Ada's Secret (3 page)

Six months later, the Silver Dove opened its doors in Denver. It was billed as the best saloon and dance hall west of the Mississippi and it was truly outstanding. Substantial oak doors opened to the inside where heavy red velvet curtains protected the inner sanctum. Gentlemen fulfilled their secret fantasies with live shows, gambling, drinking, and the most beautiful sought-after professional Ladies of the Evening.

The Silver Dove promised and delivered entertainment for the discerning gentleman. Thanks to Jeremiah’s connections in New Orleans men flocked to see the latest Can-Can dancers flash their petticoats and sashay suggestively on the big stage. The gaming tables, as Lettie would say, “kept them winning just enough to keep them losing.” At the Silver Dove men enjoyed themselves, coming back as frequently as their money or wives allowed.

***

“F
ort Collins, next stop, Fort Collins,” the conductor’s baritone voice sang. The train slowed and stopped abruptly at a grey, weathered wood platform. It wasn’t anything like Denver’s Union station, but it was clean and bustling with life as wagons waited to be loaded from the boxcars. Trees lined the wide streets, and the midday sun was high and warm. “How will I know him?” I said to myself, “and more important; how will he know
me
?”

B
ehind me came a slow, quiet voice. It was soothing, but I heard a bit of nervousness. “Beautiful day, Ma’am. Welcome to Fort Collins. Are you expecting someone?” A warm, strong hand encased my shoulder as the most unexpected thrill ran down my spine.

Startled, I whirled around and came face to face with the cocoa brown eyes from the picture. Captivating dark chocolate eyes under beautifully arched brows and raven black glossy hair put the likeness in the picture to shame.

“Are you Ada Moore?” the full lips with an intriguing hint of a pout spoke.
Yes, it was Patrick!
My breath caught in my chest as I drowned in his smoky eyes.

Handsome men were a frequent sight in my life, but this one took my breath away. “I am Ada Moore, and you are?” I heard my own shaky voice steadying itself as my composure returned. Delicately I held out a gloved hand.
Was he real? Could this be the man I had promised to marry?

He was tall with a square jaw and a dark mustache that accentuated the perpetual pout in his sensuous lips. His black, lustrous hair was just as disobedient as his picture had portrayed. That lone boisterous lock fell over his brow, and he brushed a gloved hand across it nervously putting it back into place.

His skin glowed with vitality and the very essence of sagebrush and sunshine cascaded from him. To say he was gorgeous was an understatement, but there was a boyish charm in his quick smile that made me stifle a madly urgent desire to run away with him.

Dressed in a black frock coat with a crimson vest and doeskin gloves, he held my gaze and left me spellbound. “My name is Patrick Burgess, and I am very pleased to meet you, Ma’am.” As he formally took my hand, he presented me with a simple bouquet of spring wildflowers. “I picked these from my ranch. I hope they’re suitable,” he said. Looking into his eyes, I saw the importance of these flowers. He had, attentively, provided me with my wedding bouquet.

His shyness was painful and my tension excruciating. Unnerved and not knowing what to say, I belted out a familiar greeting heard around my home, “What’s the matter, honey? Is this your first time?”

His face went pale. A dark cloud of abhorrence shrouded his beautiful features. His sparkling cocoa eyes turned fiery as he coughed and involuntarily looked away.

Oh, no! How could I have said such a stupid thing?
My bumbling outburst mortified me as the wild flowers stabbed prickly thorns into my palms. Humiliated, I scrutinized my calico traveling dress and brushed the crinkled fabric down across my chest.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I crushed the bouquet to my chest. “Oh! Mr. Burgess, Patrick, please, forgive me! I am a virtuous lady, but I was raised on a ranch! When I get nervous I am inclined to break the ice with humor, and I forget that sometimes people take me seriously. Believe me. I am not to be taken seriously most of the time.”

I watched his face relax, and a broad, playful smile replaced the pout in his sensuous lips. The corner of his dark mustache curled up and I clutched my bouquet to my bosom to keep my heart from bursting.

His smile started in his eyes and flooded through his face until it spilled over every inch of his manly body. He took the fingers of my hand and wrapped them over his muscular forearm. My hand felt small and very protected as he led me to an arch where a Justice of the Peace, glancing at his watch impatiently, waited.

