No Ordinary Princess

by Pamela Morsi

  NO ORDINARY PRINCESS

  Pamela Morsi

  Love and Oklahoma oil...

  Brash and efficient, yet an in­curable romantic, Princess "Cessy" Calhoun firmly believes in love at first sight. But at 24 she has never been smitten—until a sophisticated gentleman named "Gerald" sweeps her off her feet. For her newfound romance Cessy will give up anything —even her considerable fortune.

  A handsome and rootless Rough Rider with a past and a crazy dream of "black gold," Tom Walker needs money and Cessy is swimming in it. So he creates a refined alter ego to woo the rich man's daughter.

  But Cessy's enthusiastic spirit is infectious. And from the ruins of his get-rich scheme, Tom sees her in an appealing new light. But though he now yearns for this remarkable stranger, Cessy's heart will never truly be his—not as long as the lady "Gerald" married loves a lie.

  Avon Books, a division of the Hearst Corp.

  Copyright 1997

  A man who marries for money ears every penny.

  Oklahoma proverb

  CHAPTER 1

  Burford Corners, Indian Territory

  July 4, 1907

  "It was love at first sight for Princess Calhoun. Love, true love, pure love, totally consuming love, love that caught her heart in her throat and had her trembling, trembling from head to toe. He looked up and saw her. She felt the heat suffuse her cheeks. Then he looked at her, really looked at her as no man had ever looked at her. Seeing her, real and ordinary and imperfect, and finding pleasure in that gaze. She was stunned and struck dumb and screaming inside. Screaming for joy. Love at last, at long last, love.

  "Someday, someday," she had confessed to her best friend, Muna. "Someday a man is going to come along and I am going to love him with all I am and everything I ever hope to be."

  That someday was today. And that man stood fifty yards away looking at her. Not quite smiling, but looking, looking at her and watching her fall in love with him.

  It was a day that had begun quite inauspiciously. Preparations for the Fourth of July picnic had kept her busy all morning. And her father's absence had been a nagging worry.

  Last night, like most, he'd failed to return home. But she knew that he would make an appearance at his own party. If he didn't, Princess vowed, she would never forgive him.

  "Any word from my father?" she had asked How­ard, the young man who was part butler, part handyman.

  He kept his full concentration upon his task as she spoke. "Nothin' yet, ma'am. For sure he'll be driving up in that noisy ol' thang any minute now."

  "Naturally he will," Princess agreed with a certain­ty she didn't feel. "He must be delayed in a meeting. He wouldn't be late for his own Fourth of July party."

  And if he was, she vowed silently to herself, she would cheerfully drag him out into the drive and choke him lifeless. Of course, she could never do that. Although she had once heard herself described by a neighbor as a hefty, strapping young woman, her father outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds and had been considered quite a brawler in his day. But if he did not make it to this party she would certainly give him a piece of her mind. And she was just the woman to do so.

  It was one of the truths of her life that Princess Calhoun knew what should be done and when to do it. And she could not fail to pass that knowledge on to others.

  "Guests are arriving at the porte cochere, Miss."

  Princess gave him a tight smile. "Thank you, Howard. I will be in the receiving room momen­tarily."

  Princess Calhoun was not necessarily a willing pinion in the machinery of Burford Corners social life. In fact, if someone had asked her where she was from, she would have preferred to tell them that she was a resident of Topknot, the brand-new oil camp town that sat right on the city limits of Burford Corners. The good people of the older community had not been welcoming to the wild oil field folks that flocked to their area. They had barred their doors, shuttered their windows, and crossed the street to avoid them at every opportunity. Princess was raised in the oil fields. She had friends among the people of Topknot, many of whom were more like family. They had moved together from boom town to boom town from here stretching back to West Virgin­ia and Pennsylvania. But Topknot had no truly resi­dential area and when her father chose to build her a house, he'd picked a lovely spot just north of Main Street in Burford Corners. Princess Calhoun realized instantly that as the wealthiest young woman in town, she was expected to become the purveyor of all that was polite and fashionable.

