“But this year we missed it, since the actual date is in the spring. However, we can celebrate whenever we want to this year and move the celebration to the actual date next year. Does that sound agreeable?”
The ladies murmured in assent.
“How long do you think it would take to plan something?” Ilse asked, turning the conversation over to the group. The women began to chat at their tables, not sure how to answer the question, but mulling it over nonetheless.
Finally, the tables grew still again and Lydia, who seemed to have been appointed question leader, asked, “How long it takes depends on what we plan. A pot-luck picnic can be put together in a week or two, though I'd think we would want to wait until it cools off a bit. If you want something fancy with fireworks or a parade, that might take longer.”
“Hmmmm.” Ilse considered. “I don't think we should bother with fireworks at this time of year – we'd probably set the prairie ablaze – but a pot luck doesn't seem like enough. What about if we organized some events and activities. Cooking and quilting competitions. Sack and three legged racing. Maybe a kissing booth. Also some special foods. How long would it take to put that together?”
Again the women turned to talk amongst themselves. Finally, Lydia replied, “I think we could have that ready around the first Saturday in September.”
Smiles greeted the words. Even Ilse lavished on her a smile slightly less condescending than usual. “Of course! I'll head up the decorating committee. Lydia, will you take charge of the food and cooking contests? Rebecca, you can make the prize ribbons. What else?” She tapped her fingertip on her lip.
“Don't worry,” Rebecca said softly, “I'm sure we'll get it all straightened out. How about if we all think on it and meet next week with our decisions and assignments?”
Unable to refute the older woman's logic, Ilse acknowledged her with a nod. “All right, that's settled for now then. On to my next, and more difficult mission. You see, right here in this town, we are harboring the Devil. Pure evil and pure temptation.”
She looked around the room, apparently gauging whether she'd captured their attention. The crowd of ladies sat in riveted silence, broken only by the creak of one of the uneven chairs as someone resettled her weight.
Oh, here it comes, Lydia thought, scowling.
“The good men of Garden City are being seduced away from their homes and families by the evils of strong drink and loose women, and we, the moral backbone of our community, sit by and do nothing.”
She paused for breath while Lydia rolled her eyes. She's been taking classes I suppose, to fancy herself such an orator.
“I have here in my possession, a petition I intend to submit to the sheriff, the mayor, and anyone else with authority in this town, demanding to shut down the establishment known as Chester's Saloon. I expect all of you to sign it. I'm sure you'll agree.”
Again all around the room women murmured their assent while Lydia seethed.
The meeting seeming to be adjourned, the ladies rose and approached Ilse, eager to place their names on the damned sheet of paper as they made their way toward the door. Lydia tried to ignore them, gathering up the plates and cups and hauling them to the kitchen before returning to the dining room to see the few remaining guests out.
Damn it, now I'll have to talk to Ilse privately, and what a lovely mess that's going to be. I hope she has an alternate place to meet in mind.
As the assembly funneled out of the restaurant, the sneering, hated voice piped up again. “Oh, Miss Carré, you haven't signed the petition.”
Lydia swallowed down her anger so she could respond calmly, though with each word she took a deliberate step forward. “Miss Jackson, I will happily head the food committee for your celebration. It's an excellent idea. However, no power on earth could compel me to sign that paper.” Ilse's eyes widened as the larger, heavier woman approached her. She stepped across the threshold. Lydia advanced into the doorway. “Nor will I allow it inside my establishment again. So unless you want to meet elsewhere, I suggest you drop it, at least in my presence. Good day.”
She shut the door and barred it, ignoring the immediate, loud knocking, and returned to the kitchen to wash the extra dishes generated by Ilse's brainstorm. I hope I haven't lost every friend and client I have in this town, she thought as she grabbed her scrub brush and set to work on the turnover crumbs. Ah well. At least I have a project to keep me busy for a while.
