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This is one of my first images of Jeannie, back in my teens, using a photo for reference. Not the best water colour technique, but I was young ... I worked hard on her image over the years, to get her the way I wanted her. I settled for tomboy beauty and that seemed to work. |
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JEANNIE AS A KID/TOM SAWYER. |
It was fascinating to watch Jeannie Morgan working her magic. She moved towards the idiots and gave the pair of them her heavy lidded, unblinking, soul destroying gaze. Her head was slightly lowered as she looked up and loaded that gaze upon them. They froze on the spot. Her right hand inched towards the grip of her holstered gun. They turned tail, scrambled towards their horses, mounted up and galloped back through the forest.
Her boyish beauty and charisma was legendary, and here it was. My mouth gawped open, I stared round eyed at her and my pain was forgotten. She crouched in front of me and her close proximity washed over me..
Jeannie Morgan held the look of a gorgeous youth with feminine overtones. It was well known that she was capable of leaving young women dangerously breathless, but my lengthy, mesmerized scrutiny revealed the truth of her gender. A red and white Indian bandanna bound collar length, tousled fair hair. A fringe covered half her forehead. A totally unorthodox approach for a white woman.
Our gazes clashed. Hers, an iridescent, milky pale blue, won. I was anchored to the spot, frozen, and my heart thundered. She reached for my hand and, trembling with emotion, I took it. A gentle, warm, pleasant hand. She pulled me to my feet and I clutched my burning arm... Tenderness surged those eyes which narrowed in concern.
‘Okay, darlin'? Jees – yer bleedin' badly, huh?' She studied my blood soaked sleeve and nodded towards a flat boulder. ‘Sit there an’ let’s take a look, darlin'. ...
Honey. Her voice was like honey, with a western twang, the 'r's' pronounced. I nodded. Oh, God. I fancy her like mad!
I sat on a boulder looking up at her. I dragged free of that discomforting, seductive gaze as she grinned her toothy crooked grin. Gentle dimples in her cheeks deepened. My heart hammered. My face burned with... jealousy! What? I wanted to be her.
Her sensuality distracted me from the pain as she crouched again and helped me remove my jacket. ... The bullet had skimmed the skin, leaving an ugly ragged line. She cradled my arm in a strong, bronzed hand. Her veins were prominent, the skin a silken sheen.
That
was so nice, the feeling of her hands upon me. Her presence and her
voice bolted shivers through me.
‘We gotta bandage it,
darlin', huh?’
She grinned at my mesmeric gaze. Her slim
fingers – her nails pale against her golden skin – unknotted her
bandana and used it to carefully bind my arm.
'You’re gonna have a scar, darlin'.’
I glanced at the white trail across the inside of her right wrist, and the fine golden down on her forearm, touched by sunlight. On her left wrist she wore a selection of thin leather bracelets and a signet ring on her index finger. She regarded me and I coloured. She smiled gently...
I
chuckled and nodded and she grinned back and crinkled her nose. She
was one of those people who, when they talk to you, make you feel
that you're the most important person in the world. While she
crouched down there, my gaze meandered the curve of her long, womanly
neck – a small Indian pendant on a leather thong hung against her
smooth brown chest. She peered intently at me, her eyes slightly
narrowed.
She was tall, approaching six foot.
‘My horse bolted. It’s not far. I can walk.’
‘Sure. Okay. ''S'pect yer hoss went
home. You take care now.’
She flashed her grin and winked –
that charismatic magnetism could fill the whole forest. I managed a
jocular salute and she chuckled and threw her head back, her jaw and
neck revealed in all their sexuality. She touched fingertip to thumb
between her lips and whistled. A soft rustling preceded the entry of
a beautiful brown horse with a white muzzle into the clearing. She
leaped into the saddle and returned my salute.
‘Ciao,
darlin’!’
She circled her horse, nudged him into the forest
and was gone. I gaped at the spot where she'd been and touched the
scarf at my arm. I felt emotionally, and physically, shattered.'
A fine photographic portrait appeared. I was surprised, considering her famed hatred of photographers, and her well known intolerance – a cool, uncompromising expression, starkly contrasted to her equally famous joky, fun-loving persona.
I could imagine the poor photographer trembling as that cobra lidded, luxuriously lashed almond pale blue gaze cut him in two. Her weathered tan emphasized their luminosity. Some of her features were fine, almost effeminate.
The sepia photograph showed smooth, feminine brows arced gently, then sloped. High cheekbones, lightly dimpled cheeks, perfect nose and wide, curved, generous female mouth proclaimed beauty. The lips were sensual but unsmiling above a gently squared chin and hero’s jaw. Her thick hair tumbled over her collar at the back and curled in front of her ears. Her open shirt exposed feminine throat and chest, narrowly plunging to tease, barely revealing womanly cleavage.
It seemed futile to resist studying every facet of Jeannie's physique. She was magnificent and irresistible and she knew it. Coyote Creek knew it too. I imagined the response that her presence provoked. Acknowledgements and calls from everyone, not all necessarily friendly.
Yes, I was jealous. Yes, I wanted her like mad. And yes, I wanted to enter her domain.'
So there you are - Jeannie as I envisage her! I love her image, I hope you do too.
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My front cover. Not the Jeannie I've envisaged, but my cover designer did extremely well considering I was so demanding! Very pleased with the result. |
Stonewall is proud to provide information, support and guidance on LGBTQ+ inclusion (Stonewall are sharing my book links in return for my sharing theirs).
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