He leaned nearer yet. His breath teased the fine hairs at her temple. “Your ears are pink, Lizzy Lou.”
“That’s quite enough, Morgan.”
He chuckled.
Time to change the subject. “I’ve been wondering about something.”
“What’s that?”
“How long has your mother been gone?”
The teasing light in his eyes faded. “Three years.”
She nodded, containing a rush of compassion for his sadness. Each time he’d spoken of his mother, his love for her had been evident—a sharp contrast to her brothers. Junior and Sidney admitted or showed affection for Mother, but only under duress. They’d taken after Father, preferring to shun love. If either brother had an ounce of affection for Elizabeth, they’d never demonstrated it.
Given the contrast, how could she not admire Morgan’s uncommon capacity?
He had a big heart. And had no need to bury his feelings. She loved that about him.
“What happened?”
He didn’t answer right away, so she intentionally allowed him time to find his words.
“Cancer. In her belly.” Seconds ticked past on the wall clock. His gaze focused on the past, in that far-away place.
“She was ill for two years.”
He fell silent. How awful, to watch a parent’s health fail, and be unable to help. She understood comfort measures—cold compresses, reading aloud, sitting nearby for hours on end…
But to watch his mother slowly dying must’ve been unbearable.
“I’m sorry.” She took a risk and touched him. The simple gesture of her hand upon his back, when she wanted to embrace him…
Not a good idea.
“People are born.” His voice, rough and thick, betrayed his pain. “Some die young. Some grow old.”
“You loved her. You love her still.”
“Yes.”
He remained lost in his thoughts a moment more while she swept a palm over his back and admired his sturdy, muscled form. So masculine. So…big. Another circling motion, allowing fingernails to lightly abrade.
Looking had been one thing—but to touch was altogether more.
She forced herself to be still, to let her hand upon his back express comfort, and only comfort.
She cleared her throat. “Were you close? Your mother and you?”
“Mama said I was her whole life.” He chuckled in a way that seemed sad. “When I was small, I thought I understood. Now I see she loved my dad with her entire heart, with her whole heart left for me.”
He met her gaze then, held it in a way that seemed shockingly intimate. “Love for spouse and love for son are two different capacities.”
What was he trying to say?
“Yes.” She caught herself, her thumb tracing a ridge of muscle. An amazing physique—one more thing to love about him. “I see your parents must have been happy.”
“You sound wistful.” He watched her closely. “Your parents were unhappy?”
Admitting the truth about her parents’ marriage seemed untrue to Father’s memory…but this was Morgan. In a matter of days, her mother would be his mother too. He deserved to know, because, like her childhood in the orphanage, she was a result of her experiences…and marriage to Father made her who she was. Understanding Mother would make their relationship easier.
“I’ll answer my question first.” He smiled softly. “My parents were blissfully happy.”
“You know this, how?”
“We lived in that one-room house. Can’t hide a spat from your child during long winters or a solid week of rain.”
She laughed.
“I think that’s why Dad wants to remarry. To him, marriage means happiness.” He turned his whole body toward her. He caught the hand she’d placed upon his back, and held it between his.
Her insides tingled. He held her hand the way courting couples held hands…and it felt wonderful. She looked up from their joined hands and witnessed a twinkle in his eyes.
And fell a little more in love.
She was in so much trouble.
“I’ll admit, Lizzy Lou, I was scared for Dad the day we met you at the train and your mother disembarked in that horrible, horrible purple gown.”
She laughed. “I told her not to wear it but she insisted. Meeting your father for the first time had her in a fit of nerves. She changed in the ladies’ room while I tended the naughty Gideon boys. ”
“Tell me she does not intend to wear that best dress at the wedding. If so, it needs to disappear.”
She chuckled at his antics. This loving, big-hearted man, had learned from the best possible example. “Your dad has made my mother happier than she’s ever been. I can admit that, to you.” She focused on their joined hands again, and soaked up the beautiful closeness this simple touch invoked.
