by Hebby Roman
But where did that leave him and Lindsay? Once she had the baby, would she get a divorce and return to Boston? And if she did, could he forget her? He didn’t know, and he dreaded the day.
Thinking about their future set him on edge. He quit the dance and wandered outside. He sat on the edge of the water trough and pulled a Cuban cigar from his vest pocket. Then he removed the full flask from his coat. He unscrewed the cap and turned it up, gulping the fiery whiskey. The pungent-smelling liquor hit his stomach like a bolt of lightning and curled its warmth through his body—just like Lindsay’s touch.
Shaking his head, he took another long drink, seeking oblivion, swift and sure. He wasn’t normally a drinking man, but some occasions called for it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the liquor aside, scratching a match on his boot to light his cigar.
When the end glowed red, he lifted the flask again and drank. A welcome numbness followed, and he gazed up, studying the stars in the wide West Texas sky.
He felt alone in the universe. A tiny speck beneath the immense mantle of the night’s firmament. It was a good feeling, relegating his petty concerns to their proper place. There was no reason he couldn’t eradicate Lindsay from his mind.
He’d done many things in his life requiring a supreme effort of will. One time, he’d crossed the Sierra Nevada in winter to recoup a large gambling debt owed him by a gentleman in San Francisco. Forgetting Lindsay should be child’s play in comparison.
Maybe she was merely a passing fancy.
But the contradictions of her nature intrigued him. Most women fit in one of two categories: wife and mother or… the other kind. But not Lindsay. Despite getting pregnant without the sanction of marriage, she was prudish in the extreme. But tonight she’d dressed in a gown crafted to make men lust after her—a gown worthy of a goddess.
He wanted the goddess. But he couldn’t have her… unless… the thought of a real marriage no longer seemed foreign to him. Lindsay in his kitchen—Lindsay sitting beside his hearth—Lindsay in his bed. He couldn’t help but imagine possessing her as his own.
He shook his head. She’d been desperate enough to marry him to give her child a name, but he was an ex-gambler, an unworthy reprobate in her eyes. She might want him to kiss her, but would she ever think of him as a real husband?
The scraping sound of boots penetrated his dismal thoughts. Raising his head, he strained his eyes against the darkness, partially illuminated by the bright lights of the barn dance. His guard went up, and he reached for his Colt. Keeping his hand on the butt of the revolver, he waited, until a figure emerged from the darkness.
He recognized Will, the telegraph operator from Langtry. Bart relaxed and released his hold on the Colt.
Will stopped and squinted in the darkness. “Is that you, Mr. Houghton?”
“Yes, it’s me, Will. I have a flask. Would you care to join me?” Bart offered.
Shaking his head, he declined, “Can’t, official business.” He dug inside the waistband of his trousers. “I came looking for you because my shift was over, and you’ve a telegram. Another one, all the way from Tucson.”
Bart accepted the envelope and said, “If your shift is over and you’ve delivered the telegram, your duties are done. Join me in drink?”
The young man lowered his head. “I don’t drink, Mr. Houghton. My Pa was a drunk and Ma made me promise—”
“I understand, Will, and I won't press you.” He reached inside his vest pocket and produced a silver dollar. “Thanks for coming to find me.”
Will accepted the money and tipped his hat. “Appreciate it, Mr. Houghton.”
“Why don’t you stay and have a bite to eat? There’s more than plenty. And then there’s the dance, you’re welcome to stay.”
“Naw, never learned how to dance, and I’ve already et. I wished I could have come and helped with the raising, but I was on duty today.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re still welcome.”
Will looked longingly at the whirl of dancers but shook his head. “Reckon I’ll head back to town.”
“All right. Goodnight, Will.”
“Goodnight, and I hope it’s good news. I like to bring folks good news.”
“Thank you, I’m sure it will be,” he agreed, while knowing most telegrams held bad news.
After Will left, Bart finished his cigar and took a few more sips from his flask. He’d have a headache in the morning. He wasn’t used to liquor. Drinking in his former profession was dangerous. The lilting strains of the music from the barn dance ceased. It was early; the band must be taking a break.
