Chapter 2
Morgan waited for Jane in the Pennyroyal’s dining room until half past six.
He ate alone, politely but firmly refusing invitations to join Ted Rush, Harry Sample from the land office, or the other new arrival to Bitter Springs, Dr. Ellis Wanamaker.
Morgan lingered over his meal and took a second helping of the apple brown Betty that he had not particularly wanted the first time it was put in front of him.
When he got up from the table, he was not the last diner to leave, but only two latecomers remained.
Everyone else had gone home, returned to a room, or wandered over to the saloon.
Morgan could not return home without speaking to Jane, and he was in no hurry to walk to the bathhouse where Finn had secured him a room. That left the saloon. He wandered there.
Walt served him a beer at the bar, which he carried to an empty table in the corner.
He sat with his back to the wall, facing the open entrance to the hotel.
If Jane appeared, he would see her. If she did not appear, it was a clear indication that she wanted nothing to do with him.
Reflecting on his behavior, on the words they had exchanged, on the sense of betrayal he felt but had not explained, Morgan could hardly blame her for avoiding a second encounter.
Neither could he shrug it off. He had had an idea of how things would go when he met the train, and the only thing that squared with his imagination was the spray of red poppies on her black velvet hat.
The Jane Middlebourne he plucked off the train was no Wyoming wildflower.
Finn Collins had that wrong. She was a hothouse orchid.
Delicate. Rare. Cultivated for another clime.
She was slender, not sturdy. Her skin was petal smooth, pale as milk.
The length of her was a fragile stem. A flower like that required careful tending.
Morgan Longstreet could not pretend, even to himself, even for a moment, that he knew anything about that.
Jane Middlebourne belonged on the arm of someone like Ellis Wanamaker.
A doctor. A man born with a nature to heal, to help, to tend to those inclined to break.
Morgan counted himself among those who were inclined to do the breaking.
Jane probably sensed that right off. The doctor had extended his hand. Morgan had squeezed her between his.
Morgan realized he was white-knuckling his beer.
He set down his glass and unfolded his fingers one by one.
He stretched them, drew a long breath and released it slowly.
He reminded himself that Jane had come to Bitter Springs on the strength of his letters.
She had come prepared to marry him, knowing only those things about him that he had chosen to write.
An echo of Jane’s melodic voice drifted through his thoughts, reminding him he had not told her about his red hair.
The right corner of Morgan’s mouth lifted a fraction, more grimace than grin as he stared at his beer.
That oversight was the least of his omissions, and probably one of the few he could honestly say was not deliberate.
She had been wrong to acquit him of intentionality.
There were things he had not merely failed to reveal but excluded on purpose.
By leaving out details that would have surely meant an early end to their correspondence, Morgan acknowledged he had misrepresented his character and oddly enough, revealed it at the same time.
He knew himself as a man who would do what was needed to get what he wanted. Did he want Jane Middlebourne to know that man? The answer to that hinged on another question: Did he still want Jane Middlebourne?
“Another beer, Mr. Longstreet?”
Morgan looked up. He could not put a name to the pretty face that was regarding him expectantly.
He had observed her circling the tables in the dining room earlier, usually with a coffeepot in hand and some chatter for everyone she served.
She was uncharacteristically quiet around him, taking his order and bringing his food with a minimum of fuss.
He had appreciated it then and hoped it would be the same now.
He pushed his glass toward her.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “You’ve been nursing it so long I figured it’s gone hot and flat.”
“You figured right. Thank you.”
“I’m Cecilia Ross. Cil. Renee’s cousin.”
“Renee.”
“You know. Renee Harrison. Jem Davis’s sweetheart.”
Morgan finally put it together. He had hired Jem Davis and his two brothers away from the Bar G six months ago. He recollected now that he had heard Renee’s name a few times from Jem but more often from his brothers, usually in the nature of some pointed ribbing.
“She’s your cousin? I didn’t know.”
“You should come to town more, sit a spell like you’re doing tonight. Of course, Renee would like it better if you brought Jem with you. I suppose he’s holding down the fort as they say.”
“I think he’s probably in the bunkhouse playing cards with Jessop and Jake.”
“Cards? Without supervision? Sure to be a fight.”
