by Martha Hix
She had lived through Thorn’s rejection. She could live through Gil’s. But why did it hurt so deeply this time?
Past her closed throat, she asked, “Where do we go from here?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to Kansas.”
“Why does that sound as if I won’t be going with you?”
“Why don’t you cease with the wounded-innocent performance? You didn’t lose anything from our tumble in the leaves. But I feel like I owe you something. You are my legally wedded and bedded wife.”
How could he think she’d lost nothing? Didn’t hope count for anything? When she’d left Fredericksburg, it had been to follow an ambiguous dream of Chicago and hatmaking. Gil McLoughlin had changed all that . . . she had begun to dream the impossible.
“You’re right. I lost nothing. But I believe I have earned something.” She paused. “I’ve earned the right to the truth. Were you coming back for me?”
He shook his head slowly.
The headache that had precipitated all this hell returned. “Is impurity sufficient cause to forsake a wife?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” she cut in. “I often don’t make myself clear. Being a Hun, I have difficulty at times with the language of this country, so please bear with me. As you pointed out, we are legally wedded and bedded. Is my lack of virginity enough to turn your back on our marriage?”
Dead quiet. A muscle ticked in his jaw. At last he admitted, “I got shut of one wife. I suppose I’m capable of doing it again.”
She staggered, then stood petrified with dread. All along she’d assumed the first Mrs. McLoughlin had been the one to do the leaving. Wrong. Moreover, he’d said he was capable of abandoning a second wife.
Her greatest fear was coming true.
Where was her faith in him? He wouldn’t leave her . . . he wouldn’t. She couldn’t be that wrong about him. Maybe she’d mistaken his meaning. Hoping and praying this was the case, she asked, “What . . . what do you mean?”
“It means I’ve married my second piece of goods. I divorced the first one after she bore another man’s child.”
Lisette sucked in her breath. Now she understood his unyielding resistance. What a horrible, horrible disservice she’d done by not being courageous enough for total honesty–before the wedding.
“Oh, Gil, how awful,” she murmured sincerely, her self-pity gone. She yearned to give comfort; his face was dark with hurt past and present. “I will never be unfaithful.”
She reached to touch his shoulder; he deflected her fingers, and his eyes like ice-coated tin, he said, “I’ve heard enough. I’ve wasted enough time for an afternoon.”
God, help us both. But the Lord helped those who helped themselves. Yes, she was in the wrong, but Gil had been the one to demand marriage as well as her body. She would not abide veiled threats, nor would she live in fear of being deserted.
Advancing on her husband, Lisette said, “I may have been less than you expected, but you’re less than I expected, too.”
Brushing the Stetson that had fallen from his head when he’d stopped the horses, he imparted yet another glare. “In what way?”
“I never took you for a maker of empty promises.”
He shoved the crumpled hat atop his head of black hair. “If you’ve concocted something to manipulate me, forget it. It won’t work.”
“I’ve concocted nothing. You promised to escort me to Kansas, and you promised to protect me all the way there. Likewise, you promised not to leave me. Furthermore, we made vows before God, and I don’t intend to let you forsake them.”
Obviously taken aback, he swallowed and stared at the ground. His thumbs tucked behind his gunbelt, he half turned to squint at the sun, then back to the chuck wagon.
“I did make promises.” His voice was slow and measured. “I won’t renege.”
“Good,” she said with the courage that had failed her so many times. “I expect as much.”
He removed his thumbs from his gunbelt and stepped forward to grab a hank of her hair. “Don’t think you’ve pulled some sort of coup, Lisette. As I said, I got shut of one piece of baggage, and I’ll do it again, if you don’t toe the mark. You will honor the deal you made. You’re going to cook your way to Kansas.” He freed his fingers as if he’d been scalded. “Do whatever it takes–and women know a few methods–to keep your lusts to yourself.”
Flabbergasted and offended, she mocked his crushing words of earlier that afternoon. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“With you, I don’t.”
“Believe me, I will never, ever grab your ankle again.”
