Frontier Woman

by Joan Johnston

  “Does it hurt bad, Cricket?”

  Cricket glanced over and discovered an anxious Bay riding knee to knee with her.

  “What?”

  “You were groaning again. I thought maybe it’s more than . . . more than the miseries hurting you . . . I thought maybe the horse thief had—” Bay stopped and gulped, unwilling to think what the thief might have done. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Stop trying to mother me, and I’ll be fine!”

  Cricket took one look at Bay’s liquid eyes, her lips trembling at the reproof, and her harshness melted. “Oh, hell’s bells! I . . .”

  Bay waited for Cricket to say more, but she merely stared morosely at the man who raced boldly ahead of them. When a full minute had passed, Bay could stand the waiting no longer. “Cricket?”

  Cricket turned and scowled at Bay, all her pent-up frustration and anger and confusion contained in that one forceful black expression.

  Bay kicked her horse into a gallop, leaving Cricket sputtering in the dust.

  “Bay, wait,” Cricket shouted after the disappearing figure. “I’m not mad at you. It’s this good-for-nothing horse thief. I can’t stand that he—”

  The thief turned, and Cricket shut her mouth. She defiantly met the look in his golden eyes, daring him to say anything. She was spoiling for a fight, but the hard-muscled horse thief didn’t give it to her. He angled his head, as though to question whether she could stay on her horse without falling off, and headed away again at a trot.

  It was only then she noticed they’d reached the double row of facing log cabins at the edge of the cotton fields where Rip’s sixty field slaves lived. Each cabin had a garden behind it where even now the trash gang of slave children worked hoeing, thinning, and suckering corn. Nearby, Mammy Pleasant cared for the smallest of the children, while in the cotton fields, the hoe hands did for the cotton what their children did for the corn.

  The plantation house, nestled between three giant live oaks, lay hidden a half mile to the south of them, and the cotton gin and baling screw stood a half mile to the north.

  When they finally arrived at the two-story white frame house, its double gallery porch was awash with the last warm, golden rays of the afternoon sun. A balding Negro man, hands gnarled with age, was seated in one of the two rockers on the lower gallery porch.

  “Where’s Rip?” Cricket asked.

  “Your pa’s gone visitin’ Señor Juan Carlos Guerrero. He ain’t goin’ to be back till late this evenin’,” the Negro answered.

  Cricket turned to the thief and said, “Guess you’ll do best tied up in the barn till Rip gets home.”

  “Aw, hell. Look, kid—”

  Cricket swiftly pulled one of the thief’s Patersons from her belt, and the tall man found himself looking down the barrel of his own gun, which was pointed right at his nose.

  “Don’t say another word,” she warned.

  “Hey, Brava, I—”

  Cricket cocked the gun.

  The thief pressed his lips in a flat line. He looked around for some other authority he could appeal to, but there wasn’t any. His body was a spring coiled for instant action, but Cricket left him no choice except to head in the direction she gestured with his gun.

  They passed the kitchen, the cistern, and the bachelors’ quarters on their way to the barn located a short distance north of the house. Cricket herded the mares and the thief’s gelding into a corral beside the barn with the help of another Negro, more bald than the first, and no younger.

  “See you got them mares back,” he said.

  “Sure did, Jim. Caught me a thief, too.”

  “Good-lookin’ man-buck, ain’t he?”

  At Jim’s observation, Cricket gave the thief a thorough once-over, focusing on the width of his chest in contrast to the narrowness of his hips, the casual stance that disguised brute strength. Her attempted nonchalance fell somewhat flat because in her mind she also saw him naked, water streaming in rivulets down his brawny chest, the curving scar on his flank disappearing into the shiny waters of the pond.

  She flushed when the stranger returned her bold perusal, but managed an unconcerned shrug before agreeing, “He’s all right. But looks don’t matter much when you aren’t going to live long enough to make use of them.”

  She gestured again with the Paterson and the thief moved to the door of the barn. There they encountered a third Negro, his wiry hair frizzed into a gray halo around his coal-black face. His dark eyes were perceptive, and once he got a good look at the stranger, cautious.

