by Paige Tyler
After her visit with Jack, Morgan had nothing to do to while away the hours until the children returned from school. Everything cost money, and she dreaded asking Jimmy for more than he already sent. So one weekend she returned to their homestead, fetching the fleece and spinning wheel.
Kate taught her how to spin. She bought a second spinning wheel from a pawn shop for a fraction of its worth, and together they made yards and yards of yarn to display in the mercantile around the corner. The owner struck a deal with her, offering half cash, and half credit on anything in the store for every sale. She bought school clothes and slates, hoarding as much of her money as she could to pay the lawyer who was supposed to be helping her husband.
The ophthalmologist saw Bridget one school morning. He tested her vision, and checked it again with different lenses. “She does need glasses,” he told Morgan when he’d finished the exam. “That was real smart of you to cover up her good eye. That’s exactly what I would have done. There’s a good chance that combined with the glasses, the weaker eye will strengthen and she won’t need surgery. If that hasn’t improved in six months, then we can try a surgical alternative.”
Bridget wasn’t sure about the glasses at first. She put them on her nose and grimaced at her reflection.
“I think they make you look very smart,” the doctor’s young assistant said.
“I am smart,” Bridget announced. “I kin read as well as my brother - only he’s older.”
Morgan didn’t correct her that neither of them read very well.
“I guess I’ll wear these then,” Bridget said with a deep, heartfelt sigh.
Morgan laughed. The pretty blonde child might have a future with the theater one day.
Kate came home from school with her dress torn again. Morgan thought a thirteen-year-old girl might be too mature for such rough games at recess, but apparently Kate wasn’t like most girls. She walked stiffly though, and said she wasn’t hungry when Morgan tried to gather them for dinner.
“Are you ill?” she asked quickly, pressing her hand to Kate’s forehead.
“No, Mama. I’m just tired. I want to go to bed.” That didn’t sound like Kate at all. Morgan let her stay behind, only after reminding her six times to lock the door when they left.
The hotel had a small restaurant on the main floor. At first it had felt like an adventure eating every meal in such fancy surroundings. The tables were always covered with white linen clothes, with napkins to match. Brass candle sconces lit each table while gaslights lined walls that were papered with gold and crimson stripes. A dark chair rail and dark wood paneling below circled the room. The tables and chairs were dark as well, and smelled of oil polish. And every meal, a waiter or waitress took their order, asked them repeatedly if their meal was to their liking, and treated them like visiting royalty. Morgan prayed the children wouldn’t get used to it. She missed the simplicity of their homestead, and couldn’t wait to return.
The waitress usually saved them the big round table in the far corner. Morgan preferred it, because her children were less likely to irritate the other customers, but the waitress said she saved it for them so they could all sit together. She brought out sheets of butcher paper and a few crayons for the children while they waited for their food, and refilled their milk glasses without charging Morgan for that.
Hannah leaned over to whisper in Morgan’s ear. She seldom raised her voice above a whisper any more. “She’s not sick,” she said.
“Kate? How do you know?” Morgan tried not to sound worried. Hannah flinched often, cringing back inside her shell, afraid to let anyone notice her at all.
“The teacher whipped her today.”
For a moment Morgan couldn’t breathe. She had never considered that possibility. Jack was a firm believer in corporal punishment, and Morgan knew that Kate could be a handful. Still, she needed to know why, and if she needed to talk to someone about it.
“Do you know why, Hannah? Was Kate misbehaving?”
Hannah’s eyes were brimming with tears. She nodded, knocking some of the tears loose to trail down her face. She quickly swiped them away, glancing fearfully around her. Morgan had learned not to make any sudden gestures with her. Very slowly, she lifted her arm. Hannah hesitated, then snugged up next to her. Then Morgan hugged her, pressing a kiss to her hair.
“The - the boys. They were teasing me. Kate told them to stop, and they wouldn’t. So she beat them up.”
