by Martha Hix
“You don’t understand,” she murmured. “There is something you need to–”
“Enough talk. ‘Yes’ is all I’ll accept.”
Again he cut around Willensstark and brought Lisette into his arms, this time to hush her protests. He would do everything in his power to make theirs a real marriage. Furthermore, he was not going to lollygag in making it real.
Chapter Six
At dusk, the Four Aces outfit made camp about eight miles northeast of the site of the predawn Comanche raid. Matthias Gruene chose not to appear at supper, and his decision had little to do with anxieties over having watched Lisette struggle all day with the chuck wagon and its team.
Being a loner by nature and especially by present circumstance, the strawboss plodded across the open range and tried to collect his wits. Impossible. He felt as if a tomahawk had rent his chest. McLoughlin was going to take Lisette to wife–tonight.
Behaving like a Dummkopf instead of a man of twenty-three, he hadn’t protested when the Scotsman had asked for help in gaining Lisette’s acquaintance. Matthias had figured nothing would come of the situation, Adolf being the way he was.
He should have known McLoughlin wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted.
Right now Matthias could have smashed the trail boss’s face . . . and might before the wedding even began. He had always been fond of Lisette–overly fond of Lisette–and her happiness meant a lot.
How could he stop her foolishness?
He hurried back to camp. His fellow cowboys weren’t crowded around the fire. Maybe they too were shocked at the upcoming marriage. They couldn’t be as surprised as I am. Maybe his colleagues weren’t shocked in the least, since they were eager for a good cook; so eager, in fact, that the cowherds had been on their good behavior. Probably McLoughlin ordered them away.
He was good at shouting commands.
The trail boss, Matthias noted, stood away from camp, huddled with the preacher. He quelled the urge to provoke a fight; Lisette was the one he needed to convince not to go through with the plans.
Matthias sought her out. The supper dishes washed and put away, she was tidying up the chuck box, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary would occur in the next few minutes.
Her hair flowing freely down her back; she wore the dead Willie Gaines’s britches and shirt. Matthias recalled how, as a boy, he used to yank on her braids. As a man, he’d always wanted to touch those silky strands, but he hadn’t been brave enough to make a bid for her hand.
Matthias didn’t stand on ceremony when he reached her side. “Rather an abrupt courtship, wouldn’t you say?”
“Desperate times lead to desperate measures.”
He studied her. From the grim set of her mouth, from the rigidity of her back, he knew she’d go through with the marriage. Which didn’t mean he shouldn’t show some courage.
“You aren’t in dire enough straits to sell out on your dream.” He stepped closer. “Lise, you don’t have to marry the Scotsman. I’ll take you away from here.”
“If you’d offered yesterday, I would have accepted.”
“I didn’t think it would come to this.”
“Matthias, you know he wanted to court me. I’ve accepted his proposal, and I won’t look back.”
If he’d known she wanted marriage, he would have offered it; thus, there would have been no need for her to take flight from Fredericksburg.
Take flight . . .
He could abscond with her . . .
But what could he offer except protection? His worldly goods filled less than one duffel bag, his pocket held nothing but five measly dollars. Even his horse held the Four Aces brand. At a time he should have been collecting wealth, he’d been fighting Mister Lincoln’s war. When it was over, he’d returned to a state struggling for economic survival. And the laughing blonde hadn’t been the same girl he’d left in 1863. The laugh had gone out of her.
“Why is this marriage important to you?” he asked. “Why, after all these years of spurning admirers, do you want to mark yourself with a divorced stranger?”
Her shoulders drooped; she didn’t reply.
“Do you love him, Lise?” he asked, hoping she’d deny it.
She slammed closed a cupboard drawer. “Enough to pledge my troth.”
“Enough to make you happy?”
“Ja.”
He didn’t believe her. He had heard of love at first sight, had never thought it existed, and still didn’t. Yet Lisette wasn’t a woman to lie.