  “ ’Lo there, Cricket,” he said, taking the reins of Cricket’s pinto as she stepped down from the saddle.

  “Hello, August.” Cricket grabbed her saddlebag and used the gun to head the stranger into the barn. “I’ll need your help tying up this horse thief.”

  “Sure, Cricket, I’ll get some rope. Don’t let all them wolves in here, now. That ole mare, Bluebonnet, she gonna have Valor’s foal soon, and I don’t want her riled none.”

  Cricket sent Rascal and Ruffian away but kept Rogue at her side as she ushered the horse thief into the shadowy barn, redolent with the lingering smell of fresh manure.

  “Smells good in here,” the thief said.

  “Smells like a barn,” Cricket retorted.

  “That’s what I said.”

  August tied the thief’s hands together snugly but not uncomfortably, then forced him down on the clean straw in the stall next to the foaling mare, before also securing the rope to one of the low slats in the partition.

  “You be fine now, mister, long as you don’t try nothin’. Cricket, she usually shoot first and ask questions later,” he said with a toothy grin that appeared suspended in the darkness of the barn.

  “I have a feeling you’re not kidding,” the thief muttered.

  August chuckled. “I kin watch ’im for you, Cricket, since I gotta be here for Bluebonnet anyway.”

  “I don’t mind watching after Bluebonnet till Rip gets home. Why don’t you get some rest,” she suggested, setting the thief’s Patersons in the straw at the edge of the stall, well out of his reach.

  “Matter of fact, I could use a nap. That ole mare, she liable to keep me up some later tonight,” August said.

  After August had gone, Cricket wondered whether she should’ve volunteered to care for Bluebonnet. She felt distinctly woozy. But she wanted to be here to see the pleased look on Rip’s face when she presented him with the thief who’d stolen his mares. She also wanted to confront him about that marriage business right away. Rip wouldn’t need to find her a husband because she wasn’t ever going to get married.

  Bluebonnet whickered softly, and Cricket moved into the stall with the heavy-laden mare.

  “Hello, pretty lady.” Cricket rubbed the mare’s nose and then scratched behind her ears. Her hand slid down the mare’s neck and over her greatly distended girth. Then Cricket laid her cheek against the mare’s neck and let her hand caress the taut belly that held Valor’s foal.

  “You’ll foal a handsome colt, girl, I know it. A fine son for Valor . . . or maybe a beautiful filly, who’ll grow up sleek and strong like you.”

  All the time she spoke, Cricket handled the mare, recognizing in the tensing flesh the labor contractions that were already under way. It was the mare’s first foal, and Cricket wondered whether the animal had any inkling of what was happening to her.

  “How long before the foal’s born?”

  Cricket searched the stranger’s face and saw he’d somehow discerned the mare’s laboring state.

  “It’s her first, so it may be a while.”

  “You’re in no condition to help.”

  Cricket scowled. “I’ll manage.”

  At that moment Bluebonnet’s legs buckled at the knees, and Cricket made room as the mare lay down. Cricket dropped to her knees in the straw beside the mare, which was breathing heavily.

  “Shouldn’t you call August?” the thief asked.

  “I’ve don
e this before. I can handle it.”

  “I could help.”

  Startled at the thief’s offer, Cricket contemplated the man’s solemn face for a moment before she repeated firmly, “I can handle it.”

  “All right, Brava, but the offer holds.”

  Over the next few hours, Cricket wished more than once that she’d called August or taken up the thief’s offer of help. It wasn’t a particularly hard labor, but because it was Valor’s foal, and the mare’s first, Cricket found herself worrying over every little thing that didn’t happen exactly as she expected. To complicate matters, her own cramps, temporarily dulled by the whiskey she’d drunk on the way home, began to attack with renewed vigor, and she wasn’t willing to lessen what ability she had to help the mare by drinking more. Cricket swiped at the sweat on her forehead and sighed heavily, soothing the tired mare with her hands as best she could.

