To Tame A Texan

by Georgina Gentry

  “Oh, Ace.” Tears came to her eyes. “You knew how much I wanted her.”

  Ace sighed and held her closer. “An ugly gray horse and a cross-eyed calf. We’re off to a good start, I reckon.”

  She smiled up at him and kissed the edge of his mouth. “Daisy is going to be the start of our giant new herd. Now all we need are a half-dozen children.”

  He grinned. “I’m available for stud service morning, noon, and night, Mrs. Durango.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  Of course, they had to stay at the party for several hours so the crowd could congratulate them and wish them well, but finally, Lynnie went to retrieve her bridal bouquet from the table to throw as she left. Unfortunately, Daisy Buttercup had found the flowers and nibbled them down to a few leaves. Oh, well. Penelope caught it and smiled at Hank Dale, who smiled back and pulled her out on the dance floor.

  The bridal couple got in the decorated buggy as the crowd threw rice.

  “Hey,” Penelope yelled, “that horse isn’t used to pulling a buggy.”

  “Now you tell us,” Ace complained as the horse snorted, half reared, and then took off uncertainly. The cans and old shoes tied on behind made noise, which seemed to panic the horse, and she took off at a gallop. Ace sawed on the reins, but the ugly gray mare kept running for almost a mile before she got off the road and crashed the buggy into a haystack.

  “Look out, Ace!” Lynnie closed her eyes as the buggy bounced, and when she opened them, she and Ace lay sprawled in the hay, the buggy upended nearby, and the horse grazing contentedly in the field.

  He leaned over, picked some hay out of her hair, and kissed her. “I think I’ll make love to you right here,” he whispered. “Lordy, how I do love you.”

  “Thunderation. Right here? Where everyone can see?”

  “They’re a mile down the road and still dancin’ and celebratin’. They won’t know.”

  “Sounds good to me,” she whispered, and offered her lips to let him kiss her—really kiss her—while molding her body against his. She felt his fingers opening the bodice of her long white dress, and her heart beat a little faster at what was coming next as his mouth moved down her throat. “All right, Texan, tame me.”

  He grinned and kissed his way down to her breast, his hand going to pull up her skirt so that he could stroke her thigh, and then he was making passionate love to her. It was as wonderful and exciting as she had ever dreamed possible.

  “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Durango,” he promised as he kissed her again. “I’ll do my best!”

  Epilogue

  The Triple D Ranch

  March 1913

  The telephone rang and rang and rang.

  Cimarron, her hair very gray now, hurried into the library to answer it. “Double damnation, Trace, couldn’t you answer that thing?”

  “Was it ringing?” The gray-haired rancher stroked the latest Chihuahua in his lap and pretended he hadn’t heard the bell. Trace didn’t like the newfangled gadget his wife had had installed.

  “You old cuss, you knew it was.” She picked up the receiver, talked a moment, hung it up, and turned around.

  “Ace is in jail again.”

  “What? I thought when he married that nice girl back in ’eight-five, we’d see the end of that—”

  “Lynnie’s in jail, too, and so are all our granddaughters.”

  Trace sighed. “I don’t see why they can’t stay home and run the ranch instead of galavantin’ off to Washington for women’s rights.”

  “Oh, darlin’, don’t raise your blood pressure.” She came over and sat down. “You know how important riding in that suffrage parade during President Wilson’s inauguration is to them. There’s five thousand other protestors, too.”

  Trace snorted, hobbled to the sideboard, and poured himself a jigger of tequila. “Ridin’ in one of them newfangled automobiles, I reckon. Horses were always good enough for us.”

  “Time’s are changing, and they say there won’t be much need for horses in a few years. Good thing Hank Dale hung on to that worthless, oil-soaked land of his. He’s about the richest man in Texas.”

  “We’ve got a little oil ourselves,” her husband reminded her.

  “Then that’s all the more reason that maybe we should buy an automobile. I saw a Stanley Steamer at a dealer in town.”

  “Never.” He gulped his drink.

  She frowned at him. “You know what your doctor said about tequila.”

