by Nathan Adams
No one knew that she wasn’t going to be on board the ship which was scheduled to depart at the end of the week for London. She wanted to be the best possible wife for Gerrit Reilley, but the only wives she knew were Beacon Hill wives and she doubted if her husband was going to have much use for a wife who matched those qualifications. But she didn’t have the talents he would be expecting, either. She couldn’t paint or draw, her musical skills were rudimentary, and she had never learned to do anything with a needle but embroider, and that poorly. She had managed to convince Mrs. Kirby to teach her how to cook and bake, however, playing upon the woman’s sympathies with tales of drafty English castles and food that was cold by the time the servants delivered it to the dining room from the kitchens on the bottom floor, just above the dungeons. And she probably wouldn’t eat much at all, Trice had declared, because it was well known that English mamas absolutely despised their American daughters-in-law. When her mother was out, Beatrice had been taught to cook by Mrs. Kirby while the housemaids were sworn to secrecy. Hennings pretended not to know what was going on, but he was sympathetic. He had a less lugubrious impression of English manor houses than the one that Miss Trice had created for Mrs. Kirby, but if the poor girl wanted to spend a bit of time with the household staff before she was sent off to London, he wasn’t going to deny her.
She would miss Hennings. And Mrs. Kirby. And Paul and the others. It struck Beatrice that she would not miss her parents very much. Papa was never at home anyway except to dine, and that wasn’t all the time. And Mama . . . Mama was not an easy person to miss, Beatrice realized. When she had children, she vowed, she was never going to force them to marry someone they didn’t even know. Of course, she was marrying someone she didn’t really know, except for letters they’d exchanged, but that was her choice. Beatrice settled into her seat. Having the choice made all the difference.
Chapter Five
He was at the train station an hour before it pulled in, bellowing clouds of smoke into the blue Texas sky, noisy and powerful, a reminder that Laredo was an up-and-coming town in a vigorous part of the country where even the landscape succumbed to the might of the powerful iron horse. The railroad was familiar enough to Laredo that its original horses no longer reacted to the train as it approached but to Reilley, the noise was alarming and he found himself hoping that Liberty Bell never grew so much that it would become a stop on the rail route.
He stood on the platform of the train station, wearing as he’d promised the red plaid shirt that he’d told Trice he’d have on so that she would be able to recognize him when she arrived. He held his hat in his two hands; the sun faced him down and made him squint, but he’d be damned if he’d be so uncouth as to have his hat on when he met his Boston bride for the very first time. He’d combed his hair and shaved that morning before his departure, but he felt grimy and sweaty, as if he’d been out on the Trail like a cowhand instead of sitting in the hotel room he’d booked for Mr. and Mrs. Gerrit Reilley. That room, with its neatly made bed, had proven, as nothing had yet, that this wild notion to find a wife was going to happen.
It was a wild notion for sure. What did he know about good girls? Pure girls? Nothing. What did he know about women, really, when it came down to that? Nothing. He’d been obliged to ask Josephine, of all people, what he should do. What would she expect? How---but Josephine, with her endless capacity to surprise him, had told him. Patiently, bluntly, in unstinting detail, what he should and shouldn’t do, and what a good girl would expect or know. He was inclined to think that maybe bad girls were the better option, but even bad girls had had their first time once. But Josephine’s words had been alarming: “If you’re gentle, and slow, it won’t hurt her too much. It’s up to you, Sheriff. “
Reilley figured that his prospects of beating a hired gun to the draw or having an empty jail on a Saturday night were likely better than his chances of matching the dreams of a nice girl from Boston who knew nothing about what men and women did together. He’d better shave again before bed, he thought, rubbing his hand across his jaw. At least she wouldn’t feel like she was being kissed by sandpaper—
A dainty, booted foot descended. A froth of pink flowered skirts appeared after the boots. Reilley’s mouth went dry. “Do you like pink? I’ll wear a pink dress if you fancy the color. Then you’ll know that it’s me.”