  It was a duty that came to her easily. Her own mother, dead since Princess was a girl, had been shy and sickly. Demure in every way. But in all honesty, Princess was more her father's daughter. She needed work and purpose. She had little interest in idle chatter or the life of leisure. And the fine society of Burford Corners was as much in need of guidance and direction as the rest of the world.

  Today the entire population of the two rather mutually disagreeable communities was to celebrate the birthday of the nation in the garden of her home.

  For that reason alone, when Princess swept into the west receiving room, there was a smile on her face as she greeted the first arrivals.

  "Oh, Daddy and I are so delighted tha.t you came," she told first one and then another. "Mingle as you will, sample the food, and enjoy yourself."

  It was a polite encouragement, not far different from one given from any hostess. But somehow when Princess said it, it sounded very much like a com­mand.

  She was never nervous or fretful. Determinedly she charged forward in life, doing what must be done in the manner most appropriate. Taking up the duties of the hostess with the same energy and vigor that might be employed in fighting battles or righting injustice. It was not something with which she was naturally at ease. But if there was anything that Princess Calhoun understood it was that hard work and organization were a strong substitute for natural talent. Of course, four years at Miss Thorogate's College, Saint Louis, Missouri had taught her much.

  She had been an uninspired scholar, a fact that came as a great surprise to her father and his friends. It was one of the strange quirks of the human mind that people believed that a plain woman with a domineering nature would rightly possess exception­al intelligence. Princess knew herself to be neither bright nor beautiful. But she was practical and deter­mined and had a strong sense of empathy for the unfortunate and downtrodden. If it could be said that she had a talent, it was for caring for other people in a deep and meaningful way. And transforming those feelings into actions and solutions.

  Today those actions meant seeing that a hundred invited guests, many of them people she hardly knew, enjoyed themselves on this special occasion and got to know each other.

  The food was prepared. The servants instructed. The production in order. Princess kept constant vigil on everyone and everything, all the while smiling and smiling and offering needed advice to anyone who came near. It was not, after all, simply a party. It was an important step in uniting the two communi­ties.

  "Good afternoon, Daddy and I are so glad you could join us."

  The phrase was repeated dozens of times.

  Princess smiled at all of them, welcomed all of them. Chatted with all of them. And wished desper­ately that she was elsewhere.

  Howard ushered in more guests and Princess looked up once more, the polite smile still plastered upon her face. This time, however, her eyes lighted with genuine delight.

  "We're here!" an attractive, dark-eyed young wom­an declared as she hurried through the door before her parents.

  Princess grabbed her in a warm hug.

  "Thank goodness," she said, chiding gently. "You are quite late. I was afraid I'd have to get out my surrey and go to get you soon. I simply could not make it through
this afternoon without you."

  Muna Nafee was the very best and truest friend of Princess Calhoun. And that had been the fact for some time. If people thought it strange that the strong-minded daughter of King Calhoun should take up with the soft-spoken and exotic offspring of Topknot's newly opened Emporium, then they just didn't understand the hearts of the two young ladies involved.

  "I haven't seen you for a week. Where have you been?"

  Muna looked momentarily uncomfortable. What­ever she intended to say, she didn't. Her mother moved up right behind her and quietly scolded her in their strange foreign tongue.

  Muna nodded, clearly annoyed, but resigned. She turned to gesture toward the man that had entered with them. He was a short, balding fellow in his late thirties. He sidled up to her, grinning so broadly he appeared more foolish than friendly.

  Princess gave the gentleman a polite nod. Un­doubtedly he was one of Muna's numerous uncles. They showed up in the boomtowns from time to time. One by one, as his businesses grew, Mr. Nafee brought his family from the old country to work for him.

  Eager to show welcome, Princess held out her hand even before Muna began the introduction.

  "Prin, this is Mr. Maloof Bashara, newly arrived to our city."

