The Right Wife

by Beverly Barton

  “Go away!” Aaron’s angry voice blasted through the door.

  “Mr. Stone,” she called out, her voice quivering. “It’s Maggie Campbell. May I come in?”

  There was no reply, but Maggie could hear the sound of shuffling movement quite clearly. Suddenly the door swung open, revealing a half-dressed Aaron Stone glaring down at her.

  “Well, well, Miss Maggie,” he said. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  “I . . . er . . . I . . .” What am I doing here? she wondered. It was obvious that he wasn’t happy to see her, that he didn’t want her here.

  “How did Thayer persuade you to come?” he asked, his green eyes glowering with resentment.

  She stood there in the doorway, speechless, her soft pink mouth slightly ajar, and her honey-gold eyes gazing up at him in awe. She had never seen anything like the big man whose near nakedness hypnotized her.

  Aaron stood bare-chested and barefooted, an impressive six feet three, his huge arms planted squarely on each side of the doorframe. The stained bandage circled his middle, and the upper expanse of his broad chest was covered with an abundance of thick, sandy hair. His long, muscular legs were encased in a pair of unbuttoned trousers hanging loosely about his slim hips.

  “Well, don’t just stand there gaping,” he said. “Either come in or leave.”

  When he turned back into the room, Maggie stepped over the threshold and closed the door, unsure if she were doing the right thing. She knew it was very improper to be alone with a man in his hotel room, but where this man was concerned, she seemed to have lost all sense of reason.

  He slumped on the edge of the bed, a frown marring his handsome face as he groaned.

  Maggie moved farther into the room, going immediately to the bed. “You’ve hurt yourself with so much activity, Mr. Stone. You should be in bed.”

  Reaching out toward a box of cigars on the bedside table, he winced with pain, but stifled a grunt before it reached his lips. “Damn. Hand me a cigar.”

  “Please get in bed, Mr. Stone.”

  “I want a cigar!”

  “You’re apparently in pain, so you should lie down,” Maggie said. “Has the doctor seen you today?”

  “He’s delivering a baby. Thayer wanted to call in another man, but I told him that I didn’t need a damned doctor.”

  “Sit down on the edge of the bed. I’ll check your wound and put fresh wrapping on it. Mr. Coleman said that Dr. Cooper left the necessary things.”

  “How did Thayer bribe you?” Aaron asked, still sitting on the side of the bed.

  “He simply asked if, as a Christian kindness, I would attend you,” Maggie said, reaching for his box of cigars just as he did.

  She took the box in her hand, eyeing it and then him. “Where did these come from?”

  “Phineas brought them.”

  “You shouldn’t be smoking in your condition.”

  “Dammit, Maggie, I’m not dying of consumption. I’m recovering from a minor bullet wound.”

  She looked on the dresser near the window where a covered tray had been placed. “Please,” she tried to reason with him. “Let me change your dressing, and feed you lunch, and then we’ll discuss the cigars.”

  “You’re a hard woman,” he said teasingly. “So you’ve come to care for me out of the goodness of your heart, have you?”

  He looked up at the beauty standing above him, noticing the free-flowing mane of her fiery curls was neatly subdued into a bun atop her head.

  “Well, get on with it. Change the cursed dressing. But I warn you that I’ll yell if you strip away my hair.”

  Her eyes focused on his chest, and her fingers itched to touch the abundance of golden curls. She had never felt a man’s chest, never experienced the desire to explore a masculine body, and had never longed to be held in strong arms.

  Removing a pair of small scissors from Dr. Cooper’s package, she clipped away the bandage, which had stuck around the wound. When she hesitated, Aaron jerked it away, moaning slightly. Maggie moved quickly, taking the soiled cloth, doctoring the puckered, discolored wound, and applying fresh dressing.

  Aaron held his arms up, out of the way, until she finished. He lowered his arms over her head, holding the back of her neck with both of his hands, pulling her face downward. He wanted to thank his ministering angel with a kiss, but she struggled to free herself.

  “Be still, Maggie girl,” he said. “You’ll hurt yourself trying to pull away.”

  “Please, let me go.”

  “All I want is a kiss.”

  “No.”

  “One kiss.”