The ceremony was simple, and a wearied passenger, awaiting the next train to Greeley, was our witness. As the Justice of the Peace accepted his fee, he shook hands with Patrick and planted a perfunctory kiss on my cheek before we hiked across the rail yard to Patrick’s waiting buckboard.

“Get up there, Sheba,” he spoke melodiously as Sheba his big bay draft mare, stepped into a trot, pulling the sturdy buckboard. Pleasant odors of horse, hay, and leather filled my senses as the delightful Colorado sunshine mended my travel weary spirit.

Our conversation was easy, and we discovered we had much in common. We discussed art, literature, and music. “I think you will like our ranch,” he reflected. “I bought it from Sam, a miner who thought there might be gold in the stream running through our pasture.” His laugh seemed to sparkle. “Sam didn’t realize the real gold wasn’t in the stream bed. It was the water itself. I figured out an irrigation system and turned dry fields into the best pastureland in the state. The cattle are fat, and sassy and we have a big hay crop. That is where the real gold is! The log cabin is very sturdy, and the windows that open to the south and west keep the house warm and sunny, even in the winter.” He softly clucked to Sheba as she shied away from a breeze that rustled the willows along the rutted road.

“Fortunately for me,” Patrick mused, “the man was a dreamer. He had good intentions of building his home in the valley, and when a salesman from Colorado Cast Iron Stoves paid a visit, Sam invested a pretty penny into the cook stove for the kitchen.” Patrick smiled and gave me a wink, “Sam told me he wanted to get himself a mail-order-bride, but he knew no woman would have him without a decent cook stove. He bought the best one the salesman had.” Patrick grinned at the memory.

“The old guy was too much of a dreamer to stay in ranching. When he heard news of a gold strike in the Yukon, he couldn’t help himself and he sold everything to me.” Patrick threw up his hands in mock excitement. “Sam wanted to leave that day, so we negotiated a quick sale. He took the cash, and I got a half finished ranch. Sam left that afternoon on a train bound for San Francisco. Over the next year, I finished the kitchen, barn, and set up the fences for my ranch, but that stove has kept me warm as toast during the long, cold winter months. Do you think he was right? Is the key to a woman’s heart as simple as a good cook stove?” Patrick asked playfully.

“Oh, without a shadow of a doubt,” I teased back. “We mail-order-brides insist on the luxury of a respectable cast iron stove. Didn’t you get that in my last letter?” We both laughed, and the echo of the happy sounds drifted down the valley ahead.

There was a long silence between us as we meditated on the beauty around us. June’s soft warm afternoon had turned to dusk. Beautiful shades of twilight transformed fluffy white clouds into passionately-colored billows. Yellow, orange, and crimson finally faded into charcoal-colored clouds. 

Great quaffs of alpine-scented air rejuvenated me as robins chirped their evening song. Swallows darted high in the cooling evening air, searching for a last few delicious insects before returning to their nests for the night.

I watched Patrick guide the dutiful mare into the approach of my new home. Patrick’s unspoken communication with the gentle workhorse was evident as she pulled the buckboard up to the front porch. Looking around the darkened ranch, I couldn’t see much, but what I could make out was well maintained and meticulously planned.

The moon had just risen, and I tried to peer into the dark shadows that I presumed were pastures for the cattle, but the moonlight didn’t illuminate any details. I could just make out the big dark shadow to my right. My mind recognized it as the barn. It was large and I estimated that it must have 4 stalls with a huge hayloft above. Attached to the barn and in its shadow, I could see the corral opening to the entrance where Sheba tossed her head, impatiently puffing clover-scented breath loudly at Patrick.

To my right, a sturdy log house with a gabled roof and hand-hewn shingles stood solid and quiet. Any shadow of doubt I’d had about my future vanished like the waning colors of the day. “Patrick,” I confided to him, “this isn’t exactly the way I had always envisioned my wedding day.” I felt his apprehension as he slowly and cautiously took my simple belongings out of the wagon. Perceiving his concern, I quickly continued, “I always thought I would go through a proper courtship and formal wedding, but this really has been my perfect wedding.” I held his strong shoulders as he lifted me from the wagon and gently stood me on solid ground.

