On Tuesday, Morgan showed up at noon with his mother’s small carriage that Callie Mae knew was only used for special occasions and a picnic basket. He whisked her out the door, deposited her on the seat, and drove out to Wilson’s pond, where he paid Mr. Wilson a dollar for the use of his rowboat. In the middle of the pond, he unpacked the basket and they lunched on Emma’s fried chicken, potato salad, rolls, and a jug of iced tea. Morgan served her and when they had eaten, packed everything neatly away. They laughed and talked easily, like the longtime friends they’d been and he made no mention of his proposal. When a stiff breeze swept across the water, he wrapped her in the blanket he’d brought along, just in case. Pulling a small book from his pocket, he spent the rest of the afternoon reading love sonnets to her until she dozed off, her head on his shoulder.
Morgan let her sleep in his arms until it turned decidedly chilly. Waking her gently, he moved her to the other seat and rowed quickly to the shore. Back at the saloon, Morgan helped her from the carriage and kissed her forehead.
“I won’t come to call tomorrow, honey, but I will see you tomorrow night. Hank tells me there’s a drive coming in, so I’ll be giving him a hand as deputy.”
Slightly disappointed with the peck on her head, Callie Mae pouted for a minute.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, bending to look in her eyes.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me, Callie Mae. You know I don’t like it,” he said seriously. “Didn’t you have a good time today?”
“Oh, Morgan, I had a lovely time. I’m just a bit disappointed I won’t see you tomorrow,” she said with a sigh, realizing she was getting much too addicted to his attention.
“I’ve said I’ll be around tomorrow night,” he repeated, stroking the back of his fingers against her cheek.
“I know, but that’s different. You’ll be around to watch me, waiting for something bad to happen so you can give me hell.”
“Such language,” he teased. “I imagine your husband will have something to say about that when the time comes.”
“I don’t have a husband,” she snapped, well aware that she was acting childishly and revealing far too much. He’d been a perfect gentleman since his lapse in the kitchen on Monday and she hated to admit it but she was a tad let down.
“All you have to do is say the word and we’ll make it official. I’ll cart you off to the preacher so fast you won’t know what hit you,” he whispered, stepping closer, his breath warming her ear.
“No, I haven’t decided yet. Maybe tomorrow night, if you don’t come in here all bossy and everything, I’ll think more about it,” she hedged, fighting the urge to put her arms around him.
“Tomorrow night I’ll be a deputy doing my job. Behave yourself and I won’t have to be bossy. I’m only watching out for you and the girls. Do me a favor, try to show a little less of your ah…charms tomorrow night. Maybe if you dressed more like a lady, the customers would be less likely to think you’re not.”
He knew he’d hit a nerve immediately and could have bitten his tongue off. For the last few days she’d been soft and sweet and he had the feeling she would have liked to spend time in his arms, exploring what they began Monday. Looking at her compressed lips and the fire in her eyes he knew those tender emotions were no longer part of the equation.
“I dress for the job I have,” she snapped. “It’s no different than the Reverend’s robe and collar or a drover wearing chaps.”
“Right,” he snorted, “Except those clothes aren’t designed to inspire lust or make a man question his sanity. I don’t see the women in the congregation sashaying up to the pulpit, hoping to cop a feel.”
“Cop a feel?”
“Yes, it means exactly what you think it means. Most of the customers who come to this saloon, even if they are good, decent men can’t help but want to slide a hand under that short dress or stroke the breasts being so flagrantly offered,” he growled, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Why can’t you be reasonable about this?”
“I can’t help what worm gets into a man’s mind, Morgan. All I can say is that no man has the right to tell me what I can or cannot wear.”
“He does if what you’re flaunting belongs to him,” he replied, clenching his jaw.
“I guess it’s a good thing that I don’t belong to any man then, isn’t it?” Callie Mae sassed, her hands on her hips as she leaned slightly forward.
Morgan slapped his hat on his head. “I’m not going to argue about this, Callie Mae. The choice is yours, but let me tell you this. That gold dress is on the high end of my tolerance scale,” he said, raising his hand to a level above her head. “Wear anything more revealing tomorrow night and I will cart you upstairs and show you what a real spanking is!”
“Ha, you think the gold dress was inappropriate, wait till you see the black one! Stop by tomorrow night. I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Whittaker,” she crowed, stamping her foot.
“It’s your ass, sweetheart,” Morgan drawled. Tipping his hat, he turned and climbed into the carriage. “One you won’t be sitting comfortably on for a long time if you don’t mind me.” Picking up the reins, he gave them a snap and set the carriage moving.
Callie Mae swept through the saloon doors and marched upstairs. Damn that man! One minute he was reading sweet love poems and the next he was threatening to spank her. Apparently, it didn’t matter whether he was being a perfect gentleman or a complete brute, her body responded the same way. Undressing, she was appalled to notice that her drawers were once again damp.
Taking them off, she poured water into her basin and washed her face, neck, and underarms. Gently, she took a cloth and wiped her nether regions. Finally, curiosity got the better of her and she sat on her bed, spreading her legs. Everything looked normal she thought, moving her hand through the tight curls at her apex. Carefully, she slipped a slim finger between her lower lips and gasped. What madness was this? Why was she so sensitive in a place she’d never given much thought to?
Withdrawing her finger, she gasped as it scraped across a tiny bump, sending a shiver through her. She could clearly see the shiny liquid that coated it and bravely she ventured further, this time using two fingers. Her moan when she stroked the bump was deep and guttural, shocking her. Covering her mouth with her other hand, she stroked again, rolling the nub with the tips of her fingers.
Surely this wasn’t right, but it felt wonderful. Increasing both the pressure and pace, Callie Mae felt her heart racing as she began to sweat. She kept at it for several more minutes until it came to her she was just making the ache worse. There was no relief. Perhaps you needed a man for that or perhaps it was just a woman’s lot to provide pleasure and receive no reward but this, a wet, aching body, shivering with need. Was it any wonder women didn’t enjoy this aspect of marriage? Who would want to feel like this every time your husband took his pleasure?