  “No,” she said, but ceased to struggle as she felt his hands loosen their grip about her neck and move slowly down her shoulders, down her arms, stopping at her wrists.

  “Why have you knotted your hair up today?” he asked, his hands moving to her tiny waist.

  “Aunt Tilly feels it highly improper for a woman my age to wear her hair loose. I should have known better, but Pa always liked it hanging free except for a ribbon tied around it.”

  “Your pa was a man with good taste.” Aaron smiled as he held her about the waist with one hand and reached upward with the other to touch her hair. “I like the way you wore it yesterday.”

  “I . . . had . . .” Maggie whispered unsteadily, acutely aware of his potent nearness. He smelled of medicine, sweat, and maleness. “I had lost my ribbon struggling with that awful man in Chattanooga.”

  “Who’s this Aunt Tilly?”

  “Mathilda Gower,” Maggie said. “My uncle Chester’s wife.”

  “Oh, yes, the mother of the reverend.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good God! You’re not blood-related to that idiot Peterson, are you? You’re just a cousin-by-marriage.”

  “Why, yes.” Maggie did not understand why Aaron seemed so upset that Wesley was not a blood relation, nor did she understand why he had insulted the other man by referring to him as an idiot.

  “You haven’t come here to marry the good reverend, have you?”

  The question stunned her so much that she was speechless. Aaron’s hand tugged at the twist of her hair. His long, broad fingers threaded through its thickness, loosening the tightly coiled mass, freeing it to fall about her shoulders.

  “Oh,” she gasped as one big hand encompassed the back of her head, pulling her face down next to his.

  “You’re too much woman for a man like that.” His voice was deep and low, caressing her with words. “Answer me, beautiful Maggie.”

  “I . . . I . . .” she stammered, feeling the breath from his lips touch her face. “No. I’ve not come here to marry Wesley. We’ve come to live with them in order to have a better life.”

  His lips hovered over hers, the warmth heating her mouth as he spoke. “You have a glorious mouth. The kind of mouth a man dreams about.”

  His lips touched hers, and the world began to spin around and around for Maggie as she clutched Aaron’s shoulders. Fear and longing coursed through her while he continued the gentle kiss.

  When he released her mouth and looked into her dazed eyes, she tried to speak. “Aaron . . . Mr. Stone, please.”

  “Please what, Maggie love?”

  “Please let me go. I’m not your love.”

  Observing the fear in her amber eyes, he took a deep breath and released her. “Fetch my lunch, Miss Maggie. I’ve suddenly developed a ravenous appetite.”

  Maggie straightened, turned around, and walked to the dresser where she uncovered his meal. “It looks inviting,” she said as she returned to the bed, tray in hand. “Do you need help getting back in the bed?”

  “Is it necessary for me to go back to bed?” he asked, grumbling. “I can manage the tray like this.”

  “Please.”

  “Say, ‘Please, Aaron,’ and I’ll oblige you.”

  Maggie fumed. He was the most exasperating man she had ever known. “Please, Aaron.”

  Cautiously, he eased his large body into
the bed, leaving the covers wadded at the foot.

  “My arm is a bit stiff,” he said, raising it slightly while a frown appeared on his face. “See?”

  “What can I do to help, Mr. Stone?” She stood by the bed, hands demurely at her sides. She seriously considered throwing the plate in his face.

  “Aaron. Remember to call me Aaron. Now that we’re friends, you can feed me.”

  Maggie eyed him suspiciously, looking from him to the tray, and then back to him. She decided that she’d been a fool to have come, and was an even bigger fool to stay.

  “Sit down.” He patted the bed.

  Seeing no better way to accomplish the task, she obeyed, seating herself on the edge of the bed. She picked up his spoon and dipped into a portion of peas. She put the spoonful of peas into his open mouth. He began to chew slowly.

  “Hmm . . . mmm, good,” he mumbled. “More.”

  Overcoming the desire to jab him with his own fork, she complied, silently angry. Maggie fed; Aaron ate, bite by bite, mouthful by mouthful, until he’d cleaned his plate. She held a coffee cup to his lips as he drank. When she lowered the cup, he took it from her, placed it on the tray, and clasped her hand in his.

  “Thank you, Maggie.” Aaron pulled her hand to his lips, tenderly kissing the top.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. . . . Aaron.”