He replaced the flask in his coat pocket and stood up, unsteady at first, but regaining his balance after a few moments. If he wanted to read the telegram, he’d need to return to the light in the barn. Moving toward the brightly-lit structure, he stopped outside one of the doors. There was just enough light, spilling from the side door to see the telegram clearly.
Despite his decision to remain outside, he couldn’t keep from looking inside, searching for Lindsay’s perfect profile and provocative figure.
He found her, among a herd of men, who were offering her refreshments. She accepted a cup of punch and drained it quickly. Her thirst must have overcome her too-perfect manners. Her face was flushed and tiny beads of perspiration clung to her upper lip. One of the men took away her empty cup. She declined further refreshment and opened her reticule. Withdrawing an ivory lace fan, she fanned herself briskly while talking and laughing with the men.
Bart dropped his eyes, not wanting to spy on her. He tore open the envelope and unfolded the telegram. The message read:
“Boyd brothers on way to Langtry. STOP I’ll be there on train by end of month. STOP Boyd’s are traveling on horseback. STOP Might be good time to go home to Alabama. STOP”
Bart folded the telegram and put it in his vest pocket. Rose Gallagher wanted him to run from the Boyd’s, returning to Alabama. She’d probably need to stay overnight, and she was a very beautiful woman—Tucson’s premier madam.
And he could guess Lindsay’s reaction when Rose came to see him.
* * *
Standing beside the punchbowl, fanning herself and drinking the sweet punch, Lindsay decided she didn’t want to dance any more. The circle of men paid her lavish compliments and begged for the next dance, but she merely smiled at them. Their words didn’t reach her ears. She’d looked forward to tonight, only to be disappointed.
She’d enjoyed her instant popularity, at first. But after innumerable dances with men who didn't possess one ounce of grace and frequently stomped on her toes, she’d changed her mind. The evening had grown long and tedious. It was hot and dusty in the barn, and the ivory lace on the hem of her favorite gown was ruined forever.
Not only had she spoiled her favorite dress, she shouldn’t have worn it in the first place. In Boston, the form-fitting gown was the latest fashion, but in West Texas it was totally out of place. The animosity emanating from the plainly dressed womenfolk was palpable.
Not realizing she’d stick out like a sore thumb, she knew she’d made a serious blunder. Without the support of the local womenfolk, she would be hard pressed to find volunteers to sew clothes for the children.
And she didn’t enjoy attracting men’s attention, either. She’d worn the gown to attract one man’s particular attention—her husband. Even heavily corseted, she knew after tonight, she wouldn’t be able to squeeze into the dress again. But she’d wanted him to realize, for one last time, just how desirable she could be. To remind him, despite her one shameful mistake, she was a lady of quality. But she wasn’t certain he’d even noticed her.
She’d caught a glimpse of him after her speech, and then he’d disappeared. His absence at the dance made her disappointment keener, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, which no amount of too-sweet punch could wash away.
Sighing, she excused herself from the flock of remaining men with, “My fan i
sn’t sufficient for the heat. If you’d be so kind to step aside, I’d like a breath of fresh air.”
Several men offered to escort her, but she shook her head. “I’ll only step a few feet from the barn. Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.” She exited through one of the barn’s side doors.
Standing in the dark, she filled her lungs with the clean air and stared at the stars. Muted murmurs of conversation from inside drifted out, mixing with the metallic whirring of cicadas. She found the Big Dipper, riding low in the late summer sky. The solitude and stillness of the night soothed her.
The sound of a man clearing his throat interrupted her thoughts. Turning toward the noise, she peered into the shadows of the sloping barn roof. She smelled burning tobacco and the pinpoint glow of a lit cigar pierced the darkness. She discerned the figure of a man, slouched against the side of the barn.
She recognized him at once, she would have known the shape of Bart’s body anywhere. The outline of his broad shoulders gave him away, even in the semi-darkness.