  “A little drink never hurt anyone,” Trace snapped as he returned to the leather sofa. “I reckon I’ll outlive that young whippersnapper of a doctor. You didn’t say why the kids are in jail. I reckon our son got that nice, innocent girl in a mess of trouble again.”

  “Or vice versa.” Cimarron smiled. “They’re hoping this will be the year Congress will act on women’s right to vote. There was some protesters tried to break up the parade, and some brute insulted Lynnie so she hit him with a sign, and then Ace knocked him down and the granddaughters started swinging.”

  Her husband rolled his eyes as if imploring heaven. “I had hoped the girls might grow up to be ladies, but what can we expect when five of the six are named after suffragettes?”

  “They are ladies, just feisty like their parents, and they’ll be voting soon if their parents have anything to say about it. A lot of people were arrested.”

  “Well, I don’t want my granddaughters sittin’ in jail; wire them some bail money.”

  Cimarron leaned over, kissed his forehead, and brushed his gray hair from his face. “You old darlin’, I already did.”

  The state capitol, Nashville, Tennessee

  August 18, 1920

  Lynnie McBride-Durango sat in the gallery with her husband and daughters, waiting for the representatives to enter for the morning’s vote.

  It was hot, really hot, in the crowded chamber. She patted Ace on the arm and smiled lovingly at him. There was a lot of gray in his hair now, as in hers, but she loved him more than she had ever thought she could love a man. This thirty-five-year marriage had produced six red-haired, wonderful daughters, all married now except for the youngest, Lynnie, who would finish college this year.

  Young Lynnie sat next to her and gave her an encouraging nod. “We’ll do it this time, Mom.”

  “Let’s hope so. North Carolina voted it down yesterday, the old South has all voted no, and Vermont, Florida, and Connecticut have decided not to take any action at all. If we can’t get it through today, it may all be over. I wish Penelope and Hank were here.”

  “Oh, Mom, you know they’re in Europe on a grand tour with their daughters.” Young Lynnie pushed her gold-rimmed spectacles back up her freckled nose.

  “Who’s running the oil company?” her mother asked, looking around at the hot, restless crowd and then below at the empty legislative seats.

  Young Lynnie fanned herself. “Junior. Did I tell you he’s bought an airplane and a Pierce Arrow automobile just like Grandpa’s?”

  Lynnie frowned. “I’m not sure a man as old as Trace Durango ought to be racing against your Uncle Maverick’s Duesenberg. Men that old ought to stick to a horse and buggy, but I guess your grandma and my sister can’t do a thing with that pair.”

  Her daughter took out her lipstick. “Hank Jr. says he’s going to teach me to drive the car and the airplane.”

  “What?” At that, her father leaned around her mother and glared at her. “Tell Hank Dale Jr. I forbid that.”

  “Daddy”—Lynnie gave him her most engaging smile—“I’m an engaged woman. You can’t forbid me to do anything.”

  “Lordy, you’re just like your mother.” He shook his head in defeat. “Young lady, is that face paint you’re smearin’ on? And your skirt is entirely too short. In my day, respectable girls wore long skirts and bustles.”

  “Daddy, you’re so old-fashioned! Skirts are going to get even shorter. Besides, Mama told me when you romanced her, she was wearing a dress so short her underpants showed.”

&
nbsp; “Bloomers,” her mother corrected, “not underpants. But they didn’t show as much leg as you’re showing, young lady.”

  “I’m thinking of having my hair bobbed,” young Lynnie said. “All the flappers are doing it.”

  “What?” Her father glared at her over her mother’s head.

  “Mama,” said her oldest daughter, Amelia—named, of course, for Amelia Bloomer—“can’t you make the two of them stop? We’re here for serious business.”

  “Thunderation,” Mother said, “Amelia is right; stop it, you two.”

  “Mom”—Lynnie made a face at her older sister—“when we get out of here, can we go to the movies? There’s a wonderful new Douglas Fairbanks film playing. They say it’s the cat’s pajamas.”

  “Lordy,” Ace said, “that doesn’t make any more sense than ‘twenty-three skidoo.’”