  “How long can you stay?”

  “I’ve stayed too long already,” she said, wishing he would release her hand so she could leave. “Mr. Coleman is waiting for me. And Daisy and your Phineas are still outside, no doubt.”

  “I don’t want you to go.” He pushed the tray to the far side of the bed and reached for Maggie. She gasped loudly when he pulled her into his arms.

  “No, Aaron. No.”

  “Yes, Maggie. Oh, yes.”

  His arms tightened about her, crushing her soft breasts against his uninjured side as he lowered his head and took her mouth with his. Gone was the tenderness of the earlier kiss, the gentleness of reason. He ravished her sweet lips. His tongue, hot and wild, circled feverishly around her closed mouth, coaxing, prizing. He caressed her back, and then grasped her hips in his big hands. He shifted her half on top of him as he forced her lips apart, whispering hoarsely, “Open your mouth, my love.”

  When she obeyed, he thrust inside, stroking her tongue, exploring her softness. Slowly, almost reluctantly, her own tongue responded, easing into his mouth, dueling sweetly with his.

  The kiss deepened and intensified. Maggie had never known such mindless pleasure. Her mouth throbbed from his assault, but pleaded for more as it met his with equal passion. Innocent and unknowing, she could not understand what was happening to her body. Why did her breasts feel swollen, her nipples tight? Why did her blood feel like fire coursing through her veins?

  Aaron’s lips moved to the pale softness of her neck, his tongue sliding downward until it reached the barrier of her collar. His breathing uneven, he whispered against her ear, “I want to touch you.”

  She buried her face against the hard muscles of his big shoulder, a hot ache filling the secret depths of her femininity. Her fingers inched upward into the thick whorls of his tawny chest hair, and a sensation of heated longing shot through her body, hitting her womanly core.

  Just as he reached to unbutton her dress, his hand stopped, resting against the quivering pulse in her throat. Aaron’s befuddled brain barely registered the sound of voices in the hallway until they were right outside his door. He did not want to stop kissing the responsive woman in his arms, but, when he recognized Thayer’s voice, he knew he must.

  “Please, Eunice, wait,” Thayer said as Eunice Arnold thrust open the door of Aaron’s room.

  “I must see Aaron,” Eunice said in a shrill voice.

  Just as the Widow Arnold pranced in, yellow parasol in hand, Aaron pushed a stunned Maggie out of his arms. Perplexed, but quickly recovering, she jumped up from the bed and turned to face the intruders.

  “Aaron, my . . .” Eunice halted midsentence when she saw the beautiful blushing redhead standing by Aaron’s bed.

  “Please come in, Eunice,” Aaron said, groping for the covers at his feet. Seeing his dilemma, Maggie tugged the covers up to his waist.

  “Eunice, may I introduce Miss Margaret Campbell,” Thayer said. “She was kind enough to administer to Aaron’s needs since Dr. Cooper was unavailable. Maggie, Mrs. Eunice Arnold.”

  “Are you a nurse?” Eunice asked.

  “No,” Maggie replied, taking a long, leisurely look at the tall, elegant woman who stood eyeing her rather contemptuously.

  Eunice Arnold was at least five feet nine, with a body as willowy as a young girl’s. Her fine, white-blond hair was parted in the middle with a row of curly bangs gracing her forehead. She looked every bit the well-dressed lady in her French-gray faille with an accordion-pleated underskirt of yellow silk and a waistcoat trimmed in velvet. A black felt hat decorated with a yellow ostrich feather adorned her head.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Maggie blurted out as she practically ran to the door. “I have to go. Aunt Tilly’s expecting me.”

  “Wait, Miss Maggie,” Thayer called as she rushed past him and out into the hallway, almost knocking over a small walnut table.

  Thayer looked at Aaron, who nodded in a silent plea. Thayer excused himself and followed Maggie, not catching up with her until he reached the lobby.

  Just as Thayer spoke her name again, Wesley Peterson walked through the front entrance. Ignoring Thayer’s call, she walked straight to the reverend.

  “I was beginning to worry, Margaret,” Wesley said, taking her hand. “Why, you’re trembling, my dear. Is something wrong?”