“I mean, keep your lusts away from my men.”
“I’ve given you no call for a remark such as that. And if this venture is to be successful, you must never say such things again.”
He blinked. “I suppose we do need to save face in front of my men. Be warned, Lisette. I expect you to act as if you’re a happy, faithful wife.”
“Faithful will be no problem. As for happy, I’ll do it. Somehow And you might want to work on your own expression. You look like you’ve just eaten a sour pickle.”
That night, Lisette tried to ease the tension between herself and Gil by making amends in her own way She did her best to repair his crumpled Stetson.
He tossed it in the campfire and told her, “When I want extra from you, I’ll tell you. For now, I want nothing but your cooking.”
“Fair enough,” she replied, watching the hat draw up and disintegrate like the shreds of her hopes.
In the days following the calamity of the meadow, Lisette gave everything to Gil’s demand: she did her job and left him alone.
From way before sunrise to way after sundown, she toiled at each and every duty ascribed to a trail cook–and more. She allowed no one to assist her. At night she made certain she didn’t touch his ankle, but she was well aware of each moment he carried his bedroll outdoors. Every night she cried into the floorboard.
For a week this went on.
And the same seven days began again.
Fifteen days passed from that awful day in the meadow She began to accept that she’d never win her husband’s understanding, yet her spirit could not be crushed. That evening she went about her chores, and tried once more for his attention.
Following him as he left the campsite, she said, “If you’ve got a minute . . .”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve noticed, well, your hair could use a trim. And I believe you told me barbering is part of my duties.”
“I’ll get a haircut in Lampasas.”
He stomped away, leaving her frustrated anew.
Damn her, using a haircut as a ploy to get on a man’s good side. Gil stomped into the woods, relieved himself, and crammed the part of him that wanted attention back into his britches. Buttoning up was no mean feat, since he stayed half-hard despite his anger and disgust. All he had to do was look at Lisette and the old passions roused. But it would be a cold day in hell before he’d act on them.
Taking his time, he made his way back to camp. A quartet of cowhands circled the fire. Johns Clark played the French harp; Fritz Fischer finished off an apple turnover, licked his fingers, and left. Stretched out, Blade Sharp rested his head on his saddle, his hands laced across his stomach. And Wink Tannington was talking to Lisette.
“I hate to trouble you, ma’am,” Gil heard Tannington say, “but I’ve got a smarting shoulder. Wrenched it this afternoon. Do you reckon you could rub some liniment on it?”
“Certainly, Wink.” She pointed to an empty, upturned barrel. “Have a seat over there, and I’ll be right with you.”
Gil didn’t cotton to her rubbing anything into anyone, but a cookie was expected to be an amateur doctor, so he simply frowned and scissored to the ground. He retrieved his whittling knife, picked up a piece of oak. His line of sight was aimed at Tannington.
The one-armed cowpoke dof
fed his shirt. Lisette, a bottle in hand, poured from it. Tannington sighed as the liniment touched his right shoulder. The fingers that had touched Gil McLoughlin in passion now stroked the arm and shoulder of his employee. Tannington’s eyes rolled back. His legs spread, and Gil saw that the Mississippian was getting aroused.
Christ. Tannington wasn’t the only one. Gil wanted her hands touching the flesh a wife ought to be caressing.
The piece of oak dropped from his grip; he started to put a halt to Tannington’s lusts, but the cowpoke brought his legs together and blushed.
“Thank you, ma’am. That’ll be enough.”
It better be. Gil picked up the oak piece again. Weeks on the road were getting to the entire company, he knew It would be a good thing, reaching Lampasas and its whore. Trouble was, what the devil was he going to do, once they got there? He couldn’t visit the doxies, and he wouldn’t seek Lisette out.
At that moment Blade Sharp raised up from his nap. “Say, Miz Good Biscuits, since ya’re of a mind to doctoring, think I could talk ya outta a little barbering?”
Not replying, Lisette replaced the cap on the liniment bottle.
