In Want of a Wife

by Jo Goodman

  “I don’t suppose it has,” said Morgan.

  Mrs. Sterling watched Jane fill out the registry. “New York City? Traveling by yourself? That’s a far piece to go it alone.”

  Jane replaced the pen. “I do not think I was ever alone,” she said. “And no one met as strangers. People were uncommonly friendly.”

  “You’ll find the same in Bitter Springs, though some folks say it takes getting used to. How long will you be staying? Mr. Longstreet only has his room for the one night.”

  “I’m not certain. Will it be a problem if I require the room for several nights?”

  “Not for me.”

  Jane observed Mrs. Sterling raise a questioning eyebrow in Morgan’s direction. There was only one way Jane could interpret that look. Mrs. Sterling was inquiring if a prolonged stay at the Pennyroyal was a problem for Morgan Longstreet. Jane was uncomfortably reminded of Cousin Franny and the reach of her controlling hand. She meant to leave that behind in New York. It was not her intention to replace a mistress for a master.

  Ida Mae gestured to Walt. “Take Miss Middlebourne’s things to room four. You go on, Miss Middlebourne. We don’t carry meals to the rooms, but if you’d like something before we open the dining room for dinner, we can surely set you up in the kitchen. It’s no bother.”

  Jane realized her appetite was a mercurial thing. “Thank you, but I would simply like to rest.” She unraveled her scarf, thanked Morgan for his kindness, and preceded Walt up the stairs.

  • • •

  Morgan watched Jane go. Her steps were unhurried. Her gloved hand rested lightly on the rail, gliding along the length as she rose. Her poise never wavered. She might have been going to her coronation. She might have been going to her death. She did not look back, did not see his eyes drink her in.

  “How long have you known me, Morgan Longstreet?”

  Turning slightly, Morgan leaned against the desk and rested an elbow on Mrs. Sterling’s registry. “Long enough to know there’s something on your mind and you’re about to relieve yourself of it.”

  Ida Mae made a sound at the back of her throat that might have been disapproval or amusement. “That’s right, which is why you should also know that bit of playacting didn’t fool me one bit. Now, some people say Walt’s a little slow-witted, but I can tell you I was watching him, and he wasn’t fooled either.” She pulled her registry free, causing Morgan’s elbow to glance sharply off the desk. She was unapologetic when he made a face and nursed the pain. “Go on. I dare you to tell me it’s different than I think.”

  “Mrs. Sterling, I have no idea what you think.” But he did, and the moment he heard Finn’s voice coming from the landing behind him, his suspicions were confirmed.

  “Mr. Longstreet!” Finn called. “I just saw Miss Middlebourne in the hall. Fancy that.”

  “Fancy that,” Morgan said, mostly under his breath.

  “See?” Mrs. Sterling waved a finger at him. “You wanted to play at making me think you just met her at the station.”

  “I did just meet her at the station.”

  Mrs. Sterling continued to chide him, stopping short of clucking her tongue. “Pretending like you don’t know her.”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “Makin’ it seem as if it were serendipitous.”

  Morgan said nothing. She had him there. His mouth curled to one side as Finn closed in.

  “What’d I do?” asked Finn, sidling closer.

  Mrs. Sterling reached across the desk and flicked Finn’s stubborn cowlick. “Nothing but speak the truth, I expect.”

  Finn regarded Mrs. Sterling with suspicion. “That’s something I’m thinkin’ you should tell my gran. She harbors considerable doubts about my veracity. I heard her say so.”

  Morgan reached into his pocket for a coin. He held it out to Finn. “See if there’s a room in town to be had for the night.”

  “You can have mine.”

  “That’s generous.”

  “It will hardly cost you.”

  “And enterprising,” Morgan said dryly. He dropped the coin in Finn’s palm. “I’ll take my chances that there’s a bed somewhere else.” Morgan tilted his head toward the door. “Out you go.”

  Grinning, Finn clutched the coin and hurried off.

  “You spoil him,” Mrs. Sterling said.

