by Martha Hix
He got paper and pen from the chuck box, stuck the lot of it in his pocket, then collected firewood from the chuck wagon’s underbelly store–the cooney. Deciding on a location far from his men and even farther from the temptations of Lisette McLoughlin, he made a fire and sat down in front of the blaze, his cowdog beside him.
He addressed the first letter to his grandmother. In glowing terms he told her about the new Mrs. McLoughlin. Since he’d never been one for subterfuge, especially with the silver-haired, Junoesque matriarch of the family, he admitted the marriage was for show. For now. He intended to make her a great-grandmother, and he told her so.
“Maisie will love that part,” he told his canine confidante, who settled her chin on one of his crossed legs. “My old granny may be a stickler for manners, but she’s a lusty wench, seventy years young. She speaks her mind about the birds and the bees, expects the same from others. And no one loves babes, especially McLoughlin bairns, more than the indomitable Maisie.”
Limpid, understanding brown eyes looked up at him. Would that Lisette gazed at him with that same adoration...
“You know, Sade, in a way, Lisette reminds me of Maisie. Neither one of them would ever say die.” He remembered his scare tactics in getting Lisette to agree to the marriage. It had taken a lot of scaring. He chuckled. “Yep, it was underhanded of me, scaring her like that, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
Sadie Lou had her own gotta-do. She craned away to scratch her ear. Appeased, she settled her chin on Gil’s knee again, and a long tongue snaked out to rake the heel of his hand. He gave her a pat of reassurance.
He folded and addressed Maisie’s letter. “Better write that gimp Adolf Keller, too.”
Sadie Lou yawned.
In brief terms he informed the German, “I’ve taken your sister to wife.”
Signing his name, he said to the dog, “I’d best send some money with this. Gotta pay for the stuff Lisette brought here.” He considered sending funds to pay for Willensstark but decided against it. “He’s going back to his owner. This drive doesn’t need any obstinate mules along, that’s for certain.”
The animal, money, and letter could be shipped from Lampasas.
Gil wrote two more letters. One was for Ernst Dietert’s wife, the other for Willie Gaines’ sister. He didn’t know how to get in touch with José’s family. The vaquero had never given information about himself beyond his name.
He rubbed Sadie Lou’s scruff. “If a person doesn’t offer details, one doesn’t pry. This is the way it is in the West.”
Gil folded the notes. He thought about those three graves, and it haunted him to think José’s family would never know the good-natured Mexican’s resting place.
He had the urge to talk about it. Would Lisette listen? Definitely; she was that kind of woman–at least when conversation didn’t concern making more of their marriage than she was ready to accept.
He tucked the letters into his pocket, gave Sadie Lou another pat, and got to his feet. Needing a safe place for his letters, he stuck them in his saddlebag.
And then he eased into the chuck wagon, stepping over the seat and leaving the flap up to allow moonlight in. His gaze slid down to the floorboard, to Lisette’s sleeping form. She hadn’t undressed. She still wore those britches and shirt. His eyes welding to the thrust of her breasts, he sucked in his breath. If you don’t stop gawking, there won’t be any talking.
He forced his eyes to her recumbent face. Her braids were in disarray, and he ached to loosen them completely and twine his fingers around those locks.
Her lashes, dark brown despite her fair coloring, fanned her creamy cheeks. He loved the way those lashes could drop demurely or frame her big eyes when they widened in surprise.
Her nose was neither too big nor too little. It had a faint rise at the bridge and was halfway between thin and wide. Pert it wasn’t, which wouldn’t have fit her anyhow. Pert was for women who lazed about the manor when not attending lavish balls and glittering cotillions. Lisette’s nose showed the heritage of her forebears–good, strong Teutonic stock. Her nose was a superb one to pass down to descendants.
Leaning against his upright trunk, he smiled. His mind’s eye concocted a passel of wee McLoughlins, all of them looking like their mother.
Aw, hell, what was the matter with him? He didn’t even know if she liked children. She had all those ideas about hatmaking, but surely stitchery wouldn’t hold a candle to motherhood.
