Lonestar's Lady

by Deborah Camp

  She felt bludgeoned, bruised inside and out by his words. She wanted to cry. She wanted to howl. She wanted to call him every foul name she’d ever learned while she beat him mercilessly with her fists. Instead, she stared unseeing ahead of her and fought back tears. Shame on him. Shame on him for deserting her.

  “That’s the best you can do, is it?” she asked, her voice quiet and still.

  “It is. And I think it’s best . . .” He cleared his throat. “For both of us.”

  Having never begged for anything, hardly ever asked for anything, Gussie could find no words of retaliation. He wanted her gone. She didn’t stay where she wasn’t wanted. It was that simple. That harrowing. It felt as if he’d reached in and yanked her heart clean out of her chest.

  Like a ghost, she lifted herself up from the barrel and made her way to the borrowed horse and buggy.

  “Augusta,” he called after her. “I’m sorry it came to this.”

  She climbed up to the seat and disengaged the brake. He stood outside the barn, his eyes glimmering under the brim of his hat, his mouth set in that straight, imposing line that had been stamped there since the fire. Taking up the reins, she turned the buggy around and left him to it. When she finally rounded the bend and knew they were out of sight, she reined in Hank, set the brake, and heart-deep sobs tumbled out of her. Birds startled and flew from the trees lining the road. Hank swung his head round to stare at Gussie. He bobbed his big head, tugging on the reins, and a quiver raced over his body.

  Gussie cried it out on that stretch of road. Got it all out, so that she wouldn’t break down in front of Susan and Erik. But her plan went awry. At the first sight of Susan standing in the side yard, hanging laundry on a line, Gussie was wracked by sobs again. Susan ran forward to embrace her just as Gussie’s knees gave out and she crumpled to the ground.

  “Gussie, dear, you’ve misunderstood him.” Susan rested the back of her hand against Gussie’s forehead as if she were checking for a fever. “Max wouldn’t have told you to leave him.”

  “My hearing is fine.” Gussie moved away from Susan’s touch. “He said he’d give me enough money to send me on my way and then send me more later. He wants me gone.” Saying it aloud wrenched her heart and she closed her eyes to keep the tears at bay.

  Susan had helped her to her feet again and guided her into Max’s bedroom, making her lie down while she brewed a pot of tea. While the tea leaves seeped in the hot water, Susan doled out comfort.

  “He’s not himself,” Susan said, making excuses for Lonestar. “We noticed it at supper last night. He was fidgety. Didn’t know what to do with himself. Something like this – well, it takes it out of you, as you well know. He’s handling it differently, that’s all. He’ll get his wits about him again and apologize to you for making you think he wanted you to leave him.”

  “He does want me to leave, Susan.” Gussie leveled a stern glare at her sister-in-law. “He didn’t mince words.”

  “Gussie, that makes no sense. He loves you.”

  “He does not!”

  Susan dipped her chin, eyeing Gussie with chastisement. “Of course, he does.”

  “He has never said that to me.”

  “Oh, yes, he has. In every look, every touch, every time he says your name. It is clear that he loves you. I know him as well as I know myself, and I’ve never seen him look upon a woman as he does you. It’s as clear as day that he loves you.”

  Tears stung her eyes and dribbled onto her cheeks. “Then why is he sending me away?”

  “It probably has something to do with his stubborn pride. That has always made him do foolish things. Stubborn pride landed him in prison. Now it is making him say things to you that he doesn’t mean.”

  Gussie wiped at her tears with the heels of her hands. “I don’t know.” Frustration and confusion roiled inside her.

  “Tell me this. Do you love him?”

  She sniffed. Susan sat on the side of the bed, her brows arched as she waited for an answer Gussie figured she already knew.

  “I suppose that I do,” Gussie said, each word coming out slowly, torn from her battered heart. “I can’t bear to think of living without him.”

  “That’s love,” Susan assured her. “So, are you going to let him have all the say in this? When you love someone, you’ll back him – right up to hell’s front door. Times are harder than a banker’s heart for him right now and he’s probably trying to spare you from it. But you don’t have to go along with his hairbrained idea.”

  “But if he doesn’t want me around anymore . . .”