“If there’s even a slight chance you’ll be happy, who am I to stand in the way?” he asked rhetorically, pitying himself for not being more aggressive before she’d met McLoughlin. His voice hollow, he said, “You have my best wishes.”
He made for the bridegroom. Ignoring the curled-lipped minister, he told McLoughlin in no uncertain terms, “You had better be good to the Mädchen, or you’ll answer to me.”
McLoughlin, smooth and arrogant, gave his assurance.
Lisette watched Matthias as he went to her fiancé. She hadn’t been completely frank with her friend, and it hurt to see him worried. She couldn’t confess she’d had no choice but to accept Gil McLoughlin’s proposal.
Saying yes to the bargain was a matter of survival. He had frightened her witless, evoking horrible memories of her sister. Lisette’s eyes squeezed closed. As if it were yesterday she remembered that dry creekbed of eight years ago and the mutilated body beside it. Her thick, blond hair gone, there had been a grotesque, petrified cast to that precious, dead face. For Olga, Lisette had cried–then, and again today.
And Matthias’ offer of help had come too late.
She’d promised the trail boss she’d be his cook, and she wouldn’t renege on her word. If she had, she’d be as much of a lowlife as a certain male in San Antonio.
Moreover, she had faith in Gil McLoughlin. From the way he carried himself to the strong set of his jaw, his appearance bespoke trust. And as each moment passed, each time they conversed, her faith in him grew. He had promised to protect her from harm, and he would. He had promised not to abandon her; he wouldn’t.
And the latter was the more important to Lisette.
The most significant aspect of their relationship, though, was: they needed each other.
He wouldn’t regret giving her his name. She’d play the roll of affectionate wife without a lack of feeling on her part, and she’d please his men with her best culinary efforts, which would make the trail easier for everyone. He would find her a devoted and sincere partner in his enterprise.
Her all was what she would give . . . all but her body.
She glanced at the man who would give her his protection. He was walking toward her, his gait loose and relaxed. He appeared pleased at entering this travesty of marriage. He did reserve the right to change my mind about the name-only part. She could never, ever, allow their marriage to become anything more than a simple arrangement.
Her bridegroom was near her now, wearing a clean flannel shirt and twill britches. Gone were his hat, chaps, and gunbelt. He smelled of bay rum and fresh air. She enjoyed this scent, but she liked the manly, plain aroma of him as well. For once his hair was somewhat under control. The urge to tousle those loose black curls was as real as the canopy of stars above, the warmth of this evening, and the beaming smile of her soon-to-be husband.
“These are for you.” He lifted his hand, and his voice was as tight with emotion as the strings of her heart. “A bride can’t get married without a bouquet.”
Her heart thrumming, she accepted the bluebonnets and buttercups. This wasn’t a church, nor was the marriage for real, but never had such a sweet gesture affected her so deeply; she wanted to cry.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I–I never expected . . .”
“It’s only appropriate.” His palm settled on her upper arm, his fingers curving. “Expect the unexpected.”
The preacher made a noise from his throat to call attention to their dawdling.
Gil McLoughlin offered his hand, and she laced her fingers with his. They took their places before the preacher.
Eli Wilson yelled, “We need witnesses.”
Seven cowboys appeared and lined up between the chuck wagon and the campfire. Sadie Lou, under the worktable, roused from sleep to sit up and watch the happenings. As if he were an invited guest, Tecumseh Billy trotted to the camp’s perimeter, then stood by, his great horns turned in their direction.
Ashen-faced, Matthias walked up. His expression read, “I’ve given my best wishes, but I want you to think twice.”
She had done her thinking and deciding.
Nonetheless, the wildflowers began to shake, and trying to get a grip on them as well as on herself, she glanced upward. Clouds moved across the moon.
Preacher Wilson, the Good Book cradled in his palm, cleared his throat. “Let me repeat. Will you take this man to be your wedded husband?”
Her gaze flew to the man at her right, and she gained strength from his steadfastness. There was no other she’d want for her own. “I will.”
