The Sons of Johnny Hastings Box Set

by Patty Devlin

  “I apologize if I have acted untoward, ma’am,” Clint interjected.

  “Nonsense, my boy, there’s nothing wrong with a hug, a guiding hand at the waist or a kiss on the cheek. It shows you care and cherish your sweet girl here. You two remind me of my dear husband, Henry, and myself.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Em replied earnestly.

  “Oh, honey. He’s not dead.”

  “Oh,” Em’s hand flew to her mouth at her mistake. “I beg your pardon.”

  She waved off her blunder with an easy smile. “He’s in the dining car, which is where he’ll remain until time for bed or they kick him out. Poor man, he can’t stand to travel and feels cooped up on these trains. Jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, my Henry is.”

  The porter came to the door and announced that the dining car was serving supper. Stowing their things under the seats, Clint and Emmalee rose. Looking at Em, Clint nodded his head toward the older woman in silent question. She nodded with a smile.

  “Would you care to join us for supper, Mrs…. I’m sorry all I know is Henry.”

  “Arleta Fletcher of Peoria, Illinois,” she said by way of introduction.

  “Clint and Emmalee Ryan of Boston, Massachusetts. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Clint offered her his arm.

  She looked between them. “You two newlyweds want to be alone, I’m sure. Although, I will gladly let you escort me to Henry, young man.”

  With Em trailing behind, Clint helped Mrs. Fletcher navigate the swaying and shimmying train cars. As they entered the dining car, she pointed out Henry. A tall, burly man of about sixty, he appeared robust and lively, still in his prime. He had dark coppery red hair and a close-cropped, red beard, both graying in spots. His face was craggy and worn with a lifetime of experience, with deep laugh lines and furrows in his forehead.

  “Arleta darlin’, I was just comin’ to fetch ya.” His light lilting brogue rolled off his tongue, a treat for the ears. As he kissed his bride of at least thirty years smack on the lips, Emmalee smiled. No wonder she hadn’t minded Clint’s public show of affection. She was used to it.

  “I’ve met this charming young couple, Hank. They’re newlyweds, so we should toast them happiness at least.”

  “By all means, you should join us. In this crush, you won’t find a table.”

  Looking around, Em saw he was right; every table was taken. So they joined the animated older couple and spent the next hour smiling and laughing at their charming banter.

  They told the tale of their own whirlwind courtship, Henry being smitten by a pretty brunette he’d first noticed in church one Sunday. He had pursued her relentlessly until she had finally agreed to go for a buggy ride after services. That led to picnics and dinners with her family until she eventually was over the moon for the energetic young farmer with the charming accent and vibrant coloring. Henry told funny stories, including the time Arleta had asked what was worn under a Scottish man’s kilt. He’d grinned at his sweet young fiancée at the time and stated boldly and directly, “Nothing is worn, darlin’. Everything is in perfect working order.”

  The men laughed heartily while the women giggled and blushed, even fifty-something Arleta. It was a wonderful evening, and they lingered well past the dinner hour. It was getting late when Henry called for wine to toast the new couple.

  When the steward had poured, Henry raised his glass and with a genuine smile cheered their happiness. “To my new friend Clint and his juniper bride, may you find as much joy in each other as Arleta and I.”

  Emmalee gaped. That was time number four, at last. “Why does everyone keep calling me that?”

  Arleta chimed in, “Oh Emmalee, it is so obvious.” She giggled up at Henry, her eyes gleaming in delight.

  Em looked at Clint, who shrugged, “Don’t ask me, sweetheart. I haven’t a clue.”

  Henry and Arleta guffawed, quite entertained by their inside joke.

  “But what does it mean?”

  “No need to get all poked up about it. I’ll gladly explain. You see, in the west a man from the east is called a pilgrim. If he brings along his wife, she’s his juniper bride.”

  Thinking it sounded rather pretty and romantic, she nodded. “So it’s a compliment.”

  “Not really, Emmalee, although the way Henry used it was more like an endearment.”