Dylan slipped into the church and took a seat in a pew near the altar. Lydia hadn't arrived yet, but he observed the other guests, curious who his new deputy had chosen to witness his special moment. Cody stood at the front, of course. Dylan felt no surprise that his gaze remained fixed on the balcony behind him, where, Dylan felt sure, his wife Kristina was providing the lilting piano solo that filled in the silence before the arrival of the bride. Beside the pastor, Jesse held one hand in the opposite wrist as he nervously shifted his weight from one foot to another. Sitting ahead of Dylan, James and Rebecca Heitschmidt sat as close as humanly possible, his arm resting on the back of the pew behind her shoulders, her arm squashed against his side. A glow almost seemed to emanate from the couple, so strong was their love. Beside them, Wesley Fulton had his tiny, golden haired daughter perched on his lap. Of his wife Dylan could see no sign.
Silence fell over the church, like the intake of breath on the brink of a plunge into deep water. A soft swish of skirts told Dylan the pastor's wife was moving from the piano to her favorite instrument, the organ. Sure enough, the sprightly melody of Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring spilled out of the pipes that lined the church behind his head, filling the sanctuary and spilling out into the street.
To that theme, another swish of skirts indicated all guests should rise. The tiny assembly obeyed tradition, turning to take in a small woman with dark auburn hair and warm brown eyes, her burgeoning figure swathed in a pale blue dress. Slowly she walked alone up the central aisle toward her man. The love she bore for him shone in her eyes. Dylan glanced at the groom and saw that his nervous fidgeting had been rendered frozen in the face of the petite woman's loveliness. His own gaze had turned to possessive affection. The sight stirred Dylan's heart. Come on, man. All around you people are falling in love and getting married. How many years do you think Lydia will wait for you to make up your mind? You love her. You know you do. Don't keep her on tenterhooks. It's unfair. If you love her, tell her. Court her. Marry her. If you love her too much to marry her, let her go.
The bride passed Dylan and found her way to her husband-to-be, taking his arm. Cody began the brief service, of which Dylan was sure the couple heard nothing, as hard as they were staring into each other's eyes. In front of Dylan, Rebecca leaned her head against her husband's chest. He tightened his arm around her as they returned to their seated positions. Cody's eyes kept straying to the balcony. Little Melissa Fulton squeezed her father around the neck and he patted her back. This room is full of love.
The door at the rear of the church opened slightly and closed again. Dylan could feel eyes boring into his back. He subtly shifted away from the arm of the pew and a moment later, Lydia's warm, full body slipped into the space. Without thought, he laid his arm across her shoulders, mimicking James' tender embrace. She inhaled sharply, then relaxed into the curve of his body. She fits there. He closed his eyes as the poetry of Song of Solomon washed over him in Cody's softly-accented voice.
Do you love her enough to keep her or let her go? Decide, Dylan. But in reality there was no decision to make. The scent of her hair told him what he needed to know. The softness of her plump shoulders. The curve of her hip. He hugged her tighter. Despite the heat, she drew close to him.
Immersed in his woman, Dylan failed to notice the service passing, missed the music that ushered the newlyweds out of the church and even the exodus of the other guests. It was the sudden silence in the room that roused him from his reverie. He blinked to find himself alone with Lydia.
“Where did everyone go?” he a
sked stupidly.
“I think they've gone to James and Becky's for the reception. I was late because I had to take the cake over there.”
“Ah, okay,” Dylan replied. “I suppose they're expecting us too,” he added. Damn it, man, stop saying stupid things.
“I don't think anyone is expecting anything,” Lydia replied, “except to see Jesse and Addie eat cake.”
“Is that her name?” Dylan asked, startled. “Jesse never told me. She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?”
Lydia smiled. “She's spunky. He's going to have his hands full with her. I like her a lot.”
Rising, Dylan helped Lydia to her feet. “That makes me like him more. Not everyone is man enough to fall for a strong woman.” The conviction in his own words fell on him like drops of fire. I fell for her, but I never told her.
Dylan walked Lydia out of the church, but instead of heading due south to the Heitschmidt home, he led her to the adjoining cemetery, under the shade of an apple tree with half-ripened fruit bowing every branch.