He hadn’t an inkling of her preferences, save for a love of the dance–plus her millinery intentions and her quest to see the city of Chicago. Would she like listening to rain beat down on the ranchhouse’s tin roof?
Would she be as passionate as he suspected her of being?
He had a lot to learn about the new Mrs. McLoughlin... and he intended to be a devoted student. And he would be a tireless teacher in the art of lovemaking.
He knew how to get a woman warmed up, he’d had a lot of experience along that line, but never had he known satisfaction of the soul. He had damned sure known hell.
Betty–damn her–had played him for a patsy, had come to the marriage bed broken to a man’s saddle. And the bitch had laughed in his face, recounting her sexual escapades.
It wouldn’t be that way with Lisette. Lisette McLoughlin was a paragon.
He pushed away from the trunk and gazed down at his bride. Her alluring mouth parted slightly; she took short breaths as she slept. Should he awaken her? If he did, it wouldn’t be to converse about the subject that had prompted him back to the chuck wagon: leaving three men in their graves.
And she needed time to celebrate and be cultivated. Gil wouldn’t push the issue, unless he just couldn’t take the heat anymore.
Tonight, he could take the heat.
He crept out of the chuck wagon to make himself yet another rotten bed in the woods. He didn’t get a wink of sleep, for his mind was crowded with Lisette and his groin was in critical need of a cold-water dousing. Way before daybreak, he snuck back to his wife.
Her hair was braided anew and wound around her head in a coronet, and she was dressed in clean shirt and trousers, eager to make breakfast. There would be no reveling today. He did work on the cultivating part, though, to no success.
The second day of their married life proceeded the same as the first. Gil was approaching the end of his patience.
On the third day, just after the midday rest and food stop, Big Red threw a shoe. Collecting it, Gil fastened his eyes on the approaching chuck wagon, and most particularly on its driver.
Hmm, Old Son. What do you think?
He made a survey of the situation. At the time of the sorrel’s bad luck, the herd was lumbering along without protest, the cowboys half asleep in their saddles, no doubt hankering for an hour’s siesta to settle the latest delicious meal prepared by Miz Good Biscuits–the nickname his men had given her the day after the wedding.
Patiently, Gil walked the limping stallion toward the chuck wagon. Where Lisette was concerned, his patience had ended. He wanted her. Here. Now.
Though the locale was fine for his skills as smithy, it wasn’t particularly conducive to lovemaking, not with three thousand sets of horns plus their punchers in attendance. Plus, he figured Lisette herself would throw a shoe if he made motions to stop longer than it took to shoe Big Red. She expected to reach the night camp ahead of the herd so that the beans would be just right and the roast just so. And his men deserved her best efforts. The hell with it.
She was spoiling every man jack in the company, including Tecumseh Billy. Only this morning she’d had that steer eating carrots out of her hand. “T-Bill” could move on ahead–and eat grass for a change. The men could sup on steak and fries tonight. There was leftover vinegar pie–boy howdy, was it good, tasted just like lemon pie. No one would suffer.
Still guiding the limping stallion along, Gil motioned for the longhorns and their escorts to move ahead. “Matt, you know the way to Slick Rock Creek. We�
�ll meet you there.”
Right here, in this deep green meadow, Gil would make Lisette his wife in fact, rather than merely in name.
There was no time to waste.
Chapter Eight
“Hold up, honey.”
Bent on making Lisette his woman today, Gil brought the limping Big Red abreast of the chuck wagon. She reined in the draught horses and turned her covered head his way.
“What is wrong?” she asked in that German accent which never failed to excite him.
Gil pointed to the sorrel’s left front leg. “I need to fetch the smithy tools.”
“No need. I’ll get them while you hobble him.”
Gil watched her climb into the wagon. Good gracious, she was pretty, even with her usual men’s clothes and that peculiar headpiece. The man’s hat was gone, replaced by the fedora he’d seen her wear in Fredericksburg, and it was a mess after the past days, all flattened feathers and road dust. No matter, she still looked pretty to him. He’d bet she’d be a helluva lot prettier without a stitch of clothing.