  Morgan started to deny it, intercepted Mrs. Sterling’s faintly accusing stare, and merely shrugged instead.

  Ida Mae Sterling shook her head. “You think you’re such a stranger here that I don’t see what’s going on right beneath my nose? Could be that Finn reminds you of someone. I’m not saying who, because it’s none of my never mind, but it comes to me every time I see you with him.”

  Morgan listened without comment.

  “I guess I know you better than most folks. I’ve never forgotten that my Benton vouched for you all those years ago.”

  Morgan had not forgotten either. He did not say so aloud. He did not have to. Ida Mae knew the truth, his truth, and honored her husband’s memory by keeping it to herself.

  “So who is she, Morgan? The way Finn tells it you were waiting for her. Pushed Dr. Wanamaker aside and plucked Miss Middlebourne off the train like she was a Wyoming wildflower.”

  “He’s a doctor?”

  Mrs. Sterling cocked an eyebrow.

  Morgan sighed. “It might have happened that way.”

  “There was something said about a photograph.”

  “Finn’s gran is not the only one who harbors doubts about his veracity.”

  “Are you saying that child is lying?” she asked. When Morgan looked away, she said, “You know what I figure? I figure you’ll tell me what you’re up to when you know it better yourself. That sound about right?”

  “About right.”

  Mrs. Sterling reached across the desktop, laid her hand over Morgan’s, and gave it an affectionate pat. “It’s true I don’t have any rooms to let, but there’s the apartment on the third floor that the Coltranes use when they visit. I don’t like to let it go, but for you, I could be persuaded, specially if it’s just for the one night.”

  Morgan shook his head. “Thank you, but it’s better if I bunk somewhere else.”

  “Better?” She removed her hand and cocked her head to one side as she studied him. “Yes,” she said at last. “That’s probably true. God knows you’re a better man than you have any right to be.”

  Chapter Two

  Morgan waited for Jane in the Pennyroyal’s dining room until half past six. He ate alone, politely but firmly refusing invitations to join Ted Rush, Harry Sample from the land office, or the other new arrival to Bitter Springs, Dr. Ellis Wanamaker. Morgan lingered over his meal and took a second helping of the apple brown Betty that he had not particularly wanted the first time it was put in front of him. When he got up from the table, he was not the last diner to leave, but only two latecomers remained. Everyone else had gone home, returned to a room, or wandered over to the saloon.

  Morgan could not return home without speaking to Jane, and he was in no hurry to walk to the bathhouse, where Finn had secured him a room. That left the saloon. He wandered there.

  Walt served him a beer at the bar, which he carried to an empty table in the corner. He sat with his back to the wall, facing the open entrance to the hotel. If Jane appeared, he would see her. If she did not appear, it was a clear indication that she wanted nothing to do with him. Reflecting on his behavior, on the words they had exchanged, on the sense of betrayal he felt but had not explained, Morgan could hardly blame her for avoiding a second encounter.

  Neither could he shrug it off. He had had an idea of how things would go when he met the train, and the only thing that squared with his imagination was the spray of red poppies on her black velvet hat.

  The Jane Middlebourne he plucked off the train was no Wyoming wildflower. Finn Collins had that wrong. She was a hothouse orchid. Delicate. Rare. Cultivated for another clime. She was slender, not sturdy. Her skin was
petal smooth, pale as milk. The length of her was a fragile stem. A flower like that required careful tending. Morgan Longstreet could not pretend, even to himself, even for a moment, that he knew anything about that.

  Jane Middlebourne belonged on the arm of someone like Ellis Wanamaker. A doctor. A man born with a nature to heal, to help, to tend to those inclined to break. Morgan counted himself among those who were inclined to do the breaking. Jane probably sensed that right off. The doctor had extended his hand. Morgan had squeezed her between his.

  Morgan realized he was white-knuckling his beer. He set down his glass and unfolded his fingers one by one. He stretched them, drew a long breath, and released it slowly. He reminded himself that Jane had come to Bitter Springs on the strength of his letters. She had come prepared to marry him, knowing only those things about him that he had chosen to write.

