by Pamela Morsi
Tom Walker had seen combat duty. He had killed men he never knew based merely upon the color of his uniform. He had watched young men die for a cause they couldn't quite articulate. And he'd saved Ambrose Dexter's life. He felt no pride or honor or glory for it. It had not been done bravely, but without thought at all. Tom was a man of action. And a man's actions can lie as surely as his words. His life in the Rough Riders had taught him that, too.
King Calhoun stepped back and motioned for a young man in a striped seersucker suit to step forward. Behind them the band began to play. The smiling fellow raised a megaphone to his lips and raised his soothing tenor voice in song.
"While the shot and shell were screaming
Upon the battlefield;
The boys were bravely fighting
Their noble flag to shield;
Came a cry from their brave captain,
'Look boys! our flag is down;
Who'll volunteer to save it from disgrace?'
'I will,' a young voice shouted.
'I’ll bring it back or die.' "
Tom had heard the tune a thousand times. It was pure sap and sentiment. Written by a Tin Pan Alley scribbler with less knowledge of life or war than a plow horse, the song was closely associated with the Rough Riders. It never failed to bring a tear to the eyes of a crowd.
" 'Just break the news to mother,
She knows how dear I love her.
And tell her not to wait for me,
For I'm not coming home.'"
Tom observed the expressions on the faces before him. As the last strains of harmony faded, the emotion was almost palpable.
King Calhoun stepped forward once more and gestured to the men in uniform. "I give you, good people of Topknot and Burford Corners . . . true defenders of American freedom!"
A boisterous applause arose from the crowd. Cheers and whistles and long-forgotten calls to "Remember the Maine!" filled the air.
Deliberately Tom kept his face expressionless. The band struck up a faster, happier time and Calhoun invited the crowd to shake the hands of the heroes. People surged onto the dais.
For twenty minutes, Tom and the others were slapped on the back, congratulated, and generally adored by strangers. It was not an unwelcome form of entertainment. Tom reveled in their attention even as he stoically maintained a demeanor of dignity.
"It's a privilege to meet you," the strangers said over and over. "Thank you." Tom almost had to bite his lip not to add, but who do you think that you've met?
He continued to shake hands, to speak politely, to accept the accolades that came his way. Then, as if he felt the gaze on the back of his neck, he turned to meet a pair of brown, bespectacled eyes staring at him from across the distance of the lawn. Princess Calhoun's expression was so openly adoring, Tom was momentarily taken aback.
He nodded slightly in recognition, only to see her look away hastily, a vivid blush staining her cheek. Poor Princess, he thought to himself. She'd obviously never learned the danger of wearing her heart on her sleeve.
Tom was, he'd been told, just about the most handsome fellow to ever don a pair of trousers. And he'd had sufficient luck with ladies over the years to have developed a confidence in his charm.
Deliberately he perused the young woman from head to toe. Then, keeping his lips perfectly still and noncommittal, he smiled from his eyes alone. It was a technique proven over and over to set the most hardened female heart aflutter. It felt as if he were giving a gift. The bossy drill sergeant in skirts would never be able to actually attract a man's eye in that fashion.
Then he remembered how attractive and desirable a million dollars could be. He began to walk in her direction.
It wasn't as if he'd planned it, he assured himself as he approached her. He'd never intended to approach her. It had been her eyes that had sought him out. And it wasn't as if things were all settled. If she turned out to be too small a catch, he'd ease her off the hook and throw her back.
He kept his eyes upon hers as each step brought them closer and closer. Her expression was awestruck, her hands clutched together over her heart.
Geez, almighty! he mentally exclaimed. She'd already swallowed hook, line, and sinker, and he had yet to even offer the bait.
He stood in front of her now, gazing down into wide brown eyes made inordinately large by thick, round spectacles, and complimented her in a way that he knew would be closest to her heart.
"It's a lovely party," he said.
The words came from his mouth, not in the slow, slightly nasal accent that came natural to him, but in the clipped Yankee tones that he had so carefully perfected.
Her mouth formed a big O of dumbstruck appreciation. He took her hand in both of his own, merely holding it gently without the merest hint of caress.
He glanced around and sighed with feigned exasperation. "As there is no one in proximity to formally introduce us, may I be so bold as to present myself to you?"
She remained wide-eyed and mute.
"I am Gerald Tarkington Crane," he said. "Late of Bedlington in the New Jersey and Yale University, class of '98."
"I . . . I . . . I . . ."
He squeezed her hand comfortingly. "You needn't speak," he assured her. "Standing within the mere presence of a lady such as yourself is quite enough."
"I . . . I'm Princess Calhoun," she managed finally.
"What a beautiful name," he answered. "And so suited to you."
"Oh no, not at all," she blurted out.
He smiled at her, this time using his whole face, flashing his pearly white grin with devastating effect.
"You don't think yourself a princess, Miss Calhoun?"
She was taking long, nervous breaths that had the effect of causing the abundance of ruffles upon her breast to rise and fall dramatically.
"You must call me Princess," she told him, her face flaming with her own boldness. "All my friends do."
Tom angled his head slightly and lowered his voice to a seductive timbre. "I don't think I care to be lumped in with all your friends. Perhaps I can give you a special name."
She was clutching his hand like a lifeline. He could feel her trembling.
"My best friend, Muna, calls me Prin," she admitted.
"Then I definitely don't want to do that," he said. "It sounds too much like prim, and doesn't suit you at all."
Princess looked momentarily surprised. Clearly she must have thought it a very apt description.
"I shall call you Cessy," he said.
"Cessy?"
"Yes, Cessy. May I?"
"It sounds strange."
He smiled down at her warmly as if she'd made some very clever little joke. "It doesn't sound strange to you and me." He leaned toward her once more. "And no one else need ever know."
"Cessy?" She whispered it as if it were already a secret between them.
"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. Amaz
ingly 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.
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 cottonwood 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 slight
ly. "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?"
