by Hebby Roman
She couldn’t help but smile. She liked Ginny Brown a great deal and wanted to know more about her.
“You’re right, I didn’t mean to sound arrogant or spoiled.” She paused and then said, “As you must know, my husband and brother own this ranch. Where do you live? Is your father a rancher, too?”
“No, my father was a railroad brakeman. He was killed in a train accident about eight years ago.”
Lindsay shook her head. “My condolences for losing your father.” She gazed at her new friend. “My father was killed on our ranch four years ago. Horse threw him and broke his neck.”
“I’m sorry for you, too, Lindsay. And your mother?”
She lowered her head. “She died shortly after we settled here of cholera.”
Ginny patted her arm. “I understand. My younger brother died of the cholera, too. At least I have my mother, and we manage. We’re both seamstresses. We live in Langtry down by the springs.”
Lindsay looked up. She was surprised at the location of Ginny’s residence and wondered if the young woman was putting a brave face on. The area surrounding the springs was inhabited by the poorest people in Langtry.
Ginny must have read the unspoken question on her face because she added, “My mother washes clothes, as well as mends them. The springs provide the water, and we employ several of the local Mexican women to help.”
Lindsay crossed herself and offered a short prayer of thanksgiving. Her new friend was a seamstress! Her prayers had been answered. She was so excited, she grabbed Ginny’s hand.
But before she could open her mouth, there were loud shouts from the other end of the barn. While she’d been talking with Ginny, the band had resumed playing, but they screeched to a halt in the middle of a square dance. And then she heard more shouts, mingled with screams.
Ginny and Lindsay exchanged looks of alarm and gathered their skirts in their hands, rushing toward the commotion.
Someone clasped Lindsay’s shoulder and when she turned to see who it was, she stared into her brother's face.
He pulled her to one side. “It’s Bart. He’s gotten into a fight. Three men jumped him. I’ve got to help, but I want you to be safe.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Go inside the house and bolt the door.”
Chapter Seven
Bart stowed the flask in his vest pocket and strode to the front of the barn. There was nothing for him here. He’d already personally thanked each one of the men for helping to build the cabin.
And he wanted to get as far away from Lindsay as possible. He wished Rose was already here. It would be nice to be around a woman who wasn’t judgmental—and a hypocrite to boot. Pushing past three men clustered in front of the barn, he heard a snatch of conversation.
“Fits her like a second skin, it does,” one man said.
“Never seen a dress like that—‘cept on a whore,” the second man added.
“You’d think her new husband would control her better.” The third man snickered. “But then, him being a professional gambler, turned rancher, maybe he don’t know no better.”
Bart’s ears burned. There was no doubt who the men were discussing. He’d said almost the same thing to Lindsay’s face, only moments before.
The men snorted and guffawed. One of them observed, “I’d like to peel that there dress off’n her.”
Bart’s heart pounded, pumping molten fury through his veins. Lindsay didn’t deserve their filthy comments. He wished she’d chosen her dress with more care, but her gown didn’t give these men the right to besmirch her honor.
They snickered again and one of them said, “If’n I got her in a dark corner, I’d know how to make her ferget her husband.”
Coiled and ready, Bart launched himself into their midst, delivering a wicked undercut to the jaw of the man who was speaking.
The man toppled like an axed tree. His cohorts shouted and swore. One of the two remaining men grabbed Bart from behind and pinned his arms. The other man punched Bart’s face and gut.
Swinging around, he dodged the punches and tried to shake off the man holding his arms. The man hung on. Bart kicked backwards, and the man screamed as Bart’s cowboy boot connected with his shin. Bart took advantage and pulled free. He turned on the man and landed several jabs to his jaw.
The man swayed. Bart yanked back his fist, intent upon finishing him. Pain sliced through his side. Whirling around, he found the third man wielding a half-empty whiskey bottle like a club.
