by Paige Tyler
Morgan glanced at the mules, wondering if she should saddle one of them for herself. She’d ridden some, but not in years. Her father used to let her ride like a boy, but her uncle wouldn’t let her near his animals. She couldn’t even drive a buggy then, but had to ask one of the servants to take her to town.
“Them mules is purt-near impossible to control,” Lee told her. “They’s used to the harness and pullin’ a plow, but they buck in a saddle.”
“I think I’ll walk,” she said quickly.
Lee nodded, his eyebrows drawing together in worry. “I’ll give you a look-see of the place. I jus’ hope we find Papa. Don’t know what could be keepin’ him.”
Lee held his pony back, walking along side her as he showed her around. He showed her the outbuildings, one for hay for winter, one for tools and a sorry-looking wagon. Lee quickly gestured to the woodshed, his face coloring noticeably. The woodshed, obviously, carried unpleasant memories. Morgan tried not to smile.
“Shouldn’t we check in the woodshed?” she asked innocently.
“No.”
“But what if your Papa had been stacking wood, and hurt himself?”
“He don’t really keep much wood in there,” Lee muttered, urging his pony to pick up the pace.
“Then what’s it for?”
“I s’pose you might call it our schoolhouse,” Lee answered, flashing her an impudent grin, even though his cheeks had turned ruddy. “It’s where Papa makes sure we learn our lesson.”
Morgan couldn’t explain the warmth that crept low in her belly. Would her future husband be teaching her any lessons? She wasn’t sure what was expected between husbands and wives. She’d known her mother to receive a few spankings, before her parents had died. But her uncle despised women ever since his wife ran off and left him and their three little boys to shack up with a gambler. He’d hardly talked to Morgan all the years she’d lived with him.
“Surely you don’t have to go there often,” Morgan teased.
Lee shrugged. “No more’n Kate, I reckon. Papa says she’s as stubborn as a mule and twice the trouble.”
So maybe Kate wasn’t singling Morgan out, but was rude to everyone? Morgan wondered, hoping she and the girl could come to some sort of understanding.
The pastures were stubby-looking. The grass was short and sparse, bare dirt showing between each small clump. The dirt was hard-packed and pale looking, not a rich, earthy black like back home. Maybe instead of a jar of starter, she should have been nursing along a jar of worms? She shook her head. It would take so much work to make this farm more profitable, but already it felt more like home than all the years she’d spent on her uncle’s spread.
They checked a small watering hole next, which Lee told her was mostly for the sheep, but sometimes they went swimming in it. “Fish don’t live here. Sometimes, in a dry summer, the water dries up,” he said. “Papa put a box trap up the creek. The fish fall into the trap as the water spills over the rocks. The little fish swim right out, but the bigger ones get caught. Then Papa either cleans ‘em and salts ‘em, or he lets ‘em go, iffen we don’t want more fish yet.”
“That sounds clever,” Morgan said, trying to picture it. It sure took the work out of fishing, but maybe it wasn’t as much fun, either. “Will you show me?”
The pony followed a dirt path up a narrow creek, which wound through blackberry brambles and wild plums. The blackberries were gone by now, but Morgan had seen jars of them in the cellar.
The brambles thickened, tearing at her sleeve. She had to go slower, following Lee’s pony instead of walking beside him. The ground got softer, smelling like mushrooms and moss. She stopped once, scooping handfuls of the cold creek water to her lips. The noise of rushing water grew louder until they reached the falls - a rocky area where the creek dropped about ten feet into a hollow, where it formed a small pool. And there, half submerged, was a mountain of a man.
“Papa!” Lee cried, urging his pony nearer. “Papa! What’s wrong!”
Morgan felt his neck for a pulse. He was so cold. She held her breath, terrified, not knowing how she could tell these children that their beloved father had died. Tears of relief spilled down her cheeks when she felt a faint beat.
“He’s alive!”
Lee started tugging at the leather straps, coaxing his pony to drop down. “Help me get him up,” he insisted.
“Your pony can’t carry him - he’s too big!”
