Love of a Cowboy 1 Page 19

  “Ye must be a witch, me thinks,” he murmured, pressing his hips against her ache with a delicious thrust. “For I kinna stop what ye have started. Nor would I, if I could.”

  He kissed her then. One hand tangled in her hair, as if she might run from him. The other moved down her cheek, the slender column of her throat, then cupped her breast with awkward, almost painful, motions. She arched her back, spreading her legs for him. And it was the first time she realized that he slept completely naked.

  “Please, make love to me!” she gasped.

  In one swift movement, her nightgown was gone amid the sound of buttons popping. How had she ever thought his man part was small? Enormous now, it rammed between her legs with a painful thrust. She gasped, clawing at his back.

  And Jack froze. “I hurt ye?” he sputtered. “Sweet Jesus, I dinna mean to!”

  The pain had been sharp, but short-lived. Morgan wrapped her legs around his hips and clung to him. “It will never hurt again, my love. It is God’s design, proof to you that I have lain with no other man.”

  He looked stunned, but then he smiled smugly. Morgan hoped he hadn’t thought she was a loose woman, but judging by her actions all week, what else could he?

  Then he started to move, and all thought fled her brain save one: to move with him. It was quick and hard, over almost before it had begun, but they screamed together as they both found release. Jack gazed down at her with a look of sheer wonder. Morgan knew she had to look just as stupid. If she’d have known how truly wonderful it was, she never would have remained innocent so long.

  They didn’t speak. The moment felt almost holy. They were man and wife now, in the eyes of God. They were co-creators with Him. Father, Son and Holy Spirit paralleled in the trinity of the family - husband, wife and child. Wordlessly they explored one another with a gentle touch. And when they made love a second time, it was slow and tender, lasting until pink light drifted in through the small windows.

  Chapter 5:

  Morgan smiled at her husband. She hurt all over. Her backside was swollen from the spanking, her thighs rubbed raw, and her face and bosom sore from whisker burns. But she had never felt so wonderful in her whole life. “I love you, Jack,” she said again.

  He nipped at her fingertips, sucking on them one by one, and grinning like a satisfied cat with a bird in its mouth. “Well, now, Miss Shaunacy. Seems to me ‘tis time to make an honest woman of ye.”

  “But-” she sputtered. He silenced her with a kiss. He could do that anytime!

  “Ye ne’er gave me a chance to spout me own vows! And I do swear, before God and these mules…” He chuckled, glancing down at the great beasts below. T’ love, honor, and cherish ye, for better, for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for long as we both shall live.”

  He rolled on his back, pulling her on top of him. Morgan rubbed her hips against him, wondering if they’d have time once more before the children awoke. His man part obediently sprang to attention, but Jack swatted her rump hard.

  “Ouch! What was that for!” she demanded.

  “Ye had it comin’, wench. Ye pushed us together, an’ ye knows it. I’d been tryin’ me best to do right by ye.”

  Morgan sat up, straddling him, pressing his massive shoulders back with small, dainty hands. Her hair had pulled loose from its braid, spilling around her breasts. Jack twined a strand around his finger, and gave it a tug.

  “You were a perfect gentleman,” she agreed, rising on her knees, then settling herself around his swollen part. “But you’ve been a bit of a tyrant lately.”

  He swatted her bottom playfully, eliciting a yelp. “A tyrant, says ye?”

  “Aye,” she said, imitating his speech, and yelping at yet another swat. She tightened her thighs, sliding against him in a way that just felt right.

  “Aye,” he sighed. He swatted her again. It hurt, but it also felt incredible. She moved faster now, her breasts bobbing.

  “For sure, ye are a troublesome wench,” he gasped, closing his eyes as his face tightened. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was in pain, but she knew the pain was sweet.

  “Very troublesome,” she agreed, panting. “We’ll need– lots of time – in that woodshed – I think!”

  “Oh, aye!”

  She felt his seed gush inside her then. She ground herself against him, and stiffened, throwing her head back. Her breasts thrust out and Jack took them both in his hands, cupping them, massaging the tips with his callused thumbs. She screamed, too, shuddering as wave after wave of sensation stole over her. Then she collapsed on top of him.

