The Sons of Johnny Hastings Box Set

by Patty Devlin

  Clint reasoned it must have been the influence of her Aunt Henrietta, her mother’s only sister. Em spoke fondly of her and visited often. When her papa was away on business or entertaining, she would often stay with her aunt, up until a few years ago when Henrietta remarried and moved from Boston. Surely, she had a hand in molding her niece’s character, which according to Emmalee was much like her aunt’s. She described Henrietta as having a kind, giving nature as well as a keen sense of humor, joy for life, and a reckless abandon when it came to seeking new interests and adventure. His Emmalee, he had discovered, embodied those traits to a tee. Em had regaled him with several stories about Aunt Henry’s adventures and misdeeds from her youth. Obviously, they were cut from the same cloth when you considered those inherited traits in regards to Em’s recent exploits. It was enough to make his hair curl, but he looked forward to meeting her and thanking her one day all the same.

  Growing up, Emmalee had wanted for nothing. Her papa was well off, but his fortune didn’t come close to the wealth Clint’s family had amassed in the shipbuilding industry. He was certain Emmalee had no idea of his business success and their subsequent fortune. That pleased him vastly; he had met enough greedy debutantes who were interested in only his money.

  His family had been lucky to weather the firestorm that was the War of Succession. Unlike others who saw their businesses flounder and fail, Ryan and Sons Shipbuilding had come out ahead. They’d actually seen their business triple during the long protracted war, because the US Navy had been woefully unprepared. With only forty usable ships, the North needed more in the Atlantic to run supply blockades. They also needed gunboats in the south to fight the feeble, but troublesome, confederate ships. Washington D.C. had called upon Ryan and Sons and several other northern shipbuilders to meet that need.

  In fact, although Clint was serving as lieutenant in the Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, they had called him home early, which was mostly unheard of. They needed him more as a shipbuilder, putting his talents to the best use.

  Emmalee had asked once why he didn’t “get” to captain a ship during the war and he’d laughed.

  “Just because I can design and construct a ship doesn’t make me a captain. We have plenty of sailing men for that task.”

  “Oh, so does that mean you actually build those huge vessels with your bare hands?” had been her incredulous response.

  “No, sweetheart, we have shipwrights for that, although I know the basics.”

  “Then what exactly do you do?”

  She had a sincere interest in figuring out his role, he could tell by her consternation.

  “Someone has to make a design, plan and order the materials, take orders from the buyer, and of course, ensure the workmanship is topnotch. We also have to keep abreast of the changing techniques and materials. We now make wood-, iron-, and steel-hulled vessels. That is what I do all day.”

  “Have you sailed on your ships?”

  “Naturally. What would it say if the crafters didn’t test their own ships? It certainly wouldn’t instill faith in the buyers. However, it takes a crew of skilled men to sail those behemoths, so I go along as the architect and owner, not the captain.”

  “Ah…”

  Her disenchantment was audible in just that small sound.

  “Disappointed?” he’d asked and grinned at her, knowing full well she was. His was not the most exciting and romantic of professions, but it would keep her fully stocked in silks, shoes and penny dreadfuls.

  A shoulder shrug was her response.

  “Had a pirate fantasy, did you?”

  Her eyes flew to his, and she gaped. Her expression was priceless and told him he’d hit the nail on the head.

  “We have a small sailboat, the boys and I. I’ll take you out when we get home. On that boat, I am the captain. You can be my mate and if you misbehave, I’ll make you walk the plank. ARG!”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “That’s my pirate impression.”

  “Honey, you’ve got it all wrong. You are supposed to stand on the bridge, the wind in your hair, with a long flowing silk shirt. You board my ship and rescue me, sweep me off my feet and swing me back to your ship on a rope.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, it could happen.”

  “Only in a Beadle’s Dime Novel, baby, but if you’re good, I’ll see what I can do about getting you a private tour of one of our vessels before sale. We can try out, ahem, I mean inspect, the captain’s quarters. They come equipped with wide comfortable beds.”

