Vows

by LaVyrle Spencer

  "It's something personal."

  "It usually is when girls whisper in the dark."

  "It's about kissing."

  "Ah, kissing."

  "I'd ask Mother, but she's … well, you know Mother."

  "Yes, I do. I wouldn't ask her either, if she were my mother."

  "Have you ever kissed a man?"

  Fannie laughed softly, rolled to her back, and snuggled more deeply into her pillow. I love kissing men. I've kissed several."

  "Do they all kiss the same?"

  "Not at all. A kiss, dearling, is like a snowflake—no two are alike. There are brief ones, long ones, timid ones, bold ones, teasing ones and serious ones dry ones and wet ones—"

  "Wet ones, yes. Those are the ones! They're … I … Charles … what I mean to say is…"

  "They're heavenly, aren't they?" mused Fannie.

  "Are they?" Emily returned doubtfully.

  "You mean you don't think so?"

  "Well, sometimes. But other times I feel like … well, like it's not allowed. Like I'm doing something wrong."

  "You don't get heady or impatient?"

  "Once I did … rather. It was the day Charles proposed. But I've known him so long sometimes he seems more like a brother to me, and who wants to kiss their brother?"

  All grew quiet while the two lay in private thought

  Finally Emily spoke. "Fannie?"

  "Hm?"

  "Have you ever been in love?"

  Silence again until, across the hall, Josephine coughed and another occupant of the house rolled over in his bed.

  "Deeply."

  "How does it feel?"

  "It hurts." The pillowslip rustled as Emily turned her head sharply to study Fannie in the dark. But before she could ask any more questions, Fannie ordered gently. "Go to sleep now, dearling, it's late."

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  «^»

  The following day was Sunday, and Tarsy was waiting to pounce on Emily outside Coffeen Hall even before church services began. She grabbed Emily's arm and pulled her aside without so much as a greeting.

  "Emily, wait till I tell you! You won't believe it! But there isn't time now. Tell Charles you're walking home with me and I'll tell you everything then!"

  As it turned out, Tarsy was walked home by Tom Jeffcoat, but she found Emily later that afternoon at the livery stable.

  "Em, are you here?" she called.

  "I'm up here!" Emily answered from the hayloft.

  Tarsy crossed to the foot of the ladder and peered up. "What are you doing up there?"

  Emily's head appeared overhead. "Studying. Come on up."

  "I can't climb that ladder in my dress."

  "Sure you can. I'm wearing mine. Just hike it up around your waist."

  "But, Emily—"

  "It's nice up here. This is one of my favorite places, especially on Sunday when nobody's around. Come on."

  Tarsy hitched up her skirts and made the climb. The immense arrow-shaped grain door was open, letting a swash of sunlight set the hay alight. Swallows flew in and out, nesting in the rafters, and beyond the open door lay a panoramic view of the town, the southerly opening into the valley and the blue Big Horns to the southwest. Tarsy noticed none of it. She collapsed and fell back supine, stretching and losing her eyes.

  "Oh, I'm so tired," she breathed.

  Emily sat nearby, watching a battalion of dust motes lift, smelling the scent of stirred hay. "It was a late night," she said.

  "But I had such a good time. Thank you, Emily." Tarsy opened her eyes to the swallows and the rafters, stretched out a tress of her hair, and murmured dreamily, "I think I'm in love."

  Emily threw the girl a jaundiced glance. "With Tom Jeffcoat?"

  "Mmm … who else?"

  "That was fast."

  "He's wonderful." Tarsy gave a self-satisfied smile and wound the lock of hair around a finger to her scalp. "He walked me home last night and we sat on the porch steps talking until nearly three o'clock. He told me everything about himself, everything!" Tarsy's exhaustion seemed to vanish in a blink and she popped up with bright-eyed exuberance. "He's twenty-six years old and he lived in Springfield, Missouri, all his life with his mother, father, one brother, and three sisters who still live there. He borrowed the money to come here and set himself up in business from his grandma. But he says he plans to pay her back within five years and he knows he can do it because he's sure the town will grow and he's not afraid of hard work. But listen to this!" Sitting cross-legged, Tarsy leaned forward avidly. "A year ago he got engaged to a woman named Julia March, but after nine months she threw him over for a rich banker named James or Jones or something like that, and yesterday, back in Springfield, it was her wedding day. Imagine that! All the while he was dancing and putting on a happy front at your party, he was really hiding a broken heart because it was his ex-fiancée's wedding night. He seemed so sad when he was telling me about it, and then he put his arms around me and held me and rested his chin on the top of my head and pretty soon he kissed me."

