by Patty Devlin
The whole situation had Sunny confused, worried, and hurt. Why couldn’t Abel tell her what was going on?
As they got on the stage coach in Dallas to head up to Wichita, Abel finally relented enough to say, “I’ll tell you once we’re on our way.”
It was a victory, as far as Sunny was concerned. Maybe once they had it out in the open, Abel would stop being so taciturn and closed off.
There were four other people in the stage with them: a mother and daughter from Fort Worth and two gentlemen, one from Wichita and another from San Angelo. It was cramped, dusty, and hotter than blazes. Sunny felt herself quickly dampen with perspiration as they moved onto the bumpy trail.
“So tell me,” she coaxed her husband.
He looked around at the other occupants and shook his head slightly. “Not now. It’ll have to wait until we stop for the night.”
“Abel! You promised.”
He sighed and reached into his coat pocket. Pulling out some papers, he paused a moment before handing them over to Sunny.
“What’s this?” She shuffled through them. There were four letters. “Letters?”
“From my mother to my father, before I was born.”
“What does this have to do with our trip to Denver?”
“Read them.”
She gave him a skeptical look but opened the first letter:
June 21, 1872
From the offices of Hobart St. James
100 West Main Street
Denver, Colorado
My Dear Sir:
The purpose of this correspondence is to express my sincere sympathy at the passing of your father, Mr. John Hastings, on the 18th day of May of this year. Upon his death, the disbursement of his estate fell to me, his attorney. Please, with all due haste, arrange to arrive for the reading of his final will and testament to my offices on the 22nd of July at 2 o’clock. Your brothers will also be in attendance.
Sincerely,
Hobart St. James, Esquire
Sunny’s head shot up and she nudged Abel, who was staring out the stage window. “I thought your father died years ago,” she whispered.
“So did I. Read the other letters, darlin’.”
The next letter was older, the paper fragile. It was dated June 21, 1832, and addressed to Mr. John Hastings, Denver, Colorado.
Dear Mr. Hastings, I hope this missive finds you well. Today is my twentieth birthday, but that is not all I am celebrating. Today, Dr. Monroe confirmed something I thought might be true for several months now. It appears that our assignation will bear fruit. I am embarrassed to discuss these things with you, as we are of such short acquaintance and you must find it a shock. Certainly, I did. However, it is a fact now, and we need to address it squarely.
As you might remember, I am engaged to Mr. Michael Armstrong. Our wedding is planned for October 1. You and I must address our situation promptly, or Mr. Armstrong will be seriously discomfited.”
“Seriously discomfited?” Sunny asked, a mocking tone to her voice.
Abel nodded and stared out the window. “Read.”
I hope you will conclude as I have done, that it is not right for Mr. Armstrong to shoulder this responsibility, which rests evenly upon both you and I.
Please contact me immediately. I would prefer that we communicate via letter as Carrollton is a small town, and the telegraph operator is a friend of my family’s. I doubt he would keep such news to himself.
Thank you for your kind attention.
Sincerely,
Miss Ruth Tinsdale
Sunny touched Abel’s arm and he turned to her, his jaw tight as it had been for the past twenty-four hours. “1832 is the year you were born, is it not?”
“It is.”
“This is about you.”
“It is.”
“Where did you get these letters?”
“The man who came to our door last night was a Pinkerton agent. He had the letters and gave them to me. I needed proof, you see, and… Just read the rest, Sunny.”
He looked so sad, so hurt, Sunny’s heart went out to him. She knew his father’s name was Michael Armstrong, or, at least, that was the man who raised him. Although Sunny felt she could see what was coming, she went on to the next letter. It was dated July 19, 1833.
Dear Mr. Hastings,
I hope your health is well, but I cannot but think something has gone greatly awry, since I have not heard from you with regard to our situation. It is imperative that we communicate on this issue immediately as time moves apace, leaving me with few options and a great responsibility. It is my firm belief that we should act together to rectify this situation.