Holding his warm hands on my waist, I whispered sensuously in his ear, “Thank you. I love it.”

E
agerly, he took my hand and led me up to the porch. “Now, we have to do this right”. Suddenly he dropped my valise and swept me off of my feet. I squealed in surprise as he caught me up in his powerful arms. Swinging in the excitement of it all, my skirts caught a breeze and my bonnet flew wildly from my head.

“What are you doing?” I giggled, as another involuntary squeal issued from my lips.

“Just what a man needs to do with his wife when he brings her home for the first time!” He breathed lightly as he opened the door with one free hand. “Carry her over the threshold!”

Laughing, I hugged his neck until he set me down in the parlor of the inviting cabin. His warm body assisted me safely to the wood floor as he lit a hurricane lamp on the mantle of the huge fireplace. “Now, don’t you go anywhere,” he teased as he retrieved my valise. Through the open door, the smells of a healthy working ranch gratified my senses.

Wait until Aunt Lettie sees this place! I thought.
Memories of the beautiful ranch I grew up on engulfed me. Lettie’s ranch was a magical place and allowed me freedom from the petticoats and corsets of society. Rodeos and races produced substantial income. “Lettie is having a rodeo!” was a familiar cry heard throughout the territory. Cowboys came with horses, money, and, of course, their manly desires. When I was old enough, I learned to calculate odds, pay off winners, and keep people happy and sober. Well, mostly sober, but I was always under the watchful eye of Ma and Lettie.

From dawn to dusk I lived in dungarees astride my horse overseeing the ranch’s thirty thousand acres. Elk and deer were frequent items on the menu, a product of my shooting skills. My mouth watered at the memory of roasting foul and game meat, simmering pots of red and green chili, and the smell of pies cooling on the kitchen counter.

My thoughts snapped back to the present.
This is my home now
,
but what have I done to Ma, Aunt Lettie and Jeremiah? What will they think when they realize I’m gone
?
I must accept that I probably will never see the people I love again.
Another rush of emotion seized me.
I know I will be happy here, but Patrick’s reaction to my blunder at the station confirms that he can never know my secret. What would he think of my life?

Coming into the warm light of the house, he sensed my mood. “Is everything OK?” he questioned.

“Yes, everything has happened so quickly, and the trip was taxing. I’m just a little tired,” I confessed. His face was a jumble of emotions as he went to the kitchen.

A bit bashfully, he lowered his gaze, “Excuse me for being indelicate, but you must need the facilities. There is a lantern already lit and hanging on the privy. Fresh water is here in the kitchen to wash up with, and I made us a little supper for when you are done.” Quietly, he held the front door open, illuminating the path to the small, but clean outhouse.

I don’t cry easily, but tears welled in my eyes.
This man made supper for me and even anticipated my personal needs. Never had I heard of such a thing!
I headed for the outhouse
.
When I finished in the privy, the open door to the house was beckoning to me with warm, glowing light. Supper was ready. He had made fresh bread, smoked trout, and sliced strawberries. In a large mug, he poured fresh milk with clumps of cream still floating on top. He smiled, “Buttercup provided this part of our dinner.”

I stepped into his arms. I had been fantasizing about what those strong arms would feel like wrapped around me and I could wait no longer. He straightened stiffly, and I whispered, “It’s OK, I am your wife.” He tried to relax, but he stood still like a stallion with his first mare. I pressed my breasts into his chest and stood on my tiptoes, pulling his beautiful lips to meet mine.

As our lips touched, I felt a spark of our desire as his passionate kiss sucked the very breath from me. Being a gentleman, he had waited for me to be certain. I knew I had wanted this man from the moment I saw him and now I could see by the swelling in his pants that our desire was mutual. I pressed against his erect manhood; something deep in my loins guided my urges even though I didn’t have experience.

The moon was glowing softly and the night air was inviting. I took his hand and drew him out to the front porch where I pulled my bonnet away from my hair. Sitting on an armless chair, I bent over him and let my auburn curls immerse his face.

He was responding and eager now. With gentle hands he cupped my waiting breasts through my blouse. The thrill raced from my sensitive nipples to the unexplored area between my legs. Never had I felt such intense and powerful feelings of desire. I knew I needed something deep inside me to fulfill the need.