  What was it like? The question popped into Emily's mind before she could block it out, and Tarsy answered it unwittingly.

  "Oh, Emileeeee…" She sighed and fell backwards in the hay as if bedazed. "It was heavenly. It was like sliding down a rainbow. It was like angels dancing on my lips. It was—"

  "You've only known him a week."

  Tarsy's eyes opened. "What difference does that make? I'm smitten. And he's so much more grown up than Jerome. When Jerome kisses me nothing happens. And Jerome's lips are hard. Tom's are soft. And he opened them, and I thought I'd absolute die of ecstasy."

  Emily felt a flash of irritation. It had never been like that for her with Charles. Sliding down a rainbow? How absurd. And how imprudent of Tarsy to reveal such private details to anyone. What the girl did with Jeffcoat should have been held in strictest confidence. It made Emily uncomfortable, listening, as if she'd hidden and watched the episode undetected.

  * * *

  After the day in the hayloft, every time Emily saw Tom Jeffcoat she remembered Tarsy s rapturous account and, picturing it, speculated about what his reaction had been. By choice she would have avoided him, but he walked past several times a day on his way to and from his own livery stable. Often as not, Charles was with him, since the two ate many of their meals together at the hotel and worked daily, side-by-side on Jeffcoat's building. Sometimes Charles would drop in at Walcott's Livery just to say hello or to let Emily know if he'd be coming to the house in the evening, and Jeffcoat would stand in the background, never intruding but always making her wholly aware of his presence. While she and Charles talked he'd lean against a beam chewing a piece of hay with his hat pushed back and one thumb in the waist of his indecently tight pants. As the two left Jeffcoat would nod politely and speak for the first time: "Good day, Miss Walcott," to which she'd reply flatly without glancing at him. Why he should irritate her so keenly, she didn't understand, yet he did. His very presence in her father's stable made her want to plant a boot in his backside and send him flying!

  She avoided his livery stable assiduously, even when Charles was there working. Sometimes she would stand at the great open grain door of her own and listen to their hammers, watching the building near completion and wish a bolt of lightning would flash down out of heaven and level the place.

  And sometimes she'd stand there and wonder if his lips were really soft.

  On the Friday afternoon following her party she was alone in the office, memorizing ointment recipes with her feet propped on the desk and her back to the door, when a voice spoke behind her.

  "Hiya, tomboy."

  She catapulted from the chair as if propelled by black powder. Her book clapped to the floor as she spun. There, lounging in the doorway, grinning crookedly, stood the rat, Jeffcoat.

  "A little jumpy, aren't you?"

  "What are you doing here?" she glowered.

  "Is that any way to greet a friend?" He peeled himsel
f from the doorframe, swiped up the book, and handed it to her. "Here. You dropped something."

  His lips—damn them!—did look like something angels might dance on. She grabbed the book rudely and slammed it on the desk. "What do you want?"

  "Can we talk?"

  "About what?"

  Without answering, he sauntered toward the cot where the caramel cat slept in its customary place, scooped it up, and stood with his back to Emily, nose to nose with the creature while it hung from his thumbs. "You've got some kind of life, critter. Every time I come in here you're curled up sleeping. What's your name, huh?"

  "Taffy," Emily replied indignantly. "Is that what you came to find out, the name of my cat?"

  Jeffcoat threw a half grin over his shoulder, then returned his attention to the cat. "Taffy," he repeated, scratching it beneath the chin. In his own good time, he dropped to the cot, still cradling the feline and making it purr. "I need to buy stock for my livery stable," he announced, with his eyes still on the cat. "Will you help me?"

  "Me!" Surprise set Emily back on her chair. "Why me?"

  At last Jeffcoat looked at her. "Because Charles says you know horses better than most men do."