Johns Clark took the harmonica from his mouth and studied the goings-on. Gil kept an eye on it all, too.
Sharp rolled a cigarette and lit it. Taking the stogie from his mouth, he picked a piece of tobacco from the tip of his tongue to examine it. “You ain’t gonna help me out, gal?”
Gil did the answering. “See the barber in Lampasas.”
While he trusted Tannington and the others to keep their lusts to themselves, he held no such respect for Blade Sharp. Best keep an eye on that one.
The morning after Blade Sharp had asked for a haircut, Lisette set the breakfast dishes to rights, then picked up the ax. Dawn was sending ribbons of orange across the eastern horizon as she split firewood. The only man left in camp was Matthias Gruene.
He walked up to her and took the ax out of her hand. His brown eyes troubled, he said, “You have a right to help, Lise.”
Since her wedding, he’d tried to speak with her, but she had avoided him, thanks to his criticism of the union. Today, though, she replied, “I ask no favors for being a woman.”
“Being a woman has nothing to do with it.” Aggravation dented Matthias’s mouth. “As nighthawk, Willie Gaines would be doubling as cook’s louse, were he alive. Besides that, the cowpokes are supposed to pitch in and help you.”
“That wasn’t what I was given to understand,” she replied, and could have bitten her tongue.
“Gil said you’re supposed to do everything?”
“He said nothing of the kind.”
But Gil had spelled out a cook’s duties. The day he’d asked for marriage, he had been clear about her responsibilities. Why had he lied?
Common sense had a word with her suspicious mind: Think about what you’d accuse him of. He wasn’t a liar. And he was the boss. It was within his right to set any conditions, any responsibilities for his underlings. If he expected her to work alone, then fine. She would continue to do so.
Since she had no wish to discuss her husband, she switched the topic. “I understand we’re to reach Lampasas tomorrow.”
“Right.”
“The men have been talking nonstop about it,” she said. “They all seem to have plans. You, on the other hand, haven’t said a word on the subject.”
He didn’t comment, and she scrutinized her brown-haired friend. Matthias was tall, hale, robust, and even-featured–the attributes young ladies found attractive. Yet she’d never known him to have an affair of the heart. Of course he was young–twenty-three wasn’t old for a bachelor–but wasn’t it a shame he’d never found someone to love and make marriage and a home with, rather than taking to the lonely life of a cowboy?
“What about you, Matthias? Will you seek out the Lampasas ladies?”
An odd look crossed his square-jawed face. “Ladies don’t interest me.”
“Matthias!” A vision from the past burst forth. “Surely you aren’t like Rudolf Klein!”
He chuckled. “No, Lise, I am not like our old schoolmate. I do have an interest in the fair sex. I said ladies don’t interest me. I am interested in one lady”
“Who, Matthias? Tell me. I want to hear all about her.”
“Frau Busybody, I will not tolerate your prying.” He shook a finger. “I came over to chop wood. Will you allow me?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You’re too pigheaded for your own good,” he said, exasperated.
“Work, Matthias–it awaits you. But not my work.”
As he walked away to collect his hat and lariat, she wondered about him. She had been prying, but why didn’t he wish to discuss his lady friend? He rode out of camp. And Lisette hoped everything would turn out well for him.
You’ve turned into a romantic, just like Anna Uhr. Given the hopeless situation with Gil, Lisette supposed she’d lost the last grip on sanity.
Ten minutes later, she rubbed her brow with the back of a hand . . . and caught sight of Blade Sharp. A shiver of revulsion went through her. Every man in the outfit had been cordial and nice, except him. For the past week–and always away from the others–he had made a nuisance of himself. Last night had been his closest to showing his true colors in front of her husband.
Forget any more firewood. She tossed what she had in the cooney, then rushed to finish harnessing the draught horses. But she wasn’t quick enough to deflect Blade Sharp.
Running an overlong nail down the scar on his face, he asked, “Got any more coffee, gal?”
“You’ll have to wait for the midday break.” She hurried with the harnessing.
“Don’t want no coffee, noways.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be herding up the mother cows?”