The sun penetrated through the limbs to dapple their faces with changing light. Light like life. It never stays the same. Always in motion, nothing to hold onto, but the pattern has an undeniable beauty. A golden triangle landed on Lydia's lips, calling his attention, and he lowered his head. His mouth caressed hers tenderly. After a startled moment, Lydia melted into the kiss, clinging as though the embrace contained the answer to every dream she'd lost.
Long moments passed as they lingered, lips caressing, in a public place in full view of the street. The beating summer sun no longer blistered with a fraction of the heat their long-denied passion generated. A stale, hot breeze ruffled their clothing and they finally broke apart as Lydia fought to keep her skirts in their proper place. Dylan made no move to step back.
She inhaled slowly, which did interesting things to her lush figure. “Why, Dylan?” she asked at last.
He frowned, eyebrows drawing together. “It's long overdue, don't you think?”
She dipped her chin then lifted her eyes to meet his again. “Of course. Years overdue. That's my question. Why now?”
The delicate arch of one dark brow drew his attention and he traced it with his fingertip. “A lot of reasons, I guess,” he replied. “I've been regretting my dawdling for a while, thinking I was being unfair to you. I guess this wedding just brought it to a head.” He gestured to a painfully new headstone off to their left. “Well that and this.”
She glanced. “Yes. Poor Deputy Charles. Just my age. What does he have to do with anything?”
“You know Jesse West is his replacement, right?” Dylan said, hoping to be able to articulate his swirling thoughts into something coherent.
“Yes,” Lydia replied, her tone urging him to say something that made sense.
“Wade's death had the strangest effect on me. I've lived my whole adult life knowing that my job could bring about my untimely end, or that of one of my deputies. It's just one of the facts of law enforcement. For the most part, it didn't bother me. I didn't have anything so important I would hesitate to sacrifice my life for it. Well, shortly before the robbery, Wade and I were talking about this. He had a different perspective than me, and no surprise there, with a wife and four sons. He told me he'd happily give his life if it would make theirs safer or better. It's what a family man does, sheriff, deputy or otherwise.”
“Okay,” Lydia replied. He could practically see the gears turning in her mind.
“So I realized I had nothing like that, and felt like my life was a bit empty as a result. And then he was killed in the way he was, and with everything that happened afterwards, well… We're at war, Lydia. This train gang is like a foreign army invading our territory.”
“I know,” she replied. “It's terrifying. But I still don't understand.”
“Well it made my decision even more complicated. When Wade died, his family had to leave. They had nothing left with him gone. The pension wouldn't have lasted a year with that growing brood. I'm glad her family stepped in. But I had to consider. If I spoke to you, if we… began courting, which is what I wanted, what would you do if I die? I can't guarantee they won't get me eventually. There are a lot of them, most likely.”
Lydia shook her head. “It would be completely different, Dylan. I'm not financially helpless. I can provide for myself. I don't need you to support me and I don't need a pension.”
“I realize that now,” he replied. “It took me a while. Your independence looks really good to me. But… Lydia, you do understand what I'm saying here, right?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “At this point all you've said – or almost said – is that there's attraction between us that has a romantic element to it.”
He grinned, but with only a trace of humor. “Not going to take it easy on me, are you?”
“No,” she replied, leveling him with a terrifyingly neutral expression. “You haven't taken it easy on me. For years you've snared me with hope and longing looks. You captured my heart and wouldn't let it go, but you wouldn't claim it either. I've more than earned a proper declaration, and I intend to receive one.”
He sighed. “Fair enough.” Bringing up one large, rugged hand, he cupped her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. She leaned into his touch. “I…” he swallowed. What had been easy to say at twenty nearly choked him at thirty-eight. And yet… I do owe her this. Why would I even consider trying to get out of it? “I love you, Lydia.”
Her cool regard melted into a smile. “That's more like it. What took you so long, Dylan? Why was it so hard to claim me when you know full well I love you too, that I always have?”