Morgan shrugged. “As long as they repair the furniture and tend to their shiners, they can be on their own.”
Cil laughed. Dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, they know how to do that. Don’t they just. I’ll get you that beer now.”
Morgan put out a hand to wave her back as she turned to go. “I wonder if you might do me a favor, Miss Ross.”
“Cil.”
“Cil,” he repeated. “Would you look in on Miss Middlebourne for me? Room four.”
Cil hesitated, frowning. “I don’t know, Mr. Longstreet. I have it from Walt after he showed her to her room that she asked not to be disturbed.”
“I see.” He nodded. “That’s all right. We’ll abide by her wishes.”
“Probably better that way.” Cil turned and wended her way back to the bar where Walt poured another beer. She was within ten feet of reaching Morgan Longstreet’s table when she realized he had left it.
* * *
Jane could not say what woke her, but when she knew immediately that she was not alone.
Opening her eyes a mere fraction, she lay very still while she searched the room from behind the fan of her lashes.
She wished that she had asked Walt to lay a fire in the stove before he left.
Whatever mean light it might have provided would have been a helpful addition to the flickering oil lamp at her bedside.
“You’re awake.”
Jane recognized the husky timbre of Morgan Longstreet’s voice. Each time he spoke a slight rasp edged his words as though he were waking from a deep sleep or sharing his first thoughts after hours or days of silence. It was impossible to know how long he had been waiting for her.
Jane raised her head the few degrees necessary to find the deeper shadow that marked his location. She saw him standing with his back to the door. Remarkably, she was unafraid. She said the first thing that came to her mind. “I thought I locked that door after Walt left.”
“It opened for me. I did knock first.”
Jane nodded, supposed he could not see her, and said, “Yes. Of course.”
“You never returned downstairs.”
“No, I didn’t, did I?” She turned on her back and levered herself up on her elbows. “Have I missed dinner?”
“Yes, but I brought you something.”
“The Pennyroyal doesn’t carry meals to the rooms.”
“The Pennyroyal doesn’t. I do. To this room.”
Jane pushed herself upright and inched backward until her spine rested against the headboard.
She wrestled the pillow free and laid it beside her.
Her head ached abominably, a consequence, she supposed, of not eating since the night before.
That meal had consisted of her last apple and a heel of brown bread.
Money was not the problem. Her willingness to spend it was. “Is there a tray?”
“A plate.”
When he did not move, she said, “May I have it?”
Morgan pushed away from the door. “Chicken and a biscuit. Both cold. No gravy.” He held out the plate. When she took it, he gave her the napkin he had stuffed in a pocket. “You’ll have to use your fingers.”
Jane spread the napkin across her lap and placed the plate on top. As hungry as she was, and as much as the light made her head ache, Jane still wanted to see what she was eating. She leaned toward the lamp to adjust the wick.
“I’ll get it,” Morgan said.
Jane let him. When the golden glow from the lamp spilled over her shoulder and across her plate, she picked up a feathery piece of chicken stripped neatly from the bone and dangled it just above her lips.
Her mouth parted and she dropped it in. It was a tender morsel, moist and tasty.
Her enjoyment was so profound that she was unaware that Morgan was staring until after she had swallowed.
“You’re not going to take it away, are you?” she asked.
He frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“Cousin Frances did. I was six. She said it wasn’t done, not by a lady, not by girls in want of a good home, not by anyone, except perhaps by a fish.
Did I want to be a fish? I said I did. She took my plate and frog-marched me to the kitchen, where she ordered the cook to fill a bucket of water.
Whereupon she dragged the bucket and me through the servants’ entrance to the outside stairwell and emptied the bucket over my head.
I was not allowed inside until my clothes dried.
That would give me sufficient time, she explained, to reconsider my desire to be a fish. ”
“And did you?”
“Yes.” Jane took another strip of chicken, this time eating it in a manner approved by Cousin Frances. It did not taste quite as fine as her first bite, but then how could it? “Reconsideration was only sensible. I am not stubborn to a fault. It was February.”
“Your clothes never dried, did they?”
She shook her head. “Never. They froze.” Jane felt his eyes still on her. She looked up from breaking her biscuit. He was indeed watching her, but she found his expression unreadable. She said, “I do not like the cold.”