Married in Montana

by Jane Porter

  “She was English. I was Irish.”

  Ellie processed that for a bit. Her mother’s family was Irish. They’d been here far longer than Thomas but she couldn’t imagine that Ireland was so different seventy-five years ago. “Was she wealthy?”

  “I don’t know if she was. But her father had land.”

  “An aristocrat?”

  “Close enough.”

  Ellie chewed on her lip, thinking of this girl he’d wanted but couldn’t have. “What if she got pregnant?”

  “There are ways to reduce the risks of pregnancy.”

  “Did we do that tonight?”

  “No.”

  Ellie’s eyebrows rose. Until this moment she hadn’t even thought about conception, or having a child. She wasn’t ready to be a mother. She wasn’t even comfortable being a wife yet.

  He sat up and looked down at her. “Are you concerned about getting pregnant?”

  “I want children. I’m just not sure I’m ready yet.” She reached up and touched the back of his arm, fingers exploring the hard, bunched tricep. “I don’t feel like I even know you yet.”

  “Whatever happens, it’ll be fine,” he said firmly, with a confidence she didn’t feel.

  But she nodded and drew the sheet up to cover herself.

  He stopped her, his hand parting her thighs, his torso bending over her. She wasn’t sure she needed more help from him, but then he kissed the inside of her thigh, and kissed her right over her curls, and then the tip of his tongue found the silken nub he’d stroked so cleverly before.

  She gasped and tried to push him away but he held her knees open so that he could take his time kissing her where she was so very sensitive. Ellie couldn’t breathe. Her heart raced and her body melted as he licked and kissed until she was soon sobbing his name as she shattered all over again.

  Now she lay dazed and spent, her body so warm that she couldn’t even imagine pulling the sheet over her. But then, it didn’t help having a mammoth of a man in bed next to her, especially when the bed wasn’t particularly large.

  They’d need to sort out the bed situation one of these days. She couldn’t imagine taking over her father’s room. Could they just get a bigger bed for her room?

  “Stop thinking,” a gruff Thomas muttered, reaching out to pull her closer to his side.

  She turned her head to look at his face. He was big and tough out of bed, but in it, he was sensitive, skillful, and devoted to her pleasure. “I’m jealous of the women you’ve loved before me.”

  “Don’t be. I married you, not them.”

  “But you must have made them all feel this way.”

  “No.” He kissed her forehead. “Now no more talking. We need to sleep,” he added, his hand sliding down her waist, to stroke her hip. “Morning will be here soon.”

  “That’s right. You have to work.”

  “And what will you be doing, Mrs. Sheenan?”

  “Sleeping in. Relaxing. Just enjoying my bed.”

  He opened his eyes and looked into hers, his dark gaze heavy lidded, his black lashes concealing his expression. “You know what will happen if I find you in bed.”

  She smiled faintly. “Promises, promises.”

  He gave her backside a light spank, and then rubbed her cheek where it was warm. “Careful, I’m hard again and you need to recover.” And then he pulled her backside against his hips, and he was indeed hard, his erection pressing against the cleft of her bottom, and she held her breath, afraid to wiggle because her nerves were already dancing, making her aware there were still so many things she didn’t know. She just hoped Thomas would be patient and teach her.

  And then finally, somehow, she did fall asleep, and when she woke up the next morning, Thomas was gone.

  For Ellie, the next week passed in a blur of wildly contradictory emotions and seductive sensation.

  It didn’t take her long to get used to having Thomas in her bed, although the pleasure wasn’t just the physical, but him. He was always different after they made love. He’d tell her things she didn’t think he’d ever share otherwise, and she took advantage of his openness when they were lying in bed together, wanting to know everything she could about him so they could become closer, and even more intimate.

  Thomas, she’d noticed, was good with touch and giving her pleasure, but during the day he had a tendency to withdraw. It was odd, but the more passionate they were in bed, the cooler he seemed to be during the day. She hoped it was just her imagination, but couldn’t be sure because so much was changing, including making love. It was rarely the same. Every time she thought she understood the basics, the basics changed. It seemed that there wasn’t just one way to make love, but rather a dizzying number of positions and variations—on top, on bottom, on one’s knees, on one’s side, sitting up on his lap...

  She thought she liked most of them, although there were a few where she felt awfully exposed, especially if they were doing them in the afternoon, after dinner before he returned to work. He liked her to straddle his hips and “ride” him, and while she liked how it felt, she did feel naked on top.

  Perhaps because she was naked, when sitting on him. But still...

  They’d just spent the past hour in bed, and she knew from the past week, that he’d soon be leaving her, and dressing again and heading out.

  She wasn’t ready for him to go. She was lonely when he was gone, and she felt anxious and empty until he returned and kissed her again, and made her feel wanted again.

  Maybe that was the problem. She only really felt wanted when he was touching her. Lately, when he did his books, or tackled simple repairs in the evening, he didn’t look at her or try to talk to her. He just focused on his task and she tried to find things to do to keep herself busy, things that would keep her from thinking about them, and how Thomas felt about her.

