Vows

by LaVyrle Spencer

  While she was checking that of a healthy-looking sorrel, Tom stood close and inquired in an undertone, "What should it be?"

  "From thirty-six to forty. He's right in there."

  When one of the horses lifted its tail and dropped a few yellow nuggets, instead of jumping back as most women would, Emily nudged the droppings with her boot and commented, "Good … not too soft, not too hard, just the way they're supposed to be." When another urinated she watched the proceedings, unfazed, and approved of the urine's color and the lack of strong odor.

  "As a lot, they're healthy," she told Tom, adding, "but I was more concerned with their internal health. Anybody who's been around horses as long as you have knows what makes a sound one and which ones are light of bone. You can look them over yourself for conformation."

  She stood back and took her turn at studying him as he went through the herd, sizing them up for conformation. She watched each move he made, recognizing what he was searching for: ample width between the eyes; eyes with little white showing; long, arched necks; well-developed shoulders; broad knees tapering front to back; flat shinbones and fetlocks angling at forty-five degrees. He disqualified one for its bell-shaped feet, winning a glance of approval from Emily, then singled out another for its thick cannon bones. Bridle-leading it, he checked its leg and foot action, and led it back to Emily.

  "This one's a beauty."

  She gave the big buckskin a hand-check and a perusal, then called to Liberty, "What's his name?"

  "Buck." It was the first word he'd spoken directly to Emily.

  She turned Jeffcoat aside and advised in an undertone, "You're right, he's beautiful, but let Liberty's foreman tack and ride him first. Just because he's beautiful doesn't mean he's manageable. And with a name like Buck … well, it might be because of his color, but there's no sense taking chances. If anyone gets flattened against the fence or thrown, better the foreman than you."

  Jeffcoat smiled and bowed to her wisdom.

  Buck turned out to be a real gentleman. He stood docilely while Trout tacked him, then performed with absolute manners while being ridden. When Jeffcoat himself mounted and took Buck through his paces, Emily watched, once more impressed. He wisely walked Buck first instead of sending him into an immediate canter, as a greenhorn might have. He patiently circled, bent, halted, walked on, assessing the horse's reaction to the bit and the strange rider.

  When he nudged Buck into a trot Emily watched him master the awkward juggling gait with unusual grace. At trot most women looked like corn being popped, most men like eager children reaching into a candy jar. Jeffcoat rode it rising, perfectly balanced, his hands steady, his loins relaxed, body inclined slightly forward, not just tipped from the hips. Emily's father had taught her to ride, had pointed out how few people could perform the trot gracefully, and that fewer still rode it on the correct diagonal.

  Jeffcoat did it all effortlessly.

  Equally as effortlessly he kicked Buck into a canter, changed rein to make certain the stallion performed correctly on either lead, and finally set him into a gallop. When Jeffcoat wheeled and stretched out, galloping back to her, he made an impressive sight, with leathers properly shortened, his weight out of the saddle carried on the insides of his thighs and knees, lifting on the balls of his feet.

  Damn you, Jeffcoat, you look like you might have been born in that saddle, and the sight of you there does things to my insides.

  When he reined in, his touch was light; already he'd learned that much about Buck. He dropped to the ground before the dust had settled, smiled, and told Emily, "This one'll be mine."

  She couldn't resist teasing, "Don't you know, Mr. Jeffcoat, that a wise horseman never lets his heart be captured by the first animal he tests?"

  "Unless it's the right one," he returned, smiling back.

  She relented by patting Buck on his broad forehead. "He's a good choice."

  Tom told Liberty, "This one's sold. I'll need four others for riding."

  "Three should do," interrupted Emily, quietly.

  "Three?"

  "You'll find that around here you'll be renting out rigs mostly, to land agents taking immigrant families out to pick out their eighty acres for preemption. You'll need a few who are saddle-broke, sure, but most of your stock should be wagon-trained."

  Again Jeffcoat bowed to her judgment, and the selection went on until his four saddlehorses were chosen and the deal made. The horses for the rigs would have to wait until another day, as it was getting late and they'd have to head back or get caught by dark.