  “So I was being insulted all this time? I don’t understand. A juniper is an evergreen, isn’t it?”

  Henry nodded, his green eyes alight with amusement. “Aye, but with prickly leaves.”

  “He’s teasing, Em. Most eastern women who travel out west with their husbands are ill-prepared for the conditions they find. They often become prickly and complaining, thus the moniker, juniper bride. Her citified husband is often a dude or a pilgrim. You’ll find folks out here have slang terms for everything, both good and bad. But when it comes to easterners, well, let’s just say that west of the Mississippi, most people prefer that they stay on their own side of the river.”

  Frowning, she looked at Clint. “No one has called him a pilgrim.”

  “That’s because no one can tell unless he opens his mouth, then that citified accent gives him away.” Clint accepted Hank’s left-handed compliment with a smile.

  Arleta couldn’t resist joining in. “Not to mention, honey, with the size of your man, no one would dare.”

  They all laughed good-naturedly, even Emmalee at her own expense. Then they finished the wine with less controversial toasts all around. When Emmalee smothered a yawn a short time later, Clint excused them, and he escorted her back to the Pullman sleeper car. She washed up in the bathroom and returned to him fully dressed.

  “I wasn’t sure about changing,” she whispered, looking around the car where other passengers were already in bed, the curtains pulled.

  Echoing her soft tone, he contended, “You can’t sleep in your clothes, sweetheart.” He lifted her and set her into their upper bunk. “Watch your head now,” he warned softly. “Just pull the curtain tight and strip down to your underwear. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  Emmalee struggled with her clothes in the low-ceilinged berth. She smacked her head twice before she stripped down to her camisole and drawers, and then again when she leaned to lay her folded clothes near her feet. The curtain parted suddenly and she yelped in alarm, yanking the blanket up to her neck and bumping her head for a fourth time.

  When her husband’s head poked inside, then his arms and broad shoulders, she sighed in relief.

  “Slide over. I’m coming up.”

  “Is there enough room for both of us? These look like single berths to me,” Em whispered as she pressed her back to the wall.

  “You’re not sleeping alone in a train full of strangers. Besides, my bride sleeps with me.” Eschewing the steps, he hefted himself, twisting to get his backside onto the berth. Miraculously, he didn’t bump his head as he settled in, despite his six-foot plus frame. The squeaking of the berth had her grabbing him in alarm.

  “Do you think it will hold us both?”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” Grinning, he pulled her against him so that they were side-lying, face to face. Her mouth level with his, he kissed her parted lips. His tongue slipped inside, immediately making her breathless.

  When his hands began to explore, she pulled her mouth away, gasping for air. She anxiously whispered against his ear, “Clint, honey, we can’t. Someone will hear us.”

  “Not if you’re quiet, baby.”

  His mouth silenced further protests as his hand searched out the open seam of her drawers. Helpless against his sensual onslaught, she willingly parted her legs, his lips against hers turned up in a grin. Emmalee knew he’d recognized her acquiescence.

  He rolled her until she faced the wall, her back to his chest, his back to the curtain like a second wall of protection. With a glide of his hand along her inner thigh, he pulled her top leg and hooked it over his, opening her unbelievably wide. Long fingers moved
along her slick folds, sliding over her hard nub and downward, dipping into her wet heat. She whimpered softly, unable to contain the sound of her pleasure.

  Husky and low, his voice hummed against her ear. “Turn to me and give me your mouth.”

  In the dark, she sought his lips and as they joined, his fingers plunged inside her. He smothered her cries with his mouth as he propelled her toward a climax, her ragged breathing inaudible over the noise of the train. She writhed against him, hips pumping in rhythm with his fingers. She tensed as the pressure built, her legs trembling helplessly as she flew up toward that peak and soared over the top. He held onto her tightly as she convulsed in completion, then collapsed weakly against him.

  Soothing strokes of his hands along her breasts and belly followed as she recovered.

  “Beautiful, baby, now come here and kiss me goodnight.”

