it. As she sat on the settee, he stirred the logs in the fireplace to bump up the heat in the room, and then sat in an upholstered side chair across from her.
“Mollie’s supper was good.” His words sounded as stiff and dull as he felt and was as poor a conversation starter as he’d ever heard.
“Yes, it was delicious.”
“Are you comfortable enough in your room? Do you have everything you need?”
“I’ve settled in well enough and, thanks to Mollie, Iris has found an adequate spot downstairs.”
Her voice took on that snooty tone again, and he clenched his teeth tightly. He’d thought the room large enough for the two women but, evidently not. Since neither woman seemed to have their nose out of joint over the situation, he stopped himself before confronting her. Obviously, there were vast differences in the way they’d been raised. He supposed this was why Mollie had said the two of them needed to talk.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Silence hung heavily between them like the velvet drapes that covered the windows. Not being much of a talker, he supposed he should asked her about England, but she managed to beat him out of the gate.
“Are you originally from Texas, Morgan?”
“Yes, but a bit further north of here, around Austin.”
“And have you been here in Beaumont long?”
He cleared his throat, uncomfortable talking about himself, but answered, “I’ve been here about ten years.”
“I read somewhere the ranches in Texas could be quite large. What size is yours?”
“Excuse me?”
“How many acres do you own?”
“Well, I . . .” He hesitated unsure as to how to answer. Perhaps she was accustomed to blurting out the state of her finances, but he wasn’t. He came close to telling her she was rude and insulting but, in the sense of getting along, he held onto that thought. “I’d say it’s pretty good size. Compared to some of the larger outfits, though, it’s on the smaller side.”
“I’m sure you feel I’m prying, Morgan, but if I’m to know anything about the man I’m going to marry, I have certain curiosities.” She lifted her chin and smiled. “Surely you have questions of your own?”
“I do.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Why are you here?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
By the look of confusion on her face, he could tell he’d unsettled her. Maybe there was a real woman beneath that prim and proper façade after all.
“I mean, what was so bad at home that you abandoned your family and privilege for a life in a foreign country?”
“I simply thought it time to seek adventure. My life in England had become dull and boring, and I thought, why not?”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
And, just like that, the façade was back in place.
Chapter 4
Anne knew, eventually, she’d have to tell him the real reason for abandoning her home and country. She absolutely couldn’t tell him about the scandal hanging over her head, yet, at least not before they wed. What would she do if he refused to marry her? She had no other place to go and, even if she did, she had no money to get there.
She also knew, if she were to maintain an equal footing in this marriage, she needed to keep him slightly off-balance. She remembered her grandmother saying, never let your husband think he has the upper hand. His constant stare unsettled her, as she assumed he meant to do, so she studied the floral pattern of the parlor rug, while garnering her strategy. Lifting her head, she met him with equal intensity.
“Tell me, Morgan, what are you looking for in a wife?”
“Well, I, umm . . .,” he hesitated, as if searching for the words. “I’ve reached a point where I need someone to help me navigate the social waters. You see, my cattle business has become more prominent, and I’m less refined than I should be.”
“Certainly, you’re better equipped than you think. Are the standards here more rigid than I imagined?”
The sound of her own words bounced back to her off the hard planes of his features. His taught jawline and narrowed brow told her she should temper her attitude. She had much to learn, if she intended on making a success of this union.
She attempted to make light of her previous question and smiled. Teasingly, she asked, “Do you have a reputation I should be aware of?”
He had the grace to appear slightly chagrinned. “I’ve been rowdy in my younger years, got into a little trouble here and there. Mollie’s been working to chisel my sharper angles.”
“I see. So, other than me further honing your rough edges, what are your expectations from this union?”
“I guess I’m hoping we can be mutually beneficial to each other.”
“Of course, but, in addition to our original prospects, what are you hoping for?” She was being bold, but she needed him to state the obvious. When he didn’t, she asked, “Will this be a real marriage between us?”
He glanced at his boots, briefly, then met her gaze head on. “That’s my hope. Are you up for that, your ladyship?” he taunted. “A real marriage?”
Her body temperature rose exponentially, surpassing that of the room, and yet, she shivered. He’d deliberately goaded her. Whether she took the bait was up to her. She’d never been good at games, especially those played between men and women. Her lack of experience and knowledge in this area was precisely what had gotten her into trouble with Mr. Smith.
“I believe, after a respectable period, we can reach a suitable agreement,” she said.
“A respectable – what does that mean? Six months? A year? Ten?”
“We don’t know each other, Morgan. We’ve barely met, much less courted. How do we know if we’re compatible . . . in that way?”
He stood and paced in front of the fireplace. Suddenly, he crossed over to her, lifted her off the settee, and pulled her close. “I can tell you in ten seconds.”
Anne met him face-to-face with only token
resistance. Her mind screamed at her to put up a struggle, but her body overruled any conscious thought she may have had. When his mouth covered hers in a kiss that took her breath away, she lost even her initial urge to resist. What started out as forceful, softened into a rather sensual experience. One that she didn’t want to end.
When he broke their kiss, he still held her close, staring into her eyes with a longing that weakened her knees. Breathless, she whispered, “Golly.”
“I suppose I should head on over to the jail,” he said. “It’s my turn to give Walt the night off.”
Something happened with that kiss. He seemed less rigid and his voice had lost most of its bluster. She swayed, slightly off-balance, when he released his hands from her shoulders. Resisting the urge to sit, she said, “Yes, it’s getting late.”
He walked to the parlor door, opened it, and turned to face her. “Goodnight, m’lady. Sleep well.”
As he left through the front door, her fingers touched her lips and she wondered if that was even possible.
Morgan waved goodbye to Walt, as he left the jail, and sat behind the desk. He sifted through the stack of reports in front of him but found he couldn’t concentrate. A certain straight-laced, ebony-haired, aristocrat kept invading his thoughts.
Tonight, he’d glimpsed the woman behind the façade. His lips still tingled from their kiss. Yes, a fire definitely smoldered beneath her surface. How long would she hold him at arm’s length before allowing him to stoke that fire?
Their shared kiss hadn’t lasted that long, but it had been long enough to cause his body to respond. Even now, the anticipation of tasting her again sent his imagination on a wild ride. Before his thoughts overtook him, he leaned to his right, pulled open the bottom drawer, and removed the bottle of whiskey and a glass.
Before too long, he’d need to make a walk around town, but in the meantime . . . He poured two fingers of the caramel colored liquid into the glass and downed the shot in one gulp. Pouring another round, he rested his booted feet, crossed at the ankles, on the corner edge of the oak desk and sipped at the second drink.
Rustlers and Ribbons Page 9