  "Doesn't it strike you as a little presumptuous, Mr. Jeffcoat—"

  "Tom."

  "—to ask me to help you set up your business when I don't want it here in the first place?"

  "Maybe. But you've lived here longer than I have, you know the ranchers—who's honest, who's not, who's got the best horses, where they live. I'd appreciate your help."

  She drew in a breath and held it, preparing a tirade. Instead the lungful came out with an unexpected chug of laughter. "You know, you amaze me."

  "What's so amazing?"

  "Your temerity."

  He blew on the cat's face and suggested, "We could go this afternoon maybe. Or Monday." The cat sneezed and shook its head. Jeffcoat chuckled, then shifted his regard to Emily. "I need to pin down a good dozen horses, and find a rancher who'll contract to sell me hay. By the end of next week I'll have the turntable in place, but I haven't got horses or wagons yet. What do you say, will you help?"

  For a moment she was tempted. He would, after all, open his doors for business and there was no way she could stop him. Also, his friendship with Charles seemed cemented; it would be hard on Charles if she, as his wife, continued discouraging it.

  But while she was considering, her eyes dropped to Jeffcoat's lips and out of nowhere came Tarsy's description of kissing him.

  "Sorry, Jeffcoat." She leapt to her feet and headed to the door. "You'll have to find somebody else. I'm busy."

  Naturally, Charles heard that she'd refused to help his friend, and that evening he chided gently, "You know, you could be a little nicer to him. It's tough on him being alone out here."

  "I dislike him. Why should I help him?"

  "Because it's the neighborly thing to do."

  "He claims he's been around horses all his life. Let him find his own."

  The following morning Emily was cleaning stalls when she heard a wagon approach and tie up outside. Footsteps hurried toward her father's office and a moment later she heard two men talking. Momentarily, Edwin came out to find her.

  "Emily?"

  "I'm back here, Papa."

  He stopped at the stall opening followed by a shorter man with a worried face.

  "Well, little doctor." Edwin smiled indulgently at his daughter. "You wanted a chance to practice, this is it. You know August, don't you?"

  "Hello, Mr. Jagush."

  August Jagush was a stocky Pole, fresh from the Old Country. His face was round, ruddy and mustaschioed, and his hands as wide as soup plates. He wore a red plaid shirt buttoned to the throat, and on his head a flat-billed wool cap brought from Poland. Jagush removed the cap and bowed servilely.

  "Ja, hullo, miss," he said with a heavy accent.

  Edwin acted as spokesman. "August has a brood sow who's ready to farrow but she's been trying for over sixteen hours and nothing's happened. He's afraid the pigs will die and maybe the sow, too, if something doesn't happen soon. Will you go out there and have a look?"

  "Of course." Emily was already hurrying across the stable. The baby pigs—she knew—could survive in the birth canal a maximum of another two hours, and it might take her most of that to reach Jagush's place. "I'll need to saddle a horse and get my bag."

  "I'll saddle Sagebrush for you," Edwin offered.

  Jagush said, "The missus she sends a list, so I go to Loucks's first before I head back."

  "Have you got some beer out at your place?" Emily asked, shouting from the office.

  "Beer? Ja, what Polak don't have beer?"

  "Good. I'll need some."

  If she waited for Jagush, precious minutes would be wasted. The animal was doubtless in pain and Emily found herself unwilling to prolong its suffering any longer than necessary. "If it's all right with you, Mr. Jagush, I won't wait for you. I know where you live."

  "Ja, you hurry, miss," he agreed.

  Jagush lived—it occurred to Emily—on the road out to the Lucky L ranch. Tom Jeffcoat wanted to buy horses. And Charles was haranguing her to help him. And Cal Liberty had a reputation for raising healthy hearty American saddlehorses and for being too proud of his stock to sell any inferior animals. Emily made a snap decision.

  "Papa?" she called.

  "What?"

  "Saddle Gunpowder, too. I'm taking Jeffcoat along with me."