  She turned in his arms, surprised. “But you didn’t—”

  “I’m a big boy. I can take a little delayed gratification. Tomorrow at the hotel in Cheyenne, you can make it up to me. Okay?”

  She nodded, hugging him close.

  “Give me my kiss and we’ll sleep.”

  Chapter Ten

  Pulling into Cheyenne near supper time, they said goodbye to the Fletchers, who were continuing on to San Francisco to meet their newest grandchild—their ninth. Emmalee hugged Arleta and pressed her address into her hand.

  “Please write,” she urged with a smile. “I want to hear all about the new baby.”

  “If you ever get back to Chicago, Peoria is just a few stops past by train.”

  “You have an open invitation if you ever get to Boston.”

  They hugged once more, knowing that meeting again was unlikely, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t hope for it to happen one day.

  Clint shook Henry’s hand before assisting Emmalee out of the car and down the steps. As she stood on the platform, she swayed and clutched his arm for support.

  “I feel like I’m still moving.”

  “That will pass in a bit,” he assured her, clamping a steadying arm around her waist. When the porter brought their bags, they walked to the end of the platform and got their first look at Cheyenne.

  “Welcome to The Magic City of the Plains, as it’s called,” Clint announced.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because it popped up overnight, like magic, and something about surviving repeated economic slumps along the way.”

  “It doesn’t look like its slumping now.” She looked over the sprawling, bustling town and was impressed. “I imagined a small, dusty town with outlaws having gunfights in the streets.”

  “I’ve got to watch what you’re reading. Poe and gothic novels are warping your view of reality.”

  “I know the difference between fact and fiction, dear husband. In fact, I read some factual information about Cheyenne today on the train.”

  “Sweetheart, you do not get factual information from Beadle’s Dime Novels.”

  “I read a periodical, too. That’s factual,” she protested huffily.

  “For about two seconds, then your nose was stuck in ‘Malaeska: The Indian Wife of a White Hunter.’” He chuckled when she frowned at him. Taking her arm to descend the steps to the board walk below, he teased further. “You didn’t come up for air from lunch until we arrived just now at the depot.”

  “Untrue. Arleta and I had tea around four o’clock.” His words hit a sore spot, although almost every word he said was true. The journal had been boring. A romantic, heart-wrenching story of an Indian maiden who marries a white settler was more her cup of tea. Still, she didn’t want Clint thinking she was feather-headed any more than he already did.

  “Aw sweetheart, I’m sorry. I was only teasing. Read what you like. However, if it turns you into a placard-carrying temperance supporter, or causes you to wake during the night screaming bloody murder, then I may have to intercede.”

  “I like my glass of wine with supper as well as the next woman, so no thank you. As to the latter, isn’t that what husbands are for, to comfort their wives and protect us from the bogeyman during the wee hours of the night?”

  He snorted with laughter at her last comment.

  Em felt better, having proven she could be as playful and teasing as he was. Arriving at the bottom of the wooden steps, she turned to him, serious now as she asked, “So you don’t think I’m a ninny because I like to read fiction?”

  “Did you happen to notice what I was reading this afternoon?”

  She shook her head.

  “ ‘The Three Musketeers’ by Alexandre Dumas.”

  “The adventure about the French swashbucklers? I’ve heard of it but have never read it.”

  “It’s a man’s version of a dime novel if I ever saw one. Full of intrigue, violence, sword fighting, loyalty and revenge, there is also some romance, and an evil villain and villainess, too. You would like it, but instead of one of your fairy tale endings with the knight on the white horse, mine has the requisite good triumphing over evil. So there you go, Em. If you’re a ninny for reading what you like, I will have to wear the same label.”

  “Good, because I thought to tackle ‘Journey to the Center of the Earth’ and Collins’ ‘The Moonstone’ on the return trip.”

  His eyes twinkled as he chuckled, “Science fiction and detective drama, at least you’re diverse in your selections.”

  She smiled brightly at him in return, her good humor restored. Daddy would have taken those books straightaway to the refuse bin, as he had with others on occasion, Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’ being the last victim if she recalled correctly. Looking up at her husband—handsome, strong, attentive, kind and considerate—she decided to add supportive and understanding to his list of attributes.