  The man began shaking her hand vigorously. "I speak English no good!" he declared heartily. "I speak English no good."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," Princess said kindly. "Are you a member of the family?"

  Mrs. Nafee was whispering furiously to her daugh­ter. Muna spoke once more.

  "Mr. Bashara is my fiancé," she said.

  Princess turned to stare at her friend in disbelief.

  "What?"

  Muna raised her chin a little higher. "Mr. Bashara and I plan to marry, Prin," she said. "I wanted you to be the first to know."

  Princess stood, her jaw opened in shock for an instant before hugging Muna to her once more.

  "I . . . I . . ." Her brow furrowed questioningly, Princess tried to ask the what, where, and why without words.

  In reply, Muna merely rolled her eyes and gave a slight toss of her head in the direction of her father.

  "We are so very happy," Mrs. Nafee declared in her heavily accented English. "Our little darling, to be married at last, and to such a fine man."

  "I ... I am so ... so very delighted for you," Princess said finally, forcing the correct words from her lips. She continued looking questioningly at her friend and hugged her once more, but without the spontaneity of earlier. "I am just so . . . surprised and ... so very happy for you."

  There were more congratulations all around as the Nafees accepted the good wishes of the hostess.

  Mr. Bashara declared once more that he didn't "speak English no good" and then to her surprise asked Princess, "How much you pay for this rug?"

  "What?"

  "How much you pay?" he asked, pointing to the Aubusson at their feet.

  "I ... I don't know, I . . ."

  "This rug is no good," he stated flatly. "Friend of Muna, I get you better rug."

  "Uh . . . ah . . . that's not necessary, I . . ."

  "No trouble," Mr. Bashara declared. "I get you better rug."

  Muna reached over and grabbed her fiancé's arm, almost protectively. "We do not discuss business at parties, Mr. Bashara," she told him.

  "This is not business," he assured his intended with certainty. "I get friend a better rug ... at cost."

  Princess was still in shock as the Nafees and Mr. Bashara made their way out to the garden. Her friend's news was completely unfathomable, but her questions flew out of her head with the arrival, at last, of her father.

  "Daddy, where have you been?" she demanded.

  "Stayed up late with a sick friend," he answered. "Is everybody here?"

  "Everybody but the host. You should have been here two hours ago. You've forced me to drastically rearrange the schedule of the day. That is so an­noying."

  Her father walked on past her, not even bothering to reply. He went through the French doors and had his arms outstretched and was laughing within a half minute.

  "My God!" her father exclaimed loudly. "Is the whole damn territory here?"

  His question brought hoots of laughter from every corner. King Calhoun loved a party. And the bigger, louder, gaudier, and more expensive, the better.

  Princess had wanted the party to be a success. She was certain at this moment that it was. A grand, glorious success. She was rightly proud—and genu­inely happy.

  That happiness turned to full-fledged perfection not more than an hour later, when the sight of a man in a Rough Rider uniform changed Princess forever. True love descended upon her like a dove from heaven. She stood staring across the lawn, and then her heart stopped in stunned recognition. She saw for the very first time the only man she would ever love.

  He was different than she had imagined him. He was far more handsome. Being a rather ordinary person, she had assumed that her true love would be also. But this man was far from ordinary. Even at this distance she could see that. Her heart was pounding. He was the most handsome man that she had ever seen.

  His hair, a little long and showing from underneath his slouch hat, was jet black and straight as a razor. His bearing was tall and proud. And his uniform was tailored to fit him to perfection. He had wide shoul­ders and narrow hips, and his legs were long and muscular in the sturdy brown trousers that fit so snugly. He had a stance that said power and confi­dence. And his eyes ... his eyes were compelling. They might be brown or green, or even blue, she didn't yet know, but the color was inconsequential. His eyes caught her, pinned her, held her. She couldn't have run from him if she had wanted to. And Princess Calhoun did not want to.

  He was perfect, in every way perfect. And he was hers, her own true love, of that she was certain. And he was walking toward her.

