More Than She Bargained For (The Widow Wagon Book 2)

by Megan Michaels

  Now, as he contemplated the pink ring of her bottom hole stretched tight over his thick cock, he patted her hip gently. “You don’t seem as particular about how you receive your release anymore. Has my point been made?”

  “Y-Yes, Sir. I’ll wait for the buggy whip until after the baby is born.”

  “Yes, you will. Let’s carry on.” He pressed the rest of himself into her ass, pushing until his balls bounced off her moist, hot pussy. Reaching around her, he stroked the puffy lips of her sex, slipping a finger into her, teasing her by sliding in and out then gliding the dripping fingers down her to the clit.

  He thrust faster, ramping up his own arousal until he slammed into her spurting his release deep inside her. Moments later, she screamed again with her second release. He pulled her into an upright position as he slipped out of her ass. “I don’t want you leaning on that wood — it can’t be good for you or the baby.”

  She turned in his arms, letting her skirt fall down as she rolled her eyes at him. “Christ! You’re wearing me out. It’s okay for me to lean on things, that baby has a lot of padding in there. He or she is fine.”

  Noah sighed in exasperation. “Please, just entertain my concerns. Please?”

  “Okay, sweetie. Whatever you wish.” She turned a devilish smile up at him. He’d asked her to entertain him, and she’d most graciously accepted.

  Life was good. He had a successful ranch, a house, a wife, and a baby on the way. He even had good friends. Friends who had the same interests, desires, likes, wants and needs.

  He’d been a happy client of the Widow Wagon and got much more than a match of convenience and both of them received more than they bargained for.

  Epilogue

  Since Daisy’s exit to meet her new husband, the wagon had been unusually quiet. Eerily quiet. It amazed Clara how different an atmosphere can be with one person missing.

  When she’d lived in Indiana, one of her neighbors had passed on the street she lived on in Vincennes. It had been touted as the oldest city in Indiana, founded by the French fur traders. But when her neighbor Mabel had died, the neighbors all stopped talking.

  It hadn’t occurred to anyone that Mabel was the catalyst for them. She brought them all together for teas, birthday parties, or picnics. They’d find themselves gathering on the street in front of someone’s house for hours, laughing and gossiping.

  The Widow Wagon reminded her of that with Daisy’s absence. No one seemed to have anything to talk about with her gone.

  Although Minnie was much younger than Lizzie — who appeared to be about thirty years old — they seemed to pair up well. And that left Margie pairing up with Clara. As the older women on the wagon, it made sense. Margie said she’d just turned forty two years old and even though twelve years didn’t seem like a lot, their interests were similar and yet distinctly different.

  Clara kept reminding herself that she only had to make it to Independence Rock, Wyoming. That’s where her husband waited for her. Eugene Wilson, a schoolteacher there would be the answer to her worries. She needed a caring man, someone who would be kind to her girls and her, but also someone who knew how to keep them safe and draw boundaries. Who better to do all of those things than a schoolteacher? He’d be familiar with children, he’d help her girls with their studies and establish the guidance and discipline that young girls needed from a father — especially now that their father had passed on.

  She heard giggling and laughing, realizing that her girls were still playing with Angus. He’d had a bag of marbles, and had taught them how to play. He seemed to enjoy playing with them each night, making them laugh with his silly jokes and stories of his antics as a child.

  “Girls, it’s time to go to bed.”

  They both whined and pouted. Angus scooped up the marbles. “Now, stop that. You girls are too old to sound like babies. These marbles ain’t going anywhere. We’ll play again tomorrow night and I’ll tell you more about what Charles and I did that got our backsides whooped.” He chuckled and picked each of them up, kissing them gently on their foreheads.

  “See you both in the morning. You mind your ma. I don’t wanna hear of you givin’ her any trouble. You hear?”

  They both smiled back at him and said in unison, “Yes, Sir.”

  He waved at Clara. “You have a good evening, Miss Clara. Morning comes bright and early.”

  “That it does, Angus. That it does. You sleep well too.”

