Free Whippoorwill by Sharon Sala

trembling.
    “Randall, please hurry.”
    He swallowed suddenly. Randall? Her familiarity was unlikely for a woman who dreamed of being a nun, but the darkness was a blanket to his conscience. He dashed up the steps ahead of her and stood aside as she unlocked each of their doors. He escorted her inside the room that was to be hers, staying until the lamp had been lit. When he looked at her again, she was shivering.
    Concern overrode lust.
    “Miss Doone, you should get out of your wet clothes and into a warm bed immediately, or I fear you shall catch your death.”
    Charity swayed toward the resonance of his voice. She looked at him then. The image of him surrounded by light was burned in her brain. Do it! Do it now, a voice said. Her hands moved to the long row of buttons that ran down the front of her dress. Her eyes were wide and fixed upon his face as she began to undo her clothes.
    Frozen to the spot, Randall stared. There was no mistaking her intent.
    “Miss Charity… what are you doing?”
    “The dream. I have to fulfill the dream.”
    He knew he should look at her face, but he couldn’t. His gaze was fixed upon the revelation of her pale, creamy skin, as one by one, the buttons came undone. His tongue felt thick—almost as thick as the swelling body part inside his pants.
    “Dream? What dream?”
    “I was wrong about my dream. It wasn’t about becoming a nun. It wasn’t God I was standing naked before.” She threw herself into Randall Howe’s arms. “Oh Randall, it was you.”
    It should be stated that on Randall’s behalf he did think about resisting. But it should also be mentioned that the thought came and went as fast as a fart. Within moments they were lying together in bed. Highlighted by the flickering light from her lamp, their naked bodies writhed upon the covers.
    Caught up in a passion of which she would never have believed, Charity Doone lost her virginity, and what she thought was her heart, to a man she’d known less than a day.
    Randall’s lust was easily overwhelmed by what little conscience he had. It wasn’t until he’d shot his own wad that it began to dawn on him just what he’d done, and by then it was too late to take anything back. Charity was in convulsions of rapture and moaning words of happy ever after in his ear. He waited with his heart in his mouth until she’d fallen asleep before he’d crept to his own room.
    From there, he watched the storm until it had passed, and then he watched for the first signs of gray to break the bleakness of night. This wasn’t Boston and there was no bishop to stand between him and what he’d just done. Out here, people made their own laws and he shuddered to think what kind of retribution a woman like Mehitable Doone might take on a man who’d done what he’d done.
    He dropped to his knees by the side of the bed and began to pray, making promises to God from the depths of his heart, swearing that he would never, as long as he lived, take advantage of a woman again. From this moment on he would be celibate—even if it drove him mad.
    At daybreak, he tiptoed to her door and looked in. She was sprawled out across her bed, her nudity all the more blatant for her lack of covers. He shuddered, silently cursing himself for his weaknesses and slipped back to his room.
    As he stood beside the window, he heard a sound that gave him some hope. It was the distant whistle of a west-bound train. In that moment, his decision was made. Without a backward glance, he grabbed his coat and his bible and headed for the stairs at a lope. Out the door he ran, then toward the livery to recover his bag.
    Just this once. Just this once, let me please get away and I’ll never do it again.
    ***
    Charity came awake within seconds, and as she did, the memory of last night came crashing down upon her.
    “Randall,” she gasped, and then bounced out of bed, grabbing clothes as she went.
    Haste made her nervous. She giggled girlishly as she tried to force buttons