Coming Home 7

July 14, 1874

Dry and dusty, dusty and dry. I don’t think this land ever changes. I am tired of the wind and heat already. I wish, and heartily, that I’d never let Jack talk me into settling here. I wanted to go to Colorado. The cool, clean water and the tall majestic mountains. If he were here...

July 18, 1874

Mabel Wilkins stated that I was a “heathen whoremonger” today. Simply because I gave a bit of human kindness to the soiled dove who needed it so. She had the most beautiful black hair and shining blue eyes. Mabel Wilkins hasn’t a drop of Christian charity in her soul.

Sometimes, in my darkest moments, I wonder if she is right. Am I a whore?

July 29, 1874

I had that dream again last night, the one with the faceless man and the Rocky Mountain stream. Even more shocking is that this time, I wasn’t wearing a stitch. I woke up sweaty and restless, my nether regions were quite...disturbed. Even with Jack I’d never felt this way. How could some faceless dream man do this to me?

July 31, 1874

Rumors have reached us through the Prairie Grapevine of a cholera epidemic that has broken out in North-Eastern Texas. I have taken the precaution of boiling all of my water before using it. I believe I shall attend my own laundry for a time, rather than have Sarah Eckols do it. She does most of the Town’s laundry. I sincerely hope this will not be a hardship for her; she depends upon this income.

Sorrowful news. Mr. Cline, the schoolteacher, has had it with us I’m afraid. He has given notice that he will no longer be teaching; he will instead make his way back to Boston to a position as a clerk in a law office of some prestige. I do wish him well, though as my only boarder, I am concerned for my own income. I may be inclined to take his position as the teacher in the interim to make do.

August 1, 1874 a.m.

I had the dream, it had awakened me early in the morning. It was so vivid I feel compelled to write on it. My faceless man led me by the hand to the stream, I feel sure it was a Rocky Mountain stream. Once we had arrived at its banks, he kissed me in the most thrilling way, light and deep all at the same time. He cupped my jaw with the tips of his fingers and ravished my lips. Once again, I was without a stitch. Oh, I have such a longing . . .

August 13, 1874

Cholera has been confirmed as far south as Fort Worth. While still a goodly distance from us, it is cause for concern. The Governor’s Office has issued warnings and instructions to prevent similar outbreaks out West, where we are. There is a great deal of worry as we do not yet have a medical doctor. Titus McGillicutty, the blacksmith, has experience in treating illnesses of animals, and as such, has proscribed a treatment or two for some of the local residents. I have noted that most of his “treatments” involve liberal dosages of spirits.

Mr. Cline has left us due to the cholera epidemic sweeping Texas. I have temporarily taken his duties as Teacher. This mean that I will be teaching if a suitable replacement hasn’t been found by the start of the semester.

Also of note, one of those cowhand people that occasionally take up residence in the Grand Hotel is the subject of much speculation. He has yet to sally forth to secure a job at one of the ranches. According to Mr. Whimsey, the proprietor of the establishment, this cowhand calls himself Matthew Jordan. Rumors are rife that this as an assumed nom de guerre and he is truly a known man. A group of concerned citizens have approached the Sheriff Baxter to have him run out of town before gunplay inevitably erupts. Thus far Mr. Jordan has contained himself to either remaining in his room, visiting Mr. Garret’s drinking establishment, or riding out on the range toward Angel Canyon, which is odd. There is nothing out that way but the canyon. It is dry government land that no one currently holds lease to, as it has no water. He did make a single trip to the cemetery, but no one has any idea why. No one has the intestinal fortitude to simply ask the man what his business in Rio Verde is. So far the man has shown no inclination toward hostilities. He has been remarkably civil the few times we’ve passed on the street, doffing his hat rather than simply pointing at it as has become the fashion. Betsy says unequivocally that merely proves that he is a known man. They are reputed to be far more mannerly than the general male populace. I don’t know about that. He carries firearms, as do most cowhands, but hasn’t shown an interest in using them.

August 15, 1874

That dream still haunts me, the one with my faceless man and my stream. My preoccupation with Matthew Jordan is turning against me as well. My dream man still has no face, but he dresses just like Mr. Jordan. He also rides a buckskin horse, as does Mr. Jordan. This morning I awoke with my heart beating its way out of my chest, my nether self in quite a state, and Mr. Jordan encompassing all of my thoughts.