Trail dust swirled as the mooing herd continued on, over an incline. Thankfully Sadie Lou was doing her job, wasn’t paying mind to him and the sorrel. By the time Lisette had fetched the collection of nails and a hammer–what the hell was keeping her?–the drag riders were in sight.
It took massive resolve for Gil not to grab Lisette into his arms when she handed over those implements. Remember, Old Son, she’s skittish as a doe and innocent as a newborn. Don’t rush her.
Nonetheless, Gil wasn’t above stripping off his vest and shirt to attack the horseshoeing. Hell, he wasn’t kidding himself. He intended to capture his little doe’s attention and give her a lesson in becoming a woman.
Yet, to be honest with himself, he’d turned a mite scared. If he didn’t make the first time right for her, it might turn her off him forever. He’d make certain it was right.
Sun rays beat on his back as he raised the sorrel’s front cannon. “Honey, wanna give me a hand?”
“S-sure.”
Since their wedding night, when he’d browbeaten her into helping him with his boots, Gil hadn’t asked for anything special, and it pleased him no end that she hadn’t fallen to her usual brand of objections. Maybe she was more ready than he had figured. You’d like to think so.
She set the bonnet aside, thank goodness; it was all he could do not to snicker at the silly thing.
“Take hold of his leg, honey. That’s right . . . just like that.”
He put nails in his mouth and took the hammer in his right hand. She leaned over to keep the horse’s knee immobile. Around the iron nails, Gil inhaled the womanly scent of Lisette, drawing her musk through his nostrils, letting it seep through his senses.
While her aura spread like the gentle lap of water against a shore, he stole a glimpse at her breasts. They were so close to his mouth . . . so close. He considered himself fortunate not to swallow the nails, and Big Red was lucky to get a good shoeing.
The last nail in place, he gave the stallion a pat, tied him to the chuck wagon, and fetched some hay. Gil’s back was to his wife, and if she saw the testament to his arousal, he figured she’d take flight. He yearned for her to see and appreciate all of him, but . . . cultivate.
“I could use something. To drink,” he said hoarsely.
“It’s . . . the lunch coffee . . . I–I kept the pot in the sun, so it should be warm, at least. Would you like a cup?” she asked, her voice catching.
Right now, he could use one of those beers she and her countrymen were so fond of. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
She returned to the chuck wagon to fetch the coffee, and he willed himself into decent enough shape to turn around. Ambling over to the chuck box, he took the cup between his hands. He did not look at Lisette. If he had, sheer will wouldn’t have been enough.
He settled on the ground, resting his naked back against a wagon wheel and extending one leg in front of him. As he sipped the tepid coffee, he watched Lisette seat herself a couple of yards to his left. She drew her knees up to rest her chin on them.
“Gil.” With a demure tilt to her head she studied his bare torso. “H-how did you get those scars?”
“From wars.”
“Wars? Not war?”
“Wars. Comanche arrowheads made a couple of holes in my arms.” He pointed to the silvery indention on his shoulder. “A Johnny Reb in Georgia got me here.”
She looked away, but not before he caught her startled expression.
“Lisette, you know I served in the Union Army.” This wasn’t where he wanted the conversation to lead. If there was a problem, though, they needed to get it out in the open. “Why do I get the impression it bothers you?”
“It doesn’t bother me. But I thought you knew Adolf... and my father . . . and my uncle were all Confederates.”
He hadn’t known anything of the kind. Most of the German-Texans had sided with the Union. While he didn’t hold with Confederate beliefs, he respected any man’s right to fight for his own beliefs.
“Adolf was wounded at Gettysburg.” A tear rolled down her cheek; she swiped it away. “Thank God he didn’t die.”
Gil could tell by the emotions issuing from Lisette that while she resented her brother and the hell he and his wife had put her through, she loved him. Such loyalty was a precious gift. Too bad Adolf Keller hadn’t appreciated it.
She said, “General Hood himself lost the use of his arm at Gettysburg, but he was kind enough to send Adolf back to Monika. I–I suppose you’ve noticed how my brother limps.”
