by Pamela Morsi
"It's a sweet, happy, laughing name," he said. "And you certainly are sweet and happy. And you do have me laughing."
He looked down into those big, adoring eyes and momentarily he was stung by his conscience. Deliberately he stepped back, at least offering her a fighting chance.
"I am new to this your city, and as you can see," he indicated his uniform, "I'm a former cavalryman."
"You followed President Roosevelt to the West?" she asked.
"The colonel and I met on the tennis courts at Yale. He made horses and war sound so exhilarating and entertaining. I fairly begged to be included as a humble trooper."
Her gaze continued worshipful, but at least she had at last found her voice.
"And did you find Mr. Roosevelt's description of army life to be true?" she asked him.
"Absolutely," he answered with a wide grin and teasing humor. "Except for the mud, the mosquitoes, the horrendous living conditions, ill-tempered horses, bad food, and the danger of being killed— other than those few details it was gloriously perfect."
She giggled out loud at his words and then covered her mouth in embarrassment. Amazingly it was a warm and throaty sound, unexpected. Although he was not sure what was expected from a drill sergeant in skirts.
Back in the gazebo behind him the band struck up a boisterous tune.
"Ah, the dancing begins," he said. "Would you do me the honor?"
"Oh no, I rarely dance," she confessed quickly. "Actually you should be dancing with the young ladies. Perhaps if you—"
"You don't enjoy it?" he interrupted.
"Don't enjoy what?"
"Dancing."
"No, I mean yes, yes, actually I love to dance, though I don't often. Usually it is the young ladies who are partnered. I believe you will find . . ."
He raised a curious eyebrow. "And do you not consider yourself one of the young ladies?" he interrupted again.
"Well, of course I—" She was flustered. "I am twenty-four, sir," she blurted out. "Oh dear, I shouldn't have said that."
He laughed with delight.
"And a very charming twenty-four indeed," he answered. "Might I please have this dance, Miss Calhoun." He angled his head and gave her a little private grin. "Please, Cessy."
"Well, I do believe that rather than ..."
Before she could protest further, he'd pulled her out onto the floor.
Princess Calhoun had stars in her eyes and butterflies in her stomach, but her head was amazingly clear as Gerald Crane escorted her to the dance floor and pulled her into his arms.
The area directly in front of the gazebo, illuminated by lanterns and drip gas torches, had been denuded of prairie grass and tamped down with a four-by-four until it was as even and hard as dancing on marble. Smudge fires were being lit at distances over the lawn. The greasy black smoke was a deterrent to mosquitoes and provided a dark, hazy cloud of mystery surrounding the guests.
She heard herself doing most of the talking, but she couldn't seem to stop. She offered him more advice in the space of five minutes than most men could accept good-naturedly in a week.
Gerald seemed perfectly confident and at ease with her suggestions as he spun her around the dance floor effortlessly. Princess had waltzed and one-stepped many times, but had never felt so graceful in another man's arms.
"It is considered quite out of the ordinary for a fine gentleman to make an appearance in a boomtown,” she explained to him.
"The West offers a man the adventure and challenge that is no longer available in the serene and civilized world of the East," he said. "Of course, the family wanted me to take my place in the business. Publishing, the Cranes have been in publishing since doing broadsides during the revolution. But Papa's still in fine health, and my brother really cares for the business more than me, so I've come out West to seek challenge and adventure."
Princess nodded. "It's what people have been doing for a hundred years, going west to seek their fortune."
Gerald smiled. "Luckily for me I needn't actually seek fortune. I have money from both my grandfather and one of my maiden aunts. And I shamefully confess that Papa and Mama worry inordinately about me and send me a monthly remittance to tide me over."
"You mustn't feel ashamed about it with me," Princess assured him. "My daddy has showered me with everything he could think of, ever since his first well came in."
"I'm sure he thinks the world of you," Gerald said softly. "But then how could he not?"
Princess raised her head to look directly into the eyes of the man with whom she had so easily fallen in love. A little sigh of pleasure escaped her. He was almost too handsome, she thought.
