by Bird, Peggy
“Oh, Harry,” she said as she reached up and kissed him on the lips. “My hero.”
Rosemary stood still as the last straight pin was put into place on her wedding gown. Jasmine, the designer of the dress, rose from the floor, her slightly rounded belly protruding.
“I declare, every week, it gets harder and harder to crouch on the floor. It’s just lucky you’re getting married in a hurry. A few more months and someone else would be doing these alterations.”
Their mother chuckled. “I don’t think Rosemary had your condition in mind when she chose to marry quickly. Have you seen the groom? Such a handsome man.”
“Mother, please,” Rosemary lamented. But her body’s response as she got a visual image of Henry belied her feelings. She was warm all over, her nipples taut under the layers of fabric. She rolled her shoulders under the dress, in an effort to ease the friction.
Her mother came to Rosemary’s side and wrapped an arm around her. “Of all my children, you were the one I most worried about, since you seemed to have no interest in men. Her smile grew wistful. “Men other than Harry Hawk, that is.”
“I agree with your mother, Rosemary,” Dorcas chimed in. “Henry Cooper is certainly more appealing than Harry Hawk. Why, he’s almost as handsome as Phillip Rosecroft.”
Rosemary reached out to give her friend a playful swat on the bottom.
“Do stop moving around. You’re going to undo all the pins.” Jasmine removed the remaining pins from her mouth and placed them into the holder before she eyed Rosemary. She raised one hand and motioned in a circle. “Turn around. Let me see the whole dress. Quarter turns, please.”
The dress was beautifully done, in a light gray satin, with silk satin roses of pink embellishing the back, where the slight bustle formed into a cascade of fabric falling on either side. The back was the part of the dress that would be on display to the audience during the ceremony, and Jasmine’s gowns were almost as festive from the back as they were in the front. Rosemary ran her hand over the front of the gown. The material had been worked into a V shape over her rib cage, the V dipping slightly below the waist. She appreciated the way in which the dress highlighted her best features, and a darker gray ribbon woven into a design around the modest neckline drew attention to her matching gray eyes. It was an odd choice of color for a wedding gown, but then, Rosemary was no ordinary bride. She thought the pink roses were a nice touch, to liven up the fabric.
Dorcas murmured her approval, along with Jasmine. Dorcas had on her maid of honor gown of light pink, which matched the roses on the back of Rosemary’s dress.
Rosemary glanced over at her. “Your gown is lovely, too, Dorcas. Both this one and your own wedding gown. Thank you for letting me get married first, though.”
“Well, it’s only by a week. And it’s because I’m not the one Mabel Wentworth has been talking about. It’s most important for you to marry quickly. Are you happy with your matron of honor dress for my wedding?”
“Yes, dear Dorcas. Lilac is one of my favorite colors. I can’t wait to wear it.”
Dorcas turned from Rosemary to Jasmine. “Perhaps Marguerite will be the next one to have a wedding gown designed by you. She and my brother seemed to hit it off at the dinner last week.”
Dorcas and Rosemary grinned at each other. “Our plans did seem to work out well, didn’t they?” Their giggles filled the air.
“Have you given any thought to what kind of a veil you want, Rosemary?” Her mother picked up some gossamer netting and peered through it at her daughters and Dorcas. “This would be lovely, don’t you think? It even has a faint rose pattern on it. A perfect complement to your detail work, Jasmine.”
Rosemary glanced at herself in the full-length mirror. Her breath hitched as she took in the image of herself in her wedding gown. Unexpected tears threatened to escape, but she blinked them back as her mother draped the see-through fabric over her head. Slowly, she removed it and handed it back to her mother.
“I don’t want to wear a veil.”
“What do you mean? Every bride wears a veil.”
“Not this bride. I’ve spent almost my entire relationship with Henry being duplicitous, masking myself behind one persona or another. Now that the truth has come out, I only want to be Rosemary to him. And I certainly don’t want to cover myself up again. I owe it to Henry. I owe it to myself. So, no veil for me.”
Jasmine touched her sister’s shoulder, straightening out the sleeve of the gown. “Well, a veil would only cover up all my hard work on the back of the dress, so I applaud your decision. But being duplicitous did work in your favor. You still have your career as an author, and you’re gaining a dashing husband who supports your creativity. Now step out of the dress, so I can make the necessary alterations. It’ll be ready by Sunday, when you will marry.”
When she would marry. What a wonderful choice of words. She never thought she’d meet someone who could rival her heroes in her dime novels. Harry Hawk might be a hero on the pages of her books, but Henry Cooper was her hero in the pages of her life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Two months later
New Series: Gold Dust Gulch by F.P. Elliott
Exclusive to The Cooper Publishing Company
Butch held the nugget of gold up to the sunlight, examining it. He glanced at the other gold on his hand—his wedding band. “Aw, Shirl, I wish you were still here. I’d skedaddle out of the gold fields as quick as a flash. All the gold in the world can’t keep a body warm at night.”