  “Seriously? How do you know that?”

  He’d winked at her teasingly and said, “I order supplies for that as well.”

  “Will you wear a long flowing silk shirt?”

  “Abso-damn-lutely.”

  “What are you smiling at Clint? You look like the cat that got into the cream.”

  Emmalee’s voice pulled him from his meandering memories. “Not yet, sweetheart, but I plan to real soon.”

  “What?”

  His lewd jest having gone over her head, he shook his head, forgoing an explanation, and offered his arm. “Shall we see what the town of Denver has to offer with regards to fine cuisine?”

  With an early supper in mind, they’d asked the hotel clerk for a reference. He recommended the southern fried chicken at Mrs. Barker’s Country Kitchen, which was just down the block. The small restaurant was quite charming. It offered a wide range of home-style cooking. The clerk had not been wrong; the chicken was indeed mouthwateringly juicy and crisp, and the biscuits lighter than air. It turned out that Mrs. Barker was from a small town in Mississippi, having left soon after the war when the South was languishing in reconstruction. She had been delighting Denver residents with her southern cuisine ever since.

  She’d stopped by their table and conned them into dessert before they left. Mrs. Barker herself had served them blackberry cobbler topped with freshly made vanilla ice cream. When Clint had paid and she looked at them holding their bellies, she laughed. “If you don’t leave here fuller than two ticks about to pop, then I’ve not done my job.”

  She reminded them to come back for breakfast, which included Southern-style biscuits and gravy with sausage.

  “Do you have orange juice, too?” Emmalee asked, eagerly. Clint had groaned, not knowing how she could envision putting another drop of food or drink in her mouth.

  Mrs. Barker had winked and said, “Fresh squeezed every day just for you, sugar.” She’d then waved them on their way before turning to enchant her next customer with her special brand of Southern charm.

  ***

  Monday morning they awoke early because of a ruckus out in the street. Men were shouting, a few women screamed, and a single gunshot blast had Clint hopping out of bed. As he rushed to the window, he waved at a startled and wide-eyed Emmalee, signaling her to stay put. Peering through the curtained window, sure enough, he found that the sheriff, and what looked like two deputies, were breaking up a fist fight. Still holding his gun aloft, the sheriff had likely fired in the air as a warning to the brawlers grappling in the dirt in the middle of the street.

  “What do you see, Clint? Is it a shootout or a bank robbery?”

  “Nothing as dramatic as that, sweetheart. It’s only a street fight, which from the look of things, the sheriff has well in hand.” Clint let the curtain drop as he stepped away from the window. Daylight filled the room. He picked up his pocket watch on the night stand; it was seven o’clock. “I suppose we might as well get dressed and go for breakfast. I could use a cup of Arbuckle’s myself.”

  Em wrinkled her nose at him. “How can you think of your stomach when there is gunfire at our doorstep?”

  Chuckling at her exaggeration, he pulled on his trousers as he reassured her. “First off, I’m not thinking about my stomach, I’m thinking about coffee. Secondly, the gunfire wasn’t at our door, Em. It was down the street about half a block, and in the opposite direction of Mrs. Barker’s
where we are headed.”

  “You know, this is exactly like the paper said.”

  Clint knew right away what she was inferring. On the train from Cheyenne, Emmalee had taken up the Rocky Mountain Times. When he’d noticed, he’d eyed the newspaper, grinning. She’d scowled at him in return. He tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh, but she was vastly entertaining.

  “What happened to our truce – no more teaching me about what I read?” she’d asked, haughtily.

  “I didn’t say a word,” was his seemingly affronted reply.

  “No, but you thought it.”

  His deep laugh had echoed through the railcar. It wasn’t taunting or cruel in nature, but he just couldn’t resist. Usually enjoying her quick wit and banter, to take him to task for what she assumed he was thinking, was just too funny. She obviously agreed with him, because she offered him a sheepish little smile, before carrying on as if the episode had never happened.