This is a disturbing turn of events, I am quite nervous about my thoughts of Mr. Jordan. A good woman doesn’t think these things, let alone of a man, particularly of Mr. Jordan’s stamp. I think it’d be best if I avoided Mr. Jordan’s company in the future. That makes it sound as if I’d been in his company, rather than simply passing him on the street.

August 16, 1874

Wonderful news! The cholera epidemic has been broken even before it was classified as an epidemic. The Rio Verde Garden and Quilt Society has decided to plan a special Harvest Festival Dance to celebrate. Of course, every year we have a Harvest Festival dance, but this one promises to be more exciting. I wonder how we are going to accomplish such a feat?

August 18, 1874

Mr. Jordan sat down at the table next to me in the Bon Ton Restaurant at lunch today. I was incredibly flustered by this simple act and resolved to pay close attention to my meal and ignore his presence. Mr. Jordan made that impossible by beginning a dialogue with me. I had no idea what to say. He introduced himself as Matthew Jordan and commented in passing on the weather. His voice was deep and rich, like heated Vermont Maple Syrup flowing over warm butter. Just hearing him speak to me made me remember my faceless dream man and his kisses. I felt quite weak in the knees, I didn’t think I could stand at that moment. He must have thought me the biggest ninny, I couldn’t speak. I must have said something, but I don’t recall what.

Later this afternoon as I was stopping by the Parsonage to pay my respects as is my custom, I ran into Mabel Wilkins. The woman has more shrew in her than a woman ought. I am ashamed of my uncharitable thoughts about her, but frankly, she is too self-righteous for her own good. She accused me of attempting to entice a known gunfighter, Mr. Jordan. Well, I was quite beside myself over that one. Thankfully, Reverend Mullgrew intervened and sent her on her way. It made me reconsider my own behavior toward Mr. Jordan. I was being unfair, treating him as I had. Next time I have a chance to speak with him, I will be sure to behave with the warm charity a good Christian woman is supposed to bear towards all mankind. Even known gunmen.

August 20, 1874

All day yesterday I looked for Mr. Jordan, to apologize for my dismal behavior, but he’d set out for Angel Canyon once again. Rather, I ran into him today at the Mercantile. Literally. I was rounding the yard goods with a measure of ribbon when I ran him down. I would have to say attempted to run him down. My nose smacked his chest and his arms came around me, to prevent me from falling. I inhaled deeply, he had the most delicious scent of leather, horses, and a manly musk. He reminded me of a clear Rocky Mountain stream. Somehow I said something polite, and purchased the ribbon and other supplies. Mr. Jordan gentlemanly offered to carry it home, even though Mr. Edwards' eldest boy usually performs that office for me.

Mr. Jordan will be moving into Mr. Cline’s vacated rooms. I can hardly believe that I’ve allowed Mr. Jordan to take up residence in my home. Even though I run a respectable boarding establishment and nothing untoward will happen. Still, my heart beats too quickly when he is near. I must have lost my mind.

August 23, 1874

Mr. Jordan has been in my home for a full day now. I find it funny how I could go about my evening toilette without the faintest thought to Mr. Cline, but the mere inkling that Mr. Jordan is separated from me be only a few scant yards, likely doing a similar evening routine, does funny things to my tummy. I’m mad. Well and truly mad.

August 24, 1874

My own moaning woke me during the night. I was dreaming of my faceless man in my Rocky Mountain stream when I woke to the sound of my own wanton moaning. My bosoms were tight and achy, my nether self was aching and embarrassingly moist. Even more shameful, Mr. Jordan’s given name was upon my lips. Had I not awakened when I did, I feared I would yell it out. Thankfully he had left before I rose to prepare breakfast and didn’t return until well into the evening. I would not have to face him with the memory of my dream-man’s hands upon my person.

August 26, 1874

Mr. Jordan, or shall I call him Matthew now? At least in the privacy of my own thoughts. Or do my thoughts remain private? Do I broadcast my newfound hussiness? Mr. Jordan and I met in the hallway at precisely the same time, I, returning from the outhouse and he exiting his rooms. My nose bumped his chest as I had in the Mercantile and his arms once again came around me to prevent me from falling flat on my posterior. Instead of properly letting me go he uttered a curse and kissed me soundly. I confess to thoroughly enjoying it. Mr. Jordan knows what he is about in the kissing department. I have never been kissed as Mr. Jordan kissed me. Deep and probing, slow and sweet, pecks, busses, and kisses. Oh the kisses. He tasted me with his tongue, licking at my lips as Flapjacks laps at her dish of cream. I parted my lips and his tongue touched me, inside, against my teeth. I opened my teeth, my last bastion against his sweet invasion, and he swept inside of me, a conquering hero enjoying the spoils of his battle. Our tongues dueled each other, then petted each other, then mated each other.

