Lonestar's Lady

by Deborah Camp

  Couldn’t blame him . . . but it still rankled.

  Clanging heavy skillets onto the stove, she glanced out the window from time to time as she prepared breakfast to catch glimpses of Lonestar seeing to the livestock and other various chores. Once, she stood stock still, transfixed by his loping strut and the wide set of his shoulders. Handsome devil, she thought with a grudging smile. Built like a dream, too. She’d never imagined herself to be married to such a man – a proud, beguiling half-breed. After reading about Indians, she’d fantasized about them. Silly things like being snatched by one and taken to a tipi on the plains where he would steal her virginity. Or riding bareback with an Indian brave on a painted pony across flat land with snow-capped mountains rising in the distance.

  Shaking aside the musings, she fixed her mind back on the meal. She was sliding fried eggs onto their plates when Lonestar filled the doorway. He toed off his dirt-caked boots inside the door and hung his hat on the peg. Combing his hands through his straight hair to shove it back off his forehead, he barely made eye contact with her as he went to the wash stand by the back door. He poured water from the pitcher into the shallow bowl, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and splashed his face before he washed his hands and arms up to his elbows.

  From the corner of her eye, she watched him dry off and then dump the water out the back door. He took his place at the table and spooned gravy over a couple of split biscuits.

  “Smells and looks good,” he murmured. It was his custom to compliment her for each meal she served him.

  “How’s Sarge?”

  “He’s fine.” He filled his mouth with biscuit and gravy so that he wouldn’t have to say anything more.

  “When’s that man from Altus coming?”

  He swallowed the mouthful before answering, “Right after breakfast, he said. Should be here in a couple of hours, I guess.”

  “Did you get any sleep out there?”

  He nodded, but kept eating and not looking at her, which irritated her something fierce. She ate as slowly as he ate quickly, staring a hole in him. Finally, his gaze flicked up to hers, his eyebrows jumped up a little, and he went back to concentrating on the contents of his plate.

  “What excuse are you planning to use tonight not to sleep in here? Thought one up yet?”

  His chewing slowed and he set his knife and fork down ponderously. When his gaze met hers, his eyes were dark and turbulent. “I can’t do it anymore. I thought I could, but I can’t.” He wiped at his mouth again and pushed back his nearly empty plate. “Thanks for the meal.” Then he stood and went to the door to pluck his hat off the peg.

  A sliver of alarm arrowed through Gussie, forcing her to her feet and making her lock her knees to keep upright. “What are you saying? You’re quitting on me? On us?”

  “No.” He kept his back to her as he rocked his hat onto his head. “I’m not sleeping in here with you. That’s what I’m quitting.”

  “You can’t stay out there in the barn. You should take the other bedroom.”

  “And you should listen to yourself, Augusta.” His hand landed on the door handle. “You’re telling your husband to sleep in another room instead of with you. How’s that natural?” He swung sideways and his dark-eyed gaze slammed into her. “A man only has so much patience in him and I’m fresh out of it. Simple as that.” Then he wrenched open the door and stalked out, slamming it behind him.

  Gussie flinched and her heart bucked painfully. She rested a hand between her heaving breasts and blinked against the burning tears that collected suddenly in her eyes. Her heart seemed to crumble as she slumped back into the chair. Doggone it! Why did he have to be so blamed stubborn? Would it kill him to sleep with her like before? Or even in the next bedroom.

  She rested her face in her hands and wiped aside the wetness. Oh, she knew the stubborn one was her – not him. He was a normal male. He wanted to bed his wife. Really bed her. Not just slumber next to her. And he had been patient with her, but that didn’t settle the writhing nerves in the pit of her stomach or the dread that seeped into her bloodstream.

  “You can do this,” she whispered to herself. “You’ve been through worse. Heck, you’ve been slapped silly, kicked by horses, and even took a tumble down a flight of stairs and got back up again. You can do this.”