  Casually she stated, “I’m trying to learn some factual information about Denver. It’s not nearly as progressive as Cheyenne.”

  Having researched Denver already, he’d nodded with a smile, returning to his book. A moment later, she’d gasped in alarm.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Listen to this: ‘The newest Denver hotel boasts locks on every door.’ Can you imagine? What kind of hotel doesn’t have locks on its doors?” she asked disbelieving. “There’s even a guest review. ‘Patrons may rest assured that their sleep won’t be disturbed by the fear of getting blasted in the head by a pair of Smith and Wesson’s.’ Great heavenly day!” she’d breathed before her incredulous gaze had risen to his in horror. “I don’t want to sleep there regardless of the locks!”

  This morning, she wore the same horrorstruck look as she stared across the room at their door, more specifically at the lock.

  “Oh my heaven’s, Clint, it’s my worst fear come true. This is the hotel from the paper!” With eyes as wide as saucers, she’d turned to him in alarm.

  Denver was indeed rough and raucous. He’d heard the stories and read the same newspaper that she had. It was full of accounts of brawls, thefts and shootings at local saloons. Denver was still a frontier town, despite the railroad coming through two years prior. Being part of the ever growing rail system had brought rapid and welcome expansion to the town. There was a constant influx of new residents and businesses, along with the easy supply line from rail traffic. Now Denver sported schools, churches, shops, restaurants and brand new hotels. Millionaires attracted by silver mining in the area and other opportunities for investments had chosen to call Denver their home. Unfortunately, along with urban development, it also attracted a criminal element and the mayhem associated with it. In Clint’s mind, this meant danger could be lurking around every corner. He’d have to be careful because as this trip had taught him well, Emmalee attracted trouble like a magnet.

  He cast a concerned look her way. This was exactly why he’d wanted her to stay behind in Boston, and then again in Stanton. Homer Barton was bad enough; he envisioned a host of Homer Barton’s in Denver. Looking at his wife of less than a week, he imagined what temptation she would be for hungry trappers, hunters and outlaws.

  Pulling on his shirt, he sat on the bedside to put on his socks and boots. “I’ll protect you.”

  His confidence must have been clear in those three words because she nodded and relaxed.

  “I’m heading down the hall to shave and wash up. It’s too small for both of us at once. When I’m done, I’ll stand guard in the hall while you get ready. Then we’ll go to Mrs. Barker’s for breakfast. The sheriff should have the riffraff out of the street by then. Afterward, I’ll see to the telegrams.”

  At the door, he turned and said, “Lock up behind me, sweetheart.”

  An hour later, Clint leaned against the wall, waiting for Em to finish up. His gaze was fixed on the street as residents went about their daily lives, the incident from earlier that morning long forgotten.

  “I’m all set and ready for my fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

  He pushed away from the wall at her announcement. As he straightened, he saw the vision that was Emmalee and his gut clenched. Her honey blonde hair was pulled up in back, exposing her delicate throat and tempting neck. Shorter soft tendrils curling in the back and clinging to her skin would draw any sighted man’s eye.

  Her cream and burgundy walking dress had been purchased in Council Bluffs specifically for that day. It was modest with a high neckline that showed not even a hint of cleavage. It fit snuggly to her breasts, however, and did little to hide the bounty beneath the bodice. The summer weight fabric was thinner than he would have liked and the three-quarter length sleeves showed her delicate wrists and forearms.

  The dress nipped in snuggly at the waist and flared out in back over a small bustle, accentuating her narrow waist and curvy hips. He knew intimately what was under all the layers of fabric, including a thorough inventory of her undergarments, having out of necessity to play lady’s maid moments earlier. He’d cursed every yard of tempting lace as he tied, buttoned and caged her inside her dress. Fully dressed now, she was beautiful and reserved; to a randy mountain man, she was all manner of womanly delights, and, he predicted not many of the men in this town had seen an Eastern-bred city girl of her like.

