Lariats, Letters, and Lace

by Agnes Alexander

  "Now, Little Bit, you don't go messing with a man's privates and all. You're gonna get yourself in all kinds of troubles," he huffed out.

  "Hmm…Brady Wells, seems to me you're always trying to tell me what to do!" She sat up and let the quilt that covered her nakedness slide away, giving him a full view of her creamy breasts with rosy tips. "I'll tell you right now..." she said, pushing him back down, "I'm a woman fully grown, and I do know exactly what I'm doing and…I will thank you very much not to be stopping me!"

  ****

  "But—" Honest to God, he was only trying to protect her…but Lord have mercy, with each stroke of her hand, she was making it difficult.

  "Hush, now," she whispered, as she nuzzled the side of his neck.

  To heck with this! He'd be darned if he was gonna have a woman make love to him! If there was gonna be lovin’ going on…he'd be the one doing it!

  A low moan came from his lips. He rose up on one elbow and looked down into her startled, blue eyes. "Come here, woman," he all but growled as his hungry lips captured hers, leaving her breathless. His mouth traveled down to the swell of her breasts, his teeth capturing a tiny bud. She gasped in pleasure.

  As he covered her body with his, he whispered. "I love you, Little Bit."

  "And I love you, Brady Wells," she sighed.

  Later, as they lay cocooned in each other's arms, Brady asked, "Why are you here, honey? Is there trouble at home—or—"

  Kitty sat up and looked down at him. "I can't believe you've forgotten. After all these years…Remember? You promised to marry me if I wasn't hitched by the time I was twenty-one? You promised me that when I was sixteen on Valentine's Day."

  A memory of her making him pinky-swear to marry her wove its way through his mind. Truth was, he still had every Valentine's Day card she'd ever given him. Maybe, somehow in the back of his mind, he’d known this day would come—that they were destined to be man and wife.

  She rose up and captured his lips with hers. "I'm here to hold you to that promise, Brady! Why else would I send all those fellas packing that my daddy had set his heart on? I knew, even then, that I loved you and you loved me!"

  ****

  Early the next morning, Kiya stepped into the living room. The fire in the fireplace had gone cold and the room chilled her to the bone. Soundlessly, she walked across the room and carefully turned the knob to the door. She glanced inside and a smile lifted her lips. Looked like her toska had taken her advice and let Little Bit warm his bed.

  There would be a wedding soon, she was sure of it.

  About the Author—B. J. Betts

  B.J. Betts has been writing stories for as far back as she can remember. She was born and raised in Council Bluffs, Iowa, and now lives in a small rural community on a farm nestled in a valley surrounded by the beautiful Loess Hills. She and her husband recently became empty nesters, leaving them to tend to their baby, Mr. Biggs, their little Chihuahua.

  She was an avid reader her whole life and never dreamed she would become a published writer. It was during Christmas break that she sat down and wrote her first book Saigon Moon.

  Between the Lines

  Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Will a fateful letter push a couple apart, or draw them closer?

  Chapter One

  February 1850

  Across the hard-packed dirt street stood the Empress Hotel, two stories tall with a wide porch and a second-floor balcony. Just like Perry had described. The silhouette of the evergreen trees behind the building blazed red as the sun disappeared below the rolling hills. A low bank of gray clouds hinted at coming rain.

  Walter Renfrid glanced down at the letter in his hands and silently read the address. Miss Daisy Shaddock, Empress Hotel Room 210, Rough and Ready, California. Although the paper weighed no more than a few ounces, the weight of what the ink on the pages contained dragged at his conscience. The news within would forever change the young woman’s life—even more than it had changed Walt’s. He leaned a shoulder against the wooden post at the edge of the boardwalk and studied the windows on the second floor. Which was hers? Would she be there?

  Around him, people went on with their everyday business. Folks entered and exited the mercantile that made up the bulk of the block where he stood. Men on horseback rode down the middle of the street, farm wagons trundled along the same path. A mongrel dog sniffed at the door to the mercantile, yipping and skulking away when tapped by the end of the proprietor’s broom. Everything Walt saw looked so normal.

