by Tamara Gill
Swallowing, Wes turned toward Anna. Still not recovered completely from influenza, he wasn’t sure if it was remnants from his illness or abject horror at being married, but he fought to keep his scant breakfast from rising to the occasion and decorating his new wife.
Wife!
A week ago he had awakened from a fever-induced sleep to shouts and screams. Panic had seized him as he jolted awake and pitched forward, his pounding head taking a while to join him. The preacher stood in Wes’s bedroom, waving his Bible and spewing verses from the Good Book that surely the entire neighborhood had been privy to.
Still groggy from illness and sleep, it had taken him a moment to realize he was mostly naked, that Anna stood behind the preacher wringing her hands, and two women from the church had added to the cacophony with their shrieks.
He’d cupped his palms, quite ineffectively, over his lower parts and shouted, “Will someone please hand me a sheet?”
Luckily Anna seemed to be the only one not paralyzed by shock. She grabbed the sheet from the chair by the door and tossed it at him, smacking him square in the face with the soggy cloth. A deep blush crawled up her neck, but he’d sworn she was biting her lip to keep from laughing.
“Everybody out!” The power he’d hoped to put into that demand was lost in the squeaking of his voice, now barely rising above a whisper.
The preacher turned to the church women. “Ladies, please remove yourselves from this disgraceful scene and await me in the parlor.” He pointed a stiff finger at Anna. “You, too. I intend to have a word with the marshal.” When she didn’t move, he stressed, “Alone.”
The women trooped out, the two older ladies casting hateful glances at Anna, who still looked as if she would burst out laughing any minute. He’d still been trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. The last thing he’d remembered was Anna telling him some story about being from the future, and in his fevered haze, he’d agreed it was possible.
But he was sure he hadn’t been missing his clothes when they’d had that conversation.
“Marshal, I must say I expected better from you.” Pastor David had drawn up a chair and settled in for what appeared to be a lengthy scolding.
If only his head hadn’t hurt so much. And his chest. And his muscles. And, dammit, even the soles of his feet. Wes eased his body back down on the bed, determined to at least be comfortable while the preacher sermonized.
“I know you’re suffering from an illness right now, but that woman,” he flapped his arm toward the bedroom doorway, “has seen you unclothed.” The pastor leaned forward, the wrath of God in his eyes. “You must marry her.”
Even a fever, aches and pains, and very nauseated stomach could not keep him from shooting back up again. “Marry?”
Pastor Dave nodded. “That’s right. It’s the proper thing to do.”
“I hardly know her.”
The pastor thumped his Bible. “It appears you know her as the Good Book says.”
Wes groaned and eased back down. “Nothing happened, Reverend.” At least he hoped nothing had happened. He still had no idea why he was lying here in just his drawers.
“I don’t know the woman myself. But I’ve heard stories.” The older man’s eyebrows rose to an alarming height. “Rumor has it she worked at the saloon, engaged in fistfights with cowboys, and just this morning shot one of our best citizens in the leg.” He glanced toward the door as if he expected Anna to rush through, guns blazing. “She’s a nuisance, marshal. You must marry her to save your own reputation, and get her under control.”
Wes ran his hand down his face. “Suppose she won’t marry me?”
The preacher pulled a stern face. “She will. Or she’ll be run out of town.” Once more he leaned in, as if relating a secret. “Those women out there will spread the word the minute I let them loose. Miss Devlin may have nothing to lose−God knows−but you have your good name to uphold. The town would not be happy to learn that woman was discovered in your room while you were . . . undressed.”
Marry Anna.
Although the idea did hold some appeal, he’d vowed to never wed and inflict on another person the fear and guilt that had eaten at him all these years. He hadn’t wanted to care for a woman, take a wife, and not measure up. The niggling little voice inside him warned he already cared too much for Anna, shooting sparks of alarm through his body. Either she was from the future, as she’d claimed−and with his heritage, he couldn’t completely dismiss the idea−or she was loco, and not someone he should tie himself to.