  "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Liberty. I'll be back sometime next week." Tom extended a hand. When Liberty had shaken it he found another waiting.

  "You've got basically good sound stock," Emily approved, holding her hand poised where it could not be avoided.

  "Thank you. What did you say your name is again?"

  "Emily Walcott. I'm Edwin Walcott's daughter and I'm studying to be a veterinarian. That black pointed bay you call Gambler has what appears to be a touch of thoroughpin on his rear off hock that might be worth watching. My guess is he probably had a small sprain that you might not even have known about. It's no cause for worry, but if I were you I'd treat it with equal parts of spirits of camphor and tincture of iodine, and if it should ever grow to where pressure on one side makes it bulge on the opposite side, it should be drained and trussed. In that case, I'll be happy to come out and do it for you. You can find me at my father's livery stable most days. Good-bye, Mr. Liberty."

  She and Jeffcoat mounted up and trotted their horses down the driveway feeling smug and amused. When they got beyond earshot, he released a whoop of laughter.

  "Did you see the expression on his face!"

  She laughed too. "I know I was showing off, but I couldn't resist."

  "He deserved it, the pompous ass."

  "I should be used to it. I'm a woman, and women, after all, are better at blacking stoves and punching down bread dough, aren't they?"

  "I doubt that Liberty thinks so anymore."

  She cast her companion an appreciative sidelong glance. "Thanks, Jeffcoat. It was fun."

  "Yes, it was. The whole afternoon."

  They rode on for some time in companionable silence, adjusting to it with some lingering astonishment after their turbulent beginning. It was a beautiful time of day, nearly sundown, conducive to amity. Behind them a flaming orange ball rested half-submerged below the tip of the mountain. Before them their mounted shadows stretched into distorted caricatures that slipped across the roadside grasses. They flushed a great flock of crows who flapped their way upmountain. At a narrow creek they startled a heron who winged his way to some distant rookery. They passed a spot where blossoming fireweed spread a great sheet of color, its bright pink flowers turned gilt by the flaming sun behind them. And farther along they turned in passing to study a picket-pin gopher sitting motionless atop his mound, as straight as his own shadow. From a roadside fence a meadowlark trilled and overhead the goshawks came out, calling their haunting flight song.

  And the peace of evening settled within the two riders.

  They listened to the squeak of shifting saddles, the three-time waltz rhythm of cantering hooves, the steady rush and pull of the horses' breath. They felt the east cool their fronts and the west warm their backs and realized they were enjoying each other's presence far more than advisable … riding … riding … a mere horse's width apart … eyes correctly ahead … digesting the mellowing turn their relationship had taken in a single day. Something indefinable had happened. Well, perhaps not indefinable—inadmissible, rather—something startling and compelling and very much forbidden. They rode on, each of them battling the urge to turn and study, to confirm with an exchange of glances that the other was feeling it, too—this newfound confederacy, this inadvisable, insidious fascination. To feel it was one thing; to allow it to show was another.

  They rode on, downhill all the way, toward a party they would both be attending, and a
dance they might conceivably end up sharing, and an attraction that should never have begun, schooling themselves to remain outwardly aloof while both of them thought of Charles Bliss—his friend, and her intended.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  «^»

  They were both late to Tarsy's party. By the time Tom walked through the door, the hostess was in a state of near-panic, thinking he wasn't coming.

  "Where have you been?" Tarsy flew across the room and grabbed his arm hard enough to cause black-and-blue marks.

  "At the Lucky L Ranch, buying horses."

  "I know that. Charles told me. But you're so late."

  "We just got back half an hour ago." He scanned the room but Emily hadn't arrived yet.

  "We've been waiting for you so we could start the games."

  Tarsy commandeered Tom across a parlor filled with many of the same faces he'd met last week, but this time the older generation hadn't been invited. The group appeared to be all young and single. In the adjoining dining room they'd gathered around the table where they talked and laughed and drank punch. Charles was there but when Tom tried to veer over and talk to him Tarsy dragged him away. "Oh, you and that Charles! You see him every day at work, isn't that enough?" She raised her voice and beckoned everyone into the parlor. "Come on, everybody, we can start the games now! Everybody in here!" Tarsy began arranging chairs in a circle.