  She smiled to herself. She’d made good friends on the Widow Wagon and she hoped that they’d be this happy in Independence Rock with their new husband and friends.

  To Be Continued…

  # # #

  Did you enjoy the story? Want to know what happens next? Read on for an excerpt of the next entry in the series, The Widow Wagon, Book Three: Cinch Your Saddle.

  Excerpt — Cinch Your Saddle

  Widow Wagon — Book 3

  Angus swore there was nothing more beautiful than the sky in Wyoming. Blue as one of those small marbles he had in the bag in his pocket. Not a cloud in the sky, and in the distance, the Granite Mountains could be seen. It wouldn’t be long before they arrived in Independence Rock, another drop off. Clara would be meeting her new husband. Angus sighed, already knowing he’d miss Clara and the kids.

  It’d been a long time since he’d been able to play with children, enjoy their laughter and their antics. He chuckled to himself — kids brought an enjoyment to life that some didn’t know. Others, like himself, knew the joy and chaos that children brought to a home — and he also knew the void and heartbreaking pain upon their loss. He swiped at the tears that sprung up unbidden — again.

  It had been three years this past winter that his wife and little girls died of influenza. He’d cared for and nursed them all for weeks. He’d never understood why God hadn’t take him too. His wife’s name had been Rose, just like Clara’s youngest. She’d turned twenty seven that year she gave up the ghost. Their girls were five and seven — Katherine and Priscilla. He’d nicknamed them Kat and Prissy. Rose never cared for the nicknames, wanting them to sound like elegant ladies of society. He’d told her that there’d be time enough for that, but that while they were little, he’d call them by these cute nicknames.

  He’d spent hours on the floor with them in the evening. Playing marbles, tickling, letting them jump on him and ride him like a horse. He missed the laughter and mayhem a busy house with young children brought. His wife some days had been appalled that he roughhoused with them.

  “You play with them like boys,” she’d say. “They’re girls, Angus — not roughneck boys!”

  He’d done his best to save them, and the doctor had told him so too. He’d bathed them, sat up all night putting cold compresses on their heads, serving them broth. He’d even gone to town to get them the latest remedies. Rose had been afraid that he’d catch it, and told him to put a handkerchief over his face.

  “Angus, just worry about the girls. I’m fine. I don’t need you fussin’ over me like a mother hen.” She’d scowled at him, but was so weak that she couldn’t lift her head off the pillow.

  “Don’t you bark out orders at me, girl. I do what I want and you know that. You need to get well.” He’d put a compress on her head, gently kissing her lips. “What would I do without you? Promise me you’ll get better.”

  “I’m doin’ my best, Angus. How’s Kat and Prissy?” At those words, she’d tried to rise up to see them across the room.

  Angus had pulled the mattresses into the main room of the house so he could take care of all of them and watch them all closely at the same time. He’d slept — when he could — in the rocking chair by the fire.

  “They’re doin’ fine. You lie down. They’re sleeping. You don’t wanna disturb them, do ya?” He’d gently pushed her back down onto her pillow, tucking the warm quilt around her neck to keep off the chill in the cold January Missouri weather.

  “No, I don’t want to wake them. Keep them cool. Did you get any medicine from the
Doc?” Her eyes were glassy and her cheeks pink with the fever he couldn’t keep down.

  “Yes. Doc gave me medicine for them, as well as you. Don’t you remember takin’ it?” He tried to not convey concern, but if she didn’t remember, it meant her fever and the influenza had taken hold harder than he’d anticipated.

  Her eyebrows had knit in confusion. “No. You gave me medicine?”

  He tried to sound casual, seeing the concern in her eyes. “Just a couple times in the middle of the night,” he lied. “That’s probably why you don’t remember. Just go to sleep. I’ll give you more when it’s time. I need to check on the girls.” He kissed her forehead then, rising wearily from the bed and going to see his girls.

  His wife would never wake again.