Glimpsing him, her heart accelerated, pounding so hard she was certain he could hear its rhythmic beating. Her skin grew hot and flushed, and her breathing became uneven, making her feel as if she was gasping for air.
Bart pushed away from the side of the barn, tossed his cigar aside and approached her. She experienced a momentary desire to flee, but fought the urge, not wanting him to know the effect he had on her.
She straightened her shoulders and nervously twisted her mother’s wedding band. As was proper, she waited for him to greet her first.
Stopping within a few feet, Bart tipped his Stetson. His voice was different tonight, low and slower than usual, as if he chose his words with especial care. “Evening, Lindsay.”
“Good evening, Bartholomew.” If anyone overheard their stilted exchange, they’d know their marriage wasn’t real. But so far, they were alone, on the far side of the barn.
“Enjoying the dance?” The unusual timbre of his voice piqued her interest. His words were more elongated than usual. A sudden realization came over her, the difference was that his words were slurred.
He was drunk!
She narrowed her eyes.
Without the prop of the barn, he swayed slightly on his feet. Moving closer, he repeated the question. “I asked if you were enjoying the dance?” He gazed at her from beneath eyelids at half-mast. “You seem to be the belle of the ball.”
His whiskey-laden breath washed over her. She retreated a step. She knew most men took a few drinks at barn dances. But no self-respecting man would get blind drunk in front of the womenfolk. She wondered if his charade was over. If the real Bart, the professional gambler, whom she’d suspected of being disreputable in the beginning, was finally showing himself.
With a lightning swiftness that belied his inebriated state, he closed the distance between them and took her arm, clutching it. The sour smell of whiskey on his breath all but choked her as she struggled to free herself from his grasp.
“If you won’t answer my questions, then at least you should dance with me, to keep appearances up. You are my wife, after all.”
Twisting, she wrested her arm from his grip. “I don’t dance with drunks, Mr. Houghton.”
She gathered her skirts and ran toward the barn. But her legs, hindered by the tightness of her hemline, couldn’t carry her fast enough to outdistance his ugly words.
“You’re a hypocrite, Lindsay Houghton, through and through. You may style yourself an honest married woman, but we both know better.”
* * *
Lindsay felt as if she’d been caught, unprotected, in the middle of a West Texas sandstorm. Her eyes stung and burned, and her flesh felt abraded, as if someone had run sandpaper over it.
Bart’s ugly accusation echoed in her head. Tonight was a total disaster, in more ways than one, and all she wanted was to return to the ranch house and pull the bedcovers over her head. But she needed to tell her brother, so she drifted through the barn, fending off would-be suitors and searching for him. But as hard as she looked, he was nowhere to be found.
Fighting the urge to go outside and look for her brother among the knots of men talking and drinking, she decided not to make herself any more conspicuous than she already had. Instead, she’d wait. Chad usually didn't drink much. She was certain he would return as soon as the band started playing again.
In the meantime, she wanted to hide in the barn’s darkest recesses. Realizing such an action was both cowardly and impossible, she crossed the deserted dance floor, getting as far away as she could from the raised dais where the band had been playing and where a crowd of people had gathered. If she couldn’t hide, she could at least find a secluded place to wait.
She sought out an empty stall at the far side of the barn and leaned against it, hoping the shadows would obscure her. When her breathing returned to normal and her heart slowed its pace, she closed her eyes and wished she could start this night over.
A rustling noise penetrated her unhappy thoughts. Startled, she opened her eyes and turned toward the sound, realizing she wasn’t alone. A young woman emerged from the deeper shadows of the stall, her gait hesitant and her features registering surprise.
Overcoming her own surprise, Lindsay remembered her manners and stretched out her hand. “I’m sorry to have intruded. I didn’t see you there. My name’s Lindsay Mac, er, Houghton.”
The woman lifted her eyes and met Lindsay’s gaze. She took Lindsay’s hand in her slender fingers and shook it. Her skin was clammy, and she detected a tremor in the woman’s grasp. What was this young woman doing buried in the depths of a deserted stall in the midst of a barn dance?
