Straight ahead was the church, complete with a steeple and bell as well as a circular drive way. The cemetery was off to the left of the building and obviously well-tended. As he made his way back down Main Street, he passed a lawyer’s office and a combination doctor’s office and apothecary before pulling up in front of The Duchess. Setting the brake, he got out of the wagon and tied a lead to the hitching post.
The young woman standing on a crate washing the windows was struggling to reach the top. On her tip-toes, she barely made it three quarters of the way and every now and again she would give a little jump in her efforts. For a moment he admired the view. Tied with a pink bow, her long brown hair hung down her back. The green dress she wore was light-weight, proven by the breeze that plastered it to her sweetly shaped bottom. The window reflected her determined expression with each leap. When the crate started rocking, Morgan stepped up and steadied her with a hand on her arm as he took the bucket out of her hand.
“Oh, thank you,” she murmured turning to face her rescuer. “Why, Morgan Whittaker, it is you! I’d heard you finally made it back, but with the way this town gossips, I didn’t believe it. You were gone such a long time; I figured you were either dead or hightailing it to California.”
Morgan stared into clear gray eyes, not sure how to respond. If this fresh-faced young woman was Callie Mae, she was nothing like he’d pictured her. Yes, she was curvy, and in all the right places, but she definitely looked more like a preacher’s daughter than what he imagined a saloon keeper would look like. With her standing on the crate, they were eye to eye and she gnawed her lower lip when he didn’t answer immediately.
“I hope you’re not going to lecture me about this,” she said, waving her hand toward the building. “Believe me, there isn’t a thing you could say that I haven’t heard a hundred times before and from nearly every man in town. Not to mention the cackling hens that won’t sit next to me in church but peek in my windows every chance they get,” she finished, pulling her arm away, dropping her rag in the bucket, and planting her hands on her hips.
Morgan smiled as he sat the bucket down and plucked her from the crate, carefully placing her on her feet. At least now he was sure of her identity.
“No, I’m not going to lecture you, Callie Mae. At least not until I finish cleaning these windows,” he said with a wink as he took the rag out of the bucket and pushed the crate aside.
Callie Mae sighed with relief. There weren’t a great many people she thought highly enough of to care about their opinion, but the Whittaker’s were one of the few. Emma and Hank Whittaker had produced fine church going, hard-working, respectful sons and Callie Mae was glad to call them friends. Even Matthew, who occasionally had a little too much to drink, always treated her with care, despite that fact that she’d caught him ogling her backside a time or two. Mead and Lilly were one of the few couples who would sit in her pew, although Callie Mae suspected Lilly did it under protest; and Emma always made a point to speak to Callie Mae whenever she saw her. The very last thing Callie Mae wanted was grief from Morgan.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked, wiping the back of her hand across her brow as she watched him work. “I have beer, whiskey, and a new drink…”
“Go on in out of the sun, Callie Mae. I’ll be in when I’ve finished and a glass of cold tea or lemonade would be nice if you have it. If not, water will do,” he said before rounding the corner of the building to work on those windows.
A few minutes later when Morgan entered the building, he noticed two things immediately. The building was recently remodeled as the smell of fresh cut boards hung in the air, and it was spotless. There was no saw dust on the floor; the tables were highly polished as was the long mahogany bar. The brass foot rest and spittoons gleamed, and behind the bar the bottles were neatly arranged without a speck of dust that he could see.
Callie Mae came from the back room, carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. Setting the tray on a table, she took the bucket from Morgan’s hand and carried it away. When she returned, he was still standing, his hat in his hand and she waved him to a chair. As soon as she poured the lemonade, the questions began to fly.
“Where have you been? Are you all right? Most of the other men who went off to join Sheridan were back long ago, at least the ones who were coming back. Even Mead made it home months ago. What took you so long? Were you injured?” Callie Mae fired questions at him without pausing for a breath or waiting for an answer.
Morgan hung his hat on a chair and took several long swallows of his drink as she continued, sliding her fingers up and down her icy glass.
“Did you forget where you lived, or maybe you met up with a woman on the way home? You’re not married, are you?”
Morgan studied her face, noting the blush as her eyes darted away from his. So, little Callie Mae had a thing for Morgan Whittaker, he realized. It must have been painful for her, knowing Morgan was in love with Lilly. He wondered why she bought the place across the street from Lilly’s shop, where she would likely see Lilly and Morgan together frequently. That was a mystery. Her questions were a sample of what he could expect from others in town, friends of the real Morgan, and it might be best to get his story out now with someone like Callie Mae who would call him on any mistakes.
“I guess you could say most of those things are true. I was injured and for a while I wasn’t myself. There was a long period of time when I couldn’t figure out where I belonged, so I just stayed put,” he told her quietly. “I won’t say that I lost my mind, but I was close. Each day was a struggle just to get out of bed. I had no desire to see anyone or go anywhere. Just being alive was exhausting,” he admitted looking away.
“So what happened? How did you get well?” she whispered, brushing away a tear. Her heart broke thinking of this man, whom she’d always admired, laid so low.
“Let’s just say a series of fortunate events brought me to my senses and leave it at that,” he replied with a small smile.
“Well, I’m glad you’re home, Morgan,” Callie Mae said, taking in every detail of his face.
“I’m glad too, Callie Mae,” he replied, reaching across the table and taking her hand in his.
“You’ve heard about Mead and Lilly then?” she asked, her heart pounding in her chest. There was no possibility of him holding her hand if he was still interested in Lilly.
“I have.”
“And are you upset? I know Lilly was all but promised to you before you went away. It doesn’t bother you that she’s going to marry Mead?” she asked hopefully.
“Not in the least,” he assured her, absently rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.
“But…but you were in love with her,” she gasped out, snatching her hand away.
“I may have been. I’m not anymore,” he said firmly.
“Are you fickle?” she demanded. “How’s a girl supposed to know if you’re really in love with her or just think you might be in love with her. How can she be sure you mean it?” Callie Mae asked mortified at the direction this conversation was taking. Her heart always accelerated whenever Morgan Whittaker was near. She frequently felt short of breath and a bit light-headed when he smiled at her or called her name. When he hadn’t returned from the Indian war, she’d grieved long after Lilly had started seeing other men. The preacher’s daughter spent hours on her knees praying for his safe return, and now that he was back she was badgering him with questions she had no right to ask.
“I’m sorry, Morgan,” she said stiffly, rising and reaching for the tray. “None of this is any of my business and I should know better after what I’ve been through with nosey people in this town. Please forgive me.”
Morgan quickly reached out and snatched her hand. “Sit down, Callie Mae,” he ordered. “It’s my turn now.”