  She’d been the first to go. After discovering she’d died, he’d crawled into bed with her and wept over her lifeless body. He’d covered her with the blue and yellow patchwork quilt her mother had made them for their wedding. Funny, the things you think at a time like that. Her mother had no idea years ago that the very quilt she made for their wedding bed would also be the quilt used to cover her lifeless, cold daughter before being buried under the brown dirt of Missouri. He stayed with Rose until he had to check on the girls, replacing cloths, giving medicine, and feeding them both broth.

  He slept on the end of the girls’ bed taking turns caring for each of them. Kat and Prissy had hair so blonde it was almost white, their piercing blue eyes as glassy as the marbles they played with at night. Their lips were cherry red with fever and he did his best to keep them drinking water. But it’d been difficult when they were so listless. Half of the water he gave them would dribble out of the corner of their mouths. He’d taken to serving water to them with a spoon.

  He knew the night that Prissy died that he’d lost the battle for both of his daughters. They hardly coughed anymore. But their lungs, full of infection, rattled and wheezed. Their little bodies struggled for air, although they appeared calm, almost... peaceful. He’d given them broth again, hoping to clear up their lungs. Doc said it’d help. But when Prissy started to have the fits and shook with tremors for minutes on end, he knew the fever had won. He’d be losing his daughter too. Exhaustion had taken over then, and he’d collapsed at some point at the end of the bed.

  He awoke later on, startled to see sunlight through the little kitchen window in the main room. He leapt out of bed, touching Prissy’s face — _cold and gray_. She’d died. He slept — and his baby girl had died. Common sense told him that it had nothing to do with him falling asleep, but he worried that she’d died alone.

  Did she cry out for him? No. He would’ve woken up if she had. Right? Did she reach out, looking for his arms to hold her as she left this world? No, he would have felt the movement in the bed. She had been listless all day. She more than likely just drifted off, carried quietly by the angels out of this world.

  He’d scooped his baby girl into his embrace, her limbs heavy, lifeless, dangling over his own arms. He sat by the fire, tucking her nightie over her legs — to keep her warm. It didn’t make sense; he knew she wasn’t cold — but she felt cold. Paternal instincts ran deep though, and he needed to keep her warm, comfortable, and safe. He pressed his face to her clammy neck and wept. He’d miss cuddling with his baby Prissy. She’d been the one that sat on his lap or tucked herself under his arm in bed on those cold, lazy Sunday mornings. She loved laying on his chest, hugging his neck.

  Those little arms wouldn’t wrap around him ever again.

  He didn’t know how long he sat there holding her. But when the time came to give Kat her medicine, he’d gently placed Prissy in the bed, tucking the quilt around her just as he had for her mother.

  When he rounded the bed, his lively and full of mischief Kat seemed as listless as her sister had been the day before. With a low whine that started in his belly, he dropped his head to her small, slight chest and just wept. He’d never understand why God didn’t hear his wails and cries. He remembered the preacher saying that God saved his tears in Heaven. If He would go to the trouble to save them, why couldn’t He just prevent the tears? It seemed like Angus had been abandoned.

  He had wiped the tears away, giving Kat her medicine, wiping her brow, and ladeling her the same broth he’d given Prissy. Surely God would let Kat live? Angus diligently cared for Kat, doing everything he knew to make her well. He wouldn’t let Angus be totally alone — lost.

  But when nightfall came around and Kat had started to have the fits too, he knew he’d lost this battle as well. He’d held her body, waiting for the fits to end. Wailing loudly, he begged God to take his life instead. But his prayers obviously didn’t reach heaven. Kat died a few hours later.

  Angus had held her in his arms in front of the fire too, remembering the antics and fun he’d had with his Kat. From the time she could walk, she climbed and ran almost nonstop. She wasn’t dainty or delicate as Prissy had been. His Kat had been a tomboy. She loved to fish and catch frogs at the pond. She’d been the boy he hadn’t been graced with. He’d find her climbing trees and sitting in the loft of the barn. If mischief didn’t find her, she found _it_. She’d been on the receiving end of her parent’s discipline many a day. And although he wouldn’t let her know it, he loved that about her. She had a zest and zeal for life. He always believed she do something important, someday. It looked like he’d been wrong. He laid his now lifeless daughter onto the bed next to her sister, covering her up as well.