  “Gussie, that’s just hogwash, and you know it.”

  She stared at Susan, surprised by the outburst. Susan was usually as placid as a duck pond, but her eyes snapped with aggravation and a line of consternation creased her brow.

  “I’m going to pour us a cup of tea and you’re going to give this whole situation a good thinking. Eventually, you will see that I’m right and you’ll tell that brother of mine that he has no right to break the deal you two made.” She speared Gussie with a final glare. “And I hope you tell him that you love him, too. We all need to hear that from time to time.”

  Sunday morning the sky was orange and pink and pale blue. Susan and Erik decided not to go to church. Instead, they packed some essentials Lonestar might need and went with Gussie when she took them to him. Friday and Saturday had dragged by without Lonestar showing his face. Erik had ridden over to check on him and had reported that Lonestar had turned one of the barn stalls into a place for himself, but hadn’t seemed to have done much of anything else.

  “He’s moping around feeling sorry for his sorry self,” Erik had said.

  “We need to snap him out of the doldrums,” Susan had insisted. “He was like this when he went to prison, too. He hunkered down into himself and hibernated.”

  Piling into the wagon along with a basket full of canned food, another square of soap, and a couple of blankets, they set out for the Lonestar place. Gussie sat in the wagon bed with Brigit and Elias, her nerves tingling as she chewed on her lower lip in anticipation of how she might find Lonestar and what she’d end up saying to him. And if it would make any difference. She wanted to be charitable, sweet, and forgiving as Susan would be toward him. However, the way Lonestar had turned his back on her festered. Her tongue flexed and she figured it was sharpening itself on words she wanted to hurl at Lonestar to let him know how deeply he’d wounded her.

  Her head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton, making it even more difficult for her to think things through and rehearse what she’d say to him. She hadn’t been able to sleep, tossing about in the bed, her thoughts bedeviling her. Sometimes she relived the fire. Sometimes she recalled tender moments with Lonestar. The worst was when she remembered his lovemaking. The feel of his big hands moving over her and the drugging pleasure of his kisses. She ached for him, pined for him, moaned softly for him. It was agonizing to know the thrilling thrust of his body into hers and the feverish culmination that swept through her like a firestorm and then wonder if she’d ever experience that with him again.

  And so she had remained awake, hot tears trailing from the corners of her eyes, and her throat raw from holding back sobs.

  “What’s going on up here?”

  Erik’s tone was pure bafflement. Gussie rose to her knees to peer ahead at the line of wagons, buggies, and people on horses moving along the road.

  “Is it a funeral procession? Who died, I wonder?” Gussie ventured.

  “Maybe church let out early,” Susan said. “Was there a social planned for today that we’ve forgotten?”

  “Nobody is dressed for a funeral or a social.” Erik urged the horses to a faster walk and pulled up closer to the wagon in front of them. “That’s old Zeb Watson.”

  Gussie strained forward. “I remember him. He let me ride in that wagon with his goats and pigs into Pear Orchard.”

  Susan smothered a laugh. “Oh, yes. I remember that.”

  “H
ey there, Mr. Watson!” Erik called, and the grizzled man, clad in overalls and a blue shirt, turned sideways on the wagon seat to look back at him. “Where you headed?”

  “Lonestar’s place!” he called back, then faced front again.

  “What?” Gussie swallowed hard. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Settle down now,” Susan said, flapping a calming hand, although her eyes had widened with alarm. “It’s nothing bad. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  “Are they thinking to drive him off the land?” Gussie clutched the back of the wagon seat until her knuckles showed white against her skin.

  “Of course not,” Susan admonished. “These people aren’t barbarians!”

  They rounded the bend and Gussie stared in astonishment as the dozen or so wagons and buggies parked in what used to be her front yard. She spied Lonestar emerging from the hen house, a basket in his hand, probably with eggs in it. He stopped in his tracks, surveying the promenade of vehicles, and then strode forward.

  His hair had grown too long, Gussie thought, and he hadn’t shaved since the fire so the lower half of his face was shadowed by whiskers. His eye and lower lip weren’t as swollen as before. His bruised skin looked painful, though. He didn’t even look like himself in the clothes that didn’t fit right and his hair blowing wild and tangled in the breeze. Sunlight slanted across his face, making his cheekbones seem even more prominent. Her heart skipped a few beats.