He scrubbed the tears from his eyes. Enough bellyaching about his poor, departed wife. He had gold to find.
Rosemary put her pen and paper away and strode to the rear of the rail car. She loved standing in the open, with the wind whipping the pins from her hair as the train sped from one town to the next. The scent of the passing fields of flowers mixed with the train’s smoke. When Henry joined her and wrapped his arms around her as the countryside sped by them, it was even better. They were on their way from St. Louis to the Wild West, with book signing stops along the way.
As she stood in the open, Rosemary contemplated the past few months. The steady beat of the train wheels against the rails soothed her nerves, which had been a jangle of late. First there had been her wedding, with Dorcas, Marguerite, and Jasmine in attendance. Then Dorcas’s wedding the following week. After those two events, the final Harry Hawk book had been released, with Harry on the cover, sitting astride a bison. The book was selling like hotcakes, to quote Harry himself.
After her book’s release, she, Henry and Marguerite had begun to plan the whistle-stop tour. Taking the train from New York to St. Louis had been the long-anticipated honeymoon portion of the trip, and had made for a welcome break in the whirlwind her life had become. Rosemary had been pleased to stop and spend some time in St. Louis with her sister Ginger, brother Basil, and their families, but she eagerly awaited the rest of the tour, and the trip to the Wild West and the gold fields.
As if he’d been reading her mind, Henry stepped outside to stand on the landing at the rear of the car as well, and put his arms around her. They stood in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Rosemary swaying up against Henry’s body as the train dipped and turned gently.
“Are you happy, darling?” Henry murmured as he rested his chin on the top of her head.
“Very much so. This is the most excitement I’ve had in a long time. I love the train, and now that we’re leaving the old states behind, it’s even more exciting.”
“The old states? Since when have you begun to talk as if you were a character in one of your novels?”
She reached up and captured his lips. “Since I no longer have to hide the fact that I’m the person penning them. The fact that I don’t need to soak my fingers for hours in lye is an added blessing. The purple ink is part of my daily makeup now. Don’t you agree, though, this train ride is exciting?”
“You mean, getting married to me wasn’t enough excitement for you?”
“Well, yes, it was lovely, especially with all Mother did to make certain the event was memorable. But this is aces high in my book.”
“Do you mean that literally or figuratively? Have you already begun another story? Perhaps one featuring a train?”
Rosemary turned in his arms and stared into the dark eyes she’s been fascinated by from the very beginning of their acquaintance. “Well, of course, all of what I see along the way will make its way into my books sooner or later. Especially when we get to Pike’s Peak, and I can witness firsthand what all the scuttlebutt is about with the gold rush. But I’m quite content with my own band of gold.” She held her hand with its shiny band of gold up to the light.
“A small band of gold is all it takes to make you content?”
She wrapped her fingers around the queue of black hair whipping around his head. “That, and your warm body to lie next to at night. It’s all I ever wanted.” She tugged on the queue and brought his face to her level for a kiss. “Well, not quite. I also wanted to be taken seriously as an author. To come out from behind the blind of F.P. Elliott. To be known as the true creator behind Harry Hawk. You’ve allowed me to do all I’ve ever wanted, and more. You are truly my hero.”
Author’s Note
If you’re reading this book, or any book, in e-book or paperback form, you can thank the dime novel. Dime novels, or penny dreadfuls, as they were referred to in England, were quickly written, often over-the-top potboilers featuring a damsel in distress and a larger-than-life hero. The dime novel became popular in the United States in the late 1850s and the 1860s, but versions of the idea were attempted for years before the dime novel actually gained popularity. They were the first wave of paperback books and were largely responsible for introducing reading for pleasure to the masses. The stories were written as standalones, so they could be read in any order, but they had recurring characters. Later on, when the dime novel format began to appear in magazines, they were usually written in installments and were known for their cliffhanger endings.
Topics for these popular novels included stories from the American frontier and the westward expansion. Railroads and gold mining were frequent topics, as were firefighting, the circus, science fiction, and sea stories. They were geared to an adult audience, but quickly became popular with the younger crowd.
The first dime novel was written by a woman in 1839 in The Ladies’ Companion magazine and was republished years later in the style now typical of the dime novel—about four by six inches in size and 100 pages in length. And the cost was reflected in the name. It cost ten cents.
There were several publishing houses in both Boston and New York that specialized in the production of these books, since the profit margin was so great. The dime novel reached its peak of popularity in the 1880s, and began its decline in the early 1900s.
I have tried to stay true to the flavor of the dime novel in writing Rosemary’s final story about Harry Hawk. Some of the terminology used in the story has fallen out of the public lexicon today, but was widely used during this era.
I’d also like to take this opportunity to thank Andy, the curator at the Museum of American Fencing in Shreveport, LA, for his invaluable advice on the history of fencing in America.