“We sure can’t,” Lee said. “Tubs will be okay.”
“But, what about you? I can’t just leave you here!”
“You’re gonna haff to. Send one of the girls back here with Tubs after you got Papa home. Hurry!”
Lee was right about one thing - she’d never be able to carry the man herself. He was easily as tall as her uncle had been, perhaps taller. His shoulders were broad, barely encased in a snug sheepskin jerkin that was soaking wet making him seem twice as heavy. His hair hung down to his collar, and his bushy red beard was nearly just as long. After meeting the children she had anticipated their father would be a little more refined, but he looked every inch the pioneer. Uncouth, unshaved, and unsavory.
“Wake up, Papa! Please! You gotta help!” Lee cried, tugging one great massive arm.
Morgan swallowed her disappointment. He might be hairy and disheveled, but he was a man, and soon he would be hers. There was no turning back. She grabbed his other arm, and between the two of them, they managed to get him draped over the little saddle. The pony - a gelding, Lee informed her, stumbled getting back to his feet, but steadfastly carried his burden. Morgan walked beside the pony, keeping one of the man’s arms around her shoulders as she tried to take some of his weight off the pony and ensure that he didn’t slide from the saddle. She glanced back at the small, crippled boy sitting on the damp ground, who was himself still just getting over a flu.
“I don’t feel right about this,” she insisted.
“Nuttin’ right about this at all,” he agreed. “Just take care o’ my Papa!”
The trip back seemed longer. At times Morgan wasn’t sure they were even headed in the right direction, but then she’d spot something familiar and she kept going. The pony appeared to know the way. As she neared the house, four frightened faces huddled in the open door.
“Kate, can you and Hannah help me get him to bed?” Morgan asked.
The girls tried, but they were still weak themselves. They ended up more dragging him than carrying, and together with Bridget and little Rebecca the five of them rolled him up onto the bed.
“Is he gonna be okay?” Kate asked.
“I think so,” Morgan said, wishing she could sound more positive. But spending the night in that cold creek while sick with fever might just prove too much for even a big man like him. She had to get him warm and dry fast.
“Girls, bring me some towels, please. And blankets. And Kate, can you take the pony back for Lee? He’s waiting by the fish trap at the bottom of the falls. Then I want you to go back to bed yourselves. You’ll be the biggest help if you just make sure I don’t have any more sick children tonight.”
She started with the sheepskin jerkin. Peeling it off proved challenging. She’d had to help her uncle dress every day near the end of his life, but while he had been feeble with age and disease, at least he’d been awake. Her betrothed was dead weight. Morgan winced. She would not think that adjective again. She had not come all this way to lose him now. He would live, or by golly, when she caught up with him in heaven she’d take a switch to him!
At last the jerkin was off, displaying a broad, tanned, muscled chest beneath. It was mostly smooth, only a few reddish hairs curling around his male nipples, then circling again at the navel, before disappearing down inside the waistband of his trousers. His stomach was flat and muscled, the skin smooth. Morgan felt her face flush, as she gaped at the body she hoped to soon be curling up beside. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Lee she’d seen enough male bodies to know what they looked like - over t
he years at one time or another she had nursed them all - her uncle, cousins, brother, the hired hands, and their children - but she had never seen such a fine chest in all her life.
Bridget stacked some towels on the foot of the bed and Hannah carried a patchwork quilt. They stared woefully until Morgan chased them out. She passed Hannah his waterlogged boots to set by the fire. “Back to bed, girls. And take Rebecca with you.”
Morgan closed the bedroom door, then turned to stare at him. The trousers had to come off, too. Her fingers felt clumsy as she worked the belt loose, but the leather had swollen making it difficult. She felt an odd mix of fear and delight as she worked the buttons down the front of his trousers. As quickly as she could, she tugged them down, revealing lean hips, strong thighs, shapely calves and long, narrow feet. Hesitantly, she touched one cold thigh. This would soon be hers! She would have a right to touch him then as only a wife should, and his hands would be touching her. If only he weren’t ill!