Bart lunged at his assailant, but the man stepped to one side. A crowd loomed before him, pairs of avid eyes watching the fight. Chad’s distraught face swam into view.
Fireworks exploded in his head and agony stabbed his skull. He stopped short, suspended for a heartbeat, before the ground rushed at him.
* * *
Lindsay held Bart’s head in her lap. Occasionally, he would groan and toss his bandaged head from side to side. The fight had broken up the dance, and her brother had thanked everyone and sent them home.
She and Chad had brought Bart into the ranch house and laid him in the bedroom he’d been staying in until his cabin was finished. She’d changed from her aqua gown and uncomfortable corset into a plain chemise and faded cotton dress. Since there was no doctor in Langtry, they’d managed to clean and bandage Bart’s head wound, where the whiskey bottle had left an ugly gash in his scalp. The coppery scent of his spent blood intermingled with the tangy smell of his hair tonic, making her sad he’d been hurt at his own cabin raising.
In reality, instead of feeling sorry for him, she should be furious with him for getting drunk and ruining the dance by starting a fight. And she was angry, but he was hurt and it would be un-Christian to withhold what comfort she could give. And despite her aching shoulders and back, she was willing to hold him and bathe his forehead.
Stretched out helpless on the bed, with his left jaw swollen and bruised and a purple shiner ringing his right eye, he’d never looked more appealing. The stark white bandage contrasted against his deeply tanned skin, and the one unruly lock of his hair had escaped its bindings to lie across his brow, making him look younger than his years.
Her gaze roamed over his face and body with a desperate hunger. With Bart unconscious, she was free to look at and touch him as much as she wanted. They were alone together in the final hours of darkness before dawn. Chad had gone to bed to nurse the cuts and bruises he received while extricating Bart from the unequal fight.
Reaching for the washbasin, she wrung out the cloth and dipped it into the cool water. Gently, she stroked his temples and over the tender spots on his mangled face.
Growing bolder, she put the cloth to one side and unbuttoned his shirt to the waist of his trousers. The warm glow of the lantern gilded his chest golden, making him appear like a pagan god of antiquity. Even in repose, the sculpted swells of his chest muscles and the wash-board flatness of his abdomen drew her like a moth to a flame.
Tentatively, she discovered the poetry of his flesh, running her fingertips over his warm skin, tracing the masculine contours of sinew and muscle, so different from her own body. Dipping her fingers lower, she touched the springy male pelt covering his chest. She closed her eyes and threaded her fingers through its soft but wiry texture, marveling at the feel.
She ached for him, in places too intimate to even think about. What was wrong with her? Her thoughts were sinful, full of licentiousness. It must be the darkness surrounding her, dense and deep, and that most vulnerable of times, the hours before dawn.
She shook herself as if to banish her yearning. She retrieved the cloth and dipped it into the basin again, sponging his chest and intending to re-button his shirt when her index finger grazed the flat male pap of his nipple by mistake. To her surprise, it responded to her touch, the flesh puckering and tightening.
It was magic—a magic of the flesh.
Curious, she touched her own breast through the thin fabric of her cotton dress and got the same response. Her a
nd Seamus’ coming together had been hurried and unpleasant. But now she understood, with Bart, there was power in touching. A primeval power beyond conscious thought.
She traced her nipples until they felt like tight little acorns, swelling with need, sending shivers of pleasure through her body. When the sensation became too potent, too almost-painful to bear, she abandoned her breasts and their aching fullness.
“My angel, my Lindsay,” he moaned. His eyes fluttered open.
She gazed into his eyes, their light blue color turned cobalt in the dark room. Awareness glittered in their depths. He must have been half-awake, and he knew what she’d been thinking—how she’d been feeling.
Hot humiliation flooded her. She drew back and tried to lift his head from her lap. But he rose on one elbow and curled his other hand around her neck. Pulling her face down to his, he whispered, “You are my angel, aren’t you? And I want you, too, Lindsay. Like I’ve never wanted another woman.” He touched his forehead to hers. “I care for you. Do you care for me—just a little?”
