Love of a Cowboy 1

by Paige Tyler

  Sunlight warmed the window before something woke Morgan. She felt a hand clasp hers where it rested against the broad, smooth chest. He stiffened, shifting slightly. She sat up reluctantly, embarrassed at being caught in bed next to a man, even though they hadn’t actually done anything.

  “Who be ye, woman,” he croaked. He cleared his throat.

  “I’m Morgan,” she said, touching his forehead. The fever had broke. He was going to be all right. She gave him a smile.

  “Morgan who!” He started to sit, but she pressed his shoulders back with surprising ease.

  “Just rest,” she ordered. “You’ve been ill.”

  “I’ll ask it just once more, woman! Who be ye!”

  “I’m your wife.”

  His eyes widened in shock. She watched, waiting for the moment of disgust, when he would realize that she was too old for him, but it never came. Instead, he seemed to wilt. He shut his eyes and muttered something about the bloody meddlesome priest.

  “What are you saying?” she asked, with mounting concern. He’d muttered some strange things in his delirium, but he was better now. He should be making more sense.

  “I dinna send for ye. T’was Father McDougal’s idee. We talked aboot getting me a bride for the bairn, but t’was all just talk.”

  Morgan gulped. “You sent money! I came out here - I can’t go back!”

  “T’was surely Father McDougal what sent some money, Miss. I’ve not a piece to spare. But don’t worry your pretty heart none - we’ll settle it all in a spell.”

  She nodded mutely. It was just too horrible to think about. Only days ago she’d been dreaming of her wedding day, and now she was homeless. Needing something to do, she rose and fetched him broth.

  He’d managed to shift to a semi-sitting position, but his expression was dark when she returned. “‘Twas ye who undid me clothes?” he demanded.

  She drew in a deep breath. She’d felt she had a right, since they were practically engaged to be married, or so she had thought. Now she knew she had no right to be here at all. She squared her shoulders and answered him more tartly than she’d intended. “You were near death. Someone had to.”

  He glowered at her, but she sat beside him anyway and held out a spoonful of broth for him. He took it from her and fed himself. His hand trembled slightly, a sign that he was not yet fully recovered. Dark shadowed under his eyes. His hand tightened around the spoon. He glanced at her, his expression more worried than angry. “Me bairn?”

  “The children are recovering,” she said. “Lee helped me find you, but otherwise I’ve kept them all in bed.”

  “What aboot m’ livestock? The chores?”

  “It’s all been taken care of. I turned the mules out to pasture, but I haven’t taken the time to clean their stalls yet.”

  He finished the broth in silence, then handed her the bowl. “I thank ye, Miss,” he said sincerely.

  Miss. Miss Shaunacy. She must be destined to remain a maid the rest of her life. Morgan blinked rapidly. “Don’t thank me,” she snapped. “Just get well. The children are scared.”

  “Bring me clothes, then, and I’ll see to them.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Morgan scolded him, stunned at her brazen tone. She never would have spoken to her uncle like that. “You’re to stay in that bed and get well!”

  “Ye’ll not be orderin’ me aboot in me own home!”

  “I will as long as you’re being daft. It took five of us to roll you into bed yesterday. I’ll not be looking forward to heaving your hulking bulk about again anytime soon!”

  The young man’s face darkened, his eyes glared. She glared back, her hands on her hips. A day ago she dreamed of lying with him as man and wife. Now she felt more like a shrewish nanny. She wished she could turn back the clock and start the day over, or better yet, turn back a few months to when she’d first answered the small ad in the newspaper for a bride. But no, she wouldn’t want to go back. No matter what happened here, it had to be better than what she’d left behind.

  Then he surprised her yet again. He burst out laughing. The storm had passed, leaving rainbows and sunshine in its wake. He looked even younger now, with his eyes bright and a big, toothsome grin on his face. She resisted the urge - just barely - to pat him on the head.

  “Aye, leave it to Father McDougal to fetch me a bothersome wench ev’ry bit as stubborn as meself! Welcome to me home, then, Mrs. Morgan O’Shea!”