  Tom slipped away to get himself a cup of punch and met Charles in the dining room archway.

  "How did it go?" Charles inquired.

  "I got a good start—four riding horses."

  "And you actually made it back with no mortal wounds?" Grinning, Charles pretended to inspect Tom for damage, front and back. "No broken bones?"

  "She was the epitome of politeness. We got along remarkably well."

  "I'll know by one glance at her face when she walks through that door."

  "Sorry I made her late. Mmm … who spiked the punch?"

  "Probably Tarsy herself, the little wildcat."

  Tom glanced around the two rooms. "No parents around, either?"

  "No. I think Tarsy has designs on you and having parents around would be against her better interests. They're out for the evening, playing whist. I think we're being summoned … for the second time."

  They went to join the others. While Tarsy began explaining the game, Emily arrived—a transformed Emily. Tom took one look at her and felt an involuntary force field build within himself. She'd spent less than an hour convening from tomboy to woman, but the transition was complete. Her hair was twisted high onto her head like an egg in a nest, with loose wisps rimming her face. She wore an astonishing dress of mauve, the rich hue of a spring hyacinth. It was as proper, feminine, and concealing as anything Queen Victoria herself might wear, with its high, banded neck, tucked, tight top, form-fitting long sleeves, and a hip ruffle dropping in a bouncing cascade over her rump. Ivory lace trimmed the garment in such a way that it drew a man's eye to strategic places. Over it she'd thrown a fringed shawl, caught carelessly over one shoulder and the opposite elbow. Where was the girl who'd pulled dead pigs all afternoon? And assessed horseflesh? And ridden several hours on horseback? She was gone, and in her place a woman whose appearance momentarily knocked the breath from Tom Jeffcoat.

  He watched her eyes seek and find Charles and telegraph him a private hello, watched his best friend cross the parlor to touch her shoulders and take her shawl while he himself felt the sting of jealousy. Charles rested a hand just above her rear flounce and said something that made her release a short huff of laughter. She replied and they both glanced Tom's way. The amusement fell from her face as if she'd run up against a barbed-wire fence. Immediately she glanced away and Tom raised his punch cup to his lips, realizing Charles observed.

  Tarsy called across the parlor. "Oh, Emily, you're here at last. Hurry and take a chair so we can start the game."

  Emily and Charles sat across from Tom while he attempted to forget they were there.

  He shifted his attention to Tarsy. Tarsy was giddy with excitement, announcing a game called Squeak, Piggy, Squeak. She had placed the chairs in a circle facing inward and when everyone was seated, stood in the center, ordering, "Everyone has to pick a number between one and a hundred to see who's first."

  "To do what?" someone asked.

  "You'll see. Now pick."

  The winning number was chosen by Ardis Corbeil, a tall, freckled redhead who blushed as she reluctantly got to her feet in the center of the circle.

  "What do I have to do?"

  "You'll see. Now turn around." Tarsy produced a folded scarf.

  "You're not going to blindfold me, are you?"

  "Well, of course I'm going to blindfold you. Then I'll spin you around a few times and give you a cushion, and the cushion is the only thing you can touch anybody with. The first person you touch, you have to sit on his lap and say 'Squeak, piggy, squeak.' Then he has to squeak and you have to guess who he is."

  "That's all?"

  "That's all."

  Snickers began around the room while Ardis allowed herself to be blindfolded and spun around. Tarsy spun her until the poor girl could scarcely tell up from down.

  Muted laughter and whispers tittered through the room. "Shh! No talking or she'll know where you are! Are you dizzy yet, Ardis?"

  Poor Ardis was more than dizzy; she reeled and groped and nearly toppled over when released. Tarsy steadied her. "Now, here's your cushion, and remember, no hands! You get three squeaks to guess whose lap you're on, and if you guess right, it's that person's turn to be blindfolded, otherwise you have to pay a forfeit. All right now?"

  From beneath the blindfold came Ardis's uncertain nod.

  The room quieted of all but smothered snickers. Tipped forward at the waist, Ardis shuffled and stumbled three steps, leading with the cushion.