  “You’re doing fine.”

  Cricket’s head snapped up at the thief’s comforting words, which were the first he’d spoken since he’d made his offer of help.

  “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

  She watched the thief frown at her sharp retort. Well, it was true. But why couldn’t she have accepted his compliment with more grace? For his approval had pleased her. She frowned in confusion at her inexplicable prickliness with the stranger. At that moment the mare grunted loudly, and Cricket saw the foal’s nose appear.

  “Keep working, girl. He’s almost here. Keep on working. Don’t give up now,” Cricket urged.

  Within minutes the foal was born, a fine colt.

  “Oh! He’s beautiful!”

  Cricket slumped back in the straw, leaning against the slats of the stall as she watched the mare lick the colt clean. Bluebonnet soon rose to her feet, followed by the colt, wavering on its spindly legs. Cricket felt her throat swelling closed at the overwhelming wonder of new life but managed a choked laugh of delight as the tiny colt nudged at its mother’s teat.

  At that moment a horrible cramp hit Cricket, and the laugh became a gasp. She waited for it to pass and then shoved herself up out of the straw. She headed for the silver flask she’d left in her saddlebag, which was draped over the stall in which the thief was tied.

  Cricket grasped the flask in one hand as she slid down into the straw, leaning her back against the stall partition opposite the stranger. Once she was comfortable, the gray wolf, which had been relegated to the far side of the barn during Bluebonnet’s labor, stretched out beside her. She pulled her knees up tight to her chest, trying to lessen the pain of the cramps without drinking any more whiskey. God, she felt so awful. And she was so tired. Her eyelids kept drooping closed, so she widened her eyes unnaturally and blinked several times in an attempt to keep them open. She had to stay awake and wait for Rip.

  The fingers of one hand threaded into the wolf’s fur and worked their way against the grain all the way to his head. Then the slender fingers smoothed down the black-tipped silver fur they’d ruffled, stopping occasionally to scratch at the sources of greatest sensitivity on the animal’s hide.

  “You should be doing that to a man.”

  Cricket looked up at the thief, and their eyes caught. He was looking at her again like he had at the pond, with that indefinable expression. A frown furrowed her brow. What was he thinking? He looked almost . . .

  “Are you hungry?”

  The thief laughed harshly.

  “What’s so funny?”

  The stranger smiled enigmatically but said nothing.

  “Well, you can starve for all I care. That is, if you don’t hang first, mister . . . mister . . . whoever you are.”

  “Jarrett Creed.”

  “Well, Mister Creed—”

  “Creed is fine.”

  “Creed, I—”

  “I like the way you say my name. Say it again.”

  His voice caressed her. Flustered, Cricket hesitated, only to find herself assailed at that moment by another cramp. Surrendering to the pain, she raised the silver flask to her lips.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough of that belly-wash?”

  Cricket grimaced. She wasn’t any more willing to explain the situation now than she had been on the ride home. She settled for saying, “As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” and scooted down farther until her head nestled in Rogue’s fur. She lifted her head to take another deep swallow, recapped the flask, laid her head back down on the wolf, and closed her eyes.

  “Listen, Brava,” Creed began. “You better . . . Hey, are you awake?” When the girl’s eyes didn’t open, Jarrett Creed shook his head in disgust.

  She dressed like a Tennessee mountain man.

  She drank like a trooper in Sam Houston’s army.

  She wrestled like an Indian with his honor at stake.

  And she swore like a bullwhacker stuck in mud.

  In fact, there wasn’t one feminine thing about her. So how could he find her so desirable? He took another look at the buckskin-clad figure. The almond-shaped gray eyes that had flashed fire at him were closed now. Her eyelashes were a black fringe on honey-colored skin that was smudged with dirt from their fight and blood from the delivery of the foal.

  In sleep, she didn’t hold her aquiline nose quite so arrogantly, but the high, proud cheekbones remained, exaggerating the almost gaunt thinness of her face. Her smooth brow was crowned with a simple leather band, and a thick braid of rich, auburn hair fell across her shoulder and trailed into the straw.