Her unruly enthusiasm and penchant for getting herself into trouble would erase any chance of the peaceful life he’d wanted for himself. With Anna and her crazy ideas, he’d spend his life rescuing her from one disaster or another.
If she was from the future, no doubt she was anxious to return to her life there. He could grow to love her, and she would one day vanish. But the preacher was right. Not only would Anna be branded the town harlot, his reputation as an upholder of the law would be shattered. If he didn’t have the respect of the townspeople, he couldn’t do his job.
“I want to talk to Miss Devlin before any decision is made.”
The preacher slapped his palms on his thighs and rose. “I’ll go fetch her.” He stopped at the door and turned, once more pointing his righteous finger. “However, I will not allow her to be alone in this room with you.”
Wonderful. He’d have to propose marriage to a woman who would either laugh hysterically or knee him in his nether regions, all while the preacher watched. And no one seemed to have regard for his imminent demise from influenza, either. He’d sighed and closed his eyes, hopelessly wishing this was all nothing more than a bad dream.
***
“You may kiss the bride.”
Anna gazed up at Wes and her muscles tightened into a hard ball. She was married. In eighteen hundred and seventy. To a marshal from the old west, in wherever they were in Kansas.
The last week had passed in a whirlwind. By the time she’d spent a scant five minutes in the company of the two harridans that had come with the preacher to Wes’s house on that fateful day, she’d just about had enough. The ladies from the church had gone from glaring at her, to putting their heads together to whisper, all the while casting glances in her direction, shaking their heads and tsking.
How did she get herself into these fixes? All she’d wanted to do was cool Wes off so he’d be more comfortable. Well, okay, she also did a bit of the ‘Peeping Tom’ act at his awesome body, but really, what red-blooded woman could resist? Perhaps the women from this time period, but certainly none that she’d known in her past—future—life.
Lord, what was taking the preacher so long, and why did he want to talk to Wes alone? She was already under arrest, so there couldn’t be anything worse he could demand.
“Miss Devlin, if you please?” The old coot had strode down the hall, clutching the Holy Book, all virtuous anger and bluster. She sighed and headed toward him.
“The marshal has something to say to you.”
Now what? Probably telling her she had to leave town. No, he couldn’t do that because she was still his prisoner. She considered he might have decided to put her behind bars until the circuit judge came. He probably thought that would keep her out of trouble.
“Is he asleep?” she’d whispered as she crossed the room and studied his peaceful repose.
“Marshal.” The preacher’s booming voice, well-honed from numerous sermons over the years, caused Wes to flinch.
His eyes, when opened, were sunken in his head and he looked dreadful. Sweat had plastered the hair to his forehead in damp curls. His heavy beard was already showing stubble, and his lips were cracked and dry.
Wes held his hand out to her. “Come here.”
He looked so grim, Anna’s heart began to pound against her chest, robbing her of air. Surely he really wouldn’t lock her up? Had the preacher insisted she be thrown in jail because a single woman spending time with a near
naked man was a crime in 1870?
The questions spun around her mind, making her dizzy. Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen. Or the way Wes watched her as she approached, a brief flicker of something she’d seen before in his eyes. Desire.
She pulled her thoughts away from there. She had enough trouble without going down that road. Reaching for his hand, she settled on the chair alongside his bed. Somewhere in the back of her mind she noted his fever seemed to have gone down. Despite the hysterics her good deed had caused, it appeared to have worked.
He hesitated, opened and closed his mouth once or twice, then spoke. “Will you marry me?”
If he’d asked her to go for a camel ride in the moonlight while he serenaded her with a banjo, she couldn’t have been more surprised. She tugged her hand from his as if it burned. “Marry?” She stood and backed away, banging into the wall. “Are you crazy?”
“Miss Devlin. The marshal here is doing the right thing. You, an unmarried woman, have been discovered in his home, by yourself, while he was undressed.” The Bible-brandishing preacher started forward, his spine stiffened. “If you have no concern for your own reputation, think of the marshal’s. People look up to him, respect him. When word gets out—and believe me, it will—not marrying you would force him to leave town. And we like our marshal. Do you want to be responsible for a man losing his job?”