  “Is that . . . it is!” Susan pointed to a short man making his way to Lonestar. “It’s Rev. Sherman!”

  “Oh, dear. That can’t be good,” Gussie muttered.

  “We at church,” Brigit said, happily. “Amen! Say amen, Elias.”

  “Amen,” Elias echoed with little enthusiasm before he stuck his thumb back into his mouth.

  “No, lamb, we’re not at church. We’re here visiting Uncle Max.” Erik set the brake and tied off the reins. “Let’s see what’s going on here.”

  Susan and Gussie alighted and Susan held Elias while Gussie grasped Brigit’s hand. Whatever the pastor said to Lonestar shocked him. Lonestar’s mouth dropped open. He lifted his gaze, swept it over the people standing around, and then held out his hand to the preacher, who grasped it and pumped it.

  “Brethren!” Rev. Sherman said in a near shout as he turned to face the others. “Let us commence with our work here!”

  That’s when Gussie noticed that the wagons near them were piled with lumber, kegs of nails, baskets, crates, chests, chairs, bedsteads, tables, and other household items. Her throat closed and her eyes filled.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered, her trembling fingers touching her parted lips. These people – their neighbors – were here to help them, to get them back on their feet.

  “They’re going to build you a house,” Susan said, her voice filled with wonder. She turned her shimmering brown eyes toward Gussie. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Wonderful,” Gussie agreed, then a laugh of pure joy bubbled past her lips. “I’m as stunned as if I’d been hit by a bolt of lightning.”

  Two little girls ran up to Brigit, tugging on her free hand and pleading with her to come play with them.

  “Go on, but stay out of everyone’s way and where I can see you,” Susan said, and Gussie let go of the girl’s hand. “Let’s go welcome them all, Gussie.”

  With a nod, Gussie reached for Susan’s hand, needing her social acumen, and approached some women who were unloading a rocking chair from the back of a wagon.

  “Dolly, Martha, thank you all. Can we help?” Susan beamed at them.

  “Good day to you, Susan.” The woman Susan had called Dolly smiled at Gussie. “Everyone needs a rocker. My husband, Abe, made this. It’ll last you for years to come.”

  “Thank you,” Gussie said and wished she could think of something more substantial to say to them. “We’re in your debt.”

  “Nonsense,” Martha chided. “This is what neighbors do for each other. You’ve had such hardships. It’s a shame, what with you two just starting out and all. We had this extra bed frame and it wasn’t doing us any good leaning against the back of our barn. We’re pleased to let you have it, Gussie. Is it okay if I call you Gussie?”

  “Yes, yes! Please do.” If she felt any more joy, she surely would float, Gussie thought.

  Someone approached her from the side and Gussie turned, only to stiffen when she saw that it was Rose Sherman. The formidable woman held herself as erect as a soldier and peered down the bridge of her long nose at Gussie.

  “Mrs. Lonestar,” she said, her voice cool and her eyes icy. “I was vexed to hear of your misfortune. I’m relieved to know that the culprit is behind bars and will remain there until he is tried in court.”

  Gussie nodded, not knowing how to talk to this woman, who had been mostly rude to her. Except there was something different about her attitude now. Mrs. Sherman leaned down an inch or so and lowered her voice.

  “I have no quarrel with you, madam. Now that Lonestar is married to you and you seem settled and pleased with the union, I’m no longer disturbed or distressed by him. I am a mother first and foremost, you must understand, and I have two daughters of marriage age. I must be vigilant! I want good matches for them, as you can certainly understand.”

  Gussie nodded before her need to stand up for Lonestar bolted through her. “Did you ever ask Lonestar not to court your daughters?”

  Mrs. Sherman stared at her in a challenging way, but then she dropped her gaze. “No, I did not.”

  “Well, if you had, he would have respected your wishes. He’s a good and honorable man.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Susan’s tremulous smile. “His mother raised him well.”

  “Mrs. Wilson was a kind and generous soul,” Mrs. Sherman agreed.