  The muscles of his shoulders knotted, matching the uneasiness in his gut, and he knew he wasn’t ready to deliver the note. Not yet. Walt pushed off from the post and turned toward the tinny piano music coming from the next block. Maybe a mug of beer will bolster my courage. Jamming the letter into his back pocket, he pounded down three plank steps to the alley, crossed between the wooden buildings in four strides, and then climbed the steps to the next boardwalk. He shoved aside the swinging doors of the Lucky Nugget Saloon and Dance Hall and walked straight to the bar. “Gimme a beer.”

  The man behind the bar nodded, tipped a glass mug under the tap, and waited as the amber liquid filled the glass.

  Leaning an elbow on the thick wooden bar, he glanced around and noticed only half of the round tables were occupied with men playing card games, probably poker. No, thank you. He felt no need to wager the money he’d spent months laboring over as he panned the waters of nearby creeks. From a curtained doorway came the piano music. Over the lintel a painted sign proclaimed, “Dance Hall.”

  “Yer beer.”

  The gravelly voice caught his attention. Walt glanced at the crudely painted sign nailed to the wall then dug into the front pocket of his trousers. He pulled out a handful of coins and ran a finger through them until he found a thin silver bit and slid it across the bar. “Thanks.” He lifted the mug in silent salute to Perry Shaddock—a decent man and a good friend—before taking a long swallow. At this time of year, ice was easy to come by and the brew was served cold, instead of at room temperature. The frosty liquid hit hard on his empty stomach. But the yeasty beer slaked his dry throat. When he was done here, he’d head over to The Forest Café and treat himself to a steak dinner.

  Anything to delay facing Miss Daisy.

  In the next room, a new song started, and the familiar notes of “Mary Blaine” drew his feet toward the doorway. Paying to dance wasn’t in his plan. His business tonight was more somber. He stepped through the curtain into a rectangular room lit by oil lamps set into wagon wheels suspended from the ceiling. At the far end stood a piano being played by a man with a wreath of cigar smoke over his head. Along the opposite wall ran a row of chairs, several with placards mounted to the wall above.

  In the middle of the room whirled several couples moving to the beat. The women were dressed in garish-colored dresses of red, yellow, green, purple, and aqua. Each was partnered with a man dressed similarly to himself with wool trousers, flannel shirts, and a vest or coat. As mismatched as their clothes, the couples exhibited a distinct unevenness in dancing ability. The women displayed more competence than the heavy-stepping men.

  Walt was about to return to the saloon when he glimpsed a familiar woman before her partner swung her away. He tensed, waiting for the couple to circle around and bring her face into view again. Wheat-colored hair, wide-set eyes, and a pert chin—features all well known. His partner Perry had shown him the image at least weekly. Now, with the ferrotype in his possession, he’d viewed it more often. With certainty, Walt knew he gazed upon the woman he sought.

  ****

  “Thank you, sir.” Daisy Shaddock forced a wan smile at her rotund, sweating dance partner and waited for him to turn and leave. Two pennies more added to her week’s wages. Then she sank gratefully into the wooden chair along the wall under her designated stage name—Daphne LaSalle, an immigrant from Paris. The saloon owner thought having the dancers act like foreigners gave the place a bit of class. At least Mr. Seppanen was willing to provi
de the silk dresses, fans, and feathered headbands to complete the desired image.

  She really should have encouraged her partner to buy another drink and add the twenty percent commission to her night’s earnings. But the man already reeked of alcohol, and she’d suffered him stepping on her toes three times. As surreptitiously as she could, she crossed her leg, rearranged her purple silk skirt, and massaged her foot through the thin leather of her dancing slippers.

  “Excuse me, Miss Dai—er, Daphne?”

  Had the man been about to use her real name? She glanced upward into dark brown eyes over a bushy beard, but no spark of recognition hit. This man was a stranger. Her fake accent and “Daphne” persona fell into place, and she batted her eyelashes. “Oui, monsieur?”