He shook his head. “It's a long story, and we're missing the cake.”
“Forget the cake,” Lydia replied. “I made the cake. I can make more. I can make one just for us. I'll make our wedding cake someday, most likely. Tell me the story.”
Dylan made a face. “Did I ever tell you I was married before?”
Lydia blinked. “I'm sorry. Was it recent?” Then she paused. “No, it can't have been. We've known each other five years. What happened?”
“I…” he exhaled heavily and clasped Lydia's hand in his. “I married young. I was twenty. She was only seventeen.”
“What was her name?” Lydia asked, her warm brown eyes filling with empathy.
“Justine,” he replied. “I didn't want to take over my Dad's store, so I became a logger. I cut pines up in northern Minnesota. Hard work, but I felt like such a man.”
Despite Lydia's touch, which reminded him of the world around him, Dylan's mind went back in time. Back to a chilly, pine-smelling rock at whose base a rugged, sod-roofed structure barely large enough to be called a house sheltered his young family while he bent his back to provide for them.
“What happened to Justine?” Lydia asked, her voice floating on the cool air blowing off the lake.
“She was expecting. Didn't take long,” he replied. “All seemed to be fine, even though she got so big. But when she delivered, something went wrong. She delivered without much fuss, but for some reason, the little fella only lived a few hours. The midwife couldn't tell us anything, and the doctor was nowhere to be found. The next day, Justine came down sick. Childbed fever, the midwife called it. I have no idea what that means, but it took her fast. I guess she didn't have to grieve our son long. After that, I didn't have much of a heart for logging.”
He paused, swallowing hard as the image changed to the mounded earth under which his family lay, a rugged, iron-veined stone marking their place.
“Oh, Dylan,” Lydia murmured, pulling him into her arms. He felt none of the Kansas heat, as it had been supplanted by the chill of his birthplace, far to the north.
“For a while there, I wanted to die, so I could be with Justine and the baby. We named him Isaac. Anyway, I became a sheriff's deputy, hoping to be killed in the line of duty, but it didn't happen. Instead I found a new love.”
“The law?” Lydia guessed.
“Yes, that's right. I learned to live for my work. I won't lie, Miss Lydia, I've found companionship here and there, sometimes with someone lonely, sometimes for pay.” He regarded her face, but saw no judgment there. “That stopped when I met you. For the longest time after Justine, I didn't know I could love again. You taught me how.”
Lydia frowned, and he could see thoughts chasing through her mind. “That's a very sad tale, Dylan,” she said at last. “I'm sorry it happened to you. But I still don't understand why it took you so long to speak. Many years have passed. I'm sure, if she loved you, she'd understand.”
Dylan inhaled Lydia's fragrance – of bread and herbs – and then admitted the painful truth. “I don't want you to get with child. I can't stand it, Lydia. I like children, but I'm afraid.”
Her lips compressed. “You're in luck then.”
“What do you mean?” Too immersed in memory, Dylan struggled to comprehend Lydia's comment.
Her scrunched lips turned upward in a parody of a smile. “My parents died of typhoid fever when I was sixteen. There was an epidemic. I caught it too. Almost died. The doctors told me a long-lasting high fever like that damages the organs. I'll never conceive a child, so you don't have to worry about losing me that way.”
He stared at her. Never conceive? Never watch her struggle through the pain only to succumb? He couldn't recall ever having such a profound sense of relief. “Life is uncertain, Lydia,” he reminded her.
“I know,” she replied. “The next breath could be our last. So you tell me, Dylan; what are we waiting for?”
Hope dawned like sunrise. “Nothing. Not a thing. I won't waste another minute.”
“Good,” she replied. Her fingers traced the grizzled stubble on his cheeks and she drew him down. “Kiss me.”
Dylan obeyed the demand without protest, and found her full lips just as sweet as he remembered. Well, man, he demanded of himself, are you ready to commit? His heart responded with a resounding, “Yes! I want to kiss this woman every day for the rest of my life.”
High Plains Passion Page 5