“I like that.”
Her pulse quickened. His thumb swept over hers. She closed her free hand, opened it, aching to touch him, to at least settle that empty hand upon his forearm. Twenty-six, and she didn’t know how to hold hands.
“Your parents weren’t happy?” He genuinely wanted to know.
“Not like yours. It’s heartbreaking how desperately Mother loved him—he meant everything,” She winced. “That didn’t come out right…She loves your dad.”
His smile warmed her clear to her toes. “I know. I see their happiness. I never thought it possible—after that purple gown—but their love is undeniable.”
“Yes.”
“Dad’s only fifty. He might live another year or thirty. He deserves the happiness he found with your mother.”
How could she not love this man? Smiling broadly, she glanced down, then back into his eyes.
“I apologize,” he murmured, “for thinking poorly of your mother at first.”
“The purple dress was quite horrid.”
He laughed. “Not what I meant, but you’re kind to let me off the hook.”
She nodded, and noted she’d somehow moved a step nearer, so drawn to Morgan Hudson. Just like Mother, who felt that same tremendous pull toward George Hudson.
Mother and daughter. Drawn to father and son.
This had to be the oddest circumstance ever. She’d never thought, not for a moment…
If she married Morgan, their children—if they had children—would have one set of grandparents. That sounded…wrong.
But her hand in Morgan’s, dallying during the workday while he had an enormous list of work to accomplish felt incredibly right.
He felt incredibly right.
What would it be like to have a man as in love, as committed, as George Hudson for Mother?
As demonstrated with his first wife, Morgan’s mother, George knew how to love a woman without restriction or limitations. So unlike her own father. The more tightly Mother had clung, desperate for affection, the more Father had pulled away, suffocated and unhappy.
Morgan Hudson would love without limits, like his father. “What was your mother’s name?”
“Matilda Morgan. Everyone called her Tildie.”
She smiled—with him, smiling was easy. “I see.”
“Indeed you do. Mother’s maiden name became my Christian name. My parents’ choice pleased my Grandfather Morgan. Ten daughters, and no one to carry on the name.”
Voices sounded on the boardwalk outside the shop, the doorbell tinkled, and a man entered.
That quick, the tender closeness between them ended. Morgan stepped away and opened the ledger upon the counter as if he’d been reaching for the book when the customer entered.
“Ray.” Morgan sounded pleased to see his cousin. The Hudsons had mentioned Raymond and the Cresswell family as they’d discussed the wedding over supper each evening.
“Hey, Morgan.” The cousin removed his hat, revealing thick hair a shade or two darker than Morgan’s. His tidy suit of clothes, snowy white collar , and precisely knotted necktie told her plenty about him. He bowed in an easy manner, gallant yet flirty. “Good
afternoon, Miss Speare.”
She glanced to Morgan—then back. “Mr. Cresswell.”
“Ah! They have mentioned me. Raymond Cresswell, at your service.” Anyone else would’ve sounded absurd, but Morgan’s cousin charmed. Probably had a dozen ladies swooning and one hundred close friends.
“A pleasure, sir. May I help you?”
“Actually, yes.” Ray flipped his hat over his forearm in a flashy move, reached across the counter, bold as could be, and grabbed her clasped hands. “Morgan, be a pal and give us a moment alone, will you?” According to Morgan, Ray had been one of the fellows who’d come to the house to see her. “I want to talk to the lady alone.”
“She’s working.” Morgan read through yesterday’s page in the sales ledger, as if searching for something.
“You have time for me, don’t you, Miss Speare?”
“I’m busy.” She tugged but Ray refused to let her go.
He laughed—so unlike Morgan, self-gratifying…with an edge. “No one in the store but me, pretty lady.”
She’d had essentially no experience with men. No man, decent or otherwise, had ever flirted with her. Society frowned on public flirtations so she’d witnessed very little. But this…excess…made her uncomfortable.