My wanton body arched against his, pressing itself firmly to him no matter how I tried to make it behave. He encouraged my whorish activity by rubbing his body slowly back and forth across the front of mine. I could never have guessed at the delicious friction two bodies could make simply rubbing. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held him with a most indecent fervor. I confess to making the most wanton noises, moaning as if I were a soiled dove with her gentleman of the evening. I wanted, more than anything, more than I ever have before, I wanted.

He withdrew his person from within my mouth, and like some desperate widow, I pressed forth, pushing my tongue into his mouth without so much as a by your leave. I licked at the inside of his mouth, tasting a man for the first time in years. Only like wildfire. I had never been inspired to such passion, to such lust, even though this was merely a kiss. Merely? There was nothing mere about this mating of our mouths. He sucked upon my tongue, then thrust his deep within my mouth once again. We kept at this until my knees went weak and I nearly collapsed upon the floor.

He liked this behavior from me. I had expected him to be scandalized at the very least, disgusted at the most. Instead, he disentangled himself from me and said that I was the sweetest woman he’d ever kissed.

Oh Matthew, you have caused a fire to rage in my veins, whatever shall I do?

August 29, 1874

Could I possibly be more wanton? Yes! Yes! I say yes! Yesterday evening after my evening toilette, did I labor over it more than is my custom? I knocked upon his door. My heart was in my throat, I worried that he would reject me, or worse, denounce me in town as a Jezebel. He did neither. He smiled at me and asked what I needed. I requested a kiss, a kiss like he’d given me in the hallway the other morning. He stated that he would kiss me as much as I would let him. I did not quite understand at the time, but now, oh do I ever.

Mr. Jordan tugged me into his rooms and arranged me upon his bed so that I reclined upon my back with my hair spilled over his pillows to his satisfaction. He wished to gaze upon me for a few moments, to bask in what he called my sensual beauty. I wished in that moment that I was as practiced as one of Madame French’s upstairs girls with their sexual knowledge and the silk undergarments they are reputed to possess. I felt awkward and plain with my white lawn nightgown that covered me neck to toes. He kissed me briefly on the lips, then, in a most embarrassed manner, requested that I pluck open the buttons of my nightgown.

I was shocked, and curiously excited. The nipples on my bosoms poked indecently through the fabric of my nightclothes. The thought of Mr. Jordan gazing upon my bared and wanting bosoms sent a sizzling into my blood. Slowly, I began to open my buttons. He moaned, his face twisted as if with pain when I had accomplished the task of opening my buttons to my waist and spread open the plackets of my nightgown, baring myself to his eyes. His fist twitched by his side, drawing my gaze down his body. There I noticed his nether region pushing against his trousers. My eyes refused to leave the bulge in his trousers and I could not stop myself from licking my lips. It had been so long since I’d seen a man-part, touched one. I wanted to touch his.

Suddenly he was on the bed with me, over me, his lips upon mine, his tongue begging entrance to my mouth. We kissed as we had in the hallway, the mating of tongues that set my heart to racing. However, this time, his fingers touched me upon my bared flesh rather then the clothed small of my back. He traced the globes of my bosoms, causing them to raise higher under his touch. He created long sweeping ticklish lines that created a need for more of his touch. Finally, he touched my nipples, his fingers teasing them with squeezes and strokes. I cried out into his mouth, a sound that to my shame, I do not regret making.

His lips pulled from mine, ceasing those glorious kisses that created such a warmth in my loins. Instead he began pressing kisses along my jaw to my ear, which he licked. I’d never heard of such a thing. Jack had confined his kisses to my lips and the tips of my bosoms, but Mr. Jordan kissed my neck and my shoulders as well as the fullness of my bosoms. I have discovered how sensitive the slopes are to being kissed. And teethed. He utilized his teeth as well as his tongue to tempt my flesh into a fully aroused state and I was gasping for breath and pleading with him.

