The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder by Amethyst Creek Page A

body.  He filled her again and again, each thrust more powerful than the last, such intense friction, as he branded her, completed her, claimed her womb, and then flooded her with his warm seed.
                  She was sated and glowing, heated, her skin glistening when he withdrew from her and carried her to the bed.  He had sent her wits flying, had shown her again all he felt with an intensity that overwhelmed them both.  She watched, heavy lidded, as he removed the rest of his clothing, slowly revealing every muscled inch of him in the soft lamplight; his broad shoulders, firm buttocks, powerful thighs, and impossibly thick erection.  He joined her on the bed, pulled her close, settled her body next to his and cupped her full breasts, his calloused fingers trailing over her nipples.  She snuggled into him, her derriere tempting his insatiable manhood.  She kissed his arm.  “I love you Thomas Sprague,” she whispered.  “I am the luckiest woman in the world,” she said before sleep claimed her.

Chapter Eight
     
    Promptly at 8:00 a.m., a well-rested and decidedly chipper Edward Mansfield entered the breakfast parlor and greeted his hosts.  The large sideboard was quite ornate and featured a stag looking down on carved apples, grapes and pomegranates.   It was fairly groaning this morning with a lavish assortment of breakfast dishes including soft boiled eggs, grilled sausage and bacon, buttered toast and marmalade, grilled tomatoes, muffins, coffee and tea.  Susannah wore a muslin day dress with a pretty floral pattern and scooped neckline trimmed with lace.  She was spreading marmalade on her toast.  Thomas was sipping his coffee and reading the Tribune .
                  “Good morning, Edward,” Susannah began.  “Did you sleep well?”
                  “Like a baby,” he replied, as he busied himself with filling his plate.  “Travel by train made me more tired than I thought.”
                  “Before there was the train, we used to take the stage from Kansas City to Denver on the Overland Trail.  Three days in a stage coach, now that was a tiring, dusty ride,” said Thomas.
                  “I must count my blessings, then,” Edward said.  He seated himself next to his hostess and unfolded his napkin.  “Susannah,” he began, “you must tell me what art projects have captivated your interest of late.”
                  “I continue to paint landscapes and sold another painting recently,” she replied.
                  “Tell Edward of your students, my love,” said Thomas with a smile.
                  “I have seven very promising students, mostly girls.  They range in age from nine to fifteen.  We have been practicing the finer points of tinsel painting this summer.  There is also one boy, my little Jesse.  He is learning to sketch and is quite shy.  I tutor him separately.”
                  “That is most excellent news,” said Edward agreeably.  “Where do you give these lessons?”
                  “Thomas built me a space for a studio in the back of the carriage house.  It gives me such pleasure to share my knowledge with my students,” she added.
                  “And in the cold winter months?” Edward asked.
                  “Thomas installed a wonderful potbelly stove for us – it keeps things quite cozy so our lessons may continue,” was her answer.
    “Oh, no,” said Thomas, looking up from the paper with a frown.  “Another accident.”
                  “What happened?” asked Susannah as her face clouded.  “Where was it?”
                  “In Alma.”  Thomas then read aloud the newspaper account.  “‘W.C. Miller, a Cornishman working in the Moose Mine at Alma is the latest victim of premature explosion of a blast.  The iron bar with which he was tamping, was