She pulled again and this time his grip loosened. She eased back from the counter.
His smile faded, and deviousness in his eye gave her pause. Her heart pounded, and she found herself relieved Morgan hadn’t left the sales room. With him at her side, she felt safe, if not harassed.
“I came to my Aunt Tildie’s house, hoping to make your acquaintance,” Mr. Cresswell said, his voice carefully even. “But your mother wouldn’t allow me to see you.”
He observed her, his features hard. She didn’t dare glance to Morgan. “My mother is strict, Mr. Cresswell. And fastidious.”
He shook his head. “I think you refused to see me.”
Perhaps her mother was more discerning and less selfish than Elizabeth had believed.
Did he enjoy making her feel like a cornered mouse, and he, the cat who batted a paw. No wonder young women refused to see him.
“Actually, I had no idea you’d come to the door.”
“Well, I’m here now. Don’t you want to know why I called?”
She waited, taking clues from Morgan. What would Ray do next?
“I will accompany you about town on Independence Day. Big day of entertainment, all kinds of distractions.”
She knew all about the festivities planned. Four men had already extended invitations, working up to it by sharing the details. Each were kind, genteel, and gracious upon hearing she’d promised to accompany Mother and Mr. Hudson.
“I’ve promised my mother and her intended, Mr. Hudson, I’d accompany them on Independence Day.”
“Is that so.” A statement, rather than question. All pretense of good humor had fled.
“Yes. Mr. Hudson wishes to introduce Mother and me to neighbors and friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You are aware my mother and Mr. Hudson are to be married?”
“I’d heard.” The dapper gentleman who’d entered the shop tarnished further with every sentence spoken, peeling paint, revealing the ghoul beneath.
“Your stepdaddy is my uncle.” Cresswell leaned on the glass-fronted display case, then shot Morgan a superiority-soaked glance. “I’ll join your party. Uncle George welcomes me.”
The more Ray Cresswell said, the less she liked him. “Thank you, Mr. Cresswell—”
“I will arrive at eight.”
“Actually, Mr. Cresswell—”
“Can’t miss the pancake breakfast. Important flag-raising ceremony.”
“No.” She held her ground. “Thank you, but no.”
“You’re not patriotic, Miss Speare?” He tsk-tsked. “No patriotism. What will people say?”
“Good day, Mr. Cresswell.” She nodded at the door.
“That’s not nice, Miss Speare.”
She’d come to the end of her rope. “Good-bye.”
“I’ve made plans—told the fellas—”
“As have I. Made plans, that is. Good day.” She could leave. Shut the door and hide in the workroom until Morgan saw his cousin out. But somehow that wouldn’t be nearly as satisfactory as finishing this herself.
Cresswell reached across the counter, a swift strike, and made a grab for her.
He put her in mind of a king-sized rattler.
He nearly caught her.
She backed up, just in time, and Morgan, who’d been leafing through the book seemingly without a care in the world, clutched his cousin’s wrist. A manacle locked tight.
Her heart pounded, hard. She fought to stifle a squeak, gasp, or any sign that he’d frightened her. Men like him thrived on power.
Morgan and Ray challenged one another without a word passing between them. Her heart pounded, and as she watched, her confidence in Morgan doubled. He knew when to fight, and how. He defended her, despite the fact the other man was his cousin and friend.
After a charged moment, Morgan released Ray, who stepped back and subtly rubbed his wrist. With a practiced move, he rolled his hat onto his head at a cavalier angle.
“I’m surprised, Miss Speare. Thought I’d find a lady when I met you.” He shook his head, implying she were anything but.
Elizabeth raised her chin. She would not be easily cowed, nor would she grant him power over her. “You are not welcome here, Mr. Cresswell. Show yourself out.”
“Not welcome in my uncle’s shop?” He shook his head with over-dramatized disbelief. “I believe it is you who is unwelcome, Miss Speare.”
