Chapter 2

Abigail could no longer hold back the tears. They leaked through her closed eyes, flooded the eyelashes, and rolled down her cheeks. Life on the ranch with her son had been perfect—until she opened the barn door. With him around, she was not lonely. So she had thought he wasn’t either. But she hadn’t realized her son was growing into a man with a man’s needs.

Abigail thought back to her own childhood. It hadn’t been a normal childhood, but her loving mother had made her happy. Abigail didn’t remember her father. Only what her mother had told her about him. That her parents had been newly married in Ireland before coming to America to escape the potato famine. They had settled in New York City, scraping out a living, poor but happy. Imagining that someday they would achieve the American dream and be rich. Her parents had skimped and saved, but never seemed to get anywhere. There had always been a doctor bill or some other necessary expense. But Abigail’s mother had repeatedly told her that she and Abigail’s father had been in love and happy.

Abigail was too young to remember it, but everything changed when her father was trampled by a runaway horse-drawn wagon. Her mother didn’t even have the funds for a proper burial so her father was laid to rest in a pauper’s grave. With a young child to feed and clothe and shelter, Abigail’s mother earned money the only way she was able. On her back, with her legs spread, working in one of the hundreds of brothels in Manhattan. At first, her mother had tried to hide from a young Abigail what was going on in the brothel, but that was impossible. Half naked women were always around her. The lecherous men, many of them sailors or dock workers with foul mouths, were a constant presence.

Young Abigail had many questions that her mother tried to answer. She had taught her young daughter about the woman’s body, about pregnancy and childbirth, and what men wanted. But she had stressed that when Abigail married the right man, it would be different than what she witnessed at the brothel. That’s when her mother taught her how to be a loving wife who took care of her husband, which included sex. At those times she talked to Abigail about the father she didn’t remember.

When young Abigail’s menstrual cycles started, her mother began to worry. She knew the madam she worked for had an eye on the maturing girl and her mother wanted a different life for her daughter than the one she was forced into. Desperate, with limited options, her mother checked the newspaper personal ads seeking mail-order brides and came upon one from Wyatt Grimston that interested her. Not for her, but her daughter. Abigail’s mother believed she was ruined and was no longer an acceptable wife. Even if there was a man out there who would ignore that her body had been used by hundreds of men, she knew that men seeking wives didn’t expect a teenage child as part of the deal. So she and Mr. Grimston corresponded, but it was always about her daughter. When he described his ranch, she knew he was the man for her daughter. He was a landowner. Her daughter would have what she and her late husband had only dreamed of. The fact that Abigail was fourteen and Mr. Grimston, at thirty-two, was more than twice her age didn’t matter.

Wyatt Grimston sent the railroad and stagecoach tickets for the trip out west and a fourteen-year-old Abigail was given a sack containing all her belongings and sent on her way to never see or hear from her mother again. Abigail had tried writing her mother several times, but never got a response.

Abigail didn’t have a photograph of Mr. Grimston, so when she climbed out of the stagecoach she stood on the dirt street clutching her sack to her newly blossoming chest. She felt lost and helpless as she watched the people scurrying around. And then a tall man with dark brown hair stood up from a bench and walked up to her.

“Abigail?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Wyatt Grimston.”

Abigail was pleased. He was handsome. He took her directly to the courthouse where they were married. The fourteen-year-old girl wished her mother was there to give her away, but then realized that’s exactly what her mother had done. She gave her to this tall stranger.

The long ride in the horse-drawn wagon made Abigail nervous. Where was he taking her? But when they got to the ranch, Abigail squealed and jumped off the wagon and ran around like the child she was. She inspected everything. The lake. The stream. The well. The animals. The vegetable garden. It was all beautiful and exciting. Her new husband simply sat on the wagon seat and smiled.

The city girl had a lot to learn about ranching. Her new husband taught her about horses, sheep, cows, and chicken. She had really liked milking the cows, giggling as the milk squirted into the bucket. And she had fun finding the eggs the hens tried to hide. In the beginning, what had confused her the most were the sheep. They didn’t have the wool she was used to seeing on sheep. But her husband had explained that they were hair sheep, raised for the meat to eat, not wool to sheer.

That thought brought Abigail back to the present. The sheep. How did her son even know how to fuck the ewe? Abigail uncovered her face and stared straight ahead, not seeing anything but the thoughts inside her mind. Wyatt had grown up on a ranch. He witnessed the animals mating all the time. Why hadn’t she kept a closer eye on him? But what could she have done anyway? After all, he was fourteen. At fourteen, she was married, had sex, and gotten pregnant.

Abigail lowered her head and once again buried her face in her hands. She had to talk to her son about sex like her mother had talked to her. But how? She wasn’t a man. All she knew about men was from her mother’s eyes. Abigail wished Wyatt’s father was around to talk to his son. As a man, he might even have been able to prevent the disgusting thing that had happened with the sheep.

Thinking about her late husband brought back more memories. Abigail had been so nervous that first night at the ranch. Since the wagon ride from town had taken half a day, it was late by the time they arrived. Her new husband had cooked dinner. Abigail had fussed, arguing that it was the wife’s duty, but he had simply dismissed her, telling her that he had been cooking for many years and she could take over the cooking the next day. She had wanted to insist, but the thirty-two-year-old man intimidated the fourteen-year-old child.