She had expected her true love to be disguised as a plain and uncomely man.
They continued to turn and dip and spin in time with the music. Her heart was light and frivolous and filled to overflowing. At that moment, that perfect moment, Princess believed that she had never been happier.
"Pure gold," he whispered.
"What?"
"Pure gold," he said. "The torchlight catches the glint of your hair and it shines like pure gold."
"My hair is just ordinary brown," she confessed.
"Oh, but you can't see it in this light," he said, softly. "I can see it, Cessy. It's so pretty and it shines like pure gold."
A little shiver of delight pulsed through her. He thought her hair was pretty. Of course, it was not, she knew that, but he thought so.
She glanced up at him again. Maybe he was seeing her through lover's eyes. The poet did claim that beauty was in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps he was seeing her as only his heart thought her to be.
Likewise, perhaps he was not as attractive as she imagined. Perhaps love was blinding her also. She gazed at him as critically as she could. His broad shoulders were powerful and masculine. The thick black hair had hardly a hint of wave except right in front where it curved along the edges of both brows, accentuating the heart shape of his face. His nose was narrow and straight, neither too long nor too short. His smooth-shaven jaw was strong and determined with high, well-sculpted cheek bones. And his eyes, those dark, compelling brown eyes, there was something about his eyes. They were slightly tilted at the edges, giving him a vaguely sleepy look that seemed exotic and yet familiar.
"You look part Indian!" she told him with some surprise.
"What?" He tensed up and seemed almost startled.
"Your eyes," she said. "They look like .many of the Indians here in the Territory."
"No, no I'm not Indian," he assured her hastily.
He seemed so ill at ease, Princess wondered if she had insulted him. "We do a good deal of business with the tribes," she explained. "And with your dark hair and those eyes, I just thought ..."
"I'm Italian .”
"Italian?"
"Yes, it ... it ..." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "It was a dreadful scandal. The family never speaks about it."
"Oh dear, I'm sorry. I should never have mentioned ..."
"Grandmama, my . . . ah . . . my maternal grandmother . . . she was taking a holiday on the Continent," he said. "She met him in Venice. He was a mere gondolier and her father just could not approve."
Princess tutted in sympathy.
"He cut her off without a penny."
"Heavens!"
"Grandmama loved her family, but she loved her gondolier so much more."
"Did her father ever reconcile?"
"Not until after it was too late."
"Too late?"
"The boat sank in one of the deep canals. The gondolier managed to get their baby daughter to safety, but then he went back for his wife." Gerald shook his head sadly. "At least they died together. I'm sure neither would have wanted to live without the other."
Tears welled up in her eyes as Princess thought of the young couple who loved so much.
"You're crying," he said softly.
“I...…”
He danced her to the edge of the floor and
then led her away from the lights.
"I'm so silly, I ... I never cry," she stated firmly.
"Shhh," he whispered. "Sentiment requires no apology."
"It was just so beautiful and so sad."
They reached the relative privacy of the cotton-wood shade and he turned her to him, gliding his hands around her waist as he pulled her gently into his arms.
"Love is always beautiful," he told her. "And those that have it should never be sad."
He angled his head and brought his lips down to capture her own. The touch of his mouth was light and warm and sweet and for Princess, utterly heart-stopping. It was a tiny kiss, just a taste of passion before he stepped back.
"Perfect," he breathed against her brow.
Her head spinning, Princess wrapped her arms more tightly around his neck and pressed herself against him. He'd offered her only a glimpse of heaven, she wanted more.
She plastered her lips clumsily upon his own. He responded more gently and when he opened his mouth, she did the same. She could taste him now, truly taste him and the persistent tugging had her insides cavorting and her pulse pounding.
"Easy, easy," he whispered as he pulled back slightly. "Not all the candy in one grab."
She was momentarily bereft, but he wrapped her more closely in his arms, the long length of their bodies touching from her wobbly knees to his chin against her brow.