Halleluiah for Kate! But of course, fighting in school was a punishable offense. “What happened to the boys?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Well, that was certainly wrong. Morgan vowed she’d have a thing or two to say to that teacher in the morning. Still, Kate’s papa would probably whip her again for the fighting, if he weren’t behind bars. Morgan realized that the teachers could be her allies, if they could work together. She could not imagine herself ever disciplining the children, no matter how much they had it coming.
Morgan insisted Kate show her her backside when she returned. The skin was red and a few welts marked her dark complexion, but her papa would have given her worse. Morgan gave her a plate the waitress had prepared for her and let her eat it lying on her belly. “You know fighting is wrong, Katie girl,” she warned.
She nodded. “But not fighting would have been wrong, too! I’ll do it agin, if I have to!”
“I need to speak with your teacher tomorrow, dear. We’ll have it out about those bullies. And perhaps you’ll learn to be a bit more ladylike in the future?”
“I’ll try,” she sighed wearily. “But being a boy would be ever so much more fun.”
Morgan smiled. It wouldn’t hurt if Kate disliked boys for a few more years.
The next day Morgan stormed into the classroom, a she-tiger defending her cubs. The teacher, a stern faced older man with a pinched nose, wilted before her. He did not apologize for the whipping, but Morgan made him wish he’d expelled the bullies. “If you can’t protect my daughters from such ruffians, then I’ll have you fired,” she threatened.
“Yes, ma’am,” the teacher babbled.
Kate tried to hide a giggle behind her hand. Even Hannah looked like she just might smile. Morgan didn’t want the girls to get ideas, so she threatened the teacher once more. “I’m not angry with you for disciplining Kate when she deserved it. You’d better not let her get away with anything, either! If she isn’t bent over that desk at least once a month, I’ll know your shirking your duty.”
Kate’s smile disappeared. The teacher stopped wilting. Hannah stared at Morgan, then slipped her frail hand in hers. Morgan nodded. “Just so we understand each other,” she said curtly. She slipped him a letter then, imploring him never to lay a hand on Hannah. Without going in to detail, she said that she would mete out any punishment required at home. He must have sensed the girl was deeply troubled, or perhaps Hannah was never naughty, for Morgan never heard a word of complaint from him.
She hoped Kate would forgive her. Morgan had seen too many children turn out bad because their parents failed to train them properly through their teens. Kate was willful. She needed to be guided, but not crushed. Morgan prayed for wisdom to know the difference. And later that night, when the younger children were all asleep, Kate crept into her room.
“I love you, Mama,” she confessed.
Morgan repeated everything to Jack. He seldom responded, but at least he heard. She told him she was worried about Hannah. The girl’s depression was becoming severe - perhaps it was even worse than Jack’s. If only Hannah could come to see him, perhaps he might be able to comfort her in a way Morgan had failed to do, but letting a fragile child in a prison was just not something the sheriff was willing to allow.
Hannah had frequent nightmares, and began wetting the bed. The onset of menses further terrified her, but Morgan was relieved to know that the girl was not with child. All Morgan could do for her was comfort her. She held her for hours after waking from another nightmare, and she talked. In time, Hann
ah began to talk, too.
Snow fell, Christmas came and went. Some days the temperature was bitter and school was closed, but Morgan never missed a day with Jack. Her belly swelled so that letting out the seams was no longer possible and she had to sew a new dress.
The snow melted, and a late spring storm fell again, piling it up by the feet. Still that melted, too. Jack’s trial finally came, and he was found guilty. But the judge sentenced him to only a few months in prison, including time already served. He was released immediately. Morgan wept, ready to celebrate, only to discover they had a new battle on their hands.
The court took away his children, sending them all to a foundling home.
“Mayhap ‘tis God’s will,” Jack muttered. He’d lost weight in prison. His shirt fairly hung from his shoulders, which remained rounded in defeat.
“Don’t you dare say that,” Morgan warned, shaking her finger at him. “They need you! They love you! We can’t let them down now!”