  He meant to go through with it? He’d marry her - a woman he knew absolutely nothing about, when he hadn’t been the one to send for her in the first place? What kind of man was he? Well, he was barely a man at all, she thought dryly. He was in over his head, trying to raise a brood of children hardly younger than himself. Of course, he needed her. But he wouldn’t have to marry her. She could stay on, as a housekeeper perhaps.

  Except, she didn’t want to be his housekeeper. The image of the muscled body beneath the quilt was forever seared into her memory. None of the grizzled old men in the sleepy town of Weston Corners would ever compare to that. Morgan turned and fled from his room.

  Lee propped himself up on one elbow and gazed at her. “I heard voices! Is Papa better?”

  “See for yourself,” she said, forcing a smile.

  He started to get up, but then thought better. “Turn around.”

  Men could be so bossy, she thought crossly. Even little men. She turned to the fire, adding more wood before starting the coffee. When the bump-thump of Lee’s crutches told her he’d gone, she mixed up batter for sourdough pancakes. Once the coffee was done, she knocked apart the coals and spread them out, lowering the griddle to a few inches above the heat.

  “Girls,” she called up the ladder. “Time to wake up. If you hurry, you’ll have time to say good morning to your papa before breakfast.”

  She heard a muffled groan that might have come from Kate, but Bridget shrieked with her grating, high-pitched voice. “Oh, goody! Papa’s awake! Papa’s awake!”

  Before long they were dressed and downstairs, Rebecca scrambling like a little monkey as she climbed down the steep ladder. She stared at Morgan with her wide, vacant blue eyes. Bridget grabbed her hand and tugged. “Come on, baby! Let’s go see Papa!”

  Mr. O’Shea’s deep voice boomed from behind the bedroom door. She couldn’t make out his words, but the tone was jovial. He truly seemed to love them. She flipped the cakes and transferred them to a plate, pouring out more batter on the griddle. She retrieved the last of the milk from the cellar, and even discovered a jar of molasses for the cakes. When the table was set, she called the children.

  They shoved each other around the sink in their haste to wash up, before taking their places at the table. Morgan turned suddenly when she heard another approach. Mr. O’Shea leaned against the doorframe, fully dressed, his complexion gray.

  “Now who’s being stubborn,” she snapped.

  He gave her a crooked smile. “Aye. ‘Twas not me brightest idea. But something here smells right nice, I couldn’a resist.”

  She went to him, offering him her shoulder to lean on. He wasn’t too stubborn to accept, although he tried not to lean on her heavily. She helped him to the one chair at the head of the table. He sank down with a muffled sigh, his eyes momentarily clenched shut. Then he opened them, smiling at the children, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Morgan was about to sit beside Lee when he stopped her. “Son, where be yer manners? Fetch a chair for yer mama.”

  Lee ducked his head sheepishly. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.

  “I could get it,” Morgan offered, wincing as she watched the boy struggle with his crutches.

  “You’ll be their mama, not their servant. Let them do their chores,” he said firmly.

  Morgan hurt for the crippled boy, but privately her withered dreams began to breathe again. Being a wife and mother was so much better than being a housekeeper. Even if her husband was almost young enough to be one of the children. Why, if she’d marr
ied at fifteen like her mama had done, she could be a grandma by now!

  Lee fetched a chair from the bedroom, sliding it across the floor with one hand while hobbling behind it. She had to admit that he managed very well with his homemade braces. He was a game little thing. Morgan took her place at the other end of the table and gazed at the close little family. Four girls, a crippled boy, and a husband ten years younger than she was. It was an odd family, but they were hers now. She bowed her head as Mr. O’Shea said the blessing, blinking back confused emotions that threatened to spill over as tears.

  “We spent all day in our sleep wear yesterday,” Bridget informed him loudly after the grace. “But Mama told us to!”

  “We were real sick, Papa,” Hannah ventured shyly.

  “I done the wash anyhow,” Kate snapped. She glared at Morgan.

