by Martha Hix
By the time she’d peeled potatoes and onions, a Mexican vaquero appeared, carrying a guitar. He sported a wide smile and an even wider sombrero.
“Give us a song, José,” Johns Clark prompted.
The vaquero proved an excellent guitar picker, and Lisette delighted in the romantic sounds of his Spanish melodies.
The main course simmering on a rack above the extra fire, she said, “Oscar, I can’t find any dried fruit.”
“Apples be in that there drawer to the right o’ the tobacco. Or is it the left?” He lifted his short arms to study each hand. “I never can fig’re out which be which.”
“That’s cause you’re as stupid as a Four Aces cow,” Johns Clark teased.
“Stupid? If I’s so stupid, how come I can out rope the likes o’ ye, Mister Smarty Pants?”
“Two bits says you can’t.”
“Ye’re on.” The bowlegged cowpoke went for his lariat and the two men got on with their contest.
Realizing how warm she’d become standing over these fires, Lisette took off the waistcoat and rolled up her shirtsleeves. She set about making turnovers.
“Anything I can do to help, miss?” Willie Gaines tried to flatten the carrot-red hair sticking straight up from his head.
“You can bring those jars of turnip greens from my packs, and open them.” At the mention of turnip greens, Lisette felt guilty; she’d stolen them from the Keller larder.
When Willie returned with the jars, he admitted shyly, “I hope you stay on, miss. You remind me of my sister. Pearlie’s real sweet and nice, and she’s real cotton-headed, too.”
Lisette hoped he referred to hair color rather than lack of good judgment. She smiled, figuring the youth meant it as a compliment. “Thank you, but I’m not always ‘sweet and nice.’ ”
“I think you are.” His face turned the hue of a ripe beet. “Uh, um, this wagon’s a sight to behold, ain’t it?”
“It’s bigger and wider than any wagon I’ve ever seen.”
“Did you know it takes six draught horses to pull it? Got lots of weight to pack, miss, what with all that water and molasses and sugar and flour and lard and kerosene.”
“It is well stocked.”
“Oh, yes, miss. It’s got extra steel reinforcing the undercarriage, too. Never have to worry about breaking an axle.”
She’d never driven anything heavier than Adolf’s cart. Could she handle this monstrosity? Don’t get the cart before the horse.
Please don’t let anything go wrong, she prayed. When she’d purloined Adolf’s provisions and his mule, Lisette had feared nothing except for Gil McLoughlin’s turning her away, but leading Willensstark through miles of open country had given her a sharp dose of fright. Wild beasts and even wilder Indians were never far away, yet nothing or no one had accosted her. Had she imagined them?
Don’t be ridiculous. They are hiding out there. Her own sister had fallen victim to Comanches. Poor, sweet Olga, who had lived hell in her death. Lisette sucked in her breath, gaining control over her sorrow of eight years’ standing.
She could do nothing for her adored sister, but she must look out for herself–if nothing else, in Olga’s memory.
After she slathered the apple turnovers with boiled sugar, she rang the dinner bell. The collie dog, the same one Willensstark had kicked, came limping up to the campfire.
“Her name is Sadie Lou,” Willie Gaines explained. “She’s a cowdog, case you didn’t know And she’s right nice.”
The canine wagged her bushy white tail.
“Hello, Liebling.”
The greeting barely out, a trio of cowhands rode into camp. The friendliest one was ebony-skinned Dinky Peele. Eli Wilson didn’t hide his disapproval at finding a woman in their midst. It bothered Lisette, having a minister’s censure, but she was more bothered by the last of the three.
Blade Sharp was about forty and had a mean, shifty-eyed look. The jagged scar extending from an ear to the corner of his paper-thin mouth probably lent that sinister appearance.
“Lise!”
Recognizing Matthias’s voice calling her girlhood nickname, she turned and waved. Shock was written all over his face, she noted as he walked up to her.
“I never expected to see you here,” he said. “If Gil hadn’t warned me, I might have had an apoplexy.”
“Sorry. Maybe we can talk about it later?”