“I’ve nothing left t’ fight with.”
“Well, you’d better find it. Besides, it’s too near my time to return home now. Our child will have to be born here.” Secretly, she was relieved that she would be near a doctor. Maybe if she were younger, she wouldn’t worry about it, but Morgan was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Maybe it was all the stress she’d been under. Or maybe it had more to do with how hysterical her uncle got when one of his valuable brood mares was about to deliver. No matter. Morgan had seen a doctor a few times, and he’d assured her that the baby seemed to be doing fine.
Morgan led Jack to the small hotel suite she’d shared with the children for nearly half a year. It felt empty now, without their endless chatter and squabbling. She even missed Bridget’s shrill voice, and Rebecca’s silence. She missed Lee’s eternal cheerfulness and Kate’s contrariness. And she worried for Hannah.
Jack took a bath, as though trying to wash the stench of the prison from his mind. Morgan smoothed soap over his back and shoulders. She would have washed him down front as well, but he snatched the bar from her hands.
“I’m not going to break,” she snapped. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”
“Ye kinna expect me to lay wi’ ye now,” he panted. She could see his desire for her through the murky bath water, and felt an answering pull in her groin.
“Aye, I can,” she said. She gripped him firmly with her hand, swallowing his objections in a kiss.
Jack bolted from the tub, dripping water on her, the carpet, the towels she’d set out for him. “If ye’re ready for lovin, then ye’re ready to take your punishment,” he spat.
Morgan blanched. He’d promised her dozens of spankings by now for continuing to disobey him. Her bottom tingled, and her breath came too fast. She molded herself against his hot, naked chest, felt his man part press into her swollen belly. “Yes, my husband. I submit.”
Jack sat on the edge of the bed and motioned to her. Even naked and aroused, he frightened her a little. It was going to hurt. She knew it. She’d known it when she’d defied him. That she’d been right to defy him didn’t matter. She’d vowed to love, honor and obey, and she’d disobeyed him. In his mind, that was as much a sin as defiling the marriage bed. Morgan would let him punish her, because it felt right. Because it was something they had done before their lives had been turned upside down. Perhaps a spanking now might set them on the road to healing.
But she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Slowly, meticulously, she undid the buttons on her dress and slipped it from her shoulders, one at a time. She wiggled her hips as she stepped out of the dress, then removed each shoe as if she were a dancer and he her only customer. She felt too hot, her face burned. She was shocked she could do such a naughty dance, but with only her husband to watch, it didn’t feel wrong. Jack stared, his mouth open, his eyes burning. His man part grew engorged and throbbed in time to her erotic dance, moisture beading on the tip.
She was too hot to drag the dance out any longer. With a quick flip, her camisole and bloomers were gone. Then she lay naked across his lap, settling her enormous belly between his thigh and the mattress.
He shifted her, adjusting her bottom to a better angle. He soothed back her hair. “Are ye comfortable?” he whispered.
She giggled. “That’s an odd question, considering the position I’m in.”
He swatted her rump. “I meant, ye’re not hurtin’ the bairn?”
“Ow! No!”
He caressed her bottom with both hands, pinching it slightly, feeling every curve, as if rediscovering it after their long absence. “Ye’ve earned this, wife,” he said.
“Yes, husband.”
“Me paddle’s at home. So I’ll be using yer hairbrush instead.”
“What?” She tried to sit up, but he held her in place. “Can’t you just use your hand?”
A sharp swat landed on her bottom, followed quickly by another. “I’ll use what e’er I feel ye’ve earned,” he reminded her.
Morgan clenched her teeth, trying not to cry out and alert the neighbors to her spanking. She’d learned in the dark of night just how thin the walls were. Thankfully, the children had slept through the neighbors’ love games.
Ten swats fell, and another ten. Her bottom was heating up, but the ache of desire was hotter still. She squirmed on his lap, bringing a series of whacks to the back of her thighs. His hand found a rhythm, quick and determined. Each swat stung, but collectively, they seemed to sear right through her. Like a fire after a long drought, with no water in sight.