  The stern talk bolstered her spirits enough to make her get along with her day. She washed the dishes, milked the cow and goats, gathered the eggs, fed the chickens, and was getting a bucket of well water when she heard the jingle of harnesses and clip-clop of a horse. Setting the bucket aside, she hurried to the front of the house to where a horse and wagon were coming to a halt. A man with a full, white, curly beard, dressed in overalls and a bright red shirt, sat in the wagon and raised a hand to her in greeting.

  “Howdy there, ma’am. I bet you are Lonestar’s lady. I’m Han Hoffmeister up by Altus way.”

  Gussie shaded her eyes with her hand and smiled, liking the way he talked. Sing-song. And he pronounced words kind of peculiar, too. “I’m Gussie Lonestar,” she said, still finding the name strange but lovely on her tongue. “Lonestar told me you would be here. He’s planning on buying grape vines from you.”

  “That’s right.” He set the brake and wound the reins about the lever. “I’m supposed to look at the land he’s set aside for them. Is he around here?”

  “No. He’s out plowing fields. But he probably saw you, so he’ll be here shortly.” She moved to the edge of the porch. “Don’t understand why he’s so fired up about growing grapes. We’re cotton farmers.”

  “Cotton’s good. Grapes are better.” He winked a blue eye at her. “Grapes are like women. They need respect and attention. If you give them that, if you’re gentle and patient with them, they will blossom, grow, wind around your heart, and make you a grateful slave to them.”

  She stared at him, struck speechless by his fanciful talk. He chuckled at her silent response and clapped his hands together as he released a juicy chuckle.

  “Don’t stand there and look so shocked, little lady.” He shook a bony finger at her. “You know of what I speak! A pretty, young lady like you has brought many a handsome lad to heel. I bet you have your Lonestar husband wrapped around your little finger.”

  Gussie had to scoff at that even as she felt her lips curve into a grin. “I have not . . . he is a stubborn man with his own ideas about things. It wasn’t my idea to plant vines. I’m not one to encourage drinking spirits of any sort.”

  “Drinking?” He rounded his eyes at her, a grin still stretching across his hairy face. “Grape vines drink only water, Mrs. Lonestar.” Lowering his voice and slanting one hand alongside his mouth, he whispered, “But my grapes make a splendid wine, if I do say so myself. A wine that will soon rival any from California.”

  The pounding of hoofbeats spun him around and he waved an arm over his head at Lonestar’s approach on Majesty.

  “Guten Morgen to you, Max Lonestar,” he shouted to him, and Lonestar returned his big wave. “I’ve been talking to your missus in your absence.” He turned to give Gussie a wink and a quick bow. “You are a lucky man, Herr Lonestar.”

  Lonestar looked from him to Gussie and a smile poked at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, I am.” He twisted around to look behind him. “If you’re ready, I’ll show you the land I’ve tilled for the vines.”

  “I’m ready. Can I get there by horse and wagon?”

  “Yes.” Lonestar motioned to the road. “Go north on this road and I’ll ride along the fence line with you. It’s a short walk from the road to the patch of land.”

  He clapped hands and picked up the reins. “Very good. They’ll get the southern sunlight?”

  “Yes, sir.” Lonestar turned to Gussie again. “Do you want to come along?”

  She shook her head, still feeling tender around her heart. “I have chores here to be done.”

  He gave a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

  “Be seeing you, then, Mrs. Lonestar,” Hoffmeister said, a big
grin cutting through his substantial beard and mustache.

  Lonestar turned Majesty around and led the way as Hoffmeister guided his horse and wagon back onto the road.

  After a few minutes, Gussie went about the rest of her chores, her heart heavy. Things had to change between her and Lonestar, she thought. He was wound as tight as a seven-day clock and so was she. And she was achy all over. Not muscle aches. No. It was more like a fever had seeped in under her skin and simmered there. Also, her mind kept drifting back to the times she’d seen Lonestar with his shirt off or the way his eyes darkened and his throat flexed when he stared at her or how his mouth had felt melting over hers.