"You are a passionate little princess, Cessy."
"I've never been kissed before," she confessed.
She felt his body suddenly become still. She looked up at him. His forehead was creased as if worried, and there was something troubling in his eyes.
"I . . . I'm sorry, I . . ."
"You're sorry you kissed me?"
"We just met, I shouldn't ... I shouldn't take such liberties. And you are so innocent."
"Please don't feel bad about it," she interrupted. "I'm glad you were my first. If kissing is to be done, it should be done with someone very special, and you, sir, are that to me."
He looked at her for a long moment and his expression softened.
"Ah Cessy, I'm glad to be your first, too. And I want to be your hundredth, your thousandth, your millionth. But I ... I must show a woman like you proper respect."
Princess felt daring, bold, almost powerful as she leaned against him seductively. "Respect is very nice, but I think I'd rather have another kiss."
Immediately he joined her mouth with his own. This time he was more intense, more demanding. Princess felt her body responding with feelings that were all new to her. As if compelled by some elemental force, she eased herself more tightly against him. His hands were stroking her shoulders and back, occasionally hesitating along her backbone to press her against the hard wall of his chest. She gasped with delight at the hot tingling sensation that suffused her bosom.
His kiss was all-encompassing, possessive and forceful. She was trembling in his arms, eager, urgent, willing.
"Geez almighty, darlin'," he moaned.
His voice sounded strangely unlike him and Princess was momentarily startled and stepped away. He held her at arm's length and the two stared at each other for long minutes as they recovered their breathing.
He was looking at her, looking at her as if he had something to say, something important to say. He never said it.
"Prin! Prin, is that you?"
Gerald immediately released her and Princess turned guiltily toward the sound. Muna and her fiancé were hurrying up beside them. Her friend's eyes were wide with curiosity. Clearly she had seen their embrace.
Princess held her chin high. She was, in retrospect, a little surprised at her own behavior, but she had never been in love before and she was far too happy to be embarrassed about the fact.
"Muna, come meet Gerald,” she said without apology.
As the two approached, Princess saw her friend's eyes narrow with suspicion as she stared at Gerald.
"Muna Nafee, this is my friend Gerald Tarkington Crane of Bedlington, New Jersey," she said. "Gerald this is Miss Muna Nafee, my best friend and this is her fiancé, Mr. ... ah ... I seem to have forgotten ..."
Muna's escort stepped forward promptly and offered Gerald his hand. "I am Maloof Bashara, I speak English no good, yes?"
Gerald shook his hand and murmured a friendly reply. He nodded politely to Muna who continued to eye him warily.
"You are new around here, Mr. Crane. I don't believe I've seen you before. We have all known each other for years now," Muna said. "Princess and I met as girls in the drilling camps of West Virginia. We've been together in Jackson and Corsicana and Spindle-top. All the people who follow the oil fields, the drillers, the merchants, the laborers, we all know and trust each other from way back."
"This is my first time to visit an oil field," Gerald admitted readily. "I find it very different and exciting." He offered a small, intimate glance to Princess. "And I find the people here much to my liking."
Princess couldn't help but smile back at him. Muna was being overly protective. That's what friends did for each other. But once Muna understood that Princess had found her true love, she would come to care for Gerald as her friend, too.
"Enough talking," Princess declared. "This is a dance and we must dance. Do you dance, Mr. Bashara?"
"Oh I am fine dancer,” he declared. "In my country I am fine dancer. There men dance with men, women dance with women. But this dancing, dancing with the woman, it is different. I think I like it."
"Then you will dance with me," Princess said.
They hurried to the dance floor, with Gerald and Muna in their wake. Princess glanced back at them, walking uncomfortably together. She wanted to let the two of them get to know each other. She wanted to let Muna see what a fine, wonderful man he was. But only one dance, Princess decided. The night was too important, too perfect, too much a dream come true and she didn't want to spend it in the arms of any man but Gerald Tarkington Crane.
