OverTime 03: Slipping (First 70 Chapters)

Chapter 32: Morality (Garrison)

Garrison had better things to do with his morning than escort his wife to the North Platte. However, she had left him little choice.

He resented being buffaloed, especially only a day out from Fort Laramie. Keeping the herd moving dominated his every day, even without plotting their route around U.S. Army restrictions on civilian operations. He had to respect a five mile deadline from the fort. He also had to figure out a supply list for the post trader, and write a telegram he meant to send, and keep his boys away the hog ranches that serviced soldiers. Drovers and whiskey made for trouble enough without Yankee bluecoats in the mix. But young men would want their fun.

He'd never fully understood that, not even as a young man. He would rather put in a good day's work than waste money and respectability both ... which was why he resented the morning's outing.

But Elizabeth had caught him, skillful as a tie-down roper, and here they went.

On a beautiful, sunny morning in late August. The wife looking fine in her dark skirt and shirtwaist.

"This time, I'm going to enjoy the fort," she said. "You'll just have to help me keep up with what's moral around here."

"Ain't no 'around here' to moral."

"Yeah, but you don't like it when I say 'around now.'" She stood correct about that.

Garrison said, "Moral is moral."

"For the big things, sure! Don't steal, don't kill, don't hurt other people. No argument from me! But then there's the supposed morality that just has to do with following rules everyone else has decided to follow, even if they don't make sense."

"Make sense," he reminded her, "because folks decided to follow 'em."

What was so hard to understand about that?

"Things like how much neck a lady can show, and for what time of day. It's all trickier than you'd think."

He wanted to note that she deliberately made it tricky, just to be obstinate, but decided against saying so. She maybe had a point about ball gowns and day dresses.

"I've decided it's kind of like a point system. You know, like a game? A person gains points for doing socially acceptable things, and loses points for doing things that are considered immoral, even if they really aren't immoral at all."

He waited for her to untangle that one -- and appreciated the high grass through which they rode. In fact, he bent low off his mare and plucked a stalk, to taste. Yep. This kind of grass could keep a rancher fat and happy.

"Seriously!" insisted Elizabeth, as if he'd accused her of joshing. "I noticed it in Dodge City. Being engaged, supposedly--especially to you--gave me a lot of respectability points, so thank you for that. Although isn't it sad that I got those respectability points for lying."

"Ain't actual points," he reminded her.

"Going to church got me points, naturally. But visiting with Everett lost a lot of respectability points... although I did damage control by claiming it was charity work. Now tell me, how is it immoral to bring soup to a poor unfortunate drug addict?"

An unmarried woman, visiting a man of low repute? She could not be that stupid.

"Questioning the Temperance movement at dinner?" She held her hand out, her thumb pointing downward. "I lost a lot of points over that one."

"Don't favor Temperance," he challenged.

"Are you saying that if I don't support Temperance, I'm some kind of booze hound?"

She did have a tendency for puttin' little ideas into big hats and then reacting accordingly. "Not less'n you imbibe."

"I do not plan on imbibing anytime soon, thank you. But Prohibition isn't going to do anybody but the mafia any favors."

That made no sense to him at all.

"That's exactly the sort of rules you can help me with. Apparently, women aren't supposed to laugh, or run, or shout, or discuss politics, so I need you to help me not embarrass you at the fort."

He would have assured her that she hadn't embarrassed him yet -- but the men still called him Frances, now and again.

"It's so complicated!" Because she made it complicated. "Especially the rules about exposing your arms or legs."

She must have recognized his disapproval at her evocative language, because she said, "See? What is wrong with words like arms and legs? Sheesh! The sheer inaccuracy of saying limbs when maybe you mean arms, or maybe you mean legs, or maybe you mean an ankle, or maybe you mean ears..."

Best not to inflame folks by putting them in mind of body parts, Garrison figured. Except, "Ear ain't a limb."

"Limb! It's a stupid way of judging morality, and it's inefficient, too."

"You do suffer."

"Well not today I won't. We're alone, aren't we?"

When he eyed her, suspicious, she jutted out her chin, so he nodded. Yes. They were alone.

"Good." And ignoring the rules of proper riding, she started to unbutton the top of her shirtwaist.

Garrison stared. Then he looked quickly away, since he ought not watch a woman disrobe. Then it occurred to him that this one was his woman, and they were alone, so maybe he could watch her at that.

What a man and women did, in their marriage, was their business.

Within reason.

What they chose to do in public was the public's business.

They were not in public. She had even checked with him first.

"That's why I'm counting on you to be my conscience," she explained, as if she weren't unfastening her fourth, fifth, sixth button. As if the material were not falling open to show the skin of her neck, of her chest. "At least until I figure this all out. You have morality points coming out your ears. Or, you know... your limbs."

The way she wrinkled her nose at him as she smiled at her joke, complete with dimples, charged him like a fire bolt. Especially when she shrugged out of her shirtwaist entirely, tying it loosely around her hips by the sleeves, and rode on wearing nothing on top but her camisole. She spread her arms, as if welcoming the sunshine.

She had fine shoulders, his wife. And fine arms--limbs--elbows...

Tarnation. Morality seemed so much more straightforward, before her.

He wanted to remind her that some things were meant for nighttime, but his throat felt too dry to talk. Also, they'd lost the moon, this last week. He hadn't actually seen her bare skin for days.

Which made the promise of her camisole even more seductive.

Could be he'd commit more serious sins than loafing, this morning.

Assuming they were sins.

When she started unlacing the camisole, Garrison stopped debating morality.