Gil squeezed her hand.
“Will you take this woman to be your wedded wife?”
“I will,” was the strong, sure reply.
Preacher Wilson turned back to Lisette. “Will you love, honor . . .
I will honor him. And I do love him in untold ways.
“... forsaking all others, for as long as ye both shall live?”
“I–I will.”
“Will you love, honor, and keep her, forsaking all others, for as long as ye both shall live?”
“I will.”
The sacred vows continued. Gil slipped a gold band on her finger and it carried the warmth of his hand. For a fleeting moment she wondered where he’d gotten it and why it fit.
“In the presence of God and these witnesses, I now pronounce you man and wife.” The minister smiled at the couple. It was his first expression of approval since Lisette had joined the Four Aces outfit. “You may kiss your bride.”
Gil’s hand went to her waist, and it felt warm and protective . . . and provocative. He smiled his seductive smile that made mush of her insides. His lips parted to kiss her. Hers did not part. The bouquet fluttered from her fingers, yet she grabbed the cherished flowers from the ground . . . and accepted that her tall, strong partner would seal their vows with a deep kiss.
This was a wedding–their wedding–and she allowed herself to be weak. Just this once . . . no, once again.
Her fingers flattened against his nape as his lips met hers. His tongue moved inside, and she tasted the pure flavor of his mouth. Mmmm. so nice. His arms were around her, his hands pulling her close to the hard strength of his warm body. Mmmm. nicer.
“Oh, Mister McLoughlin,” she murmured breathily. “You won’t regret this. I promise with all my heart.”
This, she pledged meaningfully–to her husband and to God.
The witnesses cheered; the dog chased Tecumseh Billy from camp; Matthias drifted away from the celebration.
And Lisette wished her marriage could be different. If only she could accept all he’d offered . . . But theirs would be a good arrangement, she vowed. Somehow she’d keep her distance.
Once more, she whispered, “Oh, Mister McLoughlin.”
“Darlin’, you’d better call me Gil.”
Chapter Seven
All the bridegroom wanted was to dispense with his bride’s virginity, and now. Yet Gil had promised himself to cultivate and celebrate their loving, and he wouldn’t pounce upon her. He’d done enough pouncing in his life. He didn’t want sexual release; he wanted everything. The everything he’d never had, but would . . . with Lisette.
An hour had passed since his men had finally called it quits on the nuptial celebration. Out of respect, they had spread their bedrolls well away from this chuck wagon, where Gil and his bride were spending their first night as man and wife.
Sitting on his upright trunk, his back to the spring seat, he watched her. She stood at the rear and brushed her long, flowing locks in the dim light, and he knew her hand wasn’t shaking in anticipation of marital pleasure.
Since the moment they had climbed into the wagon, she’d been trying to ignore him. He hadn’t let her. Okay, they had conversed about trivialities, about the cattle drive, about the weather–all the things that were least on his mind–but he hadn’t allowed her silence.
They ought to be making love. This was their wedding night, damn it. But theirs wasn’t a real marriage, not as far as she was concerned. Not a garment had she discarded, despite the wagon’s warmth. He, too, remained buttoned up in wedding attire, such as it was.
He wanted her to notice him as a man rather than as an employer who shared the same last name.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you shucked a few of those clothes?”
She continued to brush her hair.
“At least loosen the top buttons of your shirt,” he said. “It’s hot as Hades in here.”
The brush stilled. “I am kalt ... I mean, cold.”
Never would he believe that. Already she’d shown her passionate nature. Each time they had kissed, he’d got the impression that fire burned within his innocent Lisette. He damned sure hoped so.
“You looked beautiful tonight, standing there in front of the preacher.”
He yearned to stand, to close the distance between them. He wanted to acquaint himself with the womanly lines of her body . . . and acquaint her with the manly lines of his. Cultivate, celebrate.
“You look even more beautiful right now. I wish the lantern were lit. I’d love to look at you, really look at you.”
