The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson

by Laine Ferndale

  He rose and carried her the three short steps to her bed. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his shirt, clinging to him even after he laid her down and started to pull away from her.

  “Stay, please?” she whispered. The raggedness of her voice wrecked him.

  “Of course.” He toed off his boots and stretched out alongside her. “For as long as you want, sweetheart.”

  Her weeping slowed to hiccuping gulps, but he didn’t let her go. He stroked her neck, caressed the soft valley between her shoulders and down her back. “I’ve got you,” he said, no longer entirely sure which of them he meant to comfort with the words. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

  • • •

  Her sleep was deep and dreamless.

  She woke to a room barely illuminated by the thin light of dawn. Even in the dimness, Jo could see that the pillows and sheets were streaked with dirt and ash. She was wearing yesterday’s clothes, now most likely irreparably wrinkled and stained, and a hairpin was jabbing into her scalp. Her eyes were still aching and gritty from weeping. How long had it been since she had cried in front of anyone? Since she had cried at all?

  She moved her arm to remove the wretched little hairpin, and the back of her hand brushed against warm skin. Owen was still beside her in bed, warm and real and solid. The comfort of simple physical closeness felt decadent. She tried to keep her movements small and quiet as she untangled her skirts from around her legs. Owen shifted and slid his arm around her tightly. Jo smiled to herself and gave in to the urge to snuggle in closer.

  She had forgotten about his blistered forearm. Owen jolted awake with a painfully drawn-in breath that made her wince away in sympathy.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry.”

  Owen’s eyes were open, but he seemed not to register where he was. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Her hand was still against his chest, and she could feel his heart pounding. Finally, he looked down at her and his expression softened.

  He kissed the top of her head. She could feel his pulse slowing, the soft movement of his breath against her hair, his muscles relaxing beneath her.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t enjoying my dreams.” He sighed in and out deeply. “Everything still smells like fire.”

  She smoothed her fingers down his chest, tracing the streaks of soot on his shirt. “Did I remember to thank you for saving my life?” she whispered, smiling at him.

  He managed a smile. “For you, anything. And for Doc Stryker too.” He paused and again she felt the tension return to his body. “God, his face was so grey. I thought for sure ...”

  For a long moment, they held each other in silence. She knew they were both replaying the scene from yesterday. Jo took a breath. If she thought too hard, she would start thinking of the narrowly avoided possible endings. “But we’re all okay,” she finally said.

  “We’re okay,” he agreed. “Even if we’re a mess,” he whispered, smiling at her. His forehead was still faintly smudged with ash, and his fair hair and blue eyes stood out that much more brightly.

  And that was when he kissed her, and all the possible endings vanished. There was just one ending—this one, the one that led to this bed with the dawn light creeping in the window and across her bright quilt. He threaded his fingers through her hair, and somehow despite the tangles his hand found its way down to her shoulders. His lips followed, kissing along her neck to the hollow at her throat.

  He pushed her down gently into the pillows and slipped one arm beneath her waist to pull her even more tightly to him. Instinctively, she arched her back and closed her eyes as her breasts pressed against the unyielding wall of his chest, and he kissed her again deeply. His blond stubble scratched against her chin, and she didn’t care.

  They were still both fully clothed, but Owen’s shirttails had pulled loose from his trousers, and her roaming fingers soon strayed over the bare skin of his back, his sides, his shoulders. She brushed her fingernails down his spine and reveled in the shivering response. The fabric of her own clothing felt rough against the hard peaks of her nipples, and her legs felt bound by her skirts. As if he were responding to her own sensations, Owen reached down with one hand and roughly pulled her skirts and petticoat up around her thighs.

  She exhaled sharply as he pulled her newly freed right leg over his hip, bringing the ache between her legs against his unmistakable hardness. She tilted her hips ever so slightly, exploring the sensation. Almost immediately, he tore his lips away from hers and buried his face in the curve of her neck, and his heavy breath chased maddeningly across the sensitive skin there. His free hand came to her hip.