  “‘Tis a lovely way to begin the day,” he whispered in her ear.

  Morgan felt too weak to answer.

  “But, wife! The bairn will soon be looking for us.”

  “Say that again!”

  “The bairn will-”

  “No, Jack! The other part!”

  He smiled lazily. “Wife.”

  She pushed herself up, gazing at him, happy tears filling her vision. “Husband!”

  The children knew immediately that something had changed. Morgan was far too sore to sit with them at the table. And Jack didn’t stop smiling once all day. But she wondered what, if anything, he had told them about birds and bees and the nature of things between men and women. She should speak to him about it soon, for Kate was nearing that time when she should know. It would be a lot easier to talk if Kate didn’t dislike her so much.

  Jack found a dozen opportunities to steal an intimacy -a kiss behind a door, a caress as she stirred the soup, using only his broad back as a shield against prying little eyes. But the most wonderful of all, he moved out of the hayloft, joining her in the tiny bedroom for another almost sleepless night of passion. They made love so often in the next three weeks, that Morgan should not have been surprised when her monthly flow failed to arrive.

  The thought terrified her. How could she have a child now? She was too old! There was no doctor around for a hundred miles! What if something went wrong? Jack had enough to worry about, with his own five and his struggling homestead. They simply could not afford another mouth to feed. She’d come here to help him, and now she’d only made matters worse.

  Jack had no patience for her moodiness. She found herself across his knee just about every other day. He spanked with his hand, the wooden paddle, then in frustration he’d turned to using his belt. Her legs were still welted from the leather strap, but she felt heat rush to her woman-part just thinking about him. And she learned that punishment remained in the woodshed. No matter how hard he whaled her behind in the woodshed, he still kissed her passionately in the bedroom. The days were filled with work, the nights with passion. But when Jack lay sated and spent, snoring softly, she wiped silent tears from her face and worried about how to break her news to him.

  The weather turned colder. One morning after breakfast, Jack carried down a trunk of clothing from the girls’ attic bedroom. It held their winter underwear, woolen socks and mittens, and sheepskin coats. The underwear was patched and mended, and far too thin to be much use, but the coats were darling. Each was made with the woolly fleece turned in, the leather tanned and polished to a soft, warm brown, the color of her husband’s eyes.

  Kate tugged on her jacket, scowling at her father. “It shrank.”

  He chuckled, earning a scathing look. “Nay. ‘Tis ye what grew, dearie.”

  “Papa!”

  “I dinna think a single lamb’s fleece will cover ye still. Should we skin the ram?”

  “Papa! Stop!” she shrieked.

  Morgan blanched. The girl had been punished for less before, but Jack seemed much calmer since their wedding night.

  “That’s enough teasing for one morning, Jack,” she insisted, softening the flagrantly dangerous words with an affectionate kiss.

  “Are ye sayin’ ‘no’ t’ me again, wench?” His voice had a sharp edge to it. Morgan squirmed, praying she hadn’t spared Kate a spanking only to get one herself. Jack co
uldn’t hold the stern expression, though, before he broke out laughing.

  “Nay, husband. I would never say ‘no’ to you,” she said demurely. “But Kate is right. She needs a new coat. And all of them should have better shoes before winter. I have a little money left. How soon can we go to town?”

  His easy humor left the moment she mentioned money. “We go when the weather freezes. Not before.”

  “But they will be too cold then to make the trip!”

  Jack stood, depositing her unceremoniously on the floor. “I’ll carry the trunk back up as soon as ye have the summer things packed away.” With that, he left.

  The children were silent, holding their breath. Morgan let hers out in a loud whoosh. “I’m sorry, children. I’ll go talk with him in a bit, when he’s walked off his mood. What is supposed to go in this trunk?”

  They washed the summer underwear, the thin cotton dresses, shirts and pants, packing all away in the large trunk with cedar shavings to keep out the moths. Morgan was dismayed to see that their heavier winter dresses were every bit as faded and worn as the summer ones, and that Kate’s dress was also too small.