She set the brush aside. “Gil, do you mind if I ask a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Where did you get this wedding ring?” She held her left hand aloft, looking at the gold band.
“It belonged to my grandmother.”
“Has she . . . Is she deceased?”
“Maisie? Not by a long shot.”
“Why isn’t she wearing this ring?”
“Because she gave it to me. With a stipulation or two. I was in pretty bad shape when I left Illinois, what with the divorce and all,” he explained. “For the first time in her life, Maisie took off her ring. She told me, ‘Lad, by the ghost o’ Bonny Prince Charlie, I have faith in you. I know you’ll pull yourself together and find happiness again. Put this ring on the lass you’re sure you’ll spend the rest o’ your days with.’ ”
“Gott in Himmel. You shouldn’t have given it to me.”
“Darlin’, the next time I see the Four Aces Ranch, you’re going to be at my side.”
“Gil,” she said quietly, “can’t we talk some more about my duties? Now, as I understand it, I’m the first person awake in the mornings, and when I have breakfast ready, I call the men. While they’re eating, I start the midday meal. Then you guide the chuck wagon to the noon rest stop, and I finish lunch. As soon as the dishes are washed, you lead me to our evening camp. And–”
“Mind if I loosen a few of my shirt buttons?” he asked, watching her profile from the length of the wagonbed. He unfastened his shirt to the midway point. He was still hot, and not necessarily from the warm night. “Mind if I take off my boots?”
“I fix enough bread at breakfast to do for the midday meal, I believe you told me.”
“Lisette . . . I could use your help. And I don’t mean as cookie.” When she turned to face him, he explained, “I have a helluva time getting my boots off.”
“Then you should buy larger boots.”
“You’re right. But how’s that going help now?” She trembled; he felt it all the way over here. “Will you help me, Lisette?”
“Gil, you’ve had dreissig–I ... I m-mean, th-th-thirty years to learn to take off your boots.”
Her accent was thicker than pea soup. Again she attacked her hair with the brush. Nervously she braided the waist-length mass. Again.
This was a night for agains. Probably it wasn’t a night for lovemaking, but he had to keeping trying.
“Nobody ever told me to buy my boots bigger. See how much you’ve helped me already? And we haven’t been married three hours.”
“Ich–I ... I think it would be better if you didn’t refer to our agreement as m-marriage. I must think of my duties as cook, and you should . . . should preserve your energies for your cattle drive.”
“Honey, I’ve got plenty of energy.” He levered himself to stand, then angled his trunk down to sit again. “Come on. I’m making boot removal one of your responsibilities.”
Without a word she walked to him. Yet her demure regard wouldn’t meet the open need of his. When she started to kneel at his feet, he stopped her.
“I know a better method.” He took her hand. “Straddle me. Backward. Then pull up. It’s much easier that way.”
It took a while–probably five or six minutes–to convince her, and he doubted the convincing was necessarily over the best way to remove boots.
At last, though, she was sitting on his knees, her back to him. His fingers clamped around her waist to “keep you steady.” Damn, she felt good to him. And he was getting harder and harder.
She yanked on a boot; it flew from his foot. Quickly, much too quickly, she had the other off and was standing again.
“Don’t you think it’s time for you to take your bedroll outside?” she asked, her face averted.
“That’s not how I want to spend my wedding night, and I don’t think that’s how you want to spend yours.”
“Are you not a man of your word? You promised to move outdoors, once your men were safely asleep. I’m sure they’re safely asleep.”
If he rushed his reluctant bride, he’d have trouble in his hands rather than a fistful of willing flesh. Cultivate, celebrate. He collected his bedroll.
For hours he tossed and rolled on the ground, gazing at the north star. Giving up any notion of sleep, he folded his bedding and ambled around the campsite, Sadie Lou at his side.
“Think I’ll write some letters,” he said to the dog. “Busy work’ll keep my mind off my lusts . . . I hope.”