Please respond, even though you might have to do it through a trusted confidante. It is urgent that we address this issue.
Sincerely,
Miss Ruth Tinsdale
Sunny folded the letter and put it on her lap with the others. She could feel the rising panic of Abel’s mother and imagine how distressed the woman must have been. It certainly appeared that Mr. John Hastings was leaving her to have her baby all alone or shunt the responsibility onto Michael Armstrong. It was a disaster for everyone concerned.
The fourth letter was smudged, but still readable. It, too, was addressed to Mr. John Hastings, Denver, Colorado. The date was August 15, 1833.
Dear Mr. Hastings – John,
I am faced with dire circumstances as I cannot hide my condition for much longer. Mr. Armstrong will certainly notice my increasing waistline soon and some explanation will have to be forthcoming. I implore you to do the right thing and come forward to claim this child as your own. Although it would scandalize my parents, the alternative is worse. I fear I shall have to tell Mr. Armstrong the truth and hope he will forgive me, take this onto himself, and raise this child as his own. Frankly, I think this would be asking far more than any person has the right to expect, even from one who professes love. He might very well break our engagement and send me on my way. He is expecting me to be pure, and, while I thought I could explain myself to him about that, this is rather a strong reminder that he was not the first and never can be.
I realize that our one moment of weakness showed thoughtless, reckless behavior, and we are certainly paying the price for that one afternoon. But I should not be made to experience the consequences all on my own, John.
Please contact me at once so that we might plan our next steps. If you wish to communicate via Telegraph, I am at such a point where I am willing to take a chance on it falling into the wrong hands. All I ask is that you are circumspect.
Sincerely,
Miss Ruth Tinsdale
Tears coursed down Sunny’s cheeks. That was the last letter.
“I’m sorry, my love,” she whispered to her stony husband. All he did was take her hand in response. “She told Mr. Armstrong the truth?”
“I assume she did. It could hardly have been kept a secret.”
“No. Your father—not Mr. Hastings—was a good man.”
“Yes. I never knew just how good, though I knew he loved my mother very much. This is not the place to discuss this more. I promise to answer all your questions once we’re at the stage coach inn for the night.”
“Yes, of course.” Sunny made sure the letters were neatly folded again and handed them back to Abel. They rode in silence while Sunny tried to imagine what tatters Ruth’s life must have been in and how lucky she was that Michael Armstrong came through for her. Sunny wondered whether Abel loved her as much as Michael loved Ruth. Fortunately, they didn’t have to test that love. If Sunny was increasing, it was in the right and proper way.
The inn was in the tiny town of Lowansville along the stage route. There was a livery stable nearby and a few houses on the main street, which really wasn’t much of a street at all. A few farms were eking out a dusty existence in the heat-shimmered distance.
Abel found them a table against the wall of the inn’s dining room, and Sunny thought it a good time to finish their discussion about his par
entage.
“Abel? Can we talk more about the letters?”
He nodded, taking a swig of brown ale.
“I would imagine the town was in an uproar when you were born ‘early’.”
“Probably. I don’t know. No one ever mentioned it to me. I realized that my parents’ weddin’ and my birth were rather close together, but I always chalked it up to a love affair. Her letter indicates that the weddin’ was originally planned for October, but they actually got married late in August. I’m sure the whole town thought they hurried the nuptials because they’d had their honeymoon early. Michael Armstrong and my mother had courted for an entire year before they married.”
“Was Mr. Hastings from Carrollton?”
Abel shrugged. “I don’t reckon so, but I don’t know. It appears that he was from Denver, but the Pinkerton agent suggested he traveled quite a bit. He was a gambler.”
“Oh my. He was certainly a scoundrel, leaving your poor mother to handle the situation all on her own. And her only twenty.”
“Perhaps he didn’t receive the letters until much later.”
“Do you think so?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“So that’s why we’re going to Denver? I presume it’s about this news.”
