by Hebby Roman
Chad grasped her elbow and squeezed it. “This being June already, the heat must be quite a shock after Boston.”
“Yes, I had almost forgotten what it was like,” she said.
Ignoring the rowdy crowd in front of the saloon, she let her gaze roam over the remainder of her small hometown. Langtry was merely a whistle-stop on the Southern Pacific Railroad. Perched precariously on the edge of the Chihuahua Desert, the small town baked three-quarters of the year under a relentless sun.
It was a frontier town, spawned by the building of the railroad only a scant fourteen years before. Haphazard wooden buildings sprouted among the indigenous adobe structures. Purple sage, creosote bushes and a variety of prickly cacti served as the town’s stunted and thorny vegetation. Only the stately yuccas with their waxy, yellow blooms and the spindly ocotillos, rising like outstretched fingers with red plumes on their tips, grew tall enough to interrupt an endless view of the horizon.
Chad propelled Lindsay toward the buckboard wagon. “You wait here, and I’ll fetch your trunks.”
She nodded, and her brother boosted her onto the high seat of the wagon. She touched her brother’s arm and said, “Please, be careful with the crate. I think you’ll be surprised by its contents.”
She smiled, eager to see his reaction to Minnie. Around here and on the ranch, no one had heard of a lap dog. There were working dogs to herd the sheep, or hounds for hunting, but no one kept a dog inside.
He patted her hand. “I’ll be extra careful. It’s good to have you home.” He headed toward the tiny depot.
She arranged her skirts on the rough plank board. The fashionable bustle of her serge traveling suit wasn't designed for such an unyielding surface. It bunched behind her in an uncomfortable lump. Sweat beaded her brow, and she realized her stylish headgear was also ill-designed for West Texas. She wished she’d included a parasol as part of her ensemble, but in Boston, it had seemed like an affectation.
She pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule and mopped her forehead. Her gaze wandered back to the shaded porch of the Jersey Lily.
On the edge of the porch, a stranger broke away from the mob of milling men and propped his right foot against the porch rail. Even at this distance, there was something about him that drew her attention.
The charcoal-gray broadcloth of his suit strained at his shoulders and clung to the muscular contours of his thighs. He removed his dark Stetson and wiped his brow. His black hair was a deeper shade of night against the twilight shadows of the saloon porch. Too far away to discern his features, she imagined he would be handsome with piercing eyes and full, sensual lips.
She shook herself and lowered her head, purposely looking away. What on earth was she thinking? Daydreaming about some stranger on a saloon porch. Wasn’t her sin with Seamus enough of a stain on her conscience? Must she be drawn to the first attractive man she’d seen?
Was she truly a bad woman, beyond redemption?
If her Aunt Minerva had taught her anything about being a lady, it was to keep herself occupied and not give in to sinful thoughts. Her aunt had also championed charitable works of every kind as a proper calling for a lady.
Until she got too big with child, she must find some charity work to fill her days and thoughts. She crossed herself. After all, what more fertile ground could there be for works of charity than Langtry, Texas?
* * *
Bartholomew Houghton squinted against the lowering sun, watching Chad MacKillian’s buckboard until it bumped over the first hill northwest of Langtry.
The ill-timed arrival of Chad’s sister had interrupted their business negotiations. Chad and he were preparing to finalize their deal when Chad’s sister telegraphed she would be coming home. Suspending their negotiations until he could talk with his sister, he’d admitted she owned half of the ranch but was quick to point out he’d failed to mention the joint ownership because he’d expected her to marry and remain in Boston.
Bart snorted, remembering his initial chagrin at feeling he was being “suckered” by the fresh-faced Chad. He’d almost walked away from the deal. But upon further reflection, he’d decided to see what would happen. Most women followed their menfolk’s advice in matters of business. If Chad knew how to handle his sister properly, she shouldn’t prove to be an obstacle.
