Page 78 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot
“Good evening, gentlemen.” She greeted each by name, exchanging a few words before saying, “It looks like Owen has been looking after you. Let me know when you’re ready for a fresh round.”
“Will do, Rosie. Thanks.”
For the most part, the Lucky Horseshoe was attracting exactly the drinkers Owen wanted—men who didn’t mind paying a little extra for a comfortable atmosphere. If they wanted to get pickled, they moved to a saloon where the vinegar was cheaper.
Temperance came to the bar, face pale, but maybe she looked so ghostly because he hadn’t lit the lamps yet.
“I know you’re running low, but can I have half a shot?” she asked.
“Why?” She lived up to her name and hadn’t had any whiskey since the first sip he’d poured for her when they tasted from the barrel.
“You can take it from my wages,” she said with a sullen look.
“I’m not going to charge you,” he muttered, annoyed that she would think he would. He spilled a measure into a clean glass. “Is this about Elmer and his almanac?” Or him? Them. He had the sense she thought he was deliberately holding her back. Letting her down. Failing.
He swallowed, but his chest continued to feel both tight and hollow.
“I feel like I’ve been gut shot,” she muttered. “I’m not...” She glanced over her shoulder, then mouthed, ‘pregnant.’ “I thought you’d like to know.”
He hadn’t expected her to be, but the news blew back his hair. And it raised more questions in him than it answered. He didn’t know much about a woman’s cycle beyond the way nature took its course with cattle and horses and other animals.
“Do you feel ill? Do you want to lie down?”
“No. I would only brood.” She sipped her drink, pensive gaze on the wall behind him.
“I’ll talk to Elmer tomorrow,” he said.
“And say what? It won’t change anything. I’ve lost the race.” Her mouth twisted with angry resignation.
He couldn’t deny that, but he hated to see her looking so glum.
“Rosie, I’m ready for another drink,” one of the men called. “And I’m going to need you to come over and tap this deck for luck, because I ain’t got any.”
She gulped her whiskey and choked slightly, then mustered a smile.
“I’m happy to bring you a drink, Whistler, but I warn you my own luck is running low at the moment.”
So was Owen’s. She barely spoke to him the rest of the evening and was fast asleep when he came to bed.
The bad luck and the schism between them lasted four more days. Owen ran out of whiskey and had to put a sign in the window that his barrel was empty. Not that men were venturing out anyway. A storm rolled in with heavy snow and such cold temperatures, Owen blanketed his horse and took him over to the corral where the heat of the other animals and the extra straw provided a slightly warmer barn than his frigid wagon house.
He returned to find Temperance bundled up to her eyebrows, cradling a cup of coffee in her gloved hands, staring into the fire.
“Are you going to stay angry at me for something Elmer did?” he asked.
“I’m not angry. I’m sad. And cold.”
“We could warm up with a snuggle. Just a snuggle,” he added quickly. He’d been waking up with her spooned into his body, but they hadn’t even kissed in days. “Unless you want to do more.” Please want to do more.
“I always want to do more,” she mumbled, setting down her mug to push the heels of her hands into her eye sockets.
His heart teetered in his chest. “Rosie, you have got to stop thinking there’s something wrong with you for enjoying lovemaking.”
“There is something wrong with it,” she insisted, lifting her head. “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t let my carnal desires get the better of me. Now, I’m doing it again.”
“No. You’re here because a man took advantage of your curiosity. Then your stepmother punished you for it. If she wants to claim you injured her by living your life, fine. That’s her business to feel that way, but you don’t have to. Are you really going to let them continue hurting you by denying yourself something that makes you feel good?”
“You’re just trying to convince me to join you in that bed.”