  They weren’t a love match. He’d never promised her love, and she told him that she wasn’t expecting romance or even affection, and so she’d set herself up for disappointment.

  It didn’t help that every time he kissed her, or his body covered hers, she fell even more deeply in love. Making love only intensified her emotions, making her crave him and his skin and the intimacy of being wanted by him.

  She’d tried to tell him how she felt, but the last time she’d mentioned the word “feelings” he’d shut down and climbed from bed, and she didn’t want that to happen today.

  Rolling onto her side, she studied his profile. He was staring at the ceiling, one arm behind his head, his black brows a strong clean slash above his straight nose and firm mouth.

  “Tell me more about you,” she said, placing a hand on his chest.

  He tensed and she lightly circled the spot above his heart. “I know you don’t want to talk about your family,” she said, keeping her tone as light as her fingertips, “but can you talk about your home, where you grew up?”

  “There is very little to tell. We didn’t have much. You’d be disappointed. We weren’t anything special.”

  “Knowing you, I don’t believe that is true.”

  He made a soft mocking sound that made his chest rumble. “I think all the pleasure has gone to your head.”

  She smiled crookedly. “Maybe, and maybe not. I can’t help being curious about you. After all, I will need stories to tell our children.”

  “Our children won’t need to know about Ireland—”

  “Nonsense. I love Ireland.”

  “You’ve never been.”

  “My mother’s people loved it, too.”

  “Then why did they leave?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not asking for your deepest, darkest secrets! I just want to know more about you. Isn’t there anything you can share? A little morsel to amuse me? You know so much about my life here. I just want to know more about your life before I met you.”

  He was silent a moment, and then he reached over and smoothed her hair back from her face, stroking the long red tendrils behind her ear and then down
over her shoulder. “There is one thing. I haven’t told anyone this, and I’m not sure what you will think, but it’s amusing. At least to me.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Until I came to America, my surname wasn’t Sheenan, but Sheehan. It changed when I went through immigration. The official at Ellis Island wrote it down wrong and I don’t know if he was irritated, or not feeling well, but when I pointed out the error, he said maybe America didn’t need another smart mouth, and so I told him never mind. Sheenan was a good name and I was on my way. And for the past six years Sheenan has been a good name.”

  “But it’s not your real name,” she cried.

  “It’s not such a big deal—”

  “It is!”

  He shrugged. “Sheehan is a common name where I’m from. You’ll find Sheehans all over County Clare and Limerick, although you’ll get different spellings. Sheahan, O’Sheehan and O’Sheahan. Now I just have one more variation.”

  “But it’s not your proper name! Why wouldn’t you insist he fix it?”

  “It would have been a long, expensive trip home.”

  “But were you not proud of your surname, because I loved Burnett? I loved being my father’s daughter.”

  “The O’Sheehans were a really old family in Ireland. They dated back to the tenth century, and were a powerful clan in the old days, but the O’Sheehans, like most of the Irish clans, suffered following the British invasion. Cromwell and his men stripped the Irish clans of their land and property giving them to English settlers. Our clan, like others, lost virtually everything, turning us into peasants in our own country, and we’ve been peasants ever since. I’m sure that’s why your mother’s people left, too.”

  Her mouth opened, then closed. She gave her head a confused shake. “I just think one’s name is so important.”

  “I agree. But maybe this was a good thing. I’d begun to feel as if my family was cursed. Maybe being Thomas Sheenan has changed my luck. In fact, I know it has. I married you.”

  “But your family—”

  “They’re all gone, and the only family that matters now is ours.”

  Ellie drew a slow breath but found it hard to relax. Even with her eyes closed, her heart continued to beat too hard. “That is a terrible story,” she whispered.

  “I think it’s rather funny.”

  “How is it funny?”

  “I just keep thinking, how many other names did that irritated, or sickly, agent misspell? How many others are living in America with a different name because the immigration official couldn’t be bothered to get it right?”

  “You’re just making me more upset!”

  “Don’t be upset, or I can’t tell you any more stories when you ask.”

  “Hmph.”

  Thomas kissed her then to distract her, and then he held her, loosely, easily, until she fell asleep and now he watched her nap, her thick auburn hair spilling over her arm and across her pillow.

  This afternoon he’d had her once, twice, and he should be satisfied, but he still felt restless, heavy with a need he couldn’t assuage.

  He’d never known such desire. He’d never known such hunger.

  He told himself it was because he’d gone almost a year without a woman, but in his heart, he knew that wasn’t it.

  He was becoming attached to her, maybe too attached.

  The emotion wasn’t comfortable. It made him worry about her, and feel possessive, and even more responsible. Yes, she was his responsibility, just the way the land and the livestock were in his care, but he couldn’t get soft. He couldn’t allow his emotions to rule his head. Life was hard enough without emotions clouding one’s thinking.

  He leaned over her, brushed her lips with his, breathing in her smell and the warm softness of her skin and then because he had already dallied too long, he left the bed and quietly slipped into his trousers and then grabbed his shirt and boots.

  He had to rethink these lazy afternoons with her, no matter how lovely.

  Maybe he had to rethink it all.