But he’d have known in any case, no matter what she had been wearing, because after the boots, and the skirts, and the white kid gloves, and the ruffled bodice, he saw a slim, graceful neck, a small, heart-shaped face, and eager, curious eyes gazing out on the platform, looking for him but searching, as she did so, for everything that she could see. Then she spied him, taller than anyone in the waiting crowd, watching the train as if his fate were bound and tied in what emerged.
She smiled. No one in Gerrit Reilley’s 30 years had ever smiled at him like that. She smiled as if she were happy to see him, and as if he was the only man in the world she wanted to see. How could a woman so petite convey so much promise in those soft, pink lips that curved like a bow against her smooth, creamy white skin? Her eyes met his; he’d heard songs about females with dancing eyes, but he’d never seen one in the flesh until now.
“Gerrit Reilley,” said a lilting voice that couldn’t have matched the frolic in those eyes nor the kisses-in-waiting shape of her lips any better.
“Miss Trice,” he said, his throat so parched that he didn’t know if the words would come forth. “Rhymes with kiss.”
She smiled and he saw dimples flirt with the curves of her lips. “You remembered!” she said happily as if he’d just uttered a verse of poetry.
“I couldn’t forget,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
He meant it, but she threw her head back and laughed as if he’s said something witty. “I think we’re going to do very well together,” she said confidently, holding out her elbow. Awkwardly, he took her arm, but the awkwardness soon passed and as they crossed the street together, he felt his uncertainty begin to melt.
“You’re much handsomer than you led me to believe,” she disclosed. “I wasn’t sure what to expect but I knew that any man who was willing to be so honest was very likely modest as well. I’ve never seen a man with green eyes like yours.”
He thought of Josephine’s description of his eyes as a cross between a snake’s cold capture and a tom cat ready to pounce. He hoped that wasn’t what Trice saw. He wasn’t quite sure what answer to make to a remark like that, but it didn’t matter. Trice sure didn’t need much to go on she chattered away as if everything she saw made her think of something else.
“Are we going to get married today?” she asked as they crossed the dusty street, Reilley shielding her with his body as they darted between horses and wagons. The Hotel Laredo, an impressive building with fresh paint and a broad porch, was just ahead. It was the most expensive hotel in town but Reilley was pleased with the appearance, and the bed linens were freshly washed.
“Yes, ma’am—Miss Trice. I’ve set it all up. Your luggage has been sent on to the hotel. It’ll be there for us, when we---“ he faltered.
“Would I be able to freshen up before we go to the rector? I’m sure I’m quite dusty.”
He took the hotel key from his pocket. “It’s on the second floor, room 205, just at the end of the hall.”
She looked at him curiously. “Aren’t you coming up?
“I—we aren’t wed yet,” he said hesitantly.
“Oh.” She considered this, holding the key in the palm of her hand. “But no one knows that.”
“Miss—it’s not proper for us to be in a room alone without being wed.”
“I don’t know if it matters so much,” she argued. “I’ve never—you see, I’ve never gone into a hotel by myself.”
“You traveled across the country by railroad alone, and you’re quaking about going into a hotel room?”
“You see,” she whispered, standing on the tips of her toes, “Mama always s
aid that a lady doesn’t go into a public building without an escort.”
“I don’t know that your mama would think kindly of her daughter being alone in a room with a man.” But even as he spoke, he was walking toward the hotel, caught in the enchantment of those dark blue eyes.
No one noticed as they entered and walked up the stairs to their room. Trice handed him the key soberly. His hands were not quite steady as he unlocked the door.
Once inside, Trice removed her bonnet, revealing a thick swirl of hair the color of dark, golden honey. She hurried over to the window. “It looks so busy out there,” she announced.
Reilley kept his distance. “I reckon Boston’s mighty busy.”
“Oh, yes, very busy, but that’s different.”
