by Patty Devlin
“There was a flash flood a few days back that loosened the ground in a bend in the track. When the weight of the train hit, the earth gave way and the train derailed. The end cars took the brunt of it, especially the car you were in.”
“What of the others? There were families with children in my car.”
“Fortunately, it was meal time and most were in the dining car.”
The horrified intake of air into her lungs made her choke, and she coughed, struggling once again for breath. “Oh my land, Clint, Mr. Harrison would have been with them if it weren’t for me. I injured the poor man with my selfishness.”
“That can’t be true, Em. It was an accident.”
“The last I saw of him, he was bringing me tea and biscuits from the dining car.” Looking up into his troubled gaze, she explained, “I didn’t want you to see me there. He invited me to go with him, but I refused. Don’t you see? If it wasn’t for me and my recklessness, he’d be fine and well on his way to Omaha and his new grandchild.” Slumping against his chest, she lamented, “I am a horrible person.”
Chapter Three
Clint looked down at her tear-streaked face, her spikey lashes like black fans against her pale cheeks. She’d cried herself to sleep and had been napping for more than an hour. The doctor said that was to be expected. Initially, the blow to her head left her groggy and disoriented. In fact, she didn’t even recall their short trip from the site of the derailment to the boarding house in nearby Stanton, Iowa. He’d tucked her in bed and she’d slept the night through. She’d awakened the next morning more alert, yet still slightly muddled.
As he watched her sleep, he went over his options for what to do now. Finding her on that train was almost as surprising as finding out about his father. His life had changed so much in the past several days. One moment he was a contented man, managing his family’s shipbuilding business, anticipating his marriage to a sweet, genteel young Boston debutante and settling in to fill their house with children. Then the letter had arrived. Delivered to his harbor offices in person by a man with a slight build, dark hair, mustached face, and dark suit—completely forgettable, until he’d presented his card from the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in one hand, a personal letter to one Zachariah Hastings in the other.
“You’ve mistaken me for this Hastings. My surname is Ryan.”
“No mistake, Mr. Ryan. You were adopted, correct?”
At Clint’s nod, the man encouraged him to read the letter, which would clear up a lot of his questions, the man said.
6/21 (evening)
From the offices of Hobart St. James
100 West Main St.
Denver, Co.
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.
“How do you know I am this Zachariah Hastings?”
“Through John Hastings’ journals. Let me explain.”
“Please do.”
“Five agents were assigned to find the five sons named in your father’s journals. My assignment was to find you. In his journals, your father gave us the name of your mother as a starting point. That is really all I had to go on, and why I am arriving with little time for you to prepare for a trip to Denver.”
The news was shocking. His father, who had always been a distant curiosity in his mind, was now dead. As far as Clint was concerned, the man had played a brief role in his conception—nothing more. He hadn’t bothered to stay around for his birth, let alone for his raising, and now had the gall to intrude on his life from the grave.
His shock had quickly turned to anger—damn the bastard to perdition! He had crumpled the letter and hurled it across the room. Prepared to show the agent to the door, Clint paused when he remembered he’d mentioned brothers. Looking over at the man, he began peppering him with questions.
“What do you know about my brothers?”
“Very little, in fact. All I know is that all four of your brothers live out west somewhere. Because of the time constraints and the distances to travel, a different agent was assigned to locate each man. I was the only eastern agent assigned to this case. I work out of Chicago. As soon as I got the details, I started my investigation. I don’t know if any of the others have been located as yet.”
“I take it that my father didn’t marry any of my brothers’ mothers.”
“It doesn’t appear that way. Your father appeared to have a predilection for the painted ladies.”
“Ain’t that just grand? My mother was a prostitute and my father a licentious wastrel.” Clint spat in disgust.
“Not such a wastrel if he has a will and bequests, sir.”
Clint had glared at him, spreading his arms wide to indicate his well-appointed office. He was the partial owner of a ship-building empire and didn’t need whatever misbegotten gains John Hastings had acquired in his otherwise sorry life.
“My mother, what did your investigation turn up about her?”
He pulled out a notebook. “Miss Clarissa Morgan, age 18, had a brief association with John Hastings in St. Louis in the year 1843. You were the result of that, uh… association, as well as your sister.”
Staggered, Clint rocked back against his desk and sat. “What sister?”
“Why your twin sister, Miss Cordelia Hennessey, soon to be Mrs. Steven Carver of Omaha, Nebraska, of course. I see from your reaction, you didn’t know. You have my sincere apologies for springing this on you so unexpectedly. There is no easy way to deliver such news.”
“Six bastards,” Clint had murmured, shaking his head in dismay. “It appears Papa dear was a busy man.”
That had been a day from hell. Clint sighed as the memories weighed heavy. He’d gotten his sister’s location in Omaha and, having drawn out every detail he possessed, sent the man on his way. If it had just been John Hastings’ sorry ass, he wouldn’t have given the will reading another thought. The curiosity of a twin sister and four brothers he didn’t know existed until that day, however, was a strong draw.