“No, of course not. But marriage? Isn’t that a bit over-reactive?” She glanced at Wes who still looked deathly ill. All this commotion was not good for someone suffering from the flu. “Can we talk about this after Wes recovers from his illness?”
“We can arrange to have the ceremony after he’s better, but it is my moral duty to remain here until this has been settled.”
What a mess. Anna envisioned her, the preacher, and Wes taking up residence in the small, stuffy bedroom until she broke under the strain.
Wes reached for her hand once again, tugging her forward. She sat in the chair and covered their linked hands with her other one. “Is this what you want?”
“We have no choice.”
So she was to marry a man who was doing his duty. Who felt he had no choice. She snorted. “There’s always a choice.”
“Would it be so awful?”
Anna considered the question as she studied him. Marriage to Wes. Her life had been so out of kilter lately, even this didn’t seem that strange. Heat rose from her center in a slow climb to her face, leaving shivers behind. She would get to join him in bed. From what she’d seen, he certainly had all the right equipment to make it enjoyable. Would he mind that she wasn’t a virgin? Not that she had a great deal of experience, but there was the matter of that little piece of membrane missing from her vagina.
Almost as a secondary thought, she contemplated her previous life. If she fell in love with Wes—and she was halfway there already—would she still want to go back? Could she accept a life with no hot showers, tampons, or Godiva chocolate?
“What do you say? I really need to get more rest.” Wes ran his tongue over his dry lips, his eyelids heavy with sleep.
“How can I possibly turn down such a romantic proposal?” Anna turned to the preacher. “Fine, Padre, set up the wedding ceremony. But not until our friend here is back on his feet.”
***
Wes drew her from her musings when he cupped her face with his large hands and lowered his head.
Since the preacher insisted she move into the pastoral home with him and his wife until Wes was back on his feet, they’d spent the past week apart. Her senses went into overload as his lips covered hers, sipping, nibbling, and altogether too delicious with an audience.
At the preacher’s slight cough, Wes released her, but the fire in his eyes set her heart to galloping and her toes to curling. If the slight flush on his face gave any indication, he’d been affected by their kiss as well.
They turned and faced the group gathered in the church. The preacher’s wife, Alice, had done her best to quell any gossip, although the story of Anna being with an undressed marshal did make the rounds. The sweet woman dragged Anna from one church activity to another, her staunch supporter daring anyone to spurn the miscreant she and the preacher harbored.
Anna had actually enjoyed herself, meeting other women of the town. It amazed her to discover most of the ones her age had already been married for several years and many had a string of children. An awkward moment arrived when she and Laura Martin came face to face. After some stiffness, Laura wished her well, and a collective sigh of relief sounded, the ladies apparently concerned about witnessing Anna’s reputation for scrapping.
Wes clutched her hand and they started down the aisle, headed to the church hall where Alice had arranged a small party. Anna took a peek at her new husband. He’d lost weight, but still had the brawn she’d already witnessed, and was anxious to run her hands over. Misbehaving curls, still damp from his bath, covered his forehead, tempting her to comb eager fingers through the silkiness. His black pants and the white shirt stretched over his broad chest had been freshly washed and ironed. Seemingly aware of her scrutiny, he flashed a grin, and her heart performed a triple time cadence. Hopefully the party wouldn’t last long.
Despite her fall from grace, the town ladies had rallied, and a mouthwatering array of dishes lined one long table, with a huge white cake in the center. With her mouth dried up from wedding night eagerness, Anna headed straight to the punch bowl.
“Thirsty?” Wes chuckled as Anna gulped her second glass of the cool liquid.
She placed the glass on the table and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Yes. Didn’t you find it warm in the church?”
Wes shrugged. “Not particularly.” He tugged her hand and bent closer to her ear. “Anna, we need to talk.”
“What about?”