“Ja.”
Gil McLoughlin appeared, his gunbelt riding on leather chaps shiny from wear. A black mat of swirled hair peeped from a shirt unfastened to the middle of his chest. His Stetson pulled low over his dark brow, he stared at her from the opposite side of the original fire. The flames limned his long, lean body in golden relief.
Her mouth went dry. Whether it was from his impassive stare or from the fear of being sent away, she didn’t know, but it pleased her that he hadn’t stayed gone.
She stepped around the fire. None but a few paces separated them now. She was struck by the hue of his eyes, no longer impassive. While they were more blue in daylight, at night they were like quicksilver, shiny and gray.
“Looks like you’ve made yourself at home,” he drawled.
“I want to please you.”
“You could please me,” he murmured too low for his men to hear.
What did he mean by that? Don’t be a Tropf, she warned herself. His words had nothing to do with her domestic skills. He wanted a woman, not a cook. And as far as Lisette was concerned, he was the only man in the world. Betrayed by her feelings as well as by her body, she felt her nipples tighten beneath the chambray shirt.
Stop it. She quelled the urge to cover herself. If she had put her hand to her bosom, she would have drawn attention to her femininity. Maybe he wouldn’t notice her reaction.
He noticed.
His eyes moved from her chest, and he quirked an eyebrow.
Unwittingly falling to German, knowingly breaking the spell, she asked, “May I fix you a plate of supper?”
“Speak English.”
She repeated the question.
“I’ll get my own chow.” He pushed a thumb behind his gunbelt. “If you want the men to eat, you’ll have to give your permission. That’s etiquette.”
She turned to the cowboys. “Please, help yourselves.”
Like a pack of rabid wolves, the men lit into the fare.
The trail boss, on the other hand, took his time filling his plate. Obviously he had no intention of gathering with the others to eat; he disappeared around the chuck wagon.
That wouldn’t do.
She followed him, catching up a dozen yards from the campsite. “If you see my cooking has pleased your men, surely you’ll think twice before turning me out.”
“Honey, back off. I won’t be pushed.”
Thoroughly put in her place but determined not to agonize over it, Lisette returned to the eaters. Soon the cooking pots were empty. The collie, her tongue lolling in expectation, barked for the smidgen or two of remaining turnip greens, but Lindemann grabbed and licked the bowl. Lisette put Sadie Lou to work–or was it dog’s Valhalla?–dispensing with beef bones.
“Mighty fine grub, ma’am,” complimented Wink Tannington.
Again, Willie Gaines attempted to flatten his ornery hair. “Miss, I can see myself eating like that all the way to Kansas.”
Oscar Yates scratched his whiskered chin. “Girl, I ain’t et such a tasty meal since before Susie–God rest her soul–fell dead over a wreck pan.”
The young man in charge of the horses–she’d learned he was called the wrangler–belched and smiled. “Schönen dank!”
All around the campfire, praise echoed. Even the preacher, who had had more than a word or two to say about an unmarried woman in the company of men, tipped his hat.
Without a gesture of praise, Gil McLoughlin returned his plate only to disappear again. She would have traded all the cowboys’ compliments for one smile from their boss.
Blade Sharp sidled up to her. “Seems I oug
hta give a little treat, seeing how you filled my belly so nice.” He clamped his hand on her hip. “Meet me later, and–”
She retreated from his disgusting touch.
“Let me help with these dishes.” Matthias pulled her even farther from the leering, overbearing cowboy. “Sharp, take another turn at night guard.”
The two men glared at each other. For a moment Lisette feared they would fight, yet Sharp backed down, saying, “Whatever suits you, Mister Bigshot Strawboss.”
She was relieved at Matthias’s thwarting the hard-eyed Sharp. She liked Matthias, always had. As children they had sailed on the same schooner across the Atlantic, and he had given comfort when her mother had died during the voyage. Upon reaching Fredericksburg, they had attended classes in the Vereinskirche, and Lisette remembered many a time when he’d yanked her braids. And then the war had come along.