  Kate burst into tears. “I’ll just wear me summer dress,” she sobbed.

  Morgan smiled patiently. The children didn’t often imitate their papa’s accent, which seemed odd, now that she thought about it. But then, Jack’s accent was strongest when he was upset. “You’ll wear one of mine today,” she said, firmly. “We’ll cut it down to fit.”

  Kate’s stubborn chin wobbled. Her chocolate eyes gazed at Morgan warily. Then she reached out and touched the calico print with something akin to worship. “Ye’d do that? For real?”

  “You may chose which one you’d like,” Morgan said, offering her a choice of the three calicos.

  Kate threw her arms around Morgan’s waste and practically hugged the life out of her. “Thank you!” she wailed.

  Morgan patted her long, black hair, as smooth as silk. Kate was awkward and bony, her arms too long and her teeth a little too big for her face, but the slight swell of bosoms were starting to show, and when she matured, Morgan knew she was going to be exquisite. “You’re welcome, Kate.”

  Bridget tugged on Morgan’s skirt, whining loudly. “Do we get new dresses, too?”

  Morgan had intended to fix them all new clothes, but she knew it was important for Kate to feel special just now, and not be lumped in with the children. “We’ll see,” she said vaguely.

  Bridget’s lower lip stuck out far enough to catch falling dust. Morgan laughed. She turned the little girl around and swatted her rump. “I believe you have some chores to do,” she said.

  Bridget’s crooked eye filled with tears. She tugged on the eye patch still covering her good eye, which had become almost a habit of late, although she never took it off that Morgan or Jack could tell. “Not fair,” she wailed.

  “Life isn’t fair,” Morgan murmured, unconsciously patting her abdomen. She turned around, to see Kate still fingering the two calico prints on the bed, and gazing at the one Morgan had chosen to wear that morning. One was a brown print, with little orange and white flowers and a hint of mossy green. The second was black print. Morgan wished now that she’d chosen something else to wear, for the bright blue she had on would look best with Kate’s dark coloring.

  Apparently, Kate thought so too, but wasn’t going to ask for the dress off her back. Morgan saw the way she gazed at it with longing. Morgan quickly reached around behind to undo the buttons up the back. She tugged it off over her head, standing in her camisole and petticoat. “Try this,” she offered, handing the dress to Kate. “I hope you’ll take this one. It’s a pretty color, but it just isn’t me.”

  Kate pulled it on reverently. It hung off her shoulders and bagged at the waist, but she pirouetted in front of the tin mirror, preening like any normal thirteen-year-old would do. “‘Tis too fine to lay scissors to,” she whispered.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Morgan replied. She had Kate try it on inside out next, and she stuck it well with pins as she marked where to make the changes. If she took it all apart, she might be able to make a dress for Rebecca out of the excess fabric in the skirt, but just cutting it down was faster. This would be Kate’s dress, alone. And by putting in some decorative tucks, she could give it “grow room.”

  Kate helped her, sewing even little stitches. “Who taught you how to sew?” Morgan asked.

  “Papa. He does most of the mending. Or he did, before you came,” Kate said.

  “What about your mother?”

  Kate stiffened, alerting Morgan that it was a tender subject. Then the girl shrugged, acting as if it were not important. “I never knew her,” she said.

  Poor little girl. No wonder she’d despised Morgan at first. She was probably rebelling against all mothers, since her own had abandoned her. Morgan put down her sewing and looked directly at the troubled girl. “I won’t leave you, Kate. I love you. I love your papa. And I’m going to stay here as long as I live.”

  “Ye just stay because ye’ve got nowhere else t’ go,” she blurted.

  “No, that’s not quite right. My brother would take me in. He’s a lawyer back in Boston. He makes a good income. But I’m not fond of his wife, and living with him would be awkward. And if I really needed a home, I could guilt my cousins to taking me in, as a governess for their unholy ruffians. I’m here because I want to be.”