  He’d sat in his chair by the fireplace and stared at what used to be his family. He’d need to call the doctor and let him know. He’d be receiving death certificates for all of them. He’d have to write to Rose’s family. He’d need to get them all buried. He’d bury them under the willow tree by the pond, putting a fence around it. He rocked, and stared, and thought. Rose died on a Sunday, Prissy on Monday, and Kat on Tuesday.

  His life ended on Tuesday too.

  Finally he’d gotten up and saddled his horse for town, reaching Doc’s office. The calm man of medicine had told Angus the day was Saturday. _Saturday!_ He had sat on the chair in his house for four days? Doc had said he’d likely gone into shock. He’d given Angus some medicine, and brought him to Mabel’s for some dinner.

  The town had rallied around him after the death of his family. Friends had coordinated making the caskets. They helped him dig the graves and bury his wife and girls. The mason in town made him some simple stones with their names, dates of birth, and dates of death. He visited that little cemetery by the pond almost every day. He’d fish there and remember the days of laughing with Kat and walking home with a line full of five inch fish. They’d bragged and ate those fish like they were whales.

  The women in town had cooked meals for him. He didn’t have to ask or beg. He’d come home and find a meal sitting by the fire all ready for him. He’d helped out as a marshal in Independence for years. But when Charles talked about starting a mail-order Widow Wagon service for the Oregon Trail, he knew it’d be the right job for him. It’d keep him away from home — which wasn’t a home anymore. It was only a house. That’s it. He’d get to help lonely, needy women to start over again. And in the process, he’d get to enjoy the country. It’d been a perfect fit.

  He had a hard time starting over again after losing them, but a friend had said to him one day, “Angus, you gotta cinch your saddle and start over. You can’t mope in that house every day. It’s time.” He’d been right.

  Today, driving the wagon to Independence Rock, Wyoming, he looked around the landscape and decided that while he might not be as happy as he’d hoped, life had turned out pretty well for him. He liked being the wagon master for the Widow Wagon. And except for the occasional woman like Daisy — who did nothing but rile up the other women — he really enjoyed the job.

  And he hated having to discipline the women, but they could cause quite a ruckus if he didn’t keep them in line. This particular Widow Wagon had been a challenge; the women were an interesting mix, and every si
ngle one of them were independent, strong-willed, and sassy as hell. He still felt bad about having to switch Clara the week before, but she and Daisy hadn’t given him any choice. Grown women rolling around on the ground, pulling hair, screeching and carrying on was bad enough. Then Clara had decided to switch Daisy — after he’d specifically warned her not to.

  He’d miss Clara and her girls though. He played with them every night and they reminded him of his own lost girls. They were good girls — and fun. But his job was to deliver women to their future husbands at designated stops on the Oregon Trail. Today, he’d be delivering Clara, Rose, and Nelly.

  The wagon pulled up in front of the station stop in Independence Rock, Wyoming. “Clara! Girls! C’mon out. It’s time to meet your new husband and pa.”

  He jumped down from the wagon bench and Clara came up with her daughters. He wrapped his large hands around each girls’ slight shoulders, walking up to the station window. “Hey Dusty, we’re here to meet a gentleman by the name of Eugene Wilson. For a Clara Pickett.”

  Dusty grabbed his book and flipped through the pages. “I thought so. The name was familiar to me when ya said it.” He closed the book with a finality that Angus didn’t like. “Eugene came here yesterday and a mail-order bride had been left standing here, stranded. He said he’d take her. They done got married at the chapel up the road, then they left.”

  “He left with another woman?” Angus couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

  “Yep. That’s what I said. He told her that he’d take her and said something about ‘not wanting young’uns anyway’ — and then he left to marry her.” Dusty shrugged at them. “Sorry. Is there anything else I can do for you?”