  “God, Jo,” he ground out. “Jo. Tell me what you want.”

  She had no idea what she wanted. Gorgeous sensations had erased every coherent thought from her head. She wound her leg more tightly around him, and felt as much as heard Owen stifle a moan. The sound made her brave, shameless. She ran her hand down his back, letting it linger over the tight planes of his waist and his buttocks.

  “I want you inside me,” she whispered.

  Without hesitating, Owen captured her mouth once again, questing and stroking with his tongue as he reached between their bodies to undo the closures of his trousers. At the same time, she tried to turn and lift her hips to slide free of her own underthings, and they fumbled and tangled together until somehow he was on top of her, his cock hard and insistent between her legs.

  He paused then, raising up on his elbows. “Are you ready for me? We can slow down.”

  “Oh, don’t stop. Please.”

  He laughed, softly, and pushed inside her until his full length was achingly, exquisitely filling her. There was only this connection, only Owen’s body and hers moving and straining together. He thrust deeply again and again until she was gasping for breath, her fingers gripping hard against his broad, strong shoulders. As if from far away, she heard Owen cry out, felt him tensing around her. The sound of his raw, rough pleasure sent her spinning, and she was adrift, at sea on a vast wave of sensation.

  They washed back to the shore, their skins flushed and their breathing labored. Jo kissed his stubbled cheek. “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “That was ... lovely.”

  He grinned back at her. “You’re quite welcome, ma’am.” He returned her kiss with a playful peck on her forehead. “And I promise not to be in such a hurry next time.”

  Next time. Jo’s mind, which had been so peacefully wiped clear just a few seconds earlier, began to race. How many next times did he have in mind? Would he stay? For how long?

  She forced herself to take a deep breath. Even after all of Owen’s kisses, the bitter taste of the smoke she’d inhaled yesterday lingered in her mouth. Now was not the time for big decisions, not when she hadn’t even changed out of last night’s clothes. Things would seem much clearer after a bath, a fresh dress, and a good meal.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m also sorry I haven’t taken more care to ... ah, hell. I may as well be blunt. To avoid getting you pregnant.”

  “I don’t think it’s something we need to worry about. I never fell pregnant during my marriage, so it’s likely that I’m simply not able to.” She spoke as matter-of-factly as possible, but she kept her face firmly buried in his shoulder during this little speech. “Just another thing I can’t fix.”

  “There’s nothing about you that needs fixing,” he said quietly. “I just want ... I want to make you happy. I want you exactly as you are.” He pressed a kiss onto her forehead. “And I don’t want to give you up. Come back to Vancouver with me.”

  She froze. “That’s ... Owen, there’s no reason to rush into anything. I’ve never even been to Vancouver.”

  “I mean it. This place doesn’t exactly seem safe.” Considering the very recent arson next door, Jo could hardly argue that point. “And I’ll introduce you to everyone, show you the sights, take care of everything.” The idea had clearly just occurred to him, and he sounded so excited.

  She laughe
d a little nervously. “I couldn’t even afford a hotel right now. There’s the front window, and now the damage from the fire. And Doc will need so much help.”

  “Is that all?” He nuzzled her ear playfully. “You’d stay with me, obviously. I won’t even charge you.”

  “That’s ... You know I couldn’t do that.”

  “What, stay with me? Why not? We’re together right now. And it’s not as if I have a bevy of domestic servants to gossip all over town.”

  “I just couldn’t. Not without ...”

  “Without what?”

  “Without being married. Or at least engaged.”

  That clearly wasn’t what he had been expecting. “Ah. The thing is ... That is, I’m definitely not marriage material. Not yet, I mean.” He sounded genuinely regretful. “I think if I can write a good enough article about this place, and the arson, that’ll put my career onto an entirely higher level. But who knows how long it’ll be before I can make the kind of money I’d need to support a wife.”

  His excuses were beginning to ramble, so Jo silenced him with a quick kiss. “It’s okay. I’m not asking you to marry me.”