She didn’t explain how it was different and he didn’t ask. He was trying, without much success, not to notice the endearing inlets of her waist, a hand’s span, he was sure, before her skirts flared out again in delicate folds of pink. Trice leaned closer against the glass. “I wonder . . . do women in Texas not wear stays?”
“Pardon?”
“Stays. Corsets. I have one on; in Boston, a lady daren’t go out in public without being laced. But the women I see walking . . . I don’t think they’re laced! If I can go without lacing, I’m going to absolutely adore Texas!”
She turned around to face him, her face alight as if she’d been handed presents. He didn’t know much about corsets but he was damned sure that the girls at the Lucky Liberty didn’t wear them.
“Would you mind?” she asked, sounding anxious. “If I went without stays?”
“Would I mind?” he repeated. “What’s it got to do with me? I sure wouldn’t want to wear them.”
She giggled. “Imagine a man being laced up,” she scoffed.
It was troubling enough imagining what was underneath all that pink. Trice. Rhymes with kiss. God Almighty, she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and he’d be able, in the sight of God, to undo those buttons and unlace those stays and roll down the stockings and everything that she was wearing would come off and there would be nothing between them---
Reilley grabbed his hat. “We’d better go find the preacher,” he said. “Fast. Your mama wouldn’t think me much of a gentleman if she knew what I’m thinking.”
Chapter Six
By the time they were pronounced man and wife, Reilley wanted to do nothing but take her back to the hotel room and cleave unto her, just as the Good Book said. But Trice said she was hungry, and thirsty, too, and Reilley just nodded. She read the menu as if it were a source of fascination, closed it, and said that she’d have what he was having.
Reilley, who could have eaten ashes and spit and not known the difference as long as he was staring at her, ordered steak for both of them.
Trice sighed happily. “That sound like a very Texan meal,” she breathed.
Reilley raised his eyebrows. “They don’t cook steak in Boston?”
“Yes, but this will be authentic steak,” she explained. ‘The cattle are here.”
“Some of them,” he replied, his desire easing for the moment as he laughed. She was an original, no doubt about that. “There are cattle all over.” “Were you ever a cowboy?”
“Years ago.”
“Do you miss the life?” She leaned forward. Her dress dipped a bit in the front, enough for him to notice the rising swell of her bosom beneath the pink lace of her bodice.
Reilley looked away. “Hell, no,” he said, and was instantly apologetic. “Pardon, Miss Trice, I know better than to talk like that in front of a lady.”
She leaned even closer, so closely that if he reached out, he could wind one of those honey-gold tendrils of hair around his finger. “I wish I could curse,” she said wistfully.
Reilley laughed. “Go ahead,” he said.
“Mama always insisted that a lady never uses profanity.”
Reilley had the feeling that he and Trice’s Mama wouldn’t be on very good terms. But he was used to plain-speaking women like Josephine, who said what she thought in words that could make a cowboy blush.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, matching her whisper. “When it’s just the two of us together, you say whatever you want.”
“Truly? You won’t be shocked?”
Reilley grinned. “Hell, no.”
He’d almost kissed her in the dining room, but she’d sat back in her seat, smiling contentedly. When they returned to their hotel room, dusk had begun to fall.
“Mama says it’s women’s punishment,” she told him.
“Punishment? What punishment?”
“I’m not sure. Mama didn’t provide details. She just said that when a woman marries a man, and they have children, it’s a woman’s punishment and must be borne.”
“Mama said that?”
“Yes. But she didn’t say what the punishment was. I think it’s something to do with babies,” she told him.
“I expect so. But it’s not punishment.”
Trice took off her bonnet. “I didn’t think so. Although it’s very peculiar with cats.”
“Cats?”
“Yes. You have kittens, so you know.”
“I—you mean when cats mate?” he asked guardedly. Innocence and candor were turning his bride into a temptress.
“Yes, you’ve seen what they do. It’s very odd. I don’t believe people do it the same.”