  Mr. O’Shea cleared his throat and the children’s chatter stopped instantly. He waited a moment until he had their full attention. “Yer to show yer new mama the same respect ye’d do t’ me,” he said sternly.

  Kate’s chin tipped defiantly only a moment, then she glanced away. “Yes, Papa.”

  “Yes, Papa,” the other four agreed.

  “It may take a spell for yer mama to learn th’ rules,” he went on. “But by sure she dinna wan’ ta hear four hundred times a day, “we always do it this way.” Ours be not the only way ‘tis done.”

  “Yes, Papa,” they chanted. They sounded decidedly less enthusiastic than they had moments before.

  He smiled then, ending the brief lecture. “Ye’ll all tend sheep today.”

  “Shouldn’t they stay in bed?” Morgan asked. “They’ve been sick.”

  “Watching sheep ‘tis a simple task. They be better out in th’ sun than cooped inside. Besides, if they dinna go out, then I must.”

  She didn’t like the dark shadows about his face, or the sheen of perspiration the short walk to the table had wrought. He might be smiling and making light conversation, but he knew as well as she that he was not yet recovered.

  Bridget cleared the table with Rebecca’s help. The littlest girl only carried the spoons, and dropped them several times before plopping them in the sink. Hannah swept the floor, Kate washed the dishes. Morgan poured her betrothed a cup of coffee and waited at the table with him until the children were out of sight.

  “We should talk,” she said then.

  “Aye,” he agreed.

  “I don’t expect you to honor another man’s agreement. If you did not send for me, then perhaps I should leave.”

  “If ye wish it. I dinna know how to get ye back, but Father McDougal should ‘ave thought of that.”

  Morgan knotted her fingers together. She didn’t want to go, but how could she stay? He hadn’t asked for her. He was so young, and handsome, and obviously loving. He could easily nab a younger, prettier wife. Back east. Morgan had to admit that the pickings in Weston Corners had been nonexistent.

  “But I wish ye’d stay,” he said carefully.

  Morgan set down her coffee, her stomach too twisted to tolerate the strong brew. “Why?” she blurted.

  “Because the bairn do need a mama. And altho’ I dinna send for ye, I’m not opposed to the idea.”

  “If you weren’t expecting me, then why had you moved your things to the barn?”

  He colored, glancing away for but a moment. “Father McDougal is a bit odd, ye might say. ‘Twas him I’d been expectin’. At start of summer, he come by. Says his guardian angel told him to find me a wife. At first I called him daft. But then this sickness hit. All night and all day I nursed the bairn, worryin’, knowin’ iffen they dinna make it through the night, ‘twas me own fault. Then I took ill meself.

  “I knew then ‘twas God’s will I find them a mama. And I left it in ‘is hands. Now yer here yerself. Who might I be to argue with God?”

  Morgan had prayed nearly every night since her parents passed away and she and Jimmy went to live with Uncle Charles. First she’d prayed for new parents, which she hadn’t received. Then she’d prayed that her uncle would love her, which never happened. Then she’d prayed for a good man to be her husband, and as year after year rolled by she’d acknowledged that that prayer, too, would go unanswered. How could this simple farmer put such trust in the whims of a fickle Creator?

  “Just the same,” she said, toying with her cup. “Perhaps we shouldn’t rush into anything. I mean, we don’t know each other.”

  “Aye.”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t… live as husband and wife… just yet?”

  Mr. O’Shea choked on his coffee, nearly dropping the cup in a fit of coughing. His face turned bright red, as if he had never even lain with a woman before - an odd reaction for a father of five. Morgan had always thought it an unfair world, for while her cousins had taken her brother Jimmy to a brothel for his fifteenth birthday, she’d been expected to remain unblemished to her grave, if no man laid claim to her in marriage. But were there even any brothels in this no-man’s land?

  “I’ll be stayin’ in the barn, Miss Shaunacy, at least until’s the good father comes to make us right.”

  “Perhaps you’ll stay in the house today,” she offered. “It will be easier for me to see to your recovery.”