  Gussie flung aside the hoe she’d been using to chop weeds in the vegetable garden and bunched her hands into fists at her sides. She glared at the blue sky above her and released a half moan, half growl of frustration.

  He’d worn her down. No doubt about it. She couldn’t let another moon rise and fall without waving the white flag of surrender.

  After supper Lonestar went out to the barn, as usual, but Gussie knew he meant to stay out there all night. Her nerves thrummed as she washed and dried the dishes and set the kitchen back to rights again. When she was done, she stood at the window, watching the buttery colored lantern light flicker and shadows ghost across it as Lonestar moved about inside the barn. Finally, she pulled up a chair and sat in front of the window to read and wait.

  A couple of hours dragged by before the lantern light dimmed to nearly nothing. Then, Gussie rose and went into the bedroom where she changed out of her day clothes and slipped into her long, pale pink nightdress. She brushed her hair until it crackled and shone in the pale lamp light. She stuck her feet into her old, cloth house slippers and padded out of the house and across the dewy grass with Buster sniffing at her heels. Her blood felt like warm honey in her veins and her nerves twanged like banjo strings as she approached the barn door. He’d pulled it almost shut, leaving it slightly ajar. She pushed it open far enough to slip into the musty-smelling barn.

  Taking the time for her eyes to adjust, she could make out the horses in stalls along one side of the barn. Clover and Quick taking up the first two, then Sarge and General in a big one at the back. Majesty, the Morgan, was stalled in the farthest stall on the other side at the back of the cavernous barn. In the rafters, she saw golden eyes blinking at her. A barn owl. No, two of them. They lifted on silent wings and disappeared through the open loft door.

  She turned to her left where hay was piled high in an empty stall, then beyond to the next one. That’s where she knew she’d find Lonestar. She’d seen his makeshift cot earlier today when she’d nosed around. Didn’t look comfortable at all. Just a pile of hay with a couple of blankets and a quilt laid over it. He was using a sack of feed as a pillow.

  Cautiously, she approached the stall. Quick nickered at her and Clover flung his head up and down as if encouraging her to get on with it. Her breathing shallowed as she stood in the entrance to the stall, one hand gripping the wood frame at her side, the other resting against her thudding heart. He was there. Lying on his side, facing away from her, amid the hay and coverings, his dark head propped on the feed bag. She wondered what to say. Should she call out his name to rouse him? Or venture forward and touch his smooth shoulder to gently awaken him? Or maybe just—.

  “What do you want, Augusta?” his deep, rumbling voice made her gasp. He didn’t move, didn’t roll over to face her.

  “I . . . you’re awake.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Um . . . no.” She glanced up at the rafters, searching for her dwindling courage. “I just wanted to . . . well.” Gathering in a big breath, she let the words gush out, “I want you to come inside to bed.”

  “No.”

  She inched back her chin, feeling as if she’d been punched. No. Just like that? No? “Lonestar, come inside.”

  “No.” He shifted his big body so that he could look at her. “I told you. I’m not sleeping in there with you anymore. I can’t.” He rolled back onto his side, putting his face into the darkness.

  “Lonestar.” She set her mouth in a stubborn line. Blast his ornery hide! He was going to make her say the words.

  “What?”

  “Come inside. Into bed. With me.” With that, she turned on her heel and stalked from the barn, across the yard, up onto the porch, and into the house. Stopping at the window, she peered out and waited, her heart doing double-time. Was he going to ignore her? Didn’t he want her anymore? A sigh of relief whispered past her tensed lips when she saw his shadow and then his broad-shouldered form emerge from the hulking barn. He strode toward the house.

  She dashed into the bedroom. Kicking off her shoes, she jumped into the bed, sat on her side of it, and pulled the covers up to her waist. She had time to pat down her hair, smoothing wayward strands, and get her breathing under control before he filled the doorway.

  “Do you want me, Augusta?”

  The question made her quake. “I’m ready to fulfill my wifely duties.” Her voice quivered.

  “Yes. But do you want me?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I’m saying that I’ll let you take me.”