  Kate’s eyes were brimming again. Morgan remembered being thirteen. She and Jimmy had already been orphaned, and she’d had no one to talk to about the changes she was experiencing. About when her breasts had begun to hurt and swell, and hair grew down there, and she was often tearful, and sleepy, and irritable. Her cousins had teased her mercilessly, and finally explained it to her in the crudest terms, calling her a brood mare. Morgan needed to talk with Jack, and urge him to be more tolerant of Kate for a while.

  “Can you really love me?” Kate whispered.

  Morgan dropped her sewing and grabbed the child in her arms. She pulled Kate to the rocking chair and settled the big girl on her lap. She hugged and rocked, while Kate cried. Morgan brushed at the silken strands of hair, soothed her fingers over Kate’s brow. She patted her back, and then she started to sing softly.

  “Sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea,

  Soft, blow, sweet and low, blow him again to me.”

  It was a lullaby her mother had sung to her so long ago. Morgan sang it now. Her voice was higher than her mother’s husky contralto, and she’d started the song too low, but Kate didn’t seem to notice. When the girl’s sobs slowed and halted, Morgan whispered to her all the answers to her unspoken questions. She explained the mystery and wonder of being a woman. Then together they finished sewing Kate’s new blue dress.

  The weather turned colder still. Frost painted the glass in the mornings. Morgan spent her days canning the last of their garden’s produce - adding jars of pumpkin, corn and succotash to the already crowded cellar shelves. Jack grew moody. They had yet to talk about money again. It lurked between them, like a hideous beast, growing larger each day they ignored it. Morgan tried to pretend everything was right between them, but their lovemaking had slowed to only a few times a week instead of multiple times a night as it had at first. She feared the honeymoon was over all too soon, and yearned for those days again. But her own secret was growing as well. If she didn’t talk to him soon, the truth of it would be plain enough to see. Then one afternoon Jack came in with blood on his hands.

  Blood spattered his shirt and crusted on his shoes. His face looked weary as he washed up at the sink. “‘Tis sorry I am for messin’ up yer sink,” he apologized. “I couldna wash at the pool, for ‘tis frozen over.”

  “What happened?” Morgan asked breathlessly.

  He gazed at her, his eyes older and more tired than she’d ever seen before. “‘Tis butcherin’ day,” he murmured. Morgan thought she saw moisture pooling in his eyes, but then he blinked it back.

  He lov
ed his sheep! Poor, tender shepherd - how hard must it be for him? She knew that cowboys drove their cattle to market -they didn’t have to butcher them themselves, but she couldn’t imagine that many cowboys would weep over the death of their beasts - unless they wept for the loss of income. But Jack was such a gentle soul.

  “How many do you have to do?” she asked timidly.

  He sat at the table and motioned for a cup of coffee. She kept the pot full and warm all day, anticipating the occasional break with him. “This year’s lambs, mostly,” he explained. “Sometimes I keep a few new lambs, and have to butcher an older ewe what’s not goin’ t’make it through the winter. But mutton’s not as tasty as lamb. I’ll keep some o’ the skins meself, and the shorn wool. But now that th’ weather’s turned cold, I kin take the meat to town. We’ve an account wi’ the shopkeeper.”

  “How many lambs?” she asked again, trying to do the figures in her head.

  “Over seventy.”

  Seventy lambs! She’d seen the flocks from time to time, but they were always spread out in the different pastures - she had no idea he had that many! “How many sheep will you have when you’re through?” she gasped.

  He shrugged, rubbing his forehead with a hand that was still slightly grubby. “Perhaps a hundred and ten. ‘Tis hard to count them, they mill around a bit, y’know.”

  She didn’t know a thing about sheep. But she would learn. And seventy lambs ought to bring in a pretty penny, unless the shopkeeper was cheating her husband. She felt a protective streak jab through her with an intensity that surprised her.

  “May I help you with the butchering?” she volunteered. She swallowed, not sure if she could do such a task, but she felt guilty not offering. She breathed easier when he shook his head.

  “Nay, love. But if ye’ve th’ time, d’ye think ye could wash the fleeces? ‘Tis not easy. If ye handle them over much, they’ll tarn to felt and be useless. The girls spin them up all winter, and we’ve the yarn t’ sell come spring.”