“I know who you are, Mrs. Houghton.” The young woman’s voice was barely a whisper. “Everyone knows who you are, especially after your work to get money to build Langtry a church. I’m proud to meet you.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “My name’s Virginia Brown, but most folks call me Ginny. That is, Ginny with a ‘G’ not a ‘J’ because it’s short for Virginia.”
She smiled at the young woman’s explanation about the spelling of her name. Ginny looked young, in her early twenties. She wore a faded calico dress and a nondescript bonnet that didn’t match her dress. Her slippers were scuffed and cracked. But her petite figure was slender and her feet were tiny. She had light brown hair, and a delicate oval face with a pointed chin. It was too dark in the stall to see the color of her eyes.
Wanting to draw Ginny out, she said, “Nice to meet you. I hope you’re enjoying yourself. It's been a marvelous dance. Don’t you think? I wonder when the musicians are going to play again?”
A look of surprise flitted across Ginny’s features, as if she was amazed Lindsay would start a conversation with her. “You don’t have to be polite with me, Mrs. Houghton.” She inclined her head toward the opposite end of the barn. “The band is returning now. All of your admirers will be waiting.”
Ginny's words sounded genuine. Lindsay couldn't detect the faintest thread of sarcasm or mockery. Her heart squeezed at the young woman’s unselfish and self-deprecatory offer. For the first time tonight, she was eager to make a new friend.
“Please, call me Lindsay, not Mrs. Houghton, and I'll call you Ginny. Agreed?”
Ginny smiled shyly and nodded.
“I don’t want to return to the dance. I’d rather talk with you.”
Ducking her head, Ginny giggled, but her laughter sounded strained, as if she was trying to disguise her nervousness. “Please, don’t bother on my account… Lindsay.”
“I’m not. I want to stay,” she protested. “Believe me, I’m hiding out, too.”
Ginny stared hard at her. Even in the shadowy stall, Lindsay could detect the gleam in her eyes and the faint smile curving her lips.
“You’re hiding out? But you're the belle of the ball, every man wants to dance with you.”
She shuddered when Ginny innocently used the same term Bart had. She didn’t need
to be reminded of their acrimonious encounter. And she hadn’t meant to make reference to Ginny concealing herself.
“I didn’t mean to sound as if I were saying—”
“That I’m hiding out?” Ginny finished. She lifted her pointed chin and asked, “Why should I lie about it? It’s the truth.”
“All right, then, why are you hiding?”
Ginny shrugged. “I’m ashamed of my clothes, and I don’t know how to dance.”
She opened her mouth to contradict Ginny but when she looked in her new friend’s face, she changed her mind. Ginny might be timid to start, but she obviously wasn’t afraid of the truth, and she didn’t simper and mouth platitudes like other members of Lindsay's sex.
“I can teach you to dance. As for your clothes, they aren’t the latest fashion, but neither are most of the other women’s dresses.” Lindsay glanced down at her aqua gown. “My dress has caused more trouble than its worth. I should have never worn it.”
“You can’t mean that! I think it’s the loveliest dress I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“Maybe so, but it gives the men the wrong ideas and makes the women jealous.”
Ginny stared at Lindsay and then covered her mouth, turning to one side, her small body convulsed in laughter.
“You’re laughing at me!”
Stifling her giggles, Ginny said, “Laughing with you, not at you. I think your attitude is so, so—”
“Amusing?”
“Not amusing—refreshing and honest.”
“I’ve been living in Boston, and this is my best gown. I expected everyone to be dressed in their best tonight.”
“But they are, Lindsay.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. Of course, it went without saying the women would be wearing their best dresses. But not having had the benefit of living a pampered life in Boston, their best dresses were homemade and plain.
She felt a light touch on her arm and opened her eyes. “I understood what you meant,” Ginny said. “You were just explaining. I’m like that, too. I try so hard to explain, and sometimes, the words come out sounding harsh. I don’t mean it; it just happens.”