  A soft sigh slipped past his lips and he wagged his head at her. “What are you afraid of, Augusta? Tell me. Did a man violate you? Is that what you think I’m about to do?”

  Her breath whistled down her throat. “No!” She clutched at her nightdress over her racing heart. “I have not been violated.”

  He spread out his hands in an appeal. “Then what is it? Why are you shaking like a leaf in the wind?”

  “I . . . I’ve been told that it’s painful,” she confessed, unable to muster up more than a whisper. “There’s bleeding.” She tipped up her chin, irritated that she was having to speak of such things to him. “I understand that men enjoy it, but I don’t reckon women do. I’m not afraid of you. I’m simply not looking forward to the . . . ordeal. And that’s all I’m saying about it!” She crossed her arms and stared straight ahead at their clothing strung on a line in the corner. Her face flamed when she heard his soft chuckle. “And it ain’t funny!”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh, although it is a bit funny.” He moved inside the room, his long legs eating up the space between them.

  She stiffened, realizing he was only wearing his trousers. No suspenders. No shirt. Probably nothing else but the trousers. He’d stuffed his big feet into unlaced shoes.

  He brought up one hand slowly, like he would around a skittish colt, and smoothed his palm over the top of her head and down her hair to where it curled loosely over her shoulder. “I promise you that you’ll experience only a pinch of pain followed by a gush of pleasure. As for blood, it’s been my experience that there’s barely a few drops and sometimes not even that.”

  “Your experience, huh?” She eyed him, warily, although his touch had settled her nerves a bit. “You’ve deflowered a lot of virgins, have you?”

  “Deflowered,” he repeated the word and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “No, but I know what I’m talking about.” He bent toward her and his lips stroked her warm cheek before his breath warmed it even more. “I want you, Augusta. Do you want me?” The tip of his tongue moistened her skin and then his mouth covered hers in a kiss that was as sweet and hot as a mug of cocoa. “Do you, darlin’?”

  “Yes.” It was barely more than a breath of sound, but he heard it.

  Chapter 10

  Moving the curtain of her hair away from the side of her neck, he kissed her there slowly, letting his lips taste and caress her until she trembled.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered against her skin.

  She closed her eyes and the tightness in her chest subsided. Believing him, believing in him, corralled her misgivings. Just as she was thinking she might fall back into the bed and give herself completely over to him, he straightened away from her with a jerk. Her eyes flew open. Golden light flickered across his face before he spra
ng up.

  “Fire,” he rasped, stomping out of the bedroom toward the side window of the house. “It’s the barn! Get your shoes on and grab some blankets and a bucket!” And then he was gone.

  Spurred by stark fear, Gussie sprang up and shoved her feet into her boots as she snatched at the folded blankets she’d placed on top of the cedar chest. She could smell the smoke before she burst out of the back door, toting the blankets and a bucket and headed for the cistern beside the well. She dunked in the bucket as she stared, wild-eyed, at the barn where flames and black smoke shot out the back window. The cat and her kittens sat huddled together on the porch while Buster ran frantically about, barking furiously at the snapping fire.

  With the full bucket in one hand and the blankets clutched against her with her free arm, she ran as fast as she could to the barn. The goats and pigs ran out of the barn and Gussie knew that Lonestar had released them from their pens inside. Stumbling into the barn, she blinked against the acrid smoke, which immediately stung her eyes and parched her throat. Fire licked up the back wall of the barn where Lonestar stood, a big horse blanket in his hands, flapping it to smother the flames. She hurried to him, dumping the blankets at his feet and handing over the bucket to him. He flung the water at the base of the wall, snuffing out some of the fire.

  “More,” he ordered. “Get it from the horse trough! Open the stalls and let the horses and mules into the corral!” He coughed and picked up the blankets.

  Gussie flung open stall doors as she ran toward the front of the barn where a trough stood, full of water. She filled the bucket as she looked toward the corral gate to be sure it was still closed. Thankfully, it was, and she edged around the nervous, nickering horses and mules to get back into the barn.