  He was confused by the emotions rushing through him. He simply couldn’t believe he was physically attracted to the unfeminine female lying across from him in the straw. Why, he even admired the girl a little. Actually, it had been something of a feat for her to wrestle down a man, even if she did have the element of surprise on her side. And what about that quick draw with his Paterson, despite the fact she was drunk as a fiddler? Then there was the calm, experienced way she’d handled that foaling mare. And how could he forget the sensuous way her hands had moved through that wolf’s fur? Oh, there were things he admired about her, all right. But there were things about her that bothered him as well.

  On the Texas frontier a woman was often expected to do more than simple tasks like spinning cloth, hoeing a garden, or chopping wood. She might have to help with the plowing and planting, or she might have to take up arms and protect her home from whatever threat came her way. But she remained a woman, bearing her children, obeying her man, and clinging to the petticoat rituals of her sex. The behavior he’d seen from Cricket Stewart had gone far beyond those bounds. She didn’t fit the feminine mold at all, and Creed wanted to know the reason why.

  Creed tensed when the barn door opened, his nerves on edge because he was trussed up like an animal fit for butchering. The muscle in his jaw ached where he had it clamped down. Whoever was at the door was taking his own sweet time coming in, he thought irritably. Slowly, he moved to ready himself for what defense he could make. He hadn’t lived as long as he had in this violent land by being careless. Creed pulled his moccasined foot up where he could reach it and fingered the outline of the sharp knife concealed in the lining.

  If his late-night visitor wasn’t friendly, he was going to find himself in for quite a surprise.

  Chapter 3

  CRICKET?”

  Creed breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief at the sound of the feminine voice that had come out of the darkness. He quickly tucked his knife back into its hiding place, as the voice was followed shortly by the gangly girl who’d rescued Cricket earlier in the day.

  “Cricket?” she repeated.

  Cricket’s snuffling snore filled the quiet barn.

  “She’s asleep,” Creed said.

  “Oh, my.” After a cursory check of her sister, Bay hung the lantern on a hook at the end of the stall. “I really came to see you, anyway.”

  Creed’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

  “I brought some food for you and some water to clean your wounds.”

&
nbsp; Creed had already noticed the basket and towel over her arm and the tin of water she carried. “Your name’s Bay?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Do you always clean up after your sister, Bay?”

  “I help when I can,” she replied.

  “I suppose I’m at least as deserving of your attention as the last stray pups she carted home.”

  “You don’t seem quite as hungry as the wolves were,” she answered with a timid smile.

  Creed was tempted to smile back but didn’t.

  Bay placed the basket of food on the ground near him, then settled the tin of water in the straw and dampened the towel and wrung it out. She stood before him with the cloth in her hand and gestured toward the dried blood where Cricket’s nails had clawed his face.

  “May I?”

  “By all means. Help yourself.”

  The girl carefully cleansed the blood from his cheek and the dust and sweat from his brow. Creed examined her closely as she worked, noting the deep, violet eyes and the bright coppery-red hair that curled naturally around her milky-white skin. She’d changed out of her buckskins and wore a green print muslin dress protected by a sturdy osnaburg apron. The puffy-sleeved dress, which fit snugly through the bodice and waist, showed the promise of the woman she’d become. He should have been attracted to her, but felt no stirring in his loins like that fostered by the smoky-eyed lass in pants, snoring away in the straw across from him.

  The girl’s hands were cool and competent when she pulled up the buckskin sleeves of his shirt to reach the gashes the wolves had torn in his arms. She clucked her tongue at one particularly deep slash. “That probably won’t need stitches if you’re careful for a few days.”

  “Then you don’t think I’m going to hang tomorrow morning?”

  The girl looked uncomfortable. “Did you steal Rip’s mares?”

  “It sure looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  The girl ignored the only conclusion to be drawn from his statement and said instead, “Finding you at the pond was quite a shock.”