At her own question, she grimaced. The practice of leaving newborn calves behind was an abomination which no one seemed to mind . . . except for Lisette.
With Blade Sharp advancing on her, this was no time to be thinking of cows.
“Ya sure are purty, gal. I been hankering for ya since the first night ya showed up. Figgered ya’d set sights on McLoughlin, him being the nabob boss, but I been biding my time.”
“Go away.”
He cupped his private parts, jiggling them. “The two of ya ain’t been getting along, I can tell by the way he’s been sneering at ya. So I’m going to show ya what it’s like to have a real man betwixt yar legs.”
“Get away from me.” She hurried toward the wagon steps.
“I like the ones that fight. Makes me get real hard.”
He insinuated his reeking bulk between her and the chuck wagon. She shrank from his presence and the stink of his liquored breath and ducked away.
She put her foot on the wagon step, but he grabbed her from behind, forcing the air from her diaphragm, and snapped her against his damnable body. She tried to scream but found no voice.
The buckle of his gunbelt dug into her spine. She kicked his shin and tried to elbow his side as he rasped, “I’m wantin’ me a piece of something tart. Like a big piece of Miz Good Biscuits.”
He threw her to the ground. She tried to roll away. But he was on her before she could move. His greasy hand clamped over her mouth. “Ya’re a good fighter, girl. Hope it don’t get so rough I have to kill ya. But I will if I have to.”
The other hand loosened his gunbelt as well as the buttons of his trousers. She continued to fight him, yet he managed to rip Willie Gaines’s britches from her waist. When he did, she hoisted a hand to gouge his eye, drawing blood but missing her target. He hauled back his fist, connecting it with her jaw. Dazed from the pain, she went limp.
Again he hit her face, this time with the flat of his hand. Reds, blues, and whites flashed in her eyelids. She tried to fight him–tried. With the last strength she had, Lisette clamped her thighs against his invasion.
And then he went still . . . as a gun barrel clicked above their heads.
“
Get off my wife,” Gil demanded.
Oh, God in heaven, he’ll think I invited this.
Chapter Twelve
Gil shoved the six-shooter’s barrel against the back of Blade Sharp’s head, morning light glinting off the steel. It had been naive of him to think such a jackass as Sharp would leave Lisette be, simply because she carried the McLoughlin name.
“Unless you want your brains scattered all over the State of Texas, you’d better get off my wife.”
Sharp rolled away from Lisette. She clutched the tatters of her clothes as her molester grappled for footing. Sharp’s breeches collected at his feet; he pulled them up fast.
“Lisette, get back.” Gil reached for Sharp’s discarded gunbelt. “Way back.”
She scrambled to huddle behind a wagon wheel at the same moment that Sharp challenged, “If ya think ya’re man enough, McLoughlin, come on. Fight for yar woman.” His fingers crooked in invitation, and his eyes went to the hand holding his gunbelt. “Let’s make it a fair fight, though. Gimme my gun.”
Gil was at the point of murder, thinking about those paws on Lisette, yet he was done with killing, thanks to the war.
He replaced his gun, Thelma, in her holster, then tossed Sharp’s gunbelt across Big Red’s saddlehorn. His hand made a fist as he stepped closer. “Frankly, Sharp, you’re not worth a bullet.”
Sharp laughed. “Ya’re yellow, McLoughlin.”
As Gil reared back to punch him, he said, “I never said anything about not defending my lady.”
His fist connected with Sharp’s nose; he heard the bone pop. Blood splattered. Sharp tumbled backward; he righted himself to advance again. Gil caught the fist with his arm before landing another punch on the cowhand’s jaw. The man roared in anger, bending forward to thrust his elbow into Gil’s stomach. Gil feinted away from the blow.
A punch from Sharp ripped the skin under his left eye. He wasn’t down. Both his arms flipped upward; Sharp crouched to grab Gil’s shoulder. After kicking a knee into his opponent’s stomach, Gil pounded his fist into the jackass’s face.