No Ordinary Princess

by Pamela Morsi

  "Yes!" she said, teasingly pulling at his necktie. "Yes, yes, yes. I want to be with you inside me tonight, too."

  He kissed her long and lingeringly, but with lots of good humor and loud sucking noises until she was giggling rather than passionate.

  Tom stood in the darkness and began removing his clothes. From the darkness of the bed, he knew that she watched him and he made the task as seductive and sensuous as possible.

  "What on earth did Daddy keep you talking about for so long?" she asked.

  "He's doing just what you wanted. He's trying to get to know me," Tom told her.

  "Oh, I'm so glad," she said

  In fact, he was trying to get to know more than Tom had bargained for. The old man had brazenly asked to see his financial statement, his war records, and his bank balance.

  Tom had agreed easily, knowing that any hesita­tion would be viewed as an attempt to conceal. Tom had nothing to conceal. He had no financial statement and no bank balance. And the war records were all in the name of Thomas T. Walker. Even the most casual glance at the Muster-Out Roll for the U.S.V. would reveal that no person named Gerald Tarkington Crane had ever been a Rough Rider.

  "At least it is over,” Cessy told him. "Daddy was a little angry at first, but I think he's accepted you."

  "I don't know what your scheme is," Calhoun had told Tom in the library, his eyes narrowing to slits. "But if you hurt my little girl, if you break her heart or misuse her trust, I'll stomp you 'til there is nothing but a greasy spot left on the floor."

  As Tom removed the last vestiges of his clothing and eased himself into the comfort of the bed and the embrace of his wife, he hoped that Calhoun would never be called upon to fulfill his threat. Like Cal­houn, Tom didn't want to see Cessy hurt. But the whole plan was looking more and more like a house of cards, and the wind was picking up.

  With movements in tune, as if this were their thousandth night of love instead of their second, he divested her of her nightgown and luxuriated in the feel of her flesh against his own as he ran his hands down the length of her body.

  "Oh, Cessy, I love you," he said.

  The words coming from his mouth surprised him. But she was his wife. And as such, of course he loved her, he assured himself. And it felt so good to say so. It felt as if he had waited all his life to say those words. And this was the woman he wanted to say them to.

  "Cessy, I love you," he repeated, taking pleasure in hearing the phrase a second time. "I love you. I love you. I love you. Forever."

  She sighed so prettily, alive and eager against his touch.

  "I love you too, Gerald."

  The sound of another's man name on her lips momentarily startled him. His hands stilled and his shoulders stiffened.

  She felt it.

  "What's wrong?" she asked him.

  Tom swallowed. Unsettled by the wave of sadness that had so unexpectedly engulfed him. She loved Gerald. Of course she did. All the women loved Gerald.

  "What is it?" she asked again.

  He kissed her forhead and hushed her question. It was not her fault. His pain was very much a self-inflicted wound.

  "Nothing, nothing my Cessy," he told her as he parted her legs and settled himself between them. "Just a little twinge, I guess."

  'Are you in pain?" she asked.

  "I have perhaps been a little too enthusiastic a lover," he said.

  He could hear her concerns slip away as he stroked and caressed her.

  "Have I been overworking you?" she asked, teas­ing. She ran her hand enticingly up the inside of his thigh before tentatively touching him. "I thought it was the bride who was supposed to be sore."

  Kissing and coaxing, he eased himself inside her fully and then set her ankles up on his shoulders so that he might delve even deeper.

  She gave a startled "Oh!" of exclamation and appreciation.

  "Be gentle with me, my darling," Tom told hen in the same playful tone. "I've never been a husband before."

  Chapter 15

  "I tell you, Queenie," King Calhoun complained as he paced her back room, empty this morning of both games and gamblers. "There is something strange about that fellow and I just can't like him at all."

  Queenie had listened to the man rant and rave for the better part of a half an hour.

  It was the middle of the afternoon, but the win-dowless room was locked and lamplight illuminated the week's worth of Palace receipts that lay spread out on a poker table. Queenie had counted them all in neat stacks and was totaling them in her folio ledger.