  Gussie and Mrs. Sherman regarded each other in a quiet stand-off. Before Mrs. Sherman broke the connection, Gussie felt in her bones that she’d gained the woman’s respect.

  “Anyway!” Mrs. Sherman turned to a woman standing behind her. “Daisy is about your size and these two dresses should fit you with a modicum of alterations.” She took a red and a dark blue dress from the woman and held them out to Gussie.

  Gussie stared at them in shock before she felt Susan’s elbows poke into her back. She took the garments from Mrs. Sherman.

  “And I have this petticoat that should do. Oh, this pair of Pansy’s stockings and these shoes. I imagine they should fit,” she said, taking the items from the woman and giving them to Gussie. “Thank you, Patricia.”

  Patricia smiled and moved away.

  Mrs. Sherman glanced down at Gussie’s feet. “Yes. You look to be the same size as Pansy. If the shoes are a bit too big, stuff some cotton in the toes.”

  “Thank you,” Gussie managed, taking the items from her. “Much obliged.” She wondered if Pansy and Daisy knew that their mother had taken these things from their wardrobe for her to wear.

  “It’s horrible that you’ve lost all your personal belongings,” Mrs. Sherman said, actually patting Gussie’s shoulder. “Happened to me once. Oh, yes,” she said, noticing Gussie’s surprised expression. “In a flood. We lived by the Mississippi when were newly married and it rained for nearly a week. The river flowed over its banks and took our little house and everything in it. So, I know what it’s like to have to start all over again.” She sighed, expansively. “But this will pass, Gussie Lonestar. He gives us nothing that we can’t handle. Remember that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She huffed out a small laugh. “Call me Mrs. Sherman.”

  “Okay. Mrs. Sherman.”

  “Oh, look, Gussie!” Susan said, gripping her upper arm. “The Andersons have brought you a beautiful chifforobe!”

  Gussie let Susan lead her away. “Why does everyone call her ‘Mrs. Sherman’ instead of by her first name?” she whispered to Susan.

  Susan squeezed her arm and edged closer. “Because only her husband calls her Rose. Just like your husband is the only one who calls yo
u Augusta.”

  Tickled by that, Gussie grinned at her. They went from wagon to wagon and friendly person to friendly person, for another hour. Men sawed and hammered while children romped and played. Armed with rakes and shovels, men and boys cleared the remains of the house, mounding the ashes and burned, charred pieces of wood out behind the chicken coop. They knocked down the broken chimney and toted it off. Then they began marking off the ground for a new structure with Lonestar in the center of it all.

  The women carried furniture they’d brought into the barn and then set up long tables under the spreading elms, away from the men’s work. Platters and bowls of food filled the tables as the women chattered and laughed, even drawing Gussie into their conversations. A few placed their arms around her for quick hugs of condolence and comfort. It was all Gussie could do to keep from crying, she was so full of gratitude and amazement at how circumstances could change in the blink of an eye. It made her dizzy.

  In the middle of it all, two wagons filled with Hoffmeisters arrived and joined in with the work. Franka hugged Gussie and kissed her on the cheek.

  “If you need anything,” Franka said, in all earnestness. “All you have to do is ask. Anything at all, Gussie.”

  Gussie had hugged her back, realizing that she’d just made her first real friend.

  By mid-afternoon when the men were called to supper, a timber frame stood, crowned by roof trusses. They’d begun filling in the structure with planks while some of the men stirred and applied chinking mortar as insulation against the winter winds. They consulted Gussie about how many windows and rooms she wanted. After her head cleared, she managed to take a few minutes to envision the new house and tell them where to place the windows and that two bedrooms were plenty. As Lonestar pointed out, more could be added later if needed.

  The tumult of the past days had given her a pounding and Gussie gratefully sat in the tree swing while the other women saw to the men’s needs during the sit-down supper. The reverend led everyone in prayer and mentioned that he hoped to see the Lonestars at church services soon. A few gazes were directed at her and she smiled, but her mind whirred. Would she be around next Sunday? When should she speak to Lonestar about the rift between them? Had this changed his mind about sending her away? Should she allow him to make that decision for her or stand her ground?