  “A dance?”

  She smiled and pointed over her shoulder toward the locked metal box affixed to the back of her chair. “Only teen ceents, seer.” At the plink of the dropped coin, she stood, as if the sound provided the energy she needed to run through this tired routine once again. He’d say she didn’t look like she belonged here, and she’d answer this was the perfect job for a woman recently arrived from Paris. She lifted her arms, covered to the elbow in long cotton gloves that suddenly felt too heavy for her shoulders. The heat from his hands penetrated the glove and the spot where he grasped her waist. Like always, she focused her gaze over the man’s right shoulder and pasted on a polite smile.

  The man stepped off to the rhythm and moved them across the floor, his boots hitting the floor with a light beat.

  Instead of being the one to steer her plodding partner through the semblance of a two step or a polka, Daisy responded to his expert guidance. For the span of a single song, she remembered the joy of real dancing—the synchronization of partner moves becoming a wordless conversation. After the third trip around the plank floor, she decided to peek at his face only to be met by his intense blue-eyed stare.

  Her stomach rolled over. His look wasn’t leering or lecherous—those she knew how to laugh off or scold away. Instead, his was curious, as if he tried to learn about the young woman beneath the rouge and lipstick by studying her features. “What breengs you to our leetle town?”

  “Business matters.” He angled her closer to avoid bumping into a wildly spinning couple, and then turned them toward an empty space.

  The scent of the outdoors clung to him—pine and fresh air. She thrilled at the strength in his hold. If more of her customers danced like this, then she wouldn’t have to force herself to show up at the hall six nights a week. “Euh, I zee.”

  He looked away and steered them through several steps before meeting her gaze again. “Actually, I need to deliver an important letter on behalf of a friend.”

  “Zounds mysteerious.”

  The piano music stopped.

  Daisy curtsied as was expected and linked her hand in the man’s elbow to be escorted back to her chair. A routine Mr. Seppanen claimed made the men feel like they were part of whatever society they’d left behind when they traveled to the nearby California gold fields. Judging by their wandering hands and clumsy attempts at stealing a kiss she’d had to fend off, Daisy wasn’t sure many of the men had ever experienced polite society.

  “Form a circle, everyone.” Mr. Seppanen clapped his hands and pointed toward the middle of the floor. Then he hurried to the curtain and called out to the saloon patrons. “Free circle dance.”

  The stranger leaned close. “What’s this?”

  Daisy turned and pulled him along, tossing her explanation over her shoulder. “Hafing a free dance breengs customers, monsieur.” Popular among the women employees, the circle dances didn’t demand attention on a partner. While at the perimeter, the women provided the percussive beat. If they were pulled into the center, they had the chance to show off a particular move. Customers liked circle dances because the music involved lively, boot-stomping tunes, and most of the men liked to be the center of attention.

  Mr. Seppanen served as the caller as he sang out the lyrics which contained instructions.

  To the tune of “Old Dan Tucker”, a man in the center went to a woman, pulled her in the middle, and “swings one to the east” with two hands or with linked elbows. Then he moved on to another and “swings one to the west.” The role of Dan Tucker changed with every chorus, and people danced in place if not participating in the called actions.

  When she saw the stranger move to the center and his gaze focused on hers, she knew he’d pull her inside the circle with the lyric “he swings with the one he loves best.” And he didn’t disappoint. The vigor he put into pivoting her around their linked elbows loosened a laugh from deep inside. She tossed back her head and let out the bubbling happiness. “Whee.” For too many months, she’d been missing that emotion in her life—ever since losing her respectable job at the mercantile. The sparkle in the stranger’s eyes let her know he shared the spontaneity of the lighthearted moment.

  As usual, when the music ended, new customers moved to the row of the dancers’ chairs and formed a line for their turn with an individual dancer. During the next hour, Daisy lost sight of the handsome stranger. He’d probably left the dance hall with a wide smile over a few minutes of carefree enjoyment from an encounter with a rare female. Whereas she would go home tonight and think of every muscle twitch or expression she’d seen during their too-brief interlude tonight.