  Thomas spoke to her at supper, letting her know that he wouldn’t be coming back to the house after dinner, and that once he left in the mornings, he’d be gone until late.

  Ellie had known all throughout the meal that something was bothering him. He’d been even quieter than usual and he hadn’t smiled at her once, or looked into her eyes, or paid her any attention other than thanking her for passing this, or serving that.

  She chewed on her lip for a long minute, gathering her courage before asking, “Did I do something earlier—”

  “No.”

  And yet, he’d cut her short in a hard, cold voice. Ellie drew a quick breath, trying not to be hurt. “Are you angry because I made you talk about home?”

  “No.”

  “I fell asleep and everything was fine, but you’ve been so cold ever since you came home this evening. It’s almost as if you hate me.”

  He sighed impatiently. “I do not hate you.”

  “But you don’t love me,” she said in a small voice.

  He shot her a swift, hard look. “Love was never part of the equation, Ellie, and you know it.”

  “Why can’t it be?”

  “Because I’m not that man. I’m not going to ever be that man.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means I am who I am—”

  “You’re not even trying!”

  “You don’t think I’m trying? You don’t think I’m showing you any respect, any tenderness—”

  “That’s not what I mean. I just feel like you want lovemaking, but not really me.”

  “Who am I making love to then if it’s not you?”

  She bit down and looked away, blinking hard to keep her eyes from watering. “You know what I mean,” she whispered.

  “Sweetheart, this is who I am. This is what I am. If you’re not happy, I’m sorry, but I’ve given you everything I can.”

  Her head dropped and she closed her eyes, holding the hurt in.

  “I’m not in the mood for tears,” he said roughly. “They’re not going to move me.”

  “Just go away.”

  “I knew this would happen.” He threw down his napkin and rose from the table. “I knew it wouldn’t be enough for you. I’m not the kind of man you were dating. I’m not Sinclair Douglas, either. I’m not tender, or romantic, and I sure as hell won’t write you poems—”

  “I don’t want poems. I don’t even like poetry. It’s annoying. But you... you’re even more annoying right now. You’re changing the meaning of my words!”

  “You’re the one that said you feel empty, and that this relationship feels empty. I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry you’re disappointed, but I have tried to show you I will always take care of you, and protect you. I’ve tried to be a good husband, and fulfill my responsibilities, but if you’re not satisfied, I don’t know what else to do.”

  “But I don’t want to be a responsibility! I don’t want to be another duty. I want you to want me—”

  “I do. When do I not reach for you at night? How have I left you dissatisfied in bed?”

  She flushed. “You are very good in bed.”

  “So what is your complaint?”

  Her mouth opened, and then closed without making a sound. “There isn’t one,” she said finally, eyes gritty and hot, as a lump filled her throat.

  “Good,” he snapped, before walking out.

  Ellie cleared the table and did the dishes and then changed into her nightdress. She sat on the front porch in the rocking chair Thomas had brought out for her earlier in the week because it was cooler outside at night than in the house during the middle of July.

  She rocked slowly, trying to soothe herself, not wanting to be upset, or cry. He didn’t like it when she cried. He’d told her before that tears were a trick women used to get their way. It had made her angry at the time, but she’d never forgotten what he’d said and she was determined she’d be calm when he returned to the hou
se.

  He took his time returning, too, but at last she heard his boots inside the house, and then his footsteps on the stairs. He went up and then he came back down and opened the front door.

  “I was looking for you,” he said, joining her on the porch and leaning against one of the big log posts.

  “It’s nice out here. It’s cool and the stars are so bright.”

  He said nothing and she touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. “I like it when we’re together, Thomas, whether it’s the afternoon, or at night. You always know how to pleasure me.”

  He just stared out over the landscape.

  She pressed her nails into her hands, trying not to be nervous, wanting so very much to make him understand. “But afterward it feels so different. It’s as if you’ve pulled away—”

  “But I haven’t. I’m still lying there next to you.”

  Her eyes burned, the salty sting making her want to blink. “I don’t mean in bed, Thomas. I mean once we’re both dressed. Something in you seems to change. Like tonight at supper, and even now. It doesn’t seem like you are the same with me. It’s almost like you become someone else.” Her voice faded and she held her breath, waiting for him to answer.

  “I haven’t,” he said at length. “For better or worse, it’s still me.”

  She didn’t know what to say next, wasn’t even sure if he wanted her to say anything. The silence stretched. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, either. Knots formed in her stomach. Her nerves felt stretched to a breaking point.

  “It’s going to be an early morning for me,” he said, still staring out at the moon washed valley. “We’re moving the cattle up the mountain tomorrow. We’ll be gone a couple days. A week at the most. I’ll be back once they’re settled.”

  She noticed he wasn’t looking at her. He was doing everything he could to avoid meeting her gaze. “I remember those trips,” she said quietly. “My father used to take me.”

  She paused, waiting for him to include her, wanting him to want her. But he said nothing and she felt a sharp lance of pain. It wasn’t her imagination, he was shutting her out.

  She didn’t understand it, didn’t know what was happening between them but he was pulling away and putting up a wall that hadn’t been there before.