  Her stomach danced with excitement. At last, a real call. Few ranchers had asked for her help. They instinctively doubted her ability since she was a woman, and since she hadn't fully earned her certificate from Barnum yet. Even when she did, it would not be the equivalent of a degree from a college of veterinary medicine. Those colleges were all back East or she'd be attending one right now. But she cared about animals and had what Papa had always called a natural instinct for helping them. It would take time before the bigger ranchers would trust her. In the meantime, she'd help the smaller farmers like Jagush whenever possible, and wait for her reputation to grow.

  In the office she opened a black leather satchel and took stock of her instruments: pincers, twitch, probang, and hopples; forceps in two sizes; balling iron and a balling gun; a pair of curved scissors, hand clippers, a clinch cutter; funnel and rubber tubing; a blacksmith's hoof knife; and an assortment of ordinary tools—a steel chisel, a pair of pliers, and a claw hammer. Yes, everything was there. And the bottles and vials too, neatly lining the sides of the case, each buckled into place by a leather band.

  Satisfied, she snapped the bag closed, wrapped it in a black rubber apron, and went to tie it behind her saddle and mount up.

  "Wish me luck, Papa," she called, taking Gunpowder's reins from Edwin.

  "Bring 'em in alive, honey!" he called as she touched heel to Sage's flanks and took off at a canter through the double-wide door.

  Thirty seconds later she reined in at the great north door of Jeffcoat's livery stable leading the spare black gelding.

  "Jeffcoat?" she shouted. Inside, the syncopated beats of two hammers stopped. "Jeffcoat, you in there?" She peered into the depths of the building, which she'd never come near before. It was bigger than her father's and promised to be much more serviceable, with its brick floor, loft steps instead of a ladder, half-doors on the stalls, and the capstan for the turntable already in place. The windows were seated, the sliding door hung, pushed wide now to light both ends of the building. The stalls along the left were nearly complete, and from one, halfway down, Jeffcoat emerged. Even in silhouette she could tell it was he instead of Charles by the outline of his cowboy hat and the length of his legs.

  "That you, tomboy?" he called.

  "It's me. You wanna look at horseflesh or not?"

  "Hey, Charles!" Tom threw down a hammer. "Can you work without me for a couple hours? Somebody's here who says she'll take me out shopping for horses."

  Charles appeared behind Tom and walked with him the length of t
he building. "Emily, this is a surprise." He stopped beside Sagebrush, pulling off his work gloves, smiling up at her. "Why don't you come in and see the building? It's really shaping up."

  "Sorry, I don't have time. I'm on my way out to August Jagush's to look at one of his brood sows that's having trouble farrowing."

  "You're taking Tom out there?" Charles asked, surprised.

  "No, out to the Lucky L after I'm done—it's close by and I figure Cal Liberty will treat him fairly. If you're coming, Jeffcoat, hurry up."

  "You sure you don't mind, Charles?" Jeffcoat paused to ask.

  "Not at all. Get going."

  As Jeffcoat took the reins from Emily and mounted up, Charles squeezed her calf and said quietly, "Thanks, Emily. He's been worried about getting those horses."

  "I'll see you tonight," she replied, giving Sagebrush both heels. Tom's stirrups needed lengthening, but Emily took off at a trot leaving him leaning sideways in the saddle.

  "Hey, wait a minute."

  "You can catch up!" she called without slowing.

  While Charles volunteered to adjust the stirrups Tom glanced after his friend's fiancée and inquired, "Is she always this ornery?"

  "She'll get used to you. Give her time."

  "She's got the temperament of a wounded buffalo. Hell, I don't even know this horse's name."

  "Gunpowder."

  "Gunpowder, huh?" And to the horse: "Well, you'd better have some in you because we've got some catching-up to do." When the stirrups were adjusted Tom said, "Thanks, Charles. I'll see you here when I get back if it's early enough. Otherwise, at Tarsy's."

  He took off at a canter, scowling at the rider ahead. She rode prettier than most women walked, with a natural roll and balance, her back straight, the reins in one hand, the other resting on a thigh. She wore her brother's cap again but she sat her saddle so perfectly it didn't even bounce. As Jeffcoat came up on her left flank he noted the sleek fit of the trousers over her thigh, her intent stare at the horizon, her taut lips. There was no warmth in her today at all, only spunk and determination. Yet she fascinated him.

  "Hey, slow up there. You'll get that horse lathered."

  "He can take it. Can you?"