  Still, it stung more than it should have that he had said “a wife,” not her specifically. But that was irrational. It wasn’t as if she actually wanted him to propose; she’d said herself that things were moving too quickly. And living with him in Vancouver was just a spontaneous thought that he’d blurted out. It was sweet of him, really.

  “You don’t need to worry about me or take care of anything. Let’s just enjoy this morning.”

  And they did.

  • • •

  Owen’s walk back to the St. Alice after breakfast should have been met by murmurs of disapproval. He was still wearing yesterday’s singed, stained clothes, and there were very few respectable explanations for that. But the fire seemed to have put the citizens of Fraser Springs in charity with the world — the few people he passed smiled, and two even stopped him to shake his hand. The desk clerk at the hotel greeted him as if he were visiting royalty. He was in his room just long enough to strip down for a quick scrub at the washstand and to change into fresh clothes.

  Back at Wilson’s, the girls were already sweeping up outside and scrubbing soot off the bathhouse’s siding. He sat down at a plank bench in the dining room still crowded with the breakfast rush. A cup of coffee seemed to magically materialize in front of him.

  “How you feeling?” asked someone.

  “There’s the man of the hour!” called someone else. He waved back.

  Usually, Owen loved the attention, but today it just felt like background noise. His mind was swarming with what felt like a million thoughts, most of them connected to Jo. Waking up this morning with her in his arms had felt so right. Better than right.

  After Ilsa assured him that Jo would be kept in bed all morning — by force, if necessary — he returned to the hotel and redressed his arm, sent a telegram to his publisher, and set himself to drafting the outlines of his new article. He didn’t labour over choosing the right phrases. He simply wrote. Page after page. Not a husky dog or a twelve-year-old protagonist in sight, but words that felt powerful and genuine. For the first time in years, he felt that he was writing something that mattered. An hour passed in this way, then two. Had he missed lunch? He definitely needed coffee — his eyes felt gritty, heavy...

  He woke up with a start. The pencil was still in his hand, but he’d fallen asleep with his head on the desk, pillowed on the loose sheets of paper. Someone was knocking at the door.

  “Mr. Wister! Are you okay, Mr. Wister?”

  It took him a few seconds to remember who Mr. Wister was. His alter ego had died in the fire. How to explain that to the good people of Fraser Springs?

  The hotel’s bellboy was on the other side of the door; he looked relieved when Owen finally opened it.

  “Telegram, sir,” he said.

  Owen tipped him and sat down on the bed.

  Thank God for your safety STOP Will send cameraman to take article photos STOP Be there 24-48hrs

  Owen smiled at the way his publisher unquestioningly jumped into action on his behalf. If Owen said he was writing an article that would set Vancouver on its ear, then D. W. Harrison — “Dubs” to his friends, and Owen was among those lucky few — took him at his word.

  He tossed the telegram on the table, and his eye was drawn to the drifts of scribbled-on paper on its surface and on the floor around his feet. Well. It seemed his writer’s block was well and truly broken. Dubs would be thrilled. Hell, he was thrilled; it was almost as exhilarating as surviving yesterday’s fire. In fact, he’d felt more vital in the past few days than he could remember feeling in years.

  It wasn’t just the fire—it was Jo. Her searching touch, her kisses, the way she challenged him, and the way she listened to him. She was the reason he felt so goddamn alive lately. This morning, she had told him not to worry about her, but he couldn’t help but wonder how she was holding up, what she was thinking. There was the shock of the fire yesterday, and her strangely subdued reaction to his offer this morning. Should he have proposed? She hadn’t seemed to want him to, and she’d been so understanding about his desire to avoid rushing into marriage.

  Regardless, the fire and its aftermath had given him a new sense of clarity: he would risk his own life to keep her safe, without hesitation. A man would be a fool not to try to make himself worthy of a woman who made him feel like that. He would write this article and make sure it was the best damn thing he’d ever produced. Dubs would arrive tomorrow, and together they’d get him published in the best papers in Canada. Everything would work out. He pulled a clean piece of paper from the sheaf, sharpened his pencil, and got back to work.