One more item of clothing had to be removed. His summer underwear was worn thin and practically threadbare, and they were wet, clinging to his every curve. Would he be half as embarrassed as she was right now, when he awoke and realized what she’d done? Maybe she could get his things cleaned and dried and back on him before he awoke. She snagged the drawers and tugged them free.
His man-part was rather small. It lay limp against his thigh, in a nest of copper-red hair. Morgan bit her lower lip, knowing that with horses at least they could make it grow bigger when it was needed. She stared at it, at him, feeling too warm and anxious all at once. Morgan grabbed a towel and rubbed him briskly, trying to stop her girlish fantasies while this poor man lay so near to death.
She dried his arms and legs, dried his body and the mop of overly long, red hair. She covered him with the quilt, but he still seemed too cold. She couldn’t wake him to give him broth. She put a skillet and some small stones in the fire to heat. Later she could wrap them in towels and put them under the quilt next to him, but while she waited, she took off her own clothing and warmed her almost-husband by lying down beside him.
He was so cold! She shivered, as she laid her head on his ice–cold chest. She wrapped her arm around his ice-cold belly and put her thigh between his ice-cold legs. “Please don’t die,” she whispered, over and over. “Please come back! I don’t want to grow old and shriveled, never having known a man!”
Chapter 3:
Morgan fidgeted, biting on the knuckle of her index finger, as she waited for him. It was hard to breathe, although the air inside the woodshed was fragrant with the smells of fresh cut wood and saw dust. Her heart was beating wildly, the pounding loud in her ears. She felt faint, too warm, scared, and filled with dread — but anticipation, too. If only he would just come and get it over with!
If only he would come. She wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to see her again. She’d been awful to him. Rude, condescending… treating him like a child, but without the love and tenderness she showed his children. The sad part was, she really wanted to love him! But they were just two strangers thrown together by circumstances. Could simply wanting something badly enough make it happen? She was about to find out.
He’d delivered an ultimatum. She was to wait in the woodshed for him, and submit to his punishment, or she could pack her bags and he’d take her back to town. Then he’d stomped off into the woods, hopefully to calm down some before greeting her backsides with the flat of his hand. Or would he use the strap?
She bit her finger harder, bringing tears to her eyes, thinking on all the hurtful things she’d said. If only she could go back, and do it over… would she behave differently?
He’d been sick, which had brought out her motherly instincts right from the start. She had stretched out beside him, trying to warm him with her body. She’d stayed with him for hours, until her teeth were chattering. Morgan shut her eyes, reliving those first days, and prayed they would not also be her last.
One week earlier:
Morgan stayed beside her husband until she was nearly blue herself. Then she dressed quickly and fetched the heated skillet. Wrapping each stone in a dishtowel, she laid them around him in the bed, and put the hot skillet at his feet. She spread a second quilt over the first, then carried his own bedding outside to dry on the line.
“Is he gonna be okay?” Lee asked fearfully. Morgan spared a moment to perch beside him on the edge of his cot. She brushed wisps of too-long bangs out of his face.
“Of course he is. Your papa knows how much you need him. He’ll fight with every ounce of courage he can muster.” She hoped the boy wouldn’t guess she was making it up. She didn’t know this man at all. His letters had been terribly short - all two of them. The first had been no more than a paragraph, asking for a bride and mother for him and his five children. The second had come with money for her passage, and a promise to meet her. It hadn’t said that she would be the sixth Mrs. O’Shea, neither had it mentioned that his children were all disadvantaged, nor that he lived on the very edge of civilization in such poverty.
Lee seemed encouraged, though. He gave her a watery smile. “I’m feeling a little low, ma’am,” he confessed. “Mind if I just lie here a spell?”
“You do that. And thank you for helping to rescue your papa. You saved his life.”
He nodded, his eyes already drooping.
Morgan washed her betrothed’s clothing and hung them out to dry next to the row of little dresses Kate had done that morning. The girls’ clothing was all threadbare. Morgan’s hope chest held embroidered pillowcases and dishtowels and crocheted curtains and a tablecloth - lots of useless little trinkets she’d made over the years in hopes of one day being able to set up a home of her own. But how could she dress up the window and table in such finery while her stepdaughters wore rags?