Before he could answer, she had stretched out on the bed, her bottom high up in the air, her back low and sinuous. “And she moves like this—“ Trice turned her head around to look at him.
Watching the lithe undulations of her body, Reilley knew that he wasn’t going to be able to follow Josephine’s advice if this continued.
“Are you well?” she asked, sounding concerned. “Your eyes look like you have a fever.”
Reilley cast caution to the winds. “Trice rhymes with kiss, I do have a fever, and damned if it isn’t you.”
“Are you going to kiss me?” she asked, sounding intrigued by the prospect.
“I’m going to do a hell of a lot more than kiss you,” he said. “But first I need to get you out of that dress.”
Undressing her was time consuming; buttons took an eternity. They laughed over the stays, but when he got them off, she breathed a sigh of relief. But then, as he removed her clothing, kissing the warm skin where the fabric had been, her merriment changed to something else; he heard the pattern of her breathing change and he knew that even pure girls felt passion.
“You, too,” she said softly, when she was naked, her hair spilling onto her shoulders. “I want to see you like this.”
“Now you’re talking about punishment,” he teased. But when he took off his clothes, her huge dark eyes never left his body. He thought of himself as leathered and rangy, but didn’t realize that she saw the knitting of sinew to bone and the lean, seamless expanse of flesh as perfection. His green eyes were dark and mysterious to her, like a forest to be explored, and his raven black hair, thick and straight was mussed from her searching hands. He felt shy and uncertain for a moment, almost as if he were the novice, but he leaped onto the bed beside her, then on top of her, as her legs parted instinctively.
Josephine was right. Take it slow and gentle. She had a mouth that was made to surrender kisses and she gave them up to him, her lips opening as he pressed his mouth and tongue deeper. Then, as her breathing altered again, her soft hands grew demanding, pressing into his back as if she were making him her captive. She moaned and begged as he kissed her breasts, calling out his name in tattered syllables. He couldn’t wait any longer but she didn’t want him to; as he entered her, she arched to meet him, gasping at first in bewilderment but then, soon after, in the surprise of someone who was ambushed by delight. He waited until her sighs and entreaties subsided into pleased, kittenish whimpers, and then his own passion unleashed within her.
Trice cuddled close. “That didn’t feel like punishment at all,” she said emphatically.
/> By the time they boarded the stagecoach for Liberty Bell, after spending two days in their hotel room, they’d learned that their appetites for one another were only whetted for more each time they made love. Her purity and inexperience were a tantalizing foil to her ardor and he found that his Boston bride was not at all prim and proper. But when they entered the stagecoach, her hair swept in a golden coil beneath a pert green bonnet, her lovely body adorned in a green and pink frock, his wedding ring on her finger beneath her gloves, she was as composed as if they were on their way to a tea party.
“I was afraid of you,” he admitted as the stagecoach lumbered into motion.
“Me?” She showed her disbelief. “No one has ever had reason to be afraid of me.”
“I didn’t know why anyone who lived in Boston would want to come this far just to marry someone like me.”
Trice’s eyes were downcast. “I knew someone who left Boston for Texas. He said that Texas was being built in his lifetime and the last page hadn’t been written yet.”
“Who was he?” Reilley asked, trying to conceal his jealousy. “Someone you were fond of?”
“Very fond. Someone in my family.”
“Did something happen to him?”
“He died.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
From the time they’d met, there had been no distance between them until now. But her reference to a dead family member seemed to bring her to melancholy. They rode in silence.
Then she sighed and mustered a smile. “Was he right?”
“About Texas? Sounds right. I don’t know much about the book part of it . . . I don’t know as I’d describe Texas as a book. Maybe a painting. The canvas keeps changing; new people always come into view.”
Her smile, once again, was bright. “And now I’m in the painting with you.”
He smiled back. “Yes, Trice Reilley, you’re in the painting with me.”