Matthias, like many of the local boys, had sided with the North. Her own male kin had gone along with Texas’s secession, had fought, mostly to the death, for the South. And Lisette had been sent off to San Antonio–where she faced her own disaster.
She gathered a pile of dishes and started toward the creek. Matthias, similarly loaded down, walked behind her. Neither spoke until the chore was almost done.
“You worry me, Lise,” Matthias finally said in German, his dark-brown eyebrows knitted. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“But I am.” She rinsed a plate. “Will you talk with Herr McLoughlin about keeping me on?”
“No.” Matthias placed forks in the wreck pan. “If you were wanting a job, why didn’t you strike out for San Antonio?”
“Adolf would have found me there. Or anywhere else in Texas, eventually.”
Furthermore, San Antonio wasn’t for her. That town held too many memories as well as the source of those recollections, Thom Childress.
“Chicago is the place for a fresh start,” she said. “And I’m certain I’ll find plenty of work. I’ve mentioned the lady who taught me the millinery trade, haven’t I? Agnes was from there, and she told me all about the wonders of her hometown. I’m going to experience them for myself.”
“It gets awfully cold up in Illinois, meine Liebe.”
“Then it should be like our birthplace, Dillenburg.”
Matthias shook his head. “Your memory’s grown sketchy in the dozen years since we left the duchy. Chicago and a hamlet in Nassau-Hesse are two different places. Chicago is a rough city.”
“I’m not worried.”
A sigh expanded Matthias’s chest. “I don’t think McLoughlin will allow you to follow along. He’s a fair man when he sees he’s in the wrong, but I don’t think he’ll see the right in keeping a woman in his camp. And he’s stubborn–stubborn as that old mule of Adolf’s. When he’s set on something, McLoughlin would cut off his roping hand rather than back down.”
That was exactly the impression she’d gotten, but she couldn’t give up. And didn’t want to. It was crazy and foolish, but she wanted to be around Gil McLoughlin ... and not just as his cook. She had to stop such thoughts.
“In this instance I am going to be more mule-headed than your mule-headed trail boss,” she said. “Wait and see.”
“I wouldn’t want to place a bet on that.” Laughing, Matthias hugged Lisette. “On second thought, knowing you . . .”
He didn’t know her, not really. Not a hint did he have about her romantic fiasco, and she intended to keep it that way.
From the left Lisette spotted the trail boss stomping her way. Starlight reflected from his eyes . . . or was it rage?
“Shove off, Gruene. Now.”
Matthias did as told, and his boss ground to a halt in front of Lisette. Now that she got a good look at his eyes, she knew it was rage, even before he pointed a finger at her nose.
“Damn it to hell, woman, I won’t have you charming my men. Not even for the one night you’re in my camp.”
Lisette would have defended herself against this unfair accusation, but she needed another chance, just one more chance at that job. Thus, she latched on to his “one night.”
She coerced a smile, hoping it was as bright as the fire in his eyes. “Does this mean I can stay until tomorrow and prepare breakfast?”
Chapter Four
“I’m waiting,” Lisette announced, her bravado as apparent as fireflies in a night sky. “Are you going to let me prepare breakfast tomorrow? And maybe the midday meal as well?”
Gil scowled. How could she stand here, right by the creek where she’d let Matthias cuddle her, and act as if he’d interrupted nothing more than a quilting bee?
He grabbed her elbow to march her even farther away from his men’s big ears. Short of the resting cattle, he released his hold, stepped back, and planted his feet wide apart. Arms akimbo, he demanded, “Before I make any promises, I want to know why you allowed that big German liberties.”
“Liberties? No, no. You misunderstand. Matthias is an old friend. He was comforting me, nothing else.”
Comforting her? Gil had to think on that. Her excuse sounded reasonable, especially since Matthias, back at the Four Aces, had told him Lisette was like a sister. An apology might be in order, but the Stars and Stripes would wave over Inverness before he’d do it. He was set that way.
“You still haven’t told me why you left home,” he said gruffly, “beyond some excuse about not wanting to live under another woman’s roof, that is.”