  An echo of Jane’s melodic voice drifted through his thoughts, reminding him he had not told her about his red hair. The right corner of Morgan’s mouth lifted a fraction, more grimace than grin as he stared at his beer. That oversight was the least of his omissions, and probably one of the few he could honestly say was not deliberate. She had been wrong to acquit him of intentionality. There were things he had not merely failed to reveal but excluded on purpose. By leaving out details that would have surely meant an early end to their correspondence, Morgan acknowledged he had misrepresented his character and, oddly enough, revealed it at the same time.

  He knew himself as a man who would do what was needed to get what he wanted. Did he want Jane Middlebourne to know that man? The answer to that hinged on another question: Did he still want Jane Middlebourne?

  “Another beer, Mr. Longstreet?”

  Morgan looked up. He could not put a name to the pretty face that was regarding him expectantly. He had observed her circling the tables in the dining room earlier, usually with a coffeepot in hand and some chatter for everyone she served. She was uncharacteristically quiet around him, taking his order and bringing his food with a minimum of fuss. He had appreciated it then and hoped it would be the same now.

  He pushed his glass toward her.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “You’ve been nursing it so long I figured it’s gone hot and flat.”

  “You figured right. Thank you.”

  “I’m Cecilia Ross. Cil. Renee’s cousin.”

  “Renee.”

  “You know. Renee Harrison. Jem Davis’s sweetheart.”

  Morgan finally put it together. He had hired Jem Davis and his two brothers away from the Bar G six months ago. He recollected now that he had heard Renee’s name a few times from Jem but more often from his brothers, usually in the nature of some pointed ribbing.

  “She’s your cousin? I didn’t know.”

  “You should come to town more, sit a spell like you’re doing tonight. Of course, Renee would like it better if you brought Jem with you. I suppose he’s holding down the fort, as they say.”

  “I think he’s probably in the bunkhouse playing cards with Jessop and Jake.”

  “Cards? Without supervision? Sure to be a fight.”

  Morgan shrugged. “As long as they repair the furniture and tend to their shiners, they can be on their own.”

  Cil laughed. Dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, they know how to do that. Don’t they just. I’ll get you that beer now.”

  Morgan put out a hand to wave her back as she turned to go. “I wonder if you might do me a favor, Miss Ross.”

  “Cil.”

  “Cil,” he repeated. “Would you look in on Miss Middlebourne for me? Room four.”

  Cil hesitated, frowning. “I don’t know, Mr. Longstreet. I have it from Walt after he showed her to her room that she asked not to be disturbed.”

  “I see.” He nodded. “That’s all right. We’ll abide by her wishes.”

  “Probably better that way.” Cil turned and wended her way back to the bar, where Walt poured another beer. She was within ten feet of reaching Morgan Longstreet’s table when she realized he had left it.

  • • •

  Jane could not say what woke her, but she knew immediately that she was not alone. Opening her eyes a mere fraction, she lay very still while she searched the room from behind the fan of her lashes. She wished that she had asked Walt to lay a fire in the stove before he left. Whatever mean light it might have provided would have been a helpful addition to the flickering oil lamp at her bedside.

  “You’re awake.”

  Jane recognized the husky timbre of Morgan Longstreet’s voice. Each time he spoke a slight rasp edged his words as though he were waking from a deep sleep or sharing his first thoughts after hours or days of silence. It was impossible to know how long he had been waiting for her.

  Jane raised her head the few degrees necessary to find the deeper shadow that marked his location. She saw him standing with his back to the door. Remarkably, she was unafraid. She said the first thing that came to her mind. “I thought I locked that door after Walt left.”

  “It opened for me. I did knock first.”

  Jane nodded, supposed he could not see her, and said, “Yes. Of course.”

  “You never returned downstairs.”

  “No, I didn’t, did I?” She turned on her back and levered herself up on her elbows. “Have I missed dinner?”

  “Yes, but I brought you something.”

  “The Pennyroyal doesn’t carry meals to the rooms.”