After dinner, her new husband allowed Abigail to clean up while he stood next to her, showing her where everything went. Then he grasped her hand and, carrying a lit kerosene lamp in front of them in his other hand, led her into the bedroom. She stopped when she saw the bed. Her mother had instructed her about a wife’s duties, guiding her through the mechanics of sex, but seeing the bed and holding her husband’s hand made it real. He was much older than her. He probably had sex with many women, women like her mother. Her mother had told her that sex between a husband and wife was different than the sex men expected from the women at the brothel. Did her new husband know that? What if she did it wrong? Would he return her to her mother? Or worse. Would he take her back to town and leave her there alone? She’d have no place to sleep. No money for food. She’d have no choice but to end up like her mother.

Her husband placed the kerosene lamp on top of the dresser next to the sack of Abigail’s belongings she had yet to unpack. He turned to face her. Abigail was trembling. With her arms hanging in front of her, she clasped her hands and squeezed them as she swayed side to side. Her head was lowered, but not her eyes. They were locked on the stranger. He was her husband, but a stranger nonetheless. He hadn’t even kissed her at the short, matter-of-fact marriage ceremony.

“I wish I had gotten to know you,” her husband said.

“What do you mean?”

“I corresponded with your mother. I wanted to with you, but she said it was better to do it with her.”

Abigail’s eyes watered. “Do I disappoint you? Are you sorry I’m here? Do you regret—?”

“Oh no!” Her husband stepped up to her and took her hands in his. He squeezed them. “I don’t regret it at all. You are beautiful, and if you are half the girl your mother told me you are, you are perfect.”

Abigail lowered her eyes. She could no longer meet his while he was staring at her, appraising her. “I-I don’t know how to be a wife.”

Her husband carried her hands to his mouth and kissed them. She looked up at him in surprise.

“I don’t know how to be a husband. We’ll learn together.”

“But you’re a grownup!” Abigail blurted.

“Who has never been married. I’ve lived alone for a very long time. I have a lot to learn, too. I reckon we’ll learn together.”

Abigail’s heart melted. Tears streamed down both cheeks, but not sad ones. Tears of joy. Without thinking, she pulled her hands free from his, flung her arms around his body, and hugged him tight with the side of her face pressed against his chest. Her new husband gently wrapped his arms around her small, slender body.

After being locked in an embrace for over a minute, her husband separated from her and placed a finger under Abigail’s chin. He tilted her head back and leaned down, pressing his lips to hers. As soon as their lips touched, Abigail became lightheaded. Felt faint. Felt something in her tummy she had never felt before. Butterflies fluttering. And she felt an itch between her legs. A tingling.

When her husband’s tongue touched her lips, the surprise almost caused Abigail to jerk her head back. But her mother had prepared her well. She opened her mouth and his tongue sought hers. When their tongues met, it was like a bolt of lightning flashing across a dark sky. Shivers ran down her spine. That itch between her legs surged. She even squeezed her thighs together.

Breaking the kiss, her husband said, “Abigail, my dear, please disrobe.”

Abigail looked around the room. “Where?”

He stroked her cheek with a feathery touch. “My dear, we are husband and wife. No need for modesty. Let me show you.”

Her husband untied the bandana around his neck and dropped it on the wood-planked floor. Then he removed the leather vest he almost always wore and then his shirt. They also ended up on the floor. His torso and arms were covered in the top of his long johns. He sat on the side of the bed, lifted a foot, and pulled his boot off. And then his other boot. Standing up, he opened his trousers. Abigail stood frozen, her eyes locked on his every move, her breathing ragged. He shoved the trousers to his knees, sat down, and removed his pants, leaving him in his long johns.

“Don’t be shy,” her husband said. “Let me see how beautiful you are.”

Abigail’s hands moved to the top button of her bodice, but her trembling fingers couldn’t open it.

Her husband held out his hand, palm up. “Come here, my dear.”

Abigail was amazed that her legs moved. Somehow, she shuffled up to her new husband who was sitting on the side of the bed in his long johns. When he spread his knees, she stepped between them. His hands went to where Abigail’s had been, but his fingers moved properly. He undid the top button and the next and the next. With each button undone, the tight-fitting bodice parted, showing more of her chemise. When the bottom button was opened, her husband pulled the bodice apart and stared at her small pointy breasts hidden only by the thin cotton of the chemise. Abigail felt her cheeks burn, but she stood deathly still. She didn’t move as he lowered the bodice from her shoulders, not until he struggled to slide her arms out of the long sleeves. With her help, the bodice joined his discarded clothes on the floor.

Abigail could hardly breathe. Her mother had made sure never to let any man see any of her daughter’s undergarments. Even with all the partially clad prostitutes around, that was something her mother had insisted. She had told Abigail that she was going to be a perfect wife and that a wife displayed modesty. And now Abigail stood in front of this man without her outer clothing covering her chest. She never had the need to wear a corset, but she didn’t have to look down to know that her nipples had hardened and were pushing out the front of the cotton chemise. Her cheeks turned redder.