Now here he sat, in the middle of Iowa, a few days before the event, his train derailed and a wayward bride-to-be on his hands. Looking down at Emmalee’s beautiful face, noting the way she dozed fitfully in the big bed, he pondered what to do with her. Sending her home on the train alone after the trauma she had suffered was out of the question. With the train out of commission for several days, they could take a stage to Omaha and pick up the train again there, but it didn’t run through town again until Saturday, which was much too late to make Denver by Monday. The only other option was to ride to Omaha and catch the train into Cheyenne. From there Denver was a day trip by train. That would still leave enough time to take care of his personal business with Cordelia Hennessey.
As he thought of his city-bred bride, he knew her riding skills were limited to rides through the Boston Common at a sedate rate and on sidesaddle for that matter. No way would she hold up to an 80-mile trek in rough terrain. Plus, they would need to move fast to get to the connecting train on time. With a good horse, Clint could make it in two days if he pushed it, but with Emmalee along, he would have to slow his pace. It would also mean frequent rest stops, at least another night in camp, and extending the time on the trail and thus the danger. Frowning in frustration, he saw little option but to leave her here in Stanton.
A knock came at the door, waking Emmalee. As she stirred, Clint walked to the door and opened it to find a maid waiting. “Your guest has arrived, Mr. Ryan.”
“Thank you. Please tell him we’ll be down directly.”
“Guest?” Emmalee’s voice was husky with sleep. “Who could you
possibly know here?”
Seeing her eyes open and clear, he moved to the bed and sat next to her. “You look better. How do you feel? Any headache?”
“No, I’m amazed, but my head feels fine.”
“Good.” He pulled back the covers and extended his hand to her. “Let’s get you dressed. We don’t want to keep the reverend waiting.”
“Reverend? Why are we meeting a reverend?”
“We are getting married, of course.”
“Today?” she squeaked.
“You don’t really expect for us to share a room without getting married, Emmalee. That would hardly be appropriate.” Playing lady’s maid, he gathered the skirt of her day dress in his big hands and guided it over her head. As he worked, he spoke of his plans. “Besides, Mrs. Barton doesn’t allow single ladies to stay here.”
“Since we’re leaving for Denver, why should that matter?” Her voice was muffled inside her skirt.
“I am going on to Denver, but you will stay on here. I might have considered letting you tag along if by train, but I’ll be on horseback from here to Omaha where I can catch another train. That means two days of hard riding ahead of me. You’ll stay here where you’re safe until I return to get you.”
A scream of alarm came from within her voluminous skirt as she struggled to get her arms and head free. “No, Clint. You can’t leave me here.”
“You’ll be fine as long as you stay close to the boarding house.”
“You’re doing this to punish me for following you,” Emmalee accused.
“No, your punishment will come tomorrow after you head has had time to recover.”
She gaped at him. “You can’t mean to…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“Spank you? Most definitely I mean to, and since my intent is to redden your bare bottom this time, we’ll speak our vows tonight. No more arguing now, the minister is waiting.”
***
As Emmalee stood beside her intended and listened to the old minister waxing poetic on the sanctity of marriage and cleaving to one another, she was fuming. She was supposed to be having an adventure, not getting married in the parlor of a dingy old boarding house. Where were the flowers, her beautiful gown and the hundreds of guests? Plus, her daddy was supposed to give her away. This was not at all how she imagined it.
Reverend Mitchell asked her a question, which she missed. Clint squeezed her hand and snagged her attention, murmuring a hushed, “Pay attention. The Reverend asked you a question.”
Looking at the man, she asked him to repeat it.
“Do you take this man for your husband?”
“Right now, no. In August, when we are supposed to get married? Then maybe...”
Surprised, the minister looked at Clint. “I’m not sure we can continue without her agreement. This is unprecedented for me.”
“She agrees. She’s just in a snit because I moved up the nuptials, and she doesn’t get to wear her fancy dress and have all the frills.”
“But if she doesn’t agree...”
Clint lifted her left hand and asserted coolly, “She agrees enough to wear my ring. She also followed me all the way from Boston and slept in my bed last night. What else do you need as proof of consent?”
“Clint!” Emmalee’s face flooded with heat, and she knew she turned every single shade of red. That he had said that to a man of God!
“Was any of what I said untrue, Emmalee?”
“No, but it was most unseemly,” was her harshly whispered reply. “What will he think?”
Em’s hand flew to her mouth as she processed her words. She’d as good as admitted what he claimed.
Clint looked at Reverend Mitchell and raised his brow. The frowning man looked from him to the ring glittering on Emmalee’s finger. Convinced, he went on with the vows. He paused a moment later. “I’m afraid to ask if there are objections.”
“I object,” Emmalee snapped. “Doesn’t that count?” .
“No.” Clint wrapped his arm around her waist and curled her into his side. His large hand slipped low on her back, two fingers resting on the upper swells of her bottom in subtle warning. “Ignore her and finish.”
“By the power invested in me by God and the state of Iowa—”
“Iowa!” Emmalee interrupted with a gasp of surprise. “I must be in hell.”