  "King, she married him," she stated flatly, hardly pausing to look up from her work. "Princess is of age and she is certainly a young lady who knows her own mind. It's completely out of your control."

  "It may be out of my control," he answered her. "But it still feels like she is my responsibility."

  Queenie didn't deign to answer. King had come in madder than a hornet in a rainstorm. He stomped and threatened and slammed his fist on the table. He was furious at his new son-in-law, annoyed with his daughter, and upset with himself. But he'd come to the Palace for the express purpose of picking a fight with Queenie. It might have made him feel better, but Queenie had neither the time nor inclination to humor him. She had her own situation to think about.

  She'd contacted a barber in Ponca. For the right amount of money he was willing to take care of her problem. Queenie was to take the train up Thursday morning, have it over with and return home Thurs­day night. She had decided that she wasn't going to tell King anything more about it. He obviously wanted her to try to bring an unwanted, unlawful child into the evil world that she lived in. She was not going to do that. But it was her decision, not King's. He was her lover, not her husband. And lovers, she decided, could have no more say in her life than strangers.

  Besides, King had enough on his mind already. The bankers weren't being cooperative, his oil field was about to come in with no place to refine the oil, and now his daughter had eloped with a fellow she hardly knew. King's troubles and his anger would pass as it always did. As hard as he was huffing and puffing, she fully expected him to run out of steam very soon.

  "What do you know about him, Queenie?" King asked her. "What can you tell me about him?"

  "Me?" She looked at him dumbfounded. "Why would I know anything about him?"

  "Howard overheard him say that Queenie's Palace is his favorite saloon," King told her.

  "Now you've got Howard spying on the fellow?" she said, shaking her head. "It's no wonder that Princess eloped with him. She didn't trust her daddy to stay out of business that didn't concern him."

  "Get off my back, Queenie," King told her. "I'm just looking out for my daughter. You don't know what it's like to be a parent."

  There was a long silence. Queenie didn't look up from her work. She held herself still, her body, her mind, her emotions, were all held still for that protracted moment. When she spoke her words were calm and civil, almost cold. "No, I don't,” she said. "I don't know what it is like to be a parent."

  "Oh, Lord, honey, I'm sorry," King said, ceasing his pacing immediately. "It was a dang poor choice of words. I... I would never say nothing to hurt you like that. I'm just piss-poor company today."

  "Don't worry about it," she said, waving away his concern as if it were nothing. "So the Palace is his favorite saloon. What's this fellow's name again?"

  "His name is Crane, Gerald Tarkington Crane. He's so fancy born he thinks he's got to have three names instead of two."

  She gave a half smile, acknowledging his attempt at humor. "What does he look like?"

  "Oh you can't miss him," King assured her. "He's a tall fellow, over six feet, I'd expect. Got an impres­sive physique, dark hair and eyes. He's handsome, I suppose, and a dandy, tight and true. All dressed up in fancy clothes, pale polka dot shirts, and silk suspenders. I'd like to see him up to his eyeballs in muck, that's what I'd like to see."

  "Now that's the most childish thing I've ever heard you say," Queenie tol
d him.

  "I can't help it, Queenie. I don't like his kind and I never have."

  "Well, you'd better get to liking him cause he is family," she said. "You can have some choice with which friends you associate, but your family is what­ever they happen to be."

  "I just want it to be some other fellow," King said, throwing himself down in a chair with a long sigh.

  Queenie gave up on the bookkeeping and rose from her chair to go to him.

  "I sure am annoying for a fun-time fellow, I suppose," he commented with a sigh.

  She grinned at him. "I'm glad you said it instead of me."

  Queenie stepped behind him and lovingly began to massage his shoulders.

  "Oh, that feels good darlin'," he told her with a little moan of appreciation. "It almost lets me forget that frilly pants blueblood calling my Princess's little house 'our home.'"

  "He said that?"

  King nodded.

  Queenie tutted in appreciation. "He was out to tweak your beak, Mr. Calhoun, and that's a fact."

  "It worked, too," he admitted. "I just can't like the man. 1 know his kind and I've got no use for them at all."