Morgan shut the book, and with an ease she hadn’t anticipated, took her in his arms. Easy, at home, simple, convincing. He held her with the grace and comfort of a man who’d done all of those things frequently and forever. He kissed her temple, his warm lips lingering at her hairline for the longest of moments.
She couldn’t help it. Her eyes drifted shut with a combination of relief and an overwhelming joy.
This was precisely what she wanted. Morgan.
“You’re too late,” Morgan told his beast of a cousin. “The lady has chosen me.”
“Your sister, you fool.” Cresswell tugged on his lapels, straightening his coat as if girding himself for battle. “Always were cracked.”
Morgan’s embrace tightened, but not in anger, not in an attempt to restrain his temper. He tightened his arms about her and it felt like…like love.
Genuine. Motivated by heartfelt affection. The natural manifestation of a man for a woman he’d promised his life to.
Tears threatened—but she would not, could not, allow Raymond Cresswell to think he’d won.
The tears of joy, tears…because her soul recognized in this man, Morgan Hudson, the completion she’d thought would never come. Not for her.
The man she loved had taken her in his arms and claimed her.
She’d have to be dead inside to not shed a tear of joy, wouldn’t she?
Morgan chuckled, soft and low, sounding so much like Mr. Hudson as he hugged Mother close in a stolen embrace when they believed themselves alone. “No, Ray,” Morgan repeated. “I meant precisely what I said. You are too late. The lady is mine.”
Morgan’s declaration, resonating with conviction, was finally the impetus to carry Ray Cresswell over the threshold. Ray strode down the street in long, brisk strides.
And still, Morgan lingered, his lips pressed to her temple, his arms about her.
Despite the thunder and lightning of Ray’s temper, a visceral reaction tore through Elizabeth’s middle. Hope flared, a flash of light to accompany the electrical storm. She was as stunned as if she’d been struck by that bolt of lightning herself, or as if the thunder had boomed directly overhead.
Oh, no.
She didn’t like this. Not any of it. Not the threat Ray Cresswell posed. Not the flash of desire rooted in her heart. Not the vows Morgan had been forced to make.
Bereft, empty, and shaking, she reminded herself it wasn’t real.
The courtship wasn’t true.
She wasn’t really his lady.
She’d vowed she would not allow their playacting to confuse her heart.
Before, when she’d had control over her heart and affections. She’d remembered the cost to her sanity if she’d lost control, if she’d fallen in love. Because of who she was, because of the weird situation with their parents, she was last on his list. Even now, Morgan, in his uncommon decency, had pretended to ensure her safety. He’d put himself between her and his crude cousin, to ensure, for the time being, the idiot left her alone.
She trembled against him, chilled to the bone, despite the heat of the day.
Unfailingly kind, Morgan held her tighter. He nudged her to turn more fully into him and settled her against his heart. He cradled her. Gently. No rush. No demands. No orders.
A perfect rendition of exactly what she wanted. Everything she’d always wanted and believed she’d never find.
And turned her into himself, cradled her with gentleness and a glimmer of all she desperately wanted. With him.
If only this man could love her.
Anguish, full-bodied and horrible to behold washed through her—a flash flood on the heels of that lightning storm.
She’d become her mother.
The woman who loved Elijah Speare, loved him irrationally, far better than Elijah could love her in return. Love had pushed him away, to the brink and farther still—until Mother remained in that marriage alone.
Loving him completely, and needing far more than he could give.
Still, Morgan rocked her. Back and forth. He kissed her forehead. “He’s gone.”
She nodded. Tears streamed down her face.
Where would they go from here?
Somehow, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand, yet never released her.
Eventually, her tears eased and her breathing become even.
Morgan stilled as she calmed. He held her against his chest, his breaths slowing, the lullaby of his heartbeats reassuring.
He felt good, right. She’d utterly, completely, lost her heart to him.
Gunsmoke and Gingham Page 22