  “No,” she answered in a weak voice. Summoning all her courage, she smiled. “I’m afraid I’m not accustomed to men like Mr. Stone.”

  “He didn’t—”

  “No, no. He’s just a bit rough-spoken,” Maggie lied, wanting to be as far away from the Parshall House and Aaron Stone and his fine lady friend as she could get. “Take me home, Wesley.”

  “Of course, Cousin Margaret,” he said, escorting her outside to where Daisy and Phineas stood waiting.

  For one brief second, Maggie turned backward, catching a glimpse of Thayer standing at the hotel’s entrance, his black eyes filled with concern.

  Chapter 4

  Over a week had passed since Maggie’s flight from the Parshall House, but, try as she might, she could not forget one moment of the last day she had seen Aaron Stone. Her feelings for the man alternated hourly, ranging from bitter hatred to what she assumed was unrequited love. On this warm June afternoon, Maggie’s thoughts kept wandering back to the very instant Aaron’s lips had first touched hers. It had been such a gentle kiss, but the feeling it had induced in her had been so wild they had set her head to spinning. She had begun to resent the man because he had invaded her mind and heart so thoroughly that Micah was accusing her of being love-struck.

  “Margaret.” Mathilda Gower moved about the room like a butterfly despite her heaviness. Maggie had soon learned that Aunt Tilly’s health and agility had little to do with her body. She was well and happy whenever it suited her to be so. “I was telling Alice how becoming this lavender jersey will look on her. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, certainly.” Maggie had her doubts that the material was suited to Mrs. Alice Mobley’s rather bony body or sallow coloring but the lady was her first customer now that Aunt Tilly was allowing her to take in sewing. “Since I’ve adjusted the pattern, I’m sure it will be a fine fit, Mrs. Mobley.”

  Alice smiled, and the warmth in her expression changed her pale, plain face into a pleasantly pretty one. Maggie liked her aunt’s friend, whose husband practiced law in Tuscumbia and twin daughters attended the Deshler Female Institute. She envied the Mobley family their happy, secure life. “I shall return on Wednesday for the fitting, dear. Tilly has praised you highly. I understand you’ve made her a lovely new dress this past week.”

  “Indeed,”
Mathilda confirmed, a plump hand patting her niece’s shoulder. “I shall have it on at church Sunday. It is the most beautiful gray cashmere, and the jacket is trimmed in black. It’s a perfect match for my gray straw bonnet.”

  “Margaret, I’m so pleased you and your brother and sister have joined our community.” Alice Mobley’s voice was loud and clear, each word thoroughly enunciated, indicating that her origins were not Southern. “I’m sure you will grow to love Tuscumbia as much as my family has since our arrival fifteen years ago.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Maggie said as she methodically folded the yards of material her aunt and Mrs. Mobley had inspected. “Please come on Wednesday. And if you wish, I can see your daughters on that day to adjust the pattern for them.”

  “Most definitely,” Mathilda invited. “You must all come over. I’ll have Auntie Gem bake a batch of tea cakes.”

  “We shall be here.” Alice nodded good-bye as Mathilda escorted her from the small, second-story bedroom where Maggie had set up the sewing machine that Uncle Chester had brought down from the attic and proudly presented to her. Maggie treasured the machine all the more for knowing it had belonged to her uncle’s first wife, who had died along with their only child in the yellow fever epidemic of ’78.

  Once her aunt and their guest were gone, she sat down on her small bed, smiling serenely because she was filled with a sense of hope and purpose. Aunt Tilly had been in complete accord with Maggie’s desire to earn money of her own, and had even praised her plans to pay for Micah’s and Judith’s schooling. Her aunt had actually gone on and on about the virtues of honest labor, and exhorted her nieces and nephew to work hard, obey God’s commandments, and keep spotless reputations in the community.

  Maggie’s plans were beginning to come together nicely. Micah had adapted well to work at the general store, and his intelligence and conscientiousness greatly pleased Uncle Chester. Judith, though still too outspoken and curious, was putting forth an effort to conform to Aunt Tilly’s strict rules. Daisy never complained. Luckily she liked and worked well with Auntie Gem and was enjoying being paid court by Phineas, who had stopped by twice during the past week. Maggie suspected that Daisy was very attracted to the big man.