Georgie’s Heart
Kathryn Brocato
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Kathryn E. King
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6401-9
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6401-7
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6402-7
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6402-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
This book is dedicated to
Dr. Krishna D. Bhat
who founded the
Southeast Texas Community Health Clinic
and gave me the idea for this book
and
Mrs. Vasudha Bhat.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
Chapter 1
Georgeanne Hartfield stayed at her desk and kept on working. She had hoped skipping lunch with her coworkers would buy her some peace, but she feared she was about to be proven wrong. Worse, her stomach grumbled and complained because she hadn’t expected to miss her lunch today, so she hadn’t brought along a sandwich.
She bent over her work as she heard the back door to the Gant Medical Clinic open. If she was lucky, they had discovered some new topic to discuss.
“Listen to this.” Nurse Denise Devereaux appeared and laid the hardback book she held down flat on Georgeanne’s desk with the air of one about to reveal a secret of the universe.
Georgeanne grimaced at the sight of the book her friend held so reverently. “I have work to do, Denise. I’m not getting paid to hear Fritzi Field’s sexual advice.”
“You aren’t getting paid to miss your lunch, either,” Denise returned. “Now pay attention, Georgie.”
“That’s telling her, Denise.” Redheaded Angela Porter joined Denise in leaning over the counter in front of Georgeanne. “The rest of us would love being paid for listening to hints on improving our sex lives.”
“Quiet, y’all.” Sandra Whitney, a tiny blonde pixie in her starched nurse’s uniform, joined the group and leaned over Denise’s shoulder to study the book. “I want to hear this. Simply everyone is talking about that book.”
Georgeanne gave up. She smiled upon the other three women and propped her chin on one long, shapely hand. “Go ahead, Denise. I can see I won’t be able to get a thing done until you’re through.”
Georgeanne prayed Dr. Gant or Dr. Baghri would come in, even though she knew they were out for a long lunch. Whip-cracking doctors never came around when the clinic receptionist needed them to maintain order among the staff. The Gant Medical Clinic, which was located in the rural southeast Texas community of Fannett, usually stayed too busy for such frivolities as book readings.
Denise, the chief nurse at the Gant Clinic, drew in a deep, dramatic breath. She was a beautiful African-American woman with skin the color of milk chocolate and a figure fit for a Playboy magazine centerfold. “‘If your husband makes your life miserable and blames you because you can’t have an orgasm on demand, he has no right to complain if you resort to a little acting every now and then.’”
“She’s got a point.” Sandra leaned further over Denise’s shoulder, her pale blonde hair brushing Denise’s black pageboy, and peered at the book.
“Why all this uproar over a book on how to fake an orgasm?” Angela, the clinic’s lab technician, wanted to know. “I don’t have that sort of trouble.”
Her tone implied Why would anyone have a problem, unless she’s a psych case? Georgeanne looked thoughtfully at the tall, slender redhead.
“Neither do I,” Sandra interjected, flushing. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t agree with Fritzi Field. Some women probably do have trouble. I mean — ”
“Then they should read The Sensuous Woman,” Angela interrupted. “Instead of wasting time learning how to fake it, they could be learning how to experience the real thing. Why all this uproar over something that’s completely natural?”
Georgeanne never ceased to be amused at the rapid defensiveness
of modern women when the subject of orgasm came up. Either every woman she knew experienced orgasm instantly, or every woman she knew lied. According to her friends at the Gant Clinic, sexual desire and orgasm behaved like an electrical switch. When you flipped the switch, lights turned on. Period.
“Childbirth is perfectly natural, too,” Georgeanne said, “and look at all the books out on it.”
“Faking It isn’t about having an orgasm,” Angela argued. “It’s about faking an orgasm. There’s a difference.”
“Fritzi isn’t talking about normal men,” Denise said. “She’s talking about complete jerks. I should know. I was married to one. Listen to this. ‘Why let your marriage be destroyed, when it’s so easy to give him what he wants?
“‘Many a man thinks a woman ought not to need foreplay. He thinks she ought to be ready the minute he touches her, as if the very thought of sex with him is all that’s needed. Any suggestion that this may not be the way it works sends this man into a frustrated shouting and blaming fit.
“‘Who needs that?’”
The women looked at each other a moment in silent agreement when Denise finished reading that passage aloud.
“Who, indeed?” Georgeanne didn’t look up from her current task of comparing a column of handwritten numbers to a copy of the column in a printed report, but she knew her cheeks glowed with telltale red her thick fall of shoulder-length brown hair might not entirely hide.
One would think that a twenty-eight-year-old woman who had been married to a man who resembled a young Robert Redford would have stopped blushing when she lost her innocence. But that wasn’t the way things went with her face, Georgeanne thought with resentment. If anything, she blushed even more these days. Fritzi Field’s incredible and unexpected popularity, both nationwide and inside the Gant Clinic, kept her cheeks flaming. Maybe she should claim a sunburn. Or a medical condition.