“Another woman’s roof is the problem, Mister McLoughlin. I have no home.” Her lovely mouth became pinched, her innocent eyes clouding with indignation, yet she stood taller. “Before the war I considered the farm my home. By the time it was over, my brother had inherited the land. My father expected I would marry, so he made no provision for me beyond a small dowry–which my brother felt would be better used to enrich the property.”
“He spent your dowry?” Gil asked, astounded but not totally surprised.
“Yes. And I became a slave in his wife’s household.”
She told him about her lack of options; how no one would hire her in Fredericksburg; how she believed no settlement in Texas would be far enough away to keep her out of her brother’s reach. Her explanations made sense.
“I need help,” she said.
He thought about those roughened hands, recalled seeing her in the fields. Hers had been a miserable situation, comparable to slavery which anyone would want to escape. He had fought a war to free human beings from the yoke of servitude.
Outside of the belles of the beleaguered Deep South, he had never known women to face Lisette’s hardships. It took guts to break away from such hell.
Trouble was, he couldn’t be her deliverance. If there were some way to help without inviting trouble from his men–or running short of them–he’d latch on to it.
“You could marry,” he suggested, conjuring up images of white satin and lace, and him in a dark suit and starched collar. That thought got severed, quick-like.
“I’m not a young woman. I’m a spinster of twenty-two.”
He had the sudden urge to see if she possessed a sense of humor. “Hmm, twenty-two changes everything.” He winked. “I understand why you’ve given up on marriage.”
She grinned, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the alluring curve of her mouth as she said, “My teeth aren’t so long or so many that it’s time to put me to pasture.”
“Let me count ’em. Gotta see for myself.”
“Not for marbles, money, or salt,” she came back, laughing and showing perfectly beautiful teeth. But she quit laughing. “We’ve gotten way off the subject. I do need employment.”
“Living around a campfire isn’t home and hearth,” he replied sternly. “It’s sleeping under the stars. And the men tend to be profane, including myself.”
“It wouldn’t be a cozy life. But I’m not accustomed to coziness. I’ve been around my brother and his boys. I’m not overly delicate about the differences between men and women.”
“That’s a
plus as far as credentials go, but a lady in company with a pack of crude males? I don’t think so.”
As a youth, he had had his mouth soaped out more than once over foul language, and his curses had grown bluer with age. Asking his men to curb their behavior didn’t seem right, since the trail boss was beyond help. Anyway, he was wasting thought. This cattle drive was no place for a lady.
Trying to disregard the pearly blond of her hair as the moonlight made a halo around it, he said, “I’m talking about more than a mere indelicate situation.”
“I told you I can handle indelicate.”
“Are you saying you aren’t a lady?” He held his breath.
“I am a lady, sir.” Setting her head at a proud tilt, she looked him in the eye. “But I’m a lady in difficulty. I have plans for the future, and they all rest on reaching Chicago.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a home of my own. And my own millinery shop. I’ve always been good with my hands.”
Right then Gil could think of a lot of things she could do with her hands, none of them involved hatmaking. As for his own hands, he’d enjoy skimming his thumbs across the taut peaks he’d witnessed earlier tonight.
He got serious. “Being cookie isn’t whipping up bonnets. It’s long hours, lost sleep, and hungry cowpunchers demanding food, rain or shine, dust or wind. It’s gathering fuel and building fires with no help whatsoever.” He was exaggerating on the no-help part, but she needed scaring. “It’s flies and varmints. Nuisance animals, too. And the men would expect you to be barber and doctor, sympathizer and scapegoat.”
“How much does the job pay?”
“Sixty bucks a month.”
“That much? My. I’d have a tidy nest egg.” Her face lit up with enthusiasm. “Be assured, hard work doesn’t frighten me. I can handle the job. I can do anything, once I set my mind to it. And my mind is set.”
“I’m beginning to get the picture. There’s something you’ve got to know, though: I won’t get you to Chicago.”
“Once you pay me for my work, I’ll take a train there from Abilene.”