  Chapter 23

  Owen’s publisher was younger than Jo expected. She’d imagined someone who looked like Doc Stryker, if he were an actual doctor. Instead, Owen arrived at Wilson’s with a dapper little man in his mid-forties who radiated the nervous energy of a terrier. He wore a carnation in the buttonhole of his perfectly tailored suit and carried a cane topped with a silver eagle’s head.

  “Jo, this is my publisher and good friend, D. W. Harrison,” Owen said. “I thought he was sending a cameraman, but it turns out—”

  “Photography is a science and an art. Our many able cameramen understand the science, but the art ...” Harrison brushed some imaginary lint off his lapel. “Besides, I’ve known this man since he could barely grow facial hair, and I heard he’d gotten himself into yet another scrape.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Dubs,” Owen said. “And Dubs, this is Jo.”

  Mr. Harrison gave a small smile and a quick touch to the brim of his perfectly brushed hat. “A pleasure. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

  She could see instantly what a man like Mr. Harrison would think of a place like Fraser Springs, but Owen was all puppy-dog energy, rambling on about the layout of the town’s buildings and introducing “Dubs” to Nils, Ilsa, and the other girls. Harrison proclaimed most of it “rustic” or “full of character,” but only Ilsa seemed to impress him.

  By the time the tour was finished, the dining room was packed for the lunch rush. Jo turned around to see that Harrison had pulled a chair into the middle of the room and climbed up on it.

  “Can I have your attention, everyone? Everyone, can I have some silence?”

  All the miners and her girls looked up at him, puzzled.

  “Yes. Thank you. Now, my name is D. W. Harrison, and I have come to capture the true essence of this town in photographs of the highest quality. To do so, I will need your assistance. The way I see it, we have a classic hero’s tale. The demented villain, the hero who rushes in to save the damsel in distress, and the townspeople who rise to the occasion in a time of great danger.”

  “Indeed!” Jo looked over to see that Mrs. McSheen had somehow appeared, as if the word “photographs” had conjured her. She sighed. This was going to get out of hand.

  �
�The part of the heroine will be played by Miss Ilsa Pedersen.”

  “But I wasn’t the one who—” Ilsa said.

  “Yes, yes,” Harrison interrupted. “But Mrs. Wilson is still recovering from the shock of her ordeal. And besides, people don’t read newspapers for reality. They read them for excitement. For drama. We are capturing the essence of this event. If you think about it, that’s more real than what actually happened. And Miss Pedersen beautifully captures the pristine spirit of Fraser Springs. Once our readers associate your town with such youth and beauty, you’ll have to beat them away from the door with a stick.” He made a striking motion with his cane.

  There were several seconds of confused silence after this proclamation, followed by a low murmur of muttered discussion throughout the dining room.

  “Now hold on a minute, Dubs!” Owen objected over the growing noise.

  “No, it’s a fine idea,” Jo said loudly enough to silence the room. “I would prefer to stay out of the limelight.”

  She had to admit that it was impressive watching Harrison work. Fraser Springs was instantly being transformed before her eyes into a theatre set.

  Harrison’s cheeks were pink with enthusiasm. “Now, where is this Rusty character?”

  “The RCMP took him to Nelson. They’re transferring him to a jail in Vancouver,” Mrs. McSheen said. “And may I say, Mr. Harrison, that I have extensive amateur theatrical experience and shall gladly volunteer my services if needed.”

  “Well, that’s a stroke of luck on both fronts, ma’am. The warden is a good chum, and I’m sure he’ll let me take some shots of Rusty. But just in case, do we have a volunteer who could play Rusty? Perhaps you there? With the beard? Could I trouble you to show me your teeth, sir? That’s it. Make a snarl like a wolf.”

  Several miners showed their teeth, auditioning for their big break.

  “If I may, Mr. Harrison?” Jo asked. “If one of these men plays Rusty, won’t he face difficulties down the road if someone recognizes him from the newspaper and thinks he’s actually an arsonist?”