Despite his confidence in male superiority over the weaker sex, Chad’s sister as part owner of the ranch would definitely alter the financial arrangements of the original deal. He hoped he could come to an equitable arrangement with Chad because Langtry and the MacKillian’s ranch suited him.
He was tired of roaming. With the United States filling up, civilization encroached farther west each year. The free-wheeling days were over. Believing it was time to settle down and build his future, he chose West Texas because of its sparse population and frontier atmosphere. And the border of Old México stood only a few hundred yards to the south of Langtry.
The MacKillian’s sheep ranch was a tempting investment. Chad’s father had bought large tracts of acreage as well as stocking it with prime wool-bearing sheep.
But his first glimpse of Chad’s sister had set off warning bells in his head. He couldn’t help but notice her graceful carriage and shapely bosom. The sun gilded her palomino-colored hair, making it shine like the seven golden cities of Cibolo.
A woman like Chad’s sister shouldn’t be living in a place like this. It was a waste… and a temptation.
* * *
Lindsay thrust the broom beneath the pump sink. Searching the darkest recesses of that uncharted territory, she brushed the back wall and then drew the broom toward her, inch by inch. Whatever she was fishing for smelled like a dead buzzard with a full gullet. Just the horrible stench made her more than apprehensive of what she might find.
As her trophy came into view, Lindsay’s eyes widened and she gagged. Whatever it was, it looked as if it might still be alive. The shape provided no clue, but the green fur covering it was more than disturbing—it was revolting.
She muttered a string of French words--naughty French words. Words she’d learned at her finishing school in Boston. Cursing wasn’t ladylike, but it certainly was satisfying, especially if no one understood your slip from proper decorum.
She retreated a few steps and retrieved the dust pan. Tying a dish towel over her mouth and nose, she squared her shoulders and advanced upon—the thing. Gingerly, she swept her discovery into the dust pan, praying the hideous blob would remain unmoving until she could toss it on the rubbish heap outside.
A small, black nose appeared over the edge of the dust pan, sniffing. Startled, she almost dropped the pan but managed to retain her grip and wave the brush.
“Minnie, bad girl! Get away! It’s not something to eat.”
Minnie cocked her head and blinked her black, gum-drop eyes. She lowered her head and tail and slunk off, crawling under the kitchen table.
Lindsay lost no time disposing of the green muck outside. Returning to the kitchen, she sank into one of the ladder-back chairs ringing the oak dining table.
Sighing, she untied the dish cloth and made an attempt at wiping the perspiration from her face. But as soon as she wiped, the moisture returned—and it was only June. August would be even hotter—so hot the very air would feel scorched and heavy to breathe.
In her rush to return home and hide her shame, she’d overlooked many of the more disagreeable details of life in West Texas. The oppressive heat, the insects invading every corner of the house, the layer of alkaline dust settling on each piece of furniture, and the dangerous animals—ranging from poisonous snakes to an occasional marauding bear from México—made civilized life a daily challenge.
Faced with the hardships imposed upon her, she wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to confess to her aunt and go directly to a convent. To retain a ladylike demeanor, especially as she grew larger with child, wouldn’t be easy. Her dresses clung to her, drenched in perspiration, until
she felt as if she was drowning in this arid wasteland.
And as her first good deed, she’d set herself the task of redeeming her brother’s living arrangements before she attempted general reforms in Langtry. After all, family came first. But she hadn’t known her bachelor brother lived like a pig.
She sighed again and leaned down, scratching behind Minnie’s ears. Looking over the kitchen, she could see how her efforts were making inroads; the entrenched grime had retreated in some areas. But even working diligently from dawn to dusk, it would take a long time to strip away four years of accumulated dirt and neglect.
She shifted in the chair and glanced at her mother’s cherished oak dining table. When Lindsay had left the first time for Boston, shortly after her mother’s passing, the table was in pristine condition. Now it bore splotched stains that resisted her best efforts, as well as nasty scars marring its once-beautiful surface.