  “The Pennyroyal doesn’t. I do. To this room.”

  Jane pushed herself upright and inched backward until her spine rested against the headboard. She wrestled the pillow free and laid it beside her. Her head ached abominably, a consequence, she supposed, of not eating since the night before. That meal had consisted of her last apple and a heel of brown bread. Money was not the problem. Her willingness to spend it was. “Is there a tray?”

  “A plate.”

  When he did not move, she said, “May I have it?”

  Morgan pushed away from the door. “Chicken and a biscuit. Both cold. No gravy.” He held out the plate. When she took it, he gave her the napkin he had stuffed in a pocket. “You’ll have to use your fingers.”

  Jane spread the napkin across her lap and placed the plate on top. As hungry as she was, and as much as the light made her head ache, Jane still wanted to see what she was eating. She leaned toward the lamp to adjust the wick.

  “I’ll get it,” Morgan said.

  Jane let him. When the golden glow from the lamp spilled over her shoulder and across her plate, she picked up a feathery piece of chicken stripped neatly from the bone and dangled it just above her lips. Her mouth parted and she dropped it in. It was a tender morsel, moist and tasty. Her enjoyment was so profound that she was unaware that Morgan was staring until after she had swallowed.

  “You’re not going to take it away, are you?” she asked.

  He frowned. “Why would I do that?”

  “Cousin Frances did. I was six. She said it wasn’t done, not by a lady, not by girls in want of a good home, not by anyone, except perhaps by a fish. Did I want to be a fish? I said I did. She took my plate and frog-marched me to the kitchen, where she ordered the cook to fill a bucket of water. Whereupon she dragged the bucket and me through the servants’ entrance to the outside stairwell and emptied the bucket over my head. I was not allowed inside until my clothes dried. That would give me sufficient time, she explained, to reconsider my desire to be a fish.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes.” Jane took another strip of chicken, this time eating it in a manner approved by Cousin Frances. It did not taste quite as fine as her first bite, but then how could it? “Reconsideration was only sensible. I am not stubborn to a fault. It was February.”

  “Your clothes never dried, did they?”

  She shook her head. “Never. They froze.” Jane felt his eyes still on her. She looked up from breaking her biscuit. He was indeed watching her, but she found his expression un
readable. She said, “I do not like the cold.”

  Morgan’s nod was all but imperceptible. He glanced at the stove. “I can lay a fire.”

  Jane hesitated. She was uncertain if she wanted him to be useful to her, uncertain if she wanted him to stay, but then she noticed he had not taken a single step in the direction of the stove. He was waiting to hear her answer, and that decided Jane. “Yes, please. I’d like that.”

  Jane continued eating while Morgan pulled kindling and coal from the scuttle and laid the frame for the fire. Her eyes strayed sideways as he hunkered in front of the stove. He patted down his pockets, came up with a matchstick, and struck it against the stove. The flame burst brightly, illuminating his face for a moment. Jane caught his profile as he briefly turned away from the light, and she had the wayward thought that he had features that were meant to be cast in bronze. The notion was disquieting.

  Morgan shut the grate when the flames caught. He stood and approached the bed again. “I brought you an apple.” He pulled it out from under the sleeve of his long leather coat and polished it against his shirt. “I can slice it for you.”

  Jane nodded. “I don’t suppose you have something to drink up your other sleeve?”

  “No. But there is a tap in your bathing room, and the water in Bitter Springs is better than the name implies.”

  Jane started to put her plate aside, but Morgan put out a hand to stop her.

  “I’ll get your water,” he said. “You don’t look like you’re fit to stand.” He opened the door to the adjoining bathing room and went inside. “When did you eat last?” he called out to her.

  Jane was afraid he would know a lie, and what would it serve except to add to his mistrust? “Yesterday evening.” She heard water running and then his voice above it.

  “I sent money for your ticket and meals.”

  “I wasn’t hungry. There’s money left. Do you want it back?”

  Morgan reappeared. He came abreast of the bed and held out a glass of water. “No. I don’t want it back.”