Morgan grunted softly. He did not want to be their friend.
Jane said, “Why did you ask me to dance?”
“Should I have asked someone else?” His flippant response was met with silence. “It was only a matter of time before we were pushed onto the floor. It seemed wiser to take it on my own terms.”
“I thought it might be something like that. I wanted to believe that you enjoyed it, but I do not think you did.”
“Did I make a fool of myself?”
“No.”
“Did I make you feel foolish?”
“No!”
Morgan shrugged. “Then that’d be as much as I hoped for.”
There was only silence after that.
Jane stood beside the bed that she was meant to share with Morgan while he carried in her bags and trunk. She had offered to take one of the bags, but he would not allow it. He told her that tomorrow morning was soon enough for her to start toting, lugging, and hauling, and that when she looked back on it, she would be grateful he had spared her the chore tonight.
Jane was not sure that was true. She needed something to do. She had already placed her gloves, scarf, and coat at the front door, and now she stood with her hands at her sides, fidgeting with the folds in her flared skirt.
Morgan dropped both bags on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Do you sleep in that hat?”
Jane’s hands flew to her head.
Morgan cocked an eyebrow. “I guess not.” He turned and headed out. “Getting your trunk now.”
Jane removed her hat and looked around for somewhere to put it. She was reluctant to shift any of Morgan’s personal items on top of the dresser to make room for hers. There was no vanity, and the table on the far side of the bed already held a lamp and two books. An empty water glass and carafe sat on the table closest to her. There was a rocking chair beside the window, but she could foresee either herself or Morgan crushing the hat if she left it on the seat. The hook on inside of the door that led to the small, utilitarian washroom was most likely meant to hold a towel or robe, although she saw evidence of neither. Still, living with the Ewings had taught her the importance of territory, both having it and respecting it. She was determined not to encroach.
Jane eyed the wardrobe again and settled on placing the hat on top of it. She also decided that she would buy a hatbox on her very next trip to town. It pained her some that she had left a very nice one behind.
She was standing on tiptoe, pushing the black velvet hat in place, when Morgan reentered the room.
He set the trunk down, came up behind her, and gave the hat a nudge. It slid several inches beyond Jane’s reach. “I suppose you’re going to need a footstool.”
“If you continue to help in this manner, I will.” She lowered herself from her tiptoes but could not step back. He was there, right behind her, and when his outstretched arm came down, his palm brushed the curve of her shoulder. Jane went very still. For a moment, she could not breathe. It could not have been long at all before his hand fell away, but it seemed to Jane as if time slowed, stopped, and only resumed its march when he retreated one step, then another, until he finally put enough space between them that she could no longer feel the heat of him at her back.
Jane expected to see Morgan standing near the bed when she turned. He wasn’t. He was facing the dresser, his Stetson overturned in one hand, and he was filling the crown with the very items that she had been too respectful to move aside. She watched, her dark eyebrows rising in conjunction with her astonishment, as he picked up his hairbrush and comb and dropped them into the hat. In short order, these items were joined by the bottle of Dr. Horace Johnstone’s Peppermint Tonic, a baking soda tin, toothbrush, box of matches, hand mirror, and shaving cup, soap, and razor. There was a leather strop hanging on one of the spindles that supported the dresser’s large mirror. He removed it, wound it neatly around his hand, and then slipped the coil off and added it to the contents in his hat.
“You can put your things here. Mrs. Sterling said that your kind of female would have little pots of creams and lotions and such. Perfume. Hair combs. Maybe a box for jewelry.”
Jane stared at him. Her kind of female? What did that mean?
“Do you?” he asked.
She nodded slowly.
“Well, you can put them here.” He waved one hand over the dresser’s cleared surface. “Will it be enough room?”
Jane found her voice. “Mr. Longstreet, I assure you I can?—”
Morgan’s mouth twisted wryly. “About that. I figure since we’re married, you should call me Morgan.”
“All right. Morgan. As I was saying, I believe you and I?—”
“And I should call you Jane.”