My fingers itched to touch him, but his clothing impeded me. When I attempted to remove his shirt, he restrained me, refusing to allow me to touch him. It was an odd activity now that I reflect upon it. Why would he not allow me to touch him as well? At any rate, Mr. Jordan has left for a few days. He did not say where he was to go, he merely kissed me briefly upon my lips this morning and left before it had quite become dawn.

August 31, 1874

Mr. Jordan has yet to return. I have gone about my business as is my custom, but I feel as if somehow I’ve been marked as the wanton I am. I fear discovery of my inclinations at every turn. I fear that Mabel Wilkins can see into my thoughts and see that I have allowed Mr. Jordan the most shocking liberties with my person.

September 4, 1874

Mr. Jordan returned this afternoon. He was haggard in appearance, obviously exhausted by whatever task he’d set for himself. After a brief dinner and a bath, he retired for the evening. I am torn, I wish to go to him, to have him kiss me, yet I do not want to be too forward. Perhaps it would be best if I merely left him to his own devices, this evening he needs rest.

September 6, 1874

Mabel Wilkins has taken it upon herself to invite herself into my own kitchen to attempt to charm gossip about my boarder from me. I am incensed. I believe I will speak with Reverend Mullgrew about the evils of gossip. Perhaps, in light of the kisses I have shared with Mr. Jordan, this would be hypocritical of me.

My dream of a Rocky Mountain stream and my faceless man has been mysteriously absent for some time now.

September 7, 1874

The Harvest Festival Dance is this evening. Mr. Jordan has purchased a suit to attend as well. I feel like a giddy schoolgirl.

September 8, 1874

Mr. Jordan danced with me once last night, I had hoped he would partner me more often, as he dances so well. He danced with several women. In public. When we returned home that evening, however, Mr. Jordan insisted we dance yet again. He held me indecently close while we shuffled along the floor to the sound of his humming. We danced and danced until the clock struck the midnight hour. As the last of the chimes from the hall clock died away, we stopped, quite taken with each other, and his lips descended upon mine once again.

When he broke our breathtaking kiss, he uttered the most curious thing. That he would not stop this time, until satisfaction took us both. If I did not wish to continue, then it was time to call a halt. I had no wish to stop, I have become quite dependant upon his kisses. The chivalry of such a notion, that he would acquiesce to my wishes, touched me deep within my heart where emotion for man had not stirred in so long of a time.

Mr. Jordan took me by hand and led me to his rooms, to his bed. He had turned it down, the pristine sheets were covered with soft flower petals. He must have raided every garden in Rio Verde to find enough fragrant flowers to strew across his bed. There were tears in my eyes as he slowly began to disrobe me. He kissed my eyes and once again inquired if I wished to stop. For answer, I behaved as shamelessly as any of Madame French’s upstairs girls. I threw myself at him, wrapping myself around him and kissing him as if I wished to devour him.

He set me away from him and completed the task of disrobing me. He would not allow me to assist him in his efforts. The care he displayed for my garments, smoothing them and setting them carefully upon his settee indicated either a strong familiarity with clothing or a knowledge of women. He remained several paces from me, staring at me. I felt rather uncomfortable, I could only think that he would be disappointed with me. My breasts were tiny, my waist too wide, and my hips too narrow. A flash of memory went through me, one of Madame French’s girls strolling down the sidewalk with a cowhand, dressed in a flashy red dress with her generous bosoms overflowing in mounds of creamy flesh. I felt like a boy, naked in front of him. I knew he would be disappointed.

Mr. Jordan told me I was beautiful, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Moments later he crossed to me and touched my face. He kissed me upon my cheeks and said that I should not cry. I hadn’t been aware I’d been doing so. He reassured me that I was indeed beautiful in his eyes. I had always considered myself as plain and boyish, my only redeeming feature being my eyes. With his tender kisses and ardent passion, Mr. Jordan did convince me that I was beautiful. It was the most divine sensation, feeling as if I were the most beauteous woman in the world.

He lifted me easily, I am no lightweight, carried me to the bed, and lay me amidst the petals. Their fragrance enveloped me and Mr. Jordan’s kisses stole my breath. He stood and hastily removed his own garments, showing them only a modicum of concern. He returned to the bed and covered me with his body. It was shocking in it’s intimacy. Mr. Jordan and I had never before been naked together. It was a sensation I will not soon forget.