Chapter 3
Queenie McCurtain awakened unexpectedly with the first light of dawn. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly as the strong odor of sweaty men, spilled beer, and stale tobacco drifted up from her place of business downstairs and assaulted her senses. The queasiness was unexpected. She rarely drank, thinking it poor business to consume anything that she could sell to somebody else. Maybe she was coming down with a fever, or perhaps it was just the earliness of the hour.
Through the thin wall at the far of her room she could hear Frenchie LaRue, still at work. Or rather she could hear the man Frenchie was at work upon. His wrenching, pleasurable groans clearly indicated another satisfied customer. At least Queenie hoped it was a customer and not that no-account Tommy Mathis, who paid for his pleasures with sketches and paintings until the whole place was a gallery of pictures.
Tommy was a favorite of Miss LaRue and although Queenie had made it clear to the painter that this was a cash business only, Frenchie might well have offered the fellow another barter deal.
It was said by fellows who might well know that Frenchie LaRue had the best mouth in three states. That's why Queenie had her working out of the bar. Unfortunately, it was also true that Frenchie was extremely charitable and gave away for free almost as much business as she got paid for. She was one of those rare whores who truly enjoyed her work.
Queenie McCurtain was not. She'd begun whoring as a way to get by, to ward off starvation, to support herself in the wild new territory. She no longer did that kind of work. She no longer had to. Queenie's Palace was one of the most popular "joints" on the Topknot. A hard-working oil man could always find a mug of beer, a joint of beef, and a pretty girl at Queenie's. And if he knew Queenie and she thought he could be trusted, there was blackjack, poker, and craps in the back room.
Queenie was a successful businesswoman with enough money stashed away to insure that she would never have to entertain a sweaty roughneck or manure-stained rancher again. Any man found in her bed was there by invitation only. And the only man th
ese days getting that invitation snored quietly beside her now.
In sleep, King Calhoun looked every one of his forty-nine years. He was ruddy, heavyset, and his hair was thick and curly only at the back and sides of his shiny head. His left hand lay splayed upon her naked breast. The wide gold band that encircled the third finger of his left hand glimmered in the morning sunlight. King Calhoun had been a widower for fourteen years. But he'd never removed his wedding ring. It was a symbol of the other world he lived in, the world that he wanted desperately, but within which he was not wholly comfortable.
Frenchie's customer was groaning louder now, his pleasure rising to a crescendo. Queenie should get a house, she thought. It was long past time that she quit living over the bar. But; in truth, she didn't trust anybody to look after her interests except herself. She'd learned early that people could turn on you. They could let you down. They could throw you away. The only thing a woman could count on in this world was herself. That was Queenie's credo. A lot of people would have been surprised to hear that. A lot of people thought Queenie was owned lock, stock, and barrel by King Calhoun. A disenchanted cowboy had once asked her if she had royal oil tattooed on her backside.
Queenie had just smiled and flippantly reminded the cowboy that he would never know.
Certainly she'd done a few things to please Calhoun. She had followed him to the oil fields. And then from one strike to another. She'd kept herself as his exclusive property for the last five years. With her ear to the ground and her eye on business, she'd been able to give him a tip or two that had benefitted him.
And, of course, she'd changed her name. But then Hilda Prudence McCurtain was not a particularly good name for a scarlet woman. Undoubtedly when her parents had chosen it they had envisioned her as a quiet, pious farm wife with a half dozen well-scrubbed children on their way to church on Sunday. That was not at all how her life had turned out. She had become Queenie, King Calhoun's Queenie.
Frenchie's customer gave a loud holler that was indisputable evidence of salacious satisfaction. Beside her King Calhoun stirred restlessly.
He'd arrived at the Palace last night, having been host to a Fourth of July picnic all evening. He was in a tremendous temper. Queenie knew better than to question him about it. When Calhoun wanted to talk to her, he would. Talk was not what was immediately upon his mind. He'd hurried her upstairs, to the sounds of hoots and encouragement from the men in the bar.