  Tt-tt.

  "Shh!" Tarsy slipped into a chair and the room grew silent.

  Ardis scuffed forward with the cushion extended in both hands, sliding her soles cautiously across the floor. The cushion bumped Mick Stubbs in the face. He drew back and compressed his lips to keep from laughing outright. Ardis patted the cushion up his head, down his shoulder to his chest, and finally to his knees.

  Some of the girls blushed and clapped their hands over their mouths.

  Tom glanced at Emily and found her watching him. They sat like islands of stillness in the jollity around them while everyone else's attention was riveted on the game. How long? A second? Five seconds? Long enough for Tom Jeffcoat to realize that what he'd sensed happening between them this afternoon had not been a figment of his imagination. She was feeling it, too, and was doing her best to submerge it. He had been in love once before and recognized the warning signs. Fascination. Watchfulness. The urge to touch.

  Beside her, Charles laughed, and she glanced aside with forced nonchalance. Tom, too, returned his attention to the game in progress.

  Ardis was perched on Mick's knees and his. face was red with suppressed laughter.

  "Squeak, piggy, squeak," Ardis ordered.

  Mick tried, but his squeak sounded more like a snort.

  Everybody snickered.

  "Shh!"

  "Squeak, piggy, squeak!"

  This time Mick managed a high-pitched vocal rendition that brought laughter erupting all around. Ardis still failed to identify him.

  "Squeak, piggy, squeak!"

  Mick's third try was a masterpiece—high, shrill, porcine. Unfortunately for Mick, at its end the entire roomful of people was hooting so loud that he lost control himself, giving away his identity.

  "It's Mick Stubbs!" Ardis shrieked, yanking off her blindfold. "I knew it! Now you have to wear this thing!"

  Mick Stubbs weighed a good 215 pounds. He had a bushy brown beard, and arms as thick as most men's thighs. He made a hilarious sight being blindfolded, twirled, and groping his way onto the lap of Martin Emerson, another bearded guest. It was impossible not to get caught up i
n the hilarity of the evening as the game proceeded. Everybody loved it. Martin Emerson groped his way to Tarsy, and Tarsy groped her way to Tilda Awk, and Tilda Awk groped her way to Tom Jeffcoat, and Tom groped his way to Patrick Haberkorn; and along the way Tom found himself laughing as hard as the others. He knew the moment Emily, too, began enjoying herself. He saw her resistance to the game melt when the humor grew infectious. He saw her first smile, heard her first laughter, admired her face wreathed in gayness, a facet of her he'd observed too few times. Emily, smiling, was a sight to behold. But always, beside her was Charles. Charles, to whom she was betrothed.

  After "Squeak, Piggy, Squeak," everybody voted to pause and refresh their punch cups.

  Tarsy monopolized Tom during the break, and he turned his attentions to her gladly, relieved to have them diverted from Emily Walcott. Tarsy was a pretty girl, amusing, and very lively. He made up his mind the best thing he could do for himself was to enjoy her and forget about this afternoon, and the becoming arrangement of Emily Walcott's hair, and how pretty she looked in the mauve dress, and the glances they'd exchanged across a crowded room.

  "Tom, come here! I have to talk to you!" Excited, Tarsy tugged him aside and lowered her voice secretively. "Will you do something with me?"

  "Maybe." He grinned down flirtatiously into her brown eyes, sipping his drink. "Depends on what it is."

  "Will you be first with me on the next game?"

  "Depends on what it is."

  "It's Poor Pussy."

  His grin idled on her eager face. He knew the game. It was filled with innuendo and a certain amount of touching, and he sensed in an instant her underlying reason for introducing it. "And who's the poor pussy, you or me?"

  "I am. All you have to do is sit on a chair and try to stay sober while I do my best to make you laugh."

  He took another sip of brandy punch, enjoying her avid brown eyes and thinking, what better way to show everyone—Charles included—that Tarsy was the one who sparked his interest?

  "All right."

  Tarsy giggled and hauled him by an arm into the parlor to resume the fun. "Come on, everybody, we're going to play a new game. Poor Pussy!"