He clasped her other hand and turned her to face him. “Us. This marriage. We haven’t spoken two words to each other since Pastor Dave dragged you out of my house.”
The warmth of his hands was driving her crazy. But the urgency in his eyes pulled her away from the direction her thoughts were headed. “Since the deed’s been done, there isn’t a whole lot to talk about.”
“Marshal, come get something to eat. You can stare at the new missus when you git home.” Pete Martin slammed his palm against Wes’ shoulder, almost sending him tumbling into the punch bowl.
“We’ll speak later.” Wes mouthed at Anna, then smiled in Pete’s direction. “Sure looks good.”
“And my Laura’s fried chicken is the best in Kansas.” He cast an accusatory glance at Wes.
“So I’ve heard,” he mumbled.
Anna watched Wes being led to the food table, Pete’s arm slung around his shoulder. Wes turned back. “You coming, honey?”
Now, why did she get all doe-eyed at that endearment? Lots of men called their wives ‘honey.’
Wife. That will definitely take some getting used to.
She’d intended to be a wife, but not for another hundred and twenty years, and not to an old town marshal. Life had a way of smirking at you while it shoved you from one direction to another, without a breather in between.
***
Wes had no idea where that honey had come from. It seemed as natural to say as it did to breathe. But it was not a good idea. He’d had plenty of time to think while he lay in bed the past week. This had to be a temporary marriage, with no entanglements. Anna had a life to return to, and he needed peace and quiet, something his new wife would never give him. He’d been on tenterhooks the entire time they’d been apart, waiting for the next calamity.
Word had come from the Western Union man that a deputy had arrived from Abilene to cover the jail in his absence. But that still didn’t comfort him, knowing Anna was loose on the town, doing God knew what to stir up trouble. Every time his deputy visited, he’d expected to hear she’d been tossed into jail, or had tussled with another cowboy. Even now, his muscles clenched at the memory of Big Ben’s knife pressed against her throat.
&
nbsp; The faster she returned to where she’d come from, the better for his peace of mind. He couldn’t allow himself to fall in love with her. Although based on his reaction when he’d first seen her this morning, it seemed like it was already too late.
Wes filled his plate from the selections, his belly a hollow space since he’d started to feel better. No amount of food seemed to fill him up. Anna joined him, one hand balancing a plate, the other motioning across the room. “There’re two seats against the wall.”
“Marshal, you and your bride come up here to the front table.” Alice Preston called to them as they were about to sit. “This is a special day. We won’t have you hiding in corners.”
He followed Anna, his eyes riveted on her swaying bottom. The simple white dress she wore, with a ring of some type of blue and white flowers in her hair, gave her a demure look that contrasted quite a bit with the getup she’d arrived in. A stirring below his belt reminded him of the yellow scrap of material that had barely covered her breasts. And her long legs in the tight fitting men’s trousers. Legs and breasts I’ve got every right to uncover and run my hands over. He hurried the last few steps to the table before anyone noticed his reaction to those thoughts.
“Are you feeling better?” Anna touched his hand as she studied him.
“Yes. But I’m embarrassed to say I still need to find my bed early in the evening.” Once again his body tightened when his thoughts wandered to his bed and how he wanted Anna in it. He longed to enjoy his rights as a husband. Rights he would not exert, no matter how painful it left him.
“Then we’ll have to make sure you get enough rest tonight, won’t we?” She cast a siren’s smile and every drop of blood in his body headed to his groin.
Despite the virginal dress she wore, she might have been wearing nothing at all for the way he’d reacted. Her breasts pressed up against the soft fabric of her dress, hugging the tempting globes. He groaned softly as he imagined unbuttoning the long line of pearls down the front and moving the material aside to reveal her satiny skin. His lips ached to cover her nipples, sucking and nibbling until she whispered his name on a sigh. Then he’d slowly slide the dress down, uncovering one silky inch of skin at a time, over her curves, dragging her drawers with it, revealing her nakedness to him. His heart pounded as he envisioned entering her wetness, plunging . . .