Her large trunk was still outside where the old man had dropped it off the day before - was it only yesterday? It was too heavy for her to lift, and her husband wouldn’t be bringing it in any time soon. Morgan opened the lid and carried her things inside one armload at a time. She hung her dresses in the bedroom on hooks mounted on the wall. The hooks were empty, as he must have moved his things into the barn in preparation for her arrival. She had brought six dresses with her - a new lovely lavender one she planned to be married in, a brown every day one, a blue one for church or special occasions, and three calico prints - including the one she had on.
Her uncle had been a miserly old man, but when her brother had graduated from college and set up a small law practice, he’d sent her money whenever he could, and when the old man had died, leaving her out of the will, her brother had split his portion with her. She’d spent much of it on her trip here, for Mr. O’Shea hadn’t sent enough to cover her meals on the journey, but there was still some left, tucked down in the corner of the heavy steamer trunk.
If she cut up two of her dresses, there might be enough fabric to sew four little girl outfits. Then with her money, she could buy shoes and coats for them all. That would leave her penniless, again. Morgan had been without money of her own all her life, although her uncle’s house was practically a palace compared to this. Well, that couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t hoard money when the children were so needy.
She added wood to the fire, brushing sweat-damp hair from her face. It wasn’t really cold enough yet to need a fire all day, but she planned to bathe her husband next, another attempt to warm him.
When the water was hot, she carried it into the little bedroom with a bar of lye soap and the last clean towel. She washed first his face, what little of it she could see around the whiskers. He wasn’t really dirty. She didn’t know why he’d been in the cold creek - had he fallen or gotten lost? Had he been too weak and feverish to pull himself out? Tenderly she smoothed the hot, soapy washrag over his firm chest, down each arm, bathing every inch of him as she memorized him. One thing was certain. In all the years she’d been dreaming up a husband, imagining one that would sweep her off her feet, she’d n
ever conjured up one so manly! If only he wasn’t hiding behind such a face full of whiskers!
Morgan felt a smile tug at her lips. Why not? He was unconscious. He wasn’t going to argue with her. She searched through his things until she found a razor. Giving her uncle a shave was only one of her many duties before. Carefully she scraped away the bushy beard, patting his face dry. When she finished, she stared at her soon-to-be husband’s face and felt her heart drop down into her shoes. Why, he was just a baby himself!
How could he have done this to her! She’d traveled all the way out here to become a wife! Not a mother to six orphans! But the children all called him “papa”! How could he be their father? Besides the fact that not a one of them looked like him. Their hair was black, brown, or wispy blonde, not red like his. Two of them had the bluest eyes, but when she opened his eyelids, she saw that his were brown. Oh, he was big enough, fully-grown on the outside, but with his youthful features and smooth, unlined face, he couldn’t be much more than in his early twenties, and she an old maid of thirty-one! Lord, life was just too unfair!
He hadn’t lied to her. He’d never actually mentioned his age in his two letters, and she realized, she hadn’t either. She’d just assumed that a man old enough to have five children was no spring chicken himself. Well, she wasn’t going back east. If he didn’t want to marry her, she’d just move to town. Surely there was something she could do there with her nursing background. She could even teach school, if enough children could be found. Morgan wiped away her tears.
“That’s what you get for dreaming up such a store of fantasies,” she scolded herself.
She kept busy - washing the towels, making lunch and supper for the children, reheating the stones and skillet for his bed. She managed to pour some broth between his lips late in the day, although he was more delusional than awake. When he finally warmed up, a fever raged, matting his long hair to his face - she should have cut that, too - and coating the sheets and quilt in sweat. She sat up with him all through the night, until in the wee hours just before dawn she was too tired to keep her eyes open a moment longer. The only empty bed was up in the hayloft, which was too far from her patients, so Morgan once again lay down beside him. She felt his heart beating steadily against her cheek. The comforting sound was a lullaby to her maiden ears. Exhausted, she fell asleep.