  He nodded, still not quite looking at her. “Me Christian name’s John Patrick,” he said. “But most everyone calls me ‘Jack’.”

  “Is that what you wish to be called?” she asked hesitantly. The fat little shopkeeper had called him ‘Jackie O’Shea’, and wondered just whom this young man might have counted as friends. Perhaps they had more in common than might first seem.

  “Aye, ‘tis. Me mither and Da called me ‘Jack’. ‘Tis long now they been gone.”

  Not too long, Morgan thought. Unless Jack had raised himself. But that might explain his odd mix of Irish accent and backwoods grammar. She had a thousand questions to ask, but his motions grew more sluggish, the shaking in his hands more pronounced. “You are going back to bed,” she said sternly. “Your only choice is, do you want to lie down out here on Lee’s cot, or in the bedroom.”

  He shook his head, managing a weak grin. “Aye. Stubborn, it is.” He let her help him back to the bedroom, where he slept the rest of the day.

  The door to the woodshed opened with a bang. Morgan startled from her thoughts, gasping at the angry mountain now blocking the fading light of the autumn afternoon. She should say something quick, anything, to try to defuse the situation, but the truth was, she wanted this. She’d been wanting a spanking for a long time. She wanted a man who would take charge, to cherish her and protect her, to be the head of the household, yet allow her to be the heart of the home. She didn’t want a bully, but one who would rule with love and consistency. She’d seen the beginnings of such a man in Jack O’Shea.

  “Ye’ve earned a spanking, Miss Shaunacy,” he growled, his anger only slightly relieved after his long walk. “More ‘n one, to be sure.”

  “Aye, sir,” she said, her voice quivering slightly.

  His eyebrows lifted momentarily, perhaps in surprise. Then he nodded gruffly. “Very well. Best we be getting it over with.”

  Chapter 4:

  Morgan gulped. She stared mutely as he pulled a rough log bench into the open, and took a smoothly sanded paddle from a hook on the wall. He sat down, then motioned to her. She paused, staring at him through unshed tears, wanting to remember him like this always. Strong, determined, manly. Not an overgrown boy, the way she’d been treating him.

  “Now!” he barked.

  Quickly, she hurried to his side. She’d already taken the liberty of removing her petticoat and bloomers, folding them and setting them discreetly to the side. She didn’t know if he’d lift her skirt or not, but she wanted to make sure she felt this, and if he did bare her bottom, then he would know that she fully intended to submit to him. She might be many years his senior, but she wasn’t too old to learn.

  Jack took her elbow and guided her over his knee. It felt strange, yet somehow very
right. It was just how her father had spanked her. Uncle Charles had seemed more abusive and less loving. He’d flip his sons or her brother over the table and lay into their backsides with a belt or whip until his temper had been abated. Uncle Charles’ method was more about letting off steam than teaching a lesson.

  Morgan was tall for a woman, another of her many unfeminine attributes, but Jack was taller still. Her head didn’t touch the floor, neither did her toes. All her weight was balanced securely across his lap, her bottom higher than her back, presenting an ample target for him. Her face flushed. She was gasping for air now, and he hadn’t even yet begun. She only hoped that after the punishment, he would forgive her. Then maybe they could start over.

  “Ye’ll learn to treat me wi’ respect,” he said sternly, then brought his hand down hard.

  Her back arched, and she emitted a muffled “umpf.”

  Ten times his hand fell. Her bottom was beginning to feel warm, but heat boiled somewhere else. She hoped he wouldn’t stop too soon. He’d started this, and he had to finish it!

  The spanking paused as he lifted her skirt. The air felt cold on her naked flesh, her bottom tingled. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took the paddle from the floor and began the spanking in earnest.

  The first swat had tears pricking at her eyes. Real tears of pain, not just the ones of regret. The smack of wood against flesh was loud, rhythmic and constant. First one cheek, then the other, then low across her thighs, then several times in the same spot. Her toes curled as she tried to keep from struggling. She deserved this, she told herself. She could take it!