Nodding, he answered, “Apparently, that’s where Mr. Hastings—I simply cannot call him ‘father’—was livin’ when he died. Accordin’ to the Pinkerton, he succumbed to some sort of wastin’ disease. He left a will that named me and four others as his heirs.”
“Isn’t that odd, since he didn’t acknowledge you?”
“I reckon so, but perhaps as he got older, he thought better of his behavior. I really can’t say. But I reckon one of the more interestin’ parts of this puzzle is that I find myself not an only child anymore. I have four brothers.”
“Incredible!”
“Yes. I always wanted a brother or sister, but my mother miscarried twice, and then there were no others, so I was raised alone.”
“By Mr. Armstrong.”
“Yes. The man was a saint, little girl. He took me into his heart as his own, taught me my profession, never balked, even when I grew so much bigger than he. Mother told me that I took after her own father, and that’s why I didn’t look much like Michael Armstrong.”
“She lied to you.”
Abel’s mouth took on a grim stiffness. “Yes. For as long as she lived, she kept her secret, and so did my father.”
Sunny held his hand. “I’m really sorry. But perhaps your brothers will make up for some of this.”
He caught her eyes, sadness making the lines around his eyes more pronounced. “The Pinkerton says I am the oldest.”
“It will all be alright, my love,” she told him, hoping she wasn’t lying to him.
* * *
From Wichita, they went into Colorado Territory and had a scenic train ride through the Rockies into Denver. Abel understood that they’d have to be chaste through the trip, but it was disappointing and uncomfortable. They’d had to separate at the inn, Abel sharing a room with the men and Sunny in another room with the women. They sat up through the entire train trip because the level of service Abel could afford was second-class; they were using his “rainy day” funds to make this trip. He only hoped it was worth it, but not particularly for the inheritance; although money was an important aspect of anyone’s life, it came second to the idea that he had family somewhere. Brothers! How would that feel, not to be alone in the world? Maybe have someone to write to occasionally, someone with whom there was a common bond.
Denver was a sprawling town, bustling with people, wagons, oxcarts, horses and activity. Abel had never seen anything like it before, and he tried to take it all in without looking like an unsophisticated hick. They took a hired carriage from the train station to the Miners’ Rest Hotel, where they got a room for the night. It was clean, and, although not deluxe, it was the first hotel room he’d ever stayed in overnight. Sunny, after traveling from Kansas City, was practically an old hand at this kind of thing, and she whispered instructions to him so that he could take charge and appear more worldly than he actually was.
Once they got into their room, they fell into an exhausted sleep for a few hours, but Abel awoke as the moon rose, giving a silvery glow to the room and Sunny’s beautiful face on the pillow next to him. She was as exquisite in sleep as awake, and although he was loathe to wake her up, he reached out to touch her cheek with one finger, the barest of caresses. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled softly.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
She murmured something he couldn’t quite make out, and then moved to lay her head on his chest. Abel slept in the nude, so there was nothing between her cheek, her hand, the curve of her bosom, and his body. His cock began to stir. Abel gently took her hand and pushed it down his chest and abdomen to rest it on his growing erection.
“Is this for me?” she asked sleepily.
“No one else,” he assured her.
She touched him a little more firmly, stroking him and exploring what he had to offer. He hoped he didn’t frighten her. They’d only made love twice, once on the evening of their wedding and once again in the middle of that night. But her curiosity was sweet and sexy, and Abel taught her how to caress him to get the best results.
Her fingers moved over him, and his interest grew along with his cock. Soon he was rampant and ready for her. He stilled her hand and rolled her away from him.
“Nightgown off,” he said low. Sunny was quick to comply, though he could see her cheeks blushing in the moonbeams. “Ah, that’s better. My beautiful wife revealed.”
She giggled and opened her arms to him.
Abel set himself between her thighs and kissed her, his passion rising as their tongues dueled. He needed to have her, needed her now, but her pleasure was as important to him as his own. He never wanted to leave her unfulfilled, and he’d learned, even in two encounters, what her sweet noises and cries meant. How he wanted to hear those again!