Then his mouth found hers, and his generously sculpted lips molded against hers. He kissed her hard and deep, just as she’d dreamed about on their wedding day. And like the flesh of his nipples, his lips were warm and responsive. They possessed her eagerly, fitting her mouth perfectly.
His lips moved over hers, gentle as a spring rain, and then hard and demanding as a thunderstorm. They tasted and teased, sucked and skimmed, plundered and played.
And when she’d accustomed herself to his mouth, his tongue pushed at the seam of her lips, testing the corners and tracing the sensitive swelling of her bottom lip.
She raised her arms and circled his neck, pulling him closer, reveling in the heady sensation of their mouths joined together, clinging and exploring.
His tongue parted her lips, and her initiation began all over again. He explored the inner contours of her mouth, abrading yet gentle, tender yet compelling. She met his invasion, thrusting with her own tongue.
The sweet, sultry spiral of desire bore them along on its crest, their bodies clinging to each other. Lindsay strained against him. Her body was on fire. She felt the secret male part of him, heavy and hard, pressed against her thigh.
His lips lifted from hers, and he groaned into her neck. “Lindsay, angel of mine. Do you care for me?”
She couldn’t look at him. She laid her head on his shoulder. “Yes, yes, Bart, I do.”
“Enough to make this a real marriage… after your baby comes.”
She pulled back and gazed into his eyes. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes, I think I do. It’s all so new to me.” He picked up a tendril of her hair and twined it around his finger. “You’re so beautiful, and I think I like being married to you.”
“But… but… you’d want another man’s leavings… to raise another man’s child?”
He stroked her cheek. “What will you do when you have the child?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Go back to Boston. Pose as a widow.” She lowered her head. “I can’t think.”
He tilted her chin up. “Then think about us, Lindsay. About staying here. About being my wife in truth.”
“All right. I will.” She nodded. “I’ll think about it.”
He smiled and then he kissed her again… long and deep.
* * *
Chad discovered them in the early morning light, completely clothed but curled together like two orphaned kittens who’d lost their mother. Looking upon them, he knew his initial instincts had been right. Lindsay and Bart belonged together and not just in a sham marriage.
He couldn’t help experiencing the smallest twinge of envy. He was engaged to Vi Lea Baker, but he seldom got to see her. Didn’t know when they would marry. She hadn’t even come to the cabin raising and dance because her mother was ailing again. But he didn’t know if he really cared for Vi Lea or the thought of joining their ranches was what had attracted him in the first place.
He was so uncertain of his feelings; he hadn’t even told Lindsay about his engagement.
Lindsay must have sensed him because she stirred. Sitting up, she stretched and yawned. Rubbing her eyes, she noticed him and said, “Good morning. I guess I fell asleep.”
He gestured for her to follow, whispering, “Let’s go to the kitchen. I don’t want to disturb Bart. I’ve got coffee going.”
Lindsay dutifully followed him, glancing briefly at Bart.
Once inside the kitchen, Chad seated his sister in a chair. “You’ve been up half the night. Let me get your coffee. Just sit and rest.”
Cradling the cup of coffee in her hands, Lindsay took small sips from it. “Bart woke up last night. I think he’ll be fine. He’s got quite a hard head, you know.” And then she smiled.
“I’m glad. He’ll probably be up and around by tomorrow.”
“Yes, probably.” She pursed her lips and seemed deep in thought. Then, she shook her head and said, “I know Bart was drinking last night. Is that why he started the fight?”
“It wasn’t like that, Lindsay. But you’re right. Bart had a few drinks, but I’ve never seen him drunk before.”
“So, if he wasn’t drunk, how did the fight start?”
“Over a matter of your honor.”
“My honor? What on earth do you mean?”
“I think you should put away your gowns from Boston. You need to buy some calico fabric and—”
“Make dresses like the other women.” She set her coffee cup down.