Her mother’s table had survived the railroad trip from Massachusetts, fourteen years before, without a scratch. Even after her mother’s death, Mrs. Baker, a widow who acted as their housekeeper, kept the table in perfect condition. But when Lindsay’s father was accidentally killed, everything changed.
Tears pooled in her eyes at the changes four years had wrought, but she knew it wasn’t the ruined furniture and filth that upset her. The house had changed during her absence, and it no longer felt like home. Before, she could remember her parents in this house, which her father had built with his own hands.
Her home was so different now.
When she’d asked her brother why Mrs. Baker hadn’t stayed, he’d told her Mrs. Baker had remarried and moved away. She’d demanded to know why he didn’t retain another housekeeper. He’d replied housekeepers were difficult to find in West Texas. And he’d learned to get by with the wife of one of his Mexican shepherds, who was willing to cook for him and do some light housekeeping.
Light, indeed.
She’d confronted her brother's housekeeper, Serafina Gómez, and learned Serafina had eight children at home. With that bit of information, Lindsay understood the problem. Serafina needed the small housekeeper’s allowance to supplement her husband’s income. Unfortunately, with the demands at home, she possessed neither the time nor energy to keep the ranch house properly.
Relieving Serafina of her daily cooking duties, Lindsay took them upon herself, promising to continue her monthly salary if Serafina would help with the heavier chores. Serafina had agreed, but so far, she’d only called upon her twice this past week, preferring to tackle the cleanup chores herself.
Or wanting to keep so busy and exhausted she continued to delay telling her brother why she’d come home. And Chad, bless him, hadn’t pressed her.
The grandfather clock chimed loudly in the adjacent parlor and startled her. The afternoon was advanced. She needed to start supper.
She’d asked Serafina to help today, but her youngest child was ailing. The responsibility for tonight’s supper rested squarely on Lindsay’s shoulders. And her brother had requested she prepare something special because he was bringing home a business associate for supper.
She was honest enough to admit her cooking skills were only passable. She’d not bothered to learn after her mother died because capable Mrs. Baker did their cooking. In Boston, Aunt Minnie employed kitchen help. At her aunt’s insistence, she’d reluctantly learned some of the basic principles of the culinary arts.
But truth be known, she found cooking a boring chore, and she already regretted relieving Serafina of her daily duties, even though she knew it was a necessary step to have the woman’s help with the house cleaning and laundry. Once she returned the house to a semblance of order, she hoped Serafina would have the time to do some of the cooking.
If Chad didn’t prove too troublesome.
Already, in typical male fashion, he’d settled into the new routine of Lindsay's uneven attempts at preparing meals. He’d even possessed the effrontery to offer her a back-handed compliment by praising her for attempting variety at meal times.
Serafina, on the other hand, exhibited a severely limited repertoire in the kitchen. Chad’s ‘housekeeper’ served rice, fríjoles, tortillas, and fried cabrito or salt pork for every meal—seven days a week.
To fulfill her brother’s request for a special meal, she’d asked him to slaughter and dress a lamb. After all, they lived on a sheep ranch; they should learn to eat mutton. In Boston, mutton was in great demand and, when properly prepared, could be very tasty.
She rose from the chair and straightened her apron. The mutton, vegetables, and potatoes awaited. Raising her chin in determination, she felt certain she could provide an edible meal—if she could remember the proper heat level and cooking time for the lamb.
Three hours later, she poked at the haunch of lamb and found very little ‘give’ to her fork. But the potatoes, carrots, and turnips had already turned to mush. And there was precious little gravy to be had in the bottom of the roasting pan.
She dropped the fork and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. It was too late to change anything. Chad and his business associate would be here any minute. She crossed herself and said a prayer.
Then she heard boots on the porch and went to the front window to peek out.
With Chad was the stranger—the man she’d glimpsed on the Jersey Lily’s porch.
She couldn't restrain a small gasp as she clung to the front door for support. When she’d heard their approach, she’d rushed to the door to greet Chad and his guest. But she didn't expect—that man. She’d expected a stout, balding wool factor, but this man was neither stout nor balding—and she sincerely doubted he was a wool factor, either.