“I have.”
“My father and uncle were with the general, too–in Georgia.”
Her admission caught Gil in the gut, like the force of a minié ball. “They were valiant fighters,” he uttered. Suddenly he wished for a smoke, a habit he’d given up.
“Yes, valiant to the death.”
“I wish they could’ve returned to you.” Gil meant this.
“That would have answered my prayers.” Tilting her head, her eyes growing suspicious, she asked, “How do you know about their bravery?”
Gil was tempted to skate over the truth, but he wouldn’t delve into deceit, even if the price was his wife’s admiration. “I fought in Georgia. I was an attaché to General Sherman.”
Two of her fingers lifted to press against her temple, as if a pain had suddenly struck.
“Do you hate me for being a Yankee, Lisette?” he asked then.
“No.” She dropped her hand. “I haven’t let the war rage on in my heart. But I won’t lie and say your allegiance to Sherman doesn’t stun me, because it does. From what I’ve heard of his assault against the people of Georgia as well as the soldiers of the Confederacy, I think it was an abomination.”
“Honey, war isn’t a picnic. Each side has to use every weapon in the arsenal.”
“I suppose.” She hesitated. “Gil, if you had it to do over again, would you torch your way to the Atlantic?”
“I never left Atlanta. I never burned anything except for a hellhole of a plantation, and as an officer in charge of a brigade, I never fired at shot–in Georgia, anyway. I might’ve had to, but I was wounded in the initial battle. General Sherman put me in charge of a captured precinct after I left the field hospital.”
She wasn’t saying a word; he got to the point of the question still evident in her set features. “I gave my best efforts to win. I fought to free human beings from the same sort of hell you experienced in your brother’s household. Only true slavery is much worse than being in company with a demanding sister-in-law. Ask Dinky Peele, if you don’t believe me.”
“Let’s clear up your misconception. I never condoned slavery. My family didn’t, either. Adolf and Onkel–I mean, Uncle–August and my father fought for the Lone Star.” She spread her arms. “The state opened its arms to us, gave us shelter when we needed it. When my kinsmen were conscripted, they didn’t turn their backs. They answered the call.”
She got to
her feet, rubbing her temple, and asked, “If you don’t mind, can we change the subject?”
“I’d welcome it. Why don’t you let me rub your temples?”
“Nein!”
His eyes moved down her curvaceous form, then back up to her face. He intended to get closer to his wife–a helluva lot closer. Closing the distance between them, he said, “Come here, honey. I’m going to give you a good rubbing.”
Chapter Nine
“Nein!” she repeated. Her English had left her, as it always did at times of greatest stress. Lisette scrambled away from her advancing husband. “I do not want you to rub anything. Go on to your herd. And put on your shirt!”
Ever since he had starting shoeing Big Red, Gil had been driving her to distraction. Their days of so-called married life had driven her to headaches, period. And now, with the two of them alone, his men and cattle north of the meadow, and she feared letting down her guard.
As never before.
His forehead creased with concern as he halted three paces in front of her. “You do resent my service in the Union Army.”
Once more she kneaded her throbbing temple, collecting her English to answer honestly, “No, I do not.”
“Well and good.” Gil’s brow flattened, then concern marked his features anew. “But you’ve got a headache from something, and if it’s not from Adolf’s stories, why won’t you let me massage away your pain?”
“Because I ... because I’m so confused I don’t know what to do or which way to turn.”
It didn’t help to center her attention on the picture of male perfection he presented, standing there shirtless, the sun kissing his muscle-bound, scarred shoulders and shining through the ink-hued, crinkled hair dusting his arms and chest. And why was it that she lacked enough will to turn her eyes from the network of veins above all that arm brawn and those strong, capable hands?
Her gaze dropped–but not to the ground.
Below his bare torso, the gunbelt still rode on his hips. And those chaps–they shone with the patina of years of working cattle. At the top of them, at the front of him, denim caught her eye, denim worn smooth with the outline of a formidable bulge of male virility.