  His daughter rolled her eyes. “Daddy, you’ve got to learn the latest slang.”

  Lynnie gestured, her mind preoccupied with the growing crowd in the statehouse. “Be quiet, you two; it looks like the legislators are coming in. As much as I’ve made the rounds trying to persuade them, we still may lose this by a vote or two.”

  Ace took her hand. “Then we’ll just keep tryin,’ honey. Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?”

  All six of the girls moaned aloud. “Oh, Dad, really. Not in public.”

  “Well, she is,” Ace snapped. Then to Lynnie: “Have you talked to Mom and Dad?”

  Lynnie nodded. “For a couple in their eighties, they sure are spry. I just hope they don’t break their necks racing Maverick and Cayenne in those automobiles. Anyway, they called right before we left the hotel to wish us luck. Oh, by the way, Grandpa Trace said for you not to get me sent to jail again, and stay out yourself.”

  Ace laughed. “The old codger will never believe that a sweet, innocent girl like you might be the one gettin’ me in trouble all these years.”

  Grim-faced men were now entering the big room below and taking their seats.

  Young Lynnie was so excited, she strained her neck to see better. “Do you think we’ll win?”

  Her mother shrugged. “No way of knowing. It’s been a hard-fought battle here in Tennessee all summer. If they vote yes, that puts us over the top and makes the Nineteenth Amendment law.”

  Ace gave her a fond smile. “You know, honey, when I got involved in this fight right after we married, I never thought it would take so long to win.”

  “We haven’t won yet,” Lynnie reminded him. “It all hinges on one or two men.”

  Young Tennessee legislator Harry Burn took a deep breath as he hesitated, then squared his shoulders and entered the chamber, the noise of hundreds of spectators drowning out his footsteps. He was only twenty-four, a first-year legislator. His town and county in the eastern part of the state were very much opposed to giving women the vote. His whole career was surely riding on what decision he made this morning.

  Harry paused. The gallery was full of spectators and reporters. Looking up, he saw a sea of paper fans moving rhythmically. It was the most crowded he had ever seen the state capitol. Harry had been up most of the night wrestling with his decision after getting a letter from his mother yesterday pleading with him to give women the vote.

  All the legislators were taking their seats as the speaker hammered his gavel for order. Harry could feel the sweat running down his face, and it wasn’t just the summer heat. He was about to put his political career on the line. The speaker rapped for order again, and Harry took his seat along with the others.

  He smiled as he looked up into the gallery and spotted that red-haired woman, her big Texas cowboy, and all those red-haired daughters of hers. She had been in to see him, asking for his vote as had all the powerful men who were opposed to women’s voting. The pressure and bribery had been shocking for an honest young legislator. He nodded to Mrs. McBride-Durango, and she adjusted her spectacles and smiled back.

  Harry had made his decision, and he didn’t give a damn anymore what it cost him. Now the Speaker of the House had read the motion aloud and was starting down the roll, asking each legislator his vote. It was going to be very close, but the nays were carrying it right now. All too soon, the man was calling his name. “Harry Burn?”

  It seemed to echo through the deathly silence. The young legislator hesitated, knowing what he was about to sacrifice.

  “Mr. Harry Burn?”

  He looked up at that brave red-haired woman and her daughters in the gallery and smiled. He was doing it for women like those so they would have a future.

  “Harry Burn, how do you vote?”

  He stood up and took a deep breath, looking at the women in the gallery for inspiration. “I vote yes!” He almost shouted it, so that it echoed through the crowded, silent building.

  A roar began to build, an excited roar that swept through the statehouse, the Speaker pounding his gavel in vain for order. Reporters were running out of the packed room, running to get the news to their papers. Young Harry Burn’s had been the winning vote. To Tennessee belonged the bragging rights now and forevermore. After seventy-two years of struggle, American women now had the vote. The gallery went wild, people hugging each other and cheering.

  Harry sat down slowly, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his perspiring face. He watched that family from Texas. The red-haired woman hugged the big Texas cowboy, and the younger red-haired women almost danced in the aisles.