  "What kind of man were you thinking about for Princess?" she asked. "You do want her to have a man, don't you?"

  King was thoughtful for a long moment. "Yes, I do," he said finally. "Truthfully, I'd about given up on her, Queenie. I thought she was like my wife. I thought maybe she just didn't need affection or sex or even the touch of another person."

  He reached back to take her hand in his own. Absently, he rubbed her palm against the side of his face and then lovingly kissed her fingers.

  "But I guess I just thought . . ."

  He hesitated as if embarrassed to speak his thoughts aloud.

  "Well, I thought that . . . Princess has always . . . well, she's always looked up to me and thought better of me than I ever deserved. I just thought that . . . that when she married, she'd marry someone like me."

  King shook his head and huffed in self-depreciation. "I sound like an old fool, don't I?"

  Queenie leaned down and planted a kiss on the side of his forehead. "You sound like a daddy whose baby girl is all grown up. And what makes you think this fellow isn't a lot like you?"

  "I told you, Queenie, he's a blueblood eastern dandy and sharpie if I don't miss my guess," King told her.

  "A sharpie?" Queenie rolled her eyes. "Then I know he hasn't been around my place. I can't abide those types. Except for you, of course, I make an exception in your case."

  "Woman, I'm taking you to the woodshed if you backtalk me once more." His tone was more amused than threatening.

  Queenie came around his chair and seated herself upon his lap. "Promise?"

  He kissed her then and clasped her tightly in his arms in a manner that was more a friendly bear hug than an embrace of passion.

  "Queenie, I don't know what I'd do without you, darlin'," he said. "If I couldn't talk to you, I guess I'd never talk to no one."

  "Then honey, if I can offer one more piece of advice, it would be better to talk to no one than to talk badly about your new son-in-law behind your daughter's back."

  He nodded.

  "I know you're right. In a way, what I'm feeling is jealousy, I suppose," Calhoun admitted. "Her bride­groom is and has everything I ever worked for in my life. And it was just handed to him. Handed to him as if somehow he deserved it just for being born to the people he was."

  "That's sure not fair, King," Queenie-said. "But I don't guess you could say that it's the man's fault."

  "I know," he agreed with a sigh. "I just feel like if that's the kind of man my Princess really admires and wants for a husband, then maybe she didn't think as well of her daddy as I thought she did."

  "King Calhoun!" Queenie exclaimed, shaking her head. "You are far from the finest fellow alive, and I would be the first one to say so. But you've been a good father to that girl and she loves you for it. She always has and she always will."

  "I didn't have no idea about how to be a father to her," King said sadly. "I never had one of my own, nor even had much expectation to be one. I thought the mother would raise the child. All I'd have to do is keep a roof over our heads and bread on our table."

  "Well, you did that well enough," Queenie told him. "And she grew up to be kind and good and fair-minded. I know where she got those qualities."

  "I just love her, Queenie," he said finally. "I want her to be happy and I hope he doesn't make her life a misery."

  "I don't think you need to worry about it," Queen­ie told him. "Princess seems to make her own happi­ness as she goes along. If she don't like the way things are, she just insists on them being rearranged."

  A knock on the door ended their conversation. Queenie walked over and opened a tiny peephole.

  "It's Cedarleg," she called back over her shoulder.

  King motioned to let him come in.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Queenie," the man said as he entered the room. "How you been keeping your­self?"

  "Very well, thank you," she answered, then feigned a whisper. "Watch yourself, the big man's in a foul mood."

  "I heard that," King complained. "And I most certainly am not. Foul mood's almost all over."

  The older man limped over to where King waited. The two shook hands and took seats.

  Cedarleg scooted up a second chair and gave a little moan as raised his bad leg to rest upon it.

  "Are you having more trouble with that leg?" King asked.

  The old man snorted. "It's the rheumatiz, Ma says," he answered. "I think she's right, but I tell her that she ain't never was nor will be no doctor."

  King chuckled. "It sounds like me and Queenie aren't the only couple that annoys each other."