“Yes.”
“I realized that last night. It was awful, knowing the women envied my dress. And besides, I’ll be showing soon. I only have a few dresses that will fit me when I get bigger.”
He sighed, relieved his sister was so level-headed. He reached across the table and patted her hand. “My wise sister. I’m glad you understand.”
“But what does my gown have to do with the brawl or my honor?”
He lowered his head and drank his coffee. Then he puffed out his cheeks. “Men talk, especially about beautiful women.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know how to put this delicately—”
“Then, don't. Just tell me.”
He expelled his breath. “Three men were standing outside the front of the barn. They were drinking and talking. Bart happened to pass by them and hear them speculate on your virtue because of the gown you were wearing.
“Bart took offense, and he jumped all three of them. And no one offered to help. The three of them managed to get in quite a few licks, including a whiskey bottle broken over his skull before I stopped the fight.”
She stared out the kitchen window. “I’m surprised he bothered to fight for my honor, especially given the reason he married me.” She lowered her head. “And last night, when I spoke with him earlier, it was obvious he didn’t like my gown, either. In fact, he accused me of dressing like a… a… loose woman.”
She lifted her head and gazed at her brother. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, Sis, if you thought about it hard enough, I think you’d understand. Jealousy does strange things to a man, even to a sham husband.” He drained his coffee cup and rose, putting the cup in the sink. “Think about it.”
* * *
Lindsay followed the dusty track to Ginny’s house by the springs. Half-naked urchins tumbled at her feet, like friendly puppies, clinging to her skirts and asking if she’d brought candy. Reaching into her pockets, she distributed hard candy to the children. They jumped up and down, squealing with delight and hugging her.
It took the better part of an hour to walk to the Browns’ house from the ranch. The first day she’d called upon Ginny, she’d rode Gypsy, but she didn't ride to Ginny’s any more. She preferred to walk among the children and bring candy.
Twice, she’d brought Minnie with her, and the children delighted in the small white dog. The boys chased Minnie and rolled on the ground wit
h her. The little girls held her close to their chests, pretending she was their baby while they petted her.
Since the night of the barn dance, she hadn’t missed a day, coming to Ginny’s. She’d turned over the cleaning and laundry to Serafina. She came early in the morning and was home by mid-afternoon, in time to cook her brother’s supper. Bart, true to his word, cooked his own dinners and had Delfina, Serafina’s younger sister, take care of his new cabin.
She’d shared the news of her pregnancy with them, and they were working to sew her several dresses for when she got bigger. And they’d struck another bargain—Lindsay would help them sew for their customers for free. And in between their paid-for work, they’d all sew clothes for the ragged and poor children of the town. Lindsay would furnish the cloth, thread, and buttons.
After only a few days, she’d grown close to Ginny and her mother and enjoyed their company. The constant sewing and rounds of talking kept her mind occupied until the evenings. It was only at night, after seeing Bart at the ranch, she had time to think about what he’d offered and what her brother had said.
Over the past few days, perhaps two dozen, carefully chosen, perfectly polite words had passed between them. Their mutual attraction was still there. But it was as if they were suspended in time, waiting for her to make up her mind.
Bart had said he cared for her, but nothing about love. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt she desired him. But did she love him? She’d already made one mistake. She didn’t want to make another.
Thankfully, Bart’s bruises had faded to a garish yellow color, and the gash on his head had scabbed over. His strength had returned. He and Chad were busy rounding up the sheep for the autumn shearing.
She reached the adobe house the Browns called home and turned into the weed-strewn front yard. Going around to the back, she found Ginny, her mother, and the two Mexican women who were helping the Browns, hard at work.
The Browns’ laundry was located in the back yard of their home. Since Langtry experienced few inclement days, having the laundry outside, next to the springs, was practical. Being enclosed in a building with a steaming laundry during the summers in Langtry would have been unbearable.