  A departing passenger hustled by, jostling Emmalee in his haste. His murmured apology and tip of the hat had Clint frowning after him. Several more travelers were clopping down the stairs behind them. Belatedly realizing they were blocking the main exit from the depot while idly chatting about literature and nonsense, Em stepped to the side.

  At the same time, Clint murmured, “We should move before we get trampled.” He nodded to a large three-story hotel across the street as he started them in that direction. “Shall we try that hotel? It looks decent.”

  Searching and finding the only hotel across the street, she took in the wide balconies, tall white columns, elaborate wrought-iron sconces and chandeliers on the outside of The Cheyenne Inn. She couldn’t image what the inside would be like. Rolling her eyes at Clint’s understated assessment of the grand hotel, she echoed incredulously, “Decent? It looks finer than the hotel in Council Bluffs. Why in heaven’s name does Cheyenne need a luxury hotel?”

  “Well, as I read in my actual, factual periodical—”

  He stopped when she gave a sharp pinch to the arm she was holding. Laughing, he conceded. “Sorry, baby. How about a truce? I’ll stop teasing you about your reading material if you keep those sharp claws retracted, deal?”

  “Hm, deal, but I think I still owe you a few to be fair.”

  “Too late, you agreed to the deal.” Smiling, he guided her away from the safety of the boardwalk and out into the busy street. Looking both ways, his eyes darted swiftly around, keenly watching for any signs of danger. “Evidently, Cheyenne is the hub of activity for the cattle industry and entertains rich ranchers and cattle barons for miles around. They have high standards and can afford to pay top dollar for their luxury. I’m anxious to see how far they’ve come compared to eastern standards. Let’s go see.”

  Dodging buggies and riders as they crossed the busy street, they then had to contend with the dozens of pedestrians strolling the boards. This time of day, people were keeping the many shops, restaurants and other businesses along the main street very busy. Finally, they made it to the inn where they entered an enormous lobby with marble floors, stained glass accents, and rich wood features. Commonplace in the east coast cities like New York an
d Boston, such luxury was shocking for middle-of-nowhere Wyoming.

  After riding up the steam-powered elevator to their fifth floor room and settling in, they dined in the hotel restaurant on roast beef, of course. When in cattle country, one eats beef, Clint had declared. They then retired early for the night as their next train departed at seven a.m.

  Emmalee again took advantage of the luxurious private bath in their suite to indulge in a bubble bath. A lady's attendant drew the water, operating the newfangled hot water receptacle. The coated cast-iron tub was not as nice as the ceramic one she had at home, and the wood encasement reminded her of a coffin, but that didn’t deter her. Clint had paid extra for the private bathroom and the convenience of the hot water in the suite. She decided it was worth every penny as she relaxed into the warm sudsy water, her loud groan of sheer bliss an audible seal of approval.

  So soothing was the water that she barely reacted to the sudden opening of the door. Expecting the attendant with the extra towels she had promised, Emmalee cracked one eyelid to find Clint striding in already unbuttoning his shirt. Her other lid opened as he walked toward her, bare feet slapping against the polished wood floor. Soon he had her full attention as shirt, trousers and underclothes fell about the floor until he stood stark naked beside the tub.

  “Slide forward, sweetheart. We’ll share.”

  Her mouth gaped in surprise. Every day he shocked her with more intimacies, most she’d never have imagined were done, like his lips kissing her in unthinkable places, or his fingers inside her while in their berth on a crowded train car, and now naked, intent on sharing her bath. Oh me, oh my!

  “Slide, Em.”

  She did, and he stepped in from behind. His legs came around her, the hair rasping across her hips and thighs. It tickled and sent a shiver up her spine.

  “Cold, baby? Lean back against me and I’ll keep you warm.”

  How he thought she was cold in a steamy tub of water with his warm body encasing her was astounding. His arms came around her next and he began scooping up large handfuls of warm, soapy water, pouring them over her shoulders and breasts.