He was as handsome as she had imagined him.
Seamus had been a good-looking man, but beside this stranger, he would have looked like an ugly jug head. Gazing at her brother’s business associate, her mouth refused to form the welcome she’d rehearsed. But she did manage to gulp and hold out her hand.
He clasped her fingers between his large, tanned hands. Warmth spread from his fingertips, coiling thickly through her blood and making her want to pant like Minnie when she was excited. Ashamed of her reaction, heat flooded her neck and face.
No words—just one touch of this man’s strong hands had completely unnerved her. Was she desperate for a man’s touch? Was that why she’d succumbed so easily to ruin? Was she, at heart, as wanton as a saloon girl?
She hoped not, especially if she intended to take the veil.
“This is Bartholomew Houghton, our guest for supper.” Chad introduced him. Crossing the threshold, her brother stood beside her with his arm draped around her shoulder. Facing their guest, he finished the introductions, “Bart, this is my sister, Lindsay MacKillian.”
Bartholomew Houghton bowed low. “My pleasure, Miss MacKillian.”
The sound of his voice was a lazy southern drawl—it reminded her of butter spreading over warm biscuits. And she experienced the queerest sensation again--spreading through her body—just from the sound of his voice.
She shivered and stared at Bartholomew Houghton.
Chad cleared his throat and squeezed her shoulder.
Startling, she silently chided herself. What was happening to her? She felt warm and then cold all over. Was she coming down with a fever?
“So… ah, so… glad to meet you, Mr. Houghton. Won’t you please come in?”
“Yes, thank you.” He stepped through the door. “But you must call me Bart. My full name might be Bartholomew, but it’s a mouthful.” He smiled. “And I'm not long on formalities.”
“Of course.” Not only was he handsome, he smelled good, like he’d come straight from a barbershop. She could smell the tangy odor of his hair tonic. Most men in West Texas smelled distinctly foul.
Chad glanced at her and frowned. She realized her brother wanted her to return the favor and tell this ‘Bart’ he could use her given name. But she had no intention of d
oing so, and she hoped Chad understood. The stranger’s mere presence was already affecting her in ways she’d never imagined possible. She didn’t dare allow him liberties with her name.
She settled the men in the parlor with scotch whiskeys and excused herself to put the finishing touches on her meal. When she reached the relative sanctuary of the kitchen, she shut the door and leaned against it. Her heart pounded and her chest heaved.
Closing her eyes, she counted to ten and willed her mind to go blank, a technique her Aunt Minnie had taught her to deal with unladylike responses. Usually the ploy worked, but this time, her mind refused to cooperate.
The stranger’s—Bart’s handsome countenance—was indelibly etched on her mind. Thinking of him gave her the strangest feeling she was falling and couldn't stop herself.
She opened her eyes and cursed low in French. Willing her limbs to move, she approached the stove and checked the pots and pans. Everything smelled all right, the subtle vegetable flavors mixing with the piquant smell of lamb. But she didn’t see the food; it blurred before her eyes. She stirred the contents, but couldn’t seem to focus on the meal.
Praying again that everything was properly prepared, she blindly heaped meat, vegetables and potatoes into platters and bowls. With the food sending ribbons of steam into the already overheated kitchen, she opened the door and called, “Supper’s ready.”
She sat at the table and unfolded her napkin, spreading it on her lap. She thought if she was seated and her attention diverted by serving the meal, she might be able to avoid staring at Bart.
She heard their boots again, this time, crossing the small hallway. She had her head down, but like a magnet tugging toward north, her head came up with a will of its own. Her gaze met Bart’s.
He had the most unusual blue eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes of such a light and penetrating blue they reminded her of the summer sky in West Texas when the sun had scorched the blue from the horizon until the sky appeared almost white. His pupils were a dark violet color, near black, in sharp contrast with the luminous hue of his blue irises.