  Harry smiled, satisfied. Whatever happened to him, this would be a day to remember forever. The Nineteenth Amendment had finally passed. From this day forward, American women would have the right to vote. The Speaker still hadn’t managed to bring order to the chamber, but no one cared, because it was all over, and the statehouse was the scene of pandemonium.

  The legislators were gathered in small groups or waving to people in the gallery. Some of them would not be speaking to him anymore. He didn’t care. Young Harry Burn was still smiling with satisfaction and watching that Texas family as he rose, turned, and left the chamber. “Now, ladies,” he whispered to himself, “you’ve finally got the vote. Please, God, make it count!”

  To My Readers:

  The fight to give women the right to vote began in 1848 in Seneca Falls, New York, and finally ended seventy-two years later on that hot August day in Tennessee, when thirty-six states had ratified the amendment to make it law.

  Four Western states—Idaho, Colorado, Utah, and Wyoming—had given their women the vote before the turn of the century. Wyoming, of course, holds the place of honor for being the very first to do so. It is part of their legend that when the U.S. Congress tried to get the Wyoming legislature to repeal that law, Wyoming fired back a telegram, which read, We may stay out of the Union a hundred years, but we will come in with our women! Reluctantly, Congress accepted Wyoming as a state with voting women.

  I am happy to report that young Harry T. Burn, the first-time legislator from Niota, McMinn County, Tennessee, was not destroyed by his yes vote. He became a successful banker and gentleman farmer.

  Despite the hundreds of movies and novels about the twelve-hundred mile Chisholm Trail, its time was brief, about twenty years, from the end of the Civil War to the mid-1880s. Kansas farmers complaining about fever the Texas cattle carried, barbed wire fencing off the Trail, and railroads coming into Texas, which could carry cattle to market more easily and cheaply, ended the necessity to drive cattle hundreds of miles to sell. When the Oklahoma land runs began in 1889, civilization ended those great cattle drives.

  Today, the Chisholm Trail roughly follows U.S. Highway 81 through Oklahoma to the west of Oklahoma City. In fact, some of the asphalt was laid directly on the worn ruts. A man from the city of Enid has carefully marked the Trail.

  Some Texans argue that the Trail in Texas should not be properly called the Chisholm Trail, since Jesse Chisholm, for whom the Trail is named, never pushed into Texas. Jesse, a part-Cherokee trader, never drove a single cow up the Trail. He died in 186
8 and is buried in Oklahoma at Left Hand Spring Camp, a few miles north of the town of Geary.

  If you are ever in my home state of Oklahoma, I invite you to visit the big Chisholm Trail Heritage Center, in the town of Duncan, on U.S. Highway 81, about eighty-seven miles southwest of Oklahoma City. Besides having a huge bronze statue depicting the Trail, the museum has a reality movie that will give you the sensation of participating in a real cattle drive.

  The old longhorn cattle almost became extinct at the turn of the century, but a dedicated group recognized that these tough old beasts should be remembered, and gathered up a few of the handful that were left and put them at the Wichita Wildlife Preserve in southwestern Oklahoma, where their descendants still live today. Old Twister is modeled after a famous lead steer, Old Blue, owned by Texas rancher, Charlie Goodnight. Blue led many trail drives for some eight years before retiring. He lived to the ripe old age of twenty, and today, his gigantic horns may be seen at the Panhandle-Plains Museum in the town of Canyon, Texas.

  I thought you might like to know about what was probably the deadliest stampede in Western history. It happened one stormy night in the year 1876, near the town of Towash, Texas. Some 2,700 of the Wilson brothers’ cattle died in that wild race over a cliff into what became known as Stampede Gully.

  As always, I’m including a list of some of the many research books I used in writing this novel. You may find some of them at your public library if you want to read more about the women’s suffrage crusade, cattle drives, and the Chisholm Trail. I also highly recommend a documentary movie Ken Burns made for Public Television about the fight for women’s suffrage called Not for Ourselves Alone. Many Public Libraries have videos of this film.

  Recommended Reading:

  Abbott, E.C. (Teddy Blue). We Pointed Them North. U. of Okla. Press, 1954