  Unfortunately, fleeting acquaintances were the way with living and working in a town near the gold fields. The population wasn’t the same from week to week. Men always moved through on their way to the discovery of a lifetime. Or those who had given up their dream and, taking their remaining resources, had started the journey homeward. Occasionally, a man crowed over his great find and celebrated with a round of drinks and a dance or two before traveling to a big city, and the next big investment.

  Being sure to smile and nod at intervals to her gray-haired partner, she let her thoughts drift. Her brother only had three more months before his stint as a 49er—his year of striking it rich—ended. Then, they’d take what they both had saved and open a bookstore. When she felt too tired to move another step, she clung to this dream and imagined the time when she and Perry would be together again. This common goal was what drove them to escape their strict parents’ Pennsylvania farm fifteen months earlier.

  The stranger’s departure robbed the fun from the rest of her night. She finished her shift, moving through the steps by rote. The throbbing in her arches and tingling in her feet let her know that closing time approached. Despite herself, Daisy couldn’t help glancing toward the doorway every time a partner spun her to face that direction. After weeks of dancing opposite men twice or three times her age, she couldn’t find fault with wishing for just one more dance with a young man close to her nineteen years.

  Finally, the piano player rang the triangle and called out, “Last dance, folks.”

  Tonight, she didn’t even begrudge the fact that no man stood opposite her, waiting for his brief time in her company. Instead, she tapped her foot and nodded at the five couples passing across the floor.

  When the last note died, the men shuffled through the curtain doorway into the saloon. The dancers unclasped the money boxes from their chairs and left them on top of the piano before crowding into the small anteroom to change. The boxes would be empty and waiting at the start of their shift the next day.

  As she crossed the threshold into the dressing room, Daisy braced herself for the questions she knew would explode.

  “Daisy, who was that young man?” Harriet Perkins turned her back toward Daisy and pulled her long black hair over one shoulder. “So tall and muscled.”

  Thoughts of the bulk of the shoulder where her hand rested flitted through her mind. But she really shouldn’t be dwelling on the stranger. “Just a businessman.” After unbuttoning Harriet’s red dress, Daisy twisted so her friend could return the favor.

  “He was a handsome one.” Madge Adams giggled as she shimmied out of her emeral
d green gown and hung it on a wooden hook on the wall. “Such a good dancer. You were so lucky.”

  The other dancers chirped their agreement from along the row. “Customers like that are a rare treat,” a throaty voice called out.

  “I’d almost forgo the dance fee to enjoy being held in the arms of one like that,” another chimed in.

  A thrill went through Daisy at the others’ comments, but she made sure to hide her smile. She couldn’t very well gloat about the special experience to the other dancers, two of whom were also her friends and roommates. “Almost like a rainbow, lovely to look at for a few special moments—and then it vanishes.”

  “Quite poetic at this late hour.” Harriet pulled on a shawl over her yellow and brown calico dress.

  Madge settled a black felt hat atop her mousy brown hair. “Tell me you made an exception and asked his name.”

  Daisy stilled, one arm inside her woolen coat sleeve. Name? She’d neglected to ask. “Oh, you know how empty-headed that French woman is.” Although tears of frustration burned the backs of her eyes, she forced a laugh as she gave an airy wave. “Daphne forgot to ask.” She turned aside to button her coat and regain control. She refused to let them see how much the encounter had affected her. “Let’s get back to the rooming house and see what Mrs. Thompson left in the warming oven for our supper.” Now, when she thought of him—and she knew she would do so, often—he’d be “her handsome stranger.”

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, Daisy rolled over on her thin mattress and clapped a hand over her eyes to block the bright sunlight filtering around the edge of the curtains. Groaning, she scrunched her eyes tight and snuggled her head into the feather pillow. Maybe she could grab a few more minutes of the wonderful dream she’d been enjoying. The setting included a comfy chair, a blazing fire, and a good book. Perry sat beside her in a matching chair, looking dapper and smoking a pipe. But the rest dissolved into a haze.