He slid himself down her body and took one of her nipples into his mouth, suckling on it, enjoying its pebbled bud. His hand worked the other breast, and he both nipped and pinched at the same time, enjoying her reaction, the way she offered herself up as she moaned.
Wondering what she’d do, he teased her for a few more minutes and then continued his journey until he was breathing on her brown curls.
“Abel!”
“Shh. I need to taste more than your mouth.”
“But-”
He quickly smacked her thigh and she cried out in surprise, but he noted the sweet smell of her excitement increasing. Abel gave her another whack, this time on the other thigh. Her cry ended with a moan.
“Trust me.”
“Y-Yes.”
He licked his way over the seam of her folds, gently exploring with the tip of his tongue. Sunny’s breathing got faster, her small exhalations ending with a whispered, “Oh!” Abel’s big fingers looked so dark and rough against her cunny as he opened her for further teasing. She squirmed beneath him, and her body got hot under his hands.
“Are you sure you should do that? Abel, I don’t know what to do.”
“Just enjoy it, darlin’. That’s all you have to do.”
“I’ll spend,” she warned him. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” he said as he breathed on her open flesh. He touched his tongue to her swollen nubbin, and her hips shot off the bed. Her breathing was even faster, panting, and her sounds had become one long, low moan.
“Abel!” she cried as a runnel of sweet cream flowed from the center of her. Abel lapped it up, tickling her opening, running his tongue up and down her slit, nipping on the lips and her pleasure button. “Oh, God! Oh, Abel!” Once again she writhed with satisfaction beneath him, and to encourage her further, he pushed a thick finger inside her. She was so wet, soaked, ready for him.
He released her and moved to cover her, pressing his hard flesh against her thr
obbing sex. “Open for me, darlin’,” he said. And she did. Her knees went wide and her feet wrapped behind his thighs, encouraging him to find his home. He slid into her slowly, though all he really wanted was to fuck her senseless. He wanted to hold back a little because of her lack of experience. But Sunny was having none of that. She pressed her hands on his buttocks and pulled him in, her hips rising and falling in a fast rhythm that Abel couldn’t possibly resist. So he took her ungently, and she urged him even more. His body was feverish and his breath quick as he pumped into her. He was so close to filling her with his seed, but he needed to feel her grip him and release first. So he rocked with her, enjoying the way she bent, her moans and cries, until finally, just when he thought he couldn’t wait another second longer, she arched her back high and called his name. Abel could feel her body squeezing him tight, the muscles rolling inside her, and that was all it took. He growled as he came into her, planting his seed as deep as he could go. Halting after a few more strokes, he slowly lowered his body onto hers and rolled them over until she was at his side once again.
Eventually, their breathing slowed. He was so tired, so satisfied.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No, oh, no! You make me feel so good. I am a wanton with you, I confess.”
“I love your wanton ways, Mrs. Armstrong.”
“I love you, too, Abel.”
“Go to sleep now, darlin’. Tomorrow will come soon enough.”
Mere minutes later, she was asleep and Abel allowed himself to fall into a deep slumber.
* * *
The appointment with Mr. Hastings’ attorney was set for two days hence, so Abel decided to treat the early part of their trip as a honeymoon. He had a few dollars of discretionary funds left, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to use a bit of that savings to treat his bride.
They toured the small Denver Science Museum on Lawrence Street, where they saw a vast array of rock samples and mining equipment, and enjoyed the various eateries and some interesting grocers. Sunny picked up a can of orange slices in sugar syrup, which she said was about the best thing she’d ever tasted in Kansas City. They were imported all the way from California, and although they cost a pretty penny, Abel wanted to indulge Sunny as much as he could. He didn’t know what the remainder of the trip would be like, and, presuming it might be troubling, he was trying to keep things light and pleasant while he could.