He paused a moment to pick up her hairbrush. It had a thick, wood handle that was similar in shape to the paddle at home, but it seemed far more intimate. She lifted her head to stare in the mirror across the room. Her husband, exquisite in his nakedness, her smooth white flesh, swollen with child. The hairbrush and her reddened bottom. Morgan stared and stared. The image was almost more powerful than the painful lesson. She wished she could have such a large mirror in their woodshed, although it would be hard to explain.
Jack was growing tired. She could tell by the way he moved - with less confidence and less accuracy. This spanking had to be over soon, or he’d be too tired to extinguish the other fire burning between her thighs. Morgan wiggled her hips and arched her back, squirming to present her bottom to him at a better angle.
He responded with renewed fervor. Ten times the hairbrush landed square across her sit spot. Morgan gasped, feeling her entire world reduced to that one small area. She cried out, not caring who heard her. Tears streamed down her face. Her hair had come loose from the pins and fell around her shoulders. She was so hot, if he didn’t end soon, she might just reach her peek without him.
And when he finally set the brush aside, Morgan lifted on her hands and knees, presenting her woman’s part to him. It was the only comfortable position she could think of, given the advanced stage of her pregnancy, but Jack wasted no time in burying himself within her. He rammed inside, swatting her hot, bruised bottom as he did. It was all over too fast. A few hard, brutal thrusts, and they screamed their completion. Finally, sated and sweaty, her bottom throbbing, her heart pounding erratically, she curled up in the crook of his arm and had her first good night’s sleep since the whole ordeal began.
Chapter 8:
Father McDougal finally caught up with them. He didn’t go into details about his long absence, only that his work had kept him. He heard their confessions and forgave them their sins, then blessed their marriage immediately, dating the marriage license back to the night they had first exchanged vows. “I’ll pray yer wee ones are returned to ye,” he promised. Then he left again.
Jack seemed a little better after the priest’s whirlwind visit. Perhaps one day he would forgive himself. Morgan wanted him back now. She missed the way they had once been together. He wouldn’t make love to her any more. He claimed he didn’t want to hurt their baby, but she feared there was simply no passion left inside him.
One night she couldn’t sleep. Her back hurt and her lu
ngs felt tight, like she couldn’t get her breath. “Jack,” she whispered, nudging him. “Talk to me, Jack.”
“Hm?” He groaned in his sleep. Suddenly his eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright. “Is it yer time?” he blurted.
“No. I’m sorry to bother you. But I can’t sleep. Will you keep me company?”
He smiled at her with sleepy bedroom eyes. “Aye. Ye’ve done all that an’ more fer me. I kinna tell you how much it meant to see yer sweet face ev’ry day. It’s what kept me goin’.”
“You kept telling me to go home,” she reminded him, pouting playfully.
“Aye. And ye’ve earned near a hundred trips to me woodshed, my love, for all the times ye told me ‘no’.”
She blushed, her breasts tingling and her bottom clenched in anticipation. “You can’t mean that, my husband,” she breathed.
“Aye, I kin. All that ‘n more. Ye’ll learn ne’er to disobey me again.”
“Aye,” she agreed then. “One trip down, ninety-nine to go.”
He chuckled, the rare sound sweet as honey to her ears. She snuggled next to his bare chest, seeking his warmth. A thousand trips to his woodshed would be worth it, if only they could return to the life they had left behind.
“Tell me about the children,” she suggested. “How did they all come to live with you?”
Jack lay back, one hand behind his head, the other wrapped around her. “Me mither was poorly. She had a bad heart, and her doctor had told her there was nothing he could do ta help her. He suggested that fresh air would be good, so we left the city to make a new life in the west. We came alone - not wi’ a wagon train, likes becomin’ more popular. Me Da, me mither, and ten sheep, our small wagon and all we owned in the world.