  Cedarleg smiled. "Oh, Ma and me get into a tiff from time to time. Course it's not like you and Queenie. With us, it's usually Ma's fault. But I'm thinking with you two, the blame would be mostly on your side."

  "Try to remember who you work for," Calhoun warned.

  Cedarleg only chuckled.

  "So what's eating you today," he asked. "Them bankers still givin' ye indigestion?"

  "Worse than that," King answered. "I guess you and Ma haven't heard the news yet. Princess has got married."

  "Oh, my Lord-a-mercy!" Cedarleg exclaimed. "Ma'll be having a fit when she hears. Did she marry up with that fancy feller?"

  King's eyes widened and he sat up straighter. "You've met him? What can you tell me about him, Cedarleg?"

  "Ain't met him," the old man admitted. "Just heard what she told Ma about him. He's wonderful, from what Princess says. But he didn't sound like our kind of folks to me."

  "See, just like I said," King called out to Queenie, who was attempting to resume her bookkeeping duties.

  "Nope, he just don't seem quite right for her," Cedarleg continued. "But I guess if he suits Princess, he ought to suit the rest of us."

  "Just like I said," Queenie pointed out with a patronizing grin.

  King gave her an impudent look but made no comment.

  "Cedarleg, if you could kind of keep your ear to the ground about this fellow," King suggested. "Any­thing you hear, good or bad, I want to know."

  Cedarleg nodded.

  "And you and Ma have got to come over and meet him,". King continued. "Maybe being the father I'm not quite fair, I want to get an idea of what you think of him."

  "We can stop by anytime," he said.

  "Why don't we make it a dinner toward the end of the week," he said. "Howard and Mrs. Marin think you're family anyway and I'm sure there won't be any problem for Princess. She'll be eager for you to meet her new husband."

  "Sounds good to me," he said. "Give Ma an excuse to wear her new dress."

  "So you bought Ma a new dress, did you?" King said. "Thought that woman wouldn't let you spend money on her."

  "I didn't buy it, Tom did," Cedarleg told him.

  "Who's Tom?"

  "That new tool dresser I hired," he said. "The
one that was living with us for a while. He just up and bought her the prettiest piece of dark green brillian-tine you ever saw. She sewed it up lickety-split and ain't had no chance to wear it yet."

  "Is that the young tool dresser that I met?" Queen-ie asked him.

  "Yes, ma'am," he answered.

  "He is a very fine young man, an honorable fellow," Queenie said. "I liked him a lot."

  "High praise indeed from a gal who's been watch­ing men behave at their worst for years," King pointed out. "So is he working out pretty well as tool dresser?"

  "Well, the truth is, Mr. Calhoun, he was turning out to be a dang fine worker. I was thinking to putting him to drilling within a year at the latest. But he done quit me," Cedarleg said.

  "He quit you? Already? There aren't very many who think to quit this close to bringing it in," King said. "Did he head out to another oil field?"

  "Nope, he married up some gal in Burford Cor­ners," Cedarleg answered.

  "He went ahead and married her," Queenie said, delighted. "I'm really glad for him."

  King gave her an exasperated look.

  "What does getting married have to do with it? Most fellows husband at night and hold a job during the day."

  "And most fellows don't work half hard enough at either," Cedarleg joked. "No, Tom has done moved up in the world. Married a banker's daughter. So he's quit the oil business to become a banker."

  "A banker!" King exclaimed. "Sounds like a sheriff taking up train robbery!"

  Cedarleg laughed. "I suspect most folks would think it to be more like a vile sinner getting salvation and taking up preaching the word."

  King shook his head, appreciating the dark humor. "I guess you're right. But I hate to think of a good oil man wasted in one of those stinking banks."

  "Well maybe that's just what the oil business needs," Queenie said.

  "Huh?"

  "Maybe if you had more bankers that knew the oil business, then you've have more bankers willing to loan money to finance it," she said.

  King nodded thoughtfully. "Queenie's got a point," he said.

  "It sure makes sense," Cedarleg agreed.

  "This Tom, how long did he work out on the rig?"