  “Don’t you have a shawl?” he asked suddenly, causing her to turn from the mirror in surprise. She’d been tying the ribbons of her straw and silk bonnet, but her fingers froze at his absurd question.

  She stared at him agog. “It’s the middle of July, Clint.” The look she gave him said she questioned his sanity.

  Knowing his fear for her safety was making him unreasonably ill-tempered, he shook his head. “Never mind,” he grumbled, but he couldn’t help being concerned. “Let’s review the rules again before we head out.”

  She rolled her eyes before turning back to the mirror to finish tying her bow. The gesture got his back up fast, and he strode across the room to get her attention.

  Pulling her around to face him, he spoke firmly. “This is serious, Emmalee. Denver is not Boston or even Cheyenne. You know that from what happened in the street this morning. If you can’t take my precautions seriously, you will stay in the room and wait for my return. I am that serious about this.”

  She wanted to attend the reading of the will and meet his siblings, but he wasn’t going to take any more risks with her safety. As he glared sternly down at her, he recognized the regret for her impertinence in her expression right off.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I know you are only trying to protect me. It’s just that we’ve been over them several times.”

  “And we’ll go over them once again, or a thousand times more, if need be.”

  Nodding, she looked up at him and began to recite his rules verbatim. “Stay at your side, not even an arm’s length away. Do not wander away. Do not look at or speak to strangers. Do not draw attention to myself, and by all means, do exactly what you say or my bare bottom will pay the price.”

  Clint nodded. She had them down pat, including the consequences for breaking the rules. Of course, his penalty was minor compared to what could happen if she defied them. He sighed heavily. He didn’t want to be so hard-nosed and inflexible, but her history of impulsivity left him little choice. Her safety was, and always would be, his primary concern.

  Pulling her close, he enveloped her in a solid hug as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

  “I’m sorry for being such a bear about this, Em. You realize I’d be devastated if something happened to you, don’t you?”

  “I do, Clint, and believe me, I’ve had enough danger and excitement on this trip to last three lifetimes. I plan on being very good.”

  The next kiss was soft and warm, but this time fell against her parted lips. She always tasted so sweet and smelled softly feminine. As usual, the insatiable desire within him stirred. He consciously tamped it down until later, giving her a final affectionate squeeze before setting
her aside and reaching for his gun belt.

  Her eyes stared at his weapon and she murmured, “Through the looking glass.”

  Looking up at her in question as he worked the buckle, he puzzled over the unfamiliar phrase. “Pardon?”

  She blinked, her pretty green eyes wide with wonder. “It’s an allegory. You know… Alice goes through her looking glass to find a whole new world. It’s hauntingly familiar but turned on its side.”

  He had no idea what she was referring to and shook his head.

  “You’ve read Alice in Wonderland, surely.”

  “Um, sweetheart, you do realize I’m a man, right?”

  “Oh pooh, many boys read it as a child.”

  “I believe it came out at the tail end of the war. I would have been twenty-one, perhaps twenty-two at the time, hardly a boy.”

  “Oh? Well…” She flapped her hand blithely, then explained. “ ‘Through the Looking Glass’ was a sequel to ‘Alice,’ which came out last year. People use the title as a metaphor now when the world gets strange or turns inside out. Seeing the man I love in his usual suit with a gun on his hip and a black Stetson on his head is through-the-looking-glass for me.”

  Nodding in understanding, he took her hand and kissed it. Then he pulled her toward the door, murmuring, “This isn’t Boston, by a long shot, that’s for sure. Let’s go get juice and coffee.”

  ***

  As they walked out of their hotel into the warmth of the July afternoon, Emmalee longed for a parasol. From all the sun she’d taken on this trip, it would take forever for her tan to fade to her usual creamy complexion. In the mirror that morning, much to her horror, she had seen a spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. When she had fretted about them Clint had kissed her nose, calling them cute, but she hadn’t had freckles since she was twelve. If he hadn’t been with her, she would have applied powder, but Clint despised cosmetics of any kind.