The maid standing witness behind them giggled, right before Mrs. Barton, also a witness, shushed her sharply.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. God help you, son. I wish you luck with your juniper bride; you’re gonna need it.” He then nodded to the witnesses, directing them to sign the marriage certificates—two of them per Clint’s request—and waited while Clint and a reluctant Emmalee did the same. It was official. That done, he hightailed it out of there as if a wildcat was after him, pausing to accept Clint’s monetary donation for his time and trouble, of course. The still snickering maid and Mrs. Barton were close on his heels, leaving the newly married couple alone.
“Well, wasn’t that a beautiful ceremony. I will certainly be able to look back on it fondly for the rest of my days.”
“Emmalee, each sarcastic comment simply adds to tomorrow morning’s tally. If you don’t want what you’ve already earned doubled, then guard your tongue.”
She gave an unladylike snort, but remembering her first spanking in her father’s parlor, decided it was best to keep her disgruntlement to herself. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him instead.
“Mind your expression, too. You just vowed to love, honor and obey me.”
“No, as a matter of fact, I did not. You took my vows for me.”
“Your signature on the certificate will be sufficient to make it so.”
She grunted again and rolled her eyes. “What now? Do you abandon me in the middle of nowhere?”
“I don’t leave until the morning. Right now, I’d like to take my wife to lunch in town.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She stiffened as he pulled her into his arms. When he tilted her chin up to his, she tried to hide her hurt and tears. To her frustration, one escaped to track down her cheek. Of course, he noticed.
“Em, is it really so bad you married me sooner than later?”
“It’s horrible. You’re leaving me tomorrow, the frightfully expensive dress I’ve already purchased will now go to waste, and you didn’t even kiss the bride.”
“Let’s remedy that last oversight right now then, hm?” Her upturned face already in the perfect position made it easy for him. His lips pressed against hers gently, then lingered there for a moment until his tongue demanded more. As always, she was weak and easily susceptible to his charm. When his tongue pushed inside, teasing and possessing her deliciously, she opened her mouth in complete surrender.
***
Drawing the brush through her waist-length hair, she looked at herself in the small wall-mounted mirror and sighed. The borrowed nightgown was hideous. Made of homespun linen, it was itchy in places and not at all like the fine silk nightgown she’d had made for her wedding night. She knew pouting and feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t change anything. Besides, she had no one but herself to blame. Chasing after Clint like an impulsive child had been foolish in the extreme. She regretted it, mainly because for all her trouble, she was going to be left without him anyway, in Stanton, Iowa, of all places.
The boarding house was comfortable, and Mrs. Barton seemed kind. She’d gone to the trouble of cooking up a special supper for the newlyweds, even serving wine, which she said was reserved for special occasions. She’d laid out a mouthwatering spread of roast beef and gravy, creamed potatoes and glazed carrots. Her homemade bread smelled heavenly and was melt-in-your mouth delicious. Even with all that, Em hadn’t been able to manage more than a few bites. Clint had made up for it by having seconds and thirds, along with a huge slab of chocolate cake. The man could eat.
She might have been able to eat a bit more if not for Mrs. Barton’s son. Seated at
the head of the table, Homer Barton kept casting his eyes her way, making her decidedly uncomfortable. Several times, she looked up to find his gaze glued to her bosom. She’d elbowed Clint, but when he looked up from his meal, Homer’s eyes darted away. It was little wonder Mrs. Barton didn’t want single ladies at her boarding house. She had to tell Clint; when he learned about creepy Homer, he was certain to change his mind.
Finished with her bedtime rituals, she exited the bathroom. Clint was waiting as expected, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest. His booted feet were layered nonchalantly one over the other. Pushing away from the wall, he guided her back to their room, which lay at the far end of the hall.
Once inside, with the door securely locked, Clint strode to the bed, shrugging off his coat as he went. He laid it across a chair before sitting on the bed where he began removing his boots.
Emmalee watched, suddenly breathless. All thoughts of creepy Homer Barton fled as he pulled off one boot and set it aside with a clunk before working on the other.
It was their wedding night. Her mind raced to all the things she’d heard about what would happen on this special night. Whispered and giggled behind the hands of her friends, she’d been told to expect touching on her intimate parts followed by animal grunting and flesh against flesh. Judith, one of her married friends, had said to expect ardent male desire followed by rutting with sweat and blood and pain. Isabelle, her best friend, had scoffed at that and reassured Emmalee that if done correctly, relations with a man who loved her could bring ardent desire. That was true, but also passionate kisses, gentle intimate touches, only a hint of pain just that once, then pure bliss, Isabelle had said with a dreamy smile and a contented sigh.
Em hoped fervently that it would be pure bliss with Clint, not the painful rutting. A nervous shiver coursed through her at that unpleasant thought. Poor Judith had married a gruff, insensitive, older man. Although young, at twenty-eight, Clint was his own man and he was always gentle with her, except that time when he’d taken her across his knee. As she looked at Clint, she wondered what was in store for her in their marital bed. He would expect to be with her tonight—making love, as Isabelle called it. He’d expect her to do things—wifely things. Oh dear!