  Tom Walker had first surveyed the house described to him as "the Calhoun mansion" from the roof shade of the slapped-together barn that served as a stable. It was not a fine house. To Tom's mind it was only a middling house thrown together in such a way as to be merely a caricature of the grand palace it had obviously been meant to be. He'd only come here for the money.

  There were two things that Tom truly hated in this world. One was the smell of manure. He'd spent nearly half his life shoveling horseshit.

  And the other was being poor.

  Tom Walker was born poor. He'd lived poor. And if something didn't happen pretty soon, he was proba­bly going to die poor. But then, he doubted that anyone had ever expected any other fate for him.

  He could almost hear old Reverend McAfee pro­claiming to a group of summer visitors, "This unfor­tunate young man will be a contributing member of the community rather than a blight upon it."

  A contributing member of the community. Tom snorted with disdain at the memory. That was the other thing he hated. Being a contributing member of a commu­nity created by the wealthy, for the wealthy. His contribution being service to the wealthy.

  "Now listen up, Rough Riders."

  The man who'd hired Tom two days before, when he was looking for work in Guthrie, spoke to him and the others standing around. All were dressed in the old slouch hats, blue flannel shirts, brown trousers, and kerchiefs recognizable as the uniform of the U.S.V.

  "You aren't to have a drop to drink or cause any ruckus whatsoever," he said. "These people are having a party, but you're hired hands Cor the day."

  "What exactly are we supposed to do?" a short, spindly-legged cowboy asked.

  "Just look like what you are," he answered. "You're veterans of our victory in Cuba. It's the Fourth of July. King Calhoun wouldn't have a Fourth of July picnic without showing off some veterans."

  The half-dozen men shrugged at each other and accepted the declaration. With President Roosevelt still so popular, even out of the White House, and his exploits in Cuba so well known, the American people had become fascinated with the breed of men that had made up the Rough Riders cavalry.


  In the west this was especially true. Because of congressional restrictions, Roosevelt had been able to recruit his men only from the four U.S. territories: Oklahoma, Arizona, New Mexico, and Indian. Other than a few personal friends of Roosevelt and a handful of Ivy League athletes, it was the hometown boys who'd gone to war. And the people here in Indian Territory had a special sense of pride in their victory.

  "You can eat all you want," the man continued. "You can laugh and joke and visit among yourselves. And if you don't cause no troubles, you'll each be paid ten American dollars at the end of the day."

  "Easiest money I ever made," a burly fellow with a handlebar mustache commented.

  "And if you're interested in long-term work, there are jobs to be had out on the drilling rigs. A man with mechanical experience can bring home twelve dollars a week."

  One of the fellows whistled.

  It sounded pretty good to Tom, too.

  "Don't cause any embarrassment for Mr. Cal­houn," the man continued. "And do whatever he or Miss Princess tell you, too."

  "Miss Princess?" The question was Tom's.

  "King Calhoun's daughter," the man answered.

  Tom's brow furrowed in amusement. "Princess? What kind of name is Princess?"

  The Calhoun employee appeared personally of­fended at the derision in Tom's tone. "It's the kind a man who calls himself King Calhoun would think up for his daughter," he answered disdainfully.

  "Princess." Tom shook his head. "It sounds more like a name for dog than a woman."

  The fellow with the mustache spoke up. "You've seen Miss Calhoun then."

  His words brought hoots of laughter from the men in the wagon.

  "She's plain?" Tom asked.

  "Oh Lord, drag me screaming!" the mustached fellow exclaimed. "Princess Calhoun is not just plain, she's plain ugly!"

  Tom laughed with the rest.

  "Oh, she ain't so bad to look at," another piped in. "Better than your wife, I'd say."

  That provoked a round of hoots and a few harsh words.

  "She ain't hard-out ugly," a young cowboy sug­gested. "Really she's just built kind of like the rig named in her honor, narrow at the top, wide at the bottom."