Caress of Fire

by Martha Hix

  At last, the cowpuncher fell to the dirt, clutching his gut and face simultaneously

  “Whew.” Gil rubbed his brow.

  Sharp slithered toward the chuck wagon, reached to the underbelly, and plucked an ax from the cooney. Gil kicked his wrist. The ax whirled out of reach.

  With his head, Gil motioned southward. “Collect your gear, Sharp.” Panting, he rubbed his injured cheekbone with his bandana. “Your services are no longer required.”

  Sharp spat blood while wiping the back of his hand across his mouth; he turned his eyes to the gunbelt laying on Big Red’s saddlehorn. “I ain’t leaving without my revolver.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Evidently Sharp knew Gil was serious. He said, “I’ll get ya for this, McLoughlin.”

  “The only thing you’ll get is packing. Do it, Sharp. I want you gone in five minutes.”

  It took less than three.

  As Blade Sharp dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and headed out, Gil turned to his wife. Huddled under the wagon, her shoulders hunched, she had buried her face in the crook of her elbow. Instinct shouted to him to give her comfort. Yet the only words forming were rough: “Lisette, you can get up now.”

  He heard her muffle a German reply against her forearm. “I’m sorry for speaking as a Hun.” Shaking her head, she peeked between the spokes. Anguish written in each line of her lovely face, she said, “Believe me, I did nothing to invite his advances, and I–Gil!”

  She crawled from beneath the wagon; a shaking hand reached up to him. “Your face! You’re bleeding. Oh, God in heaven, let me help you.”

  He barely noticed his injury. All he saw was the start of two bruises, one on her cheek, the other on her jaw. And he warmed to his wife’s tenderness and consideration. After nearly being raped, she was more concerned for him than for herself.

  “I must get you stitched,” she said worriedly.

  He crouched beside her, closing his fingers around her hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’m worried about you .”

  “I ... I’m all right.” She tore a strip from her apron, dabbed it against his cut. “It would take more than the likes of Blade Sharp to ruffle me.”

  “You mean it?”

  She eyed him squarely. “I have never lied to you, not openly . . . and I don’t intend to start now.”

  He believed her. He thought back on all that had transpired between them. Except for the lie of omission about her lack of virginity–she could have actually told him, since she had spoken in German the day they had had sex, when he’d provoked her into it–there had always been a certain honesty to Lisette.

  Maybe he ought to hear what she had to say about herself. Trouble was, she didn’t need any more emotional upsets. You’re looking for a way out, he told himself. Maybe. It was tough, trying to break a vow never to allow a woman to discuss her sexual conquests.

  Suddenly he realized how tough it must have been for Lisette, owning up to her past. How very difficult it must have been. How should he handle the here-and-now? Until he could gather his courage, he would quit being so damned mean.

  Swallowing, he watched as she collected needle and thread to sew up his wound. Give her a chance. She’ll put the whole of you back together.

  Thinking back on something she’d said, he squeezed her arm and offered, “Lisette, I want you to know something. Never for a moment did I think you made a play for Blade Sharp.”

  Relief made her lift and drop her shoulders, and her beguiling eyes moistened. “Thank you. Thank you for believing me.”

  An ill wind that blows good.

  This was how Lisette viewed Sharp’s attack. It had brought a modicum of peace to her relationship with Gil, and for this she was thankful. Maybe there was hope for them.

  And she was glad to be free of the dastardly cowhand.

  No one seemed to notice he was no longer a part of the outfit. To a man the cowboys were indignant over Sharp’s attack. Dinky Peele, Preacher Wilson, and Johns Clark offered to go after him, but the boss put the halters on their idea.

  “He’s gone,” Gil said, “and that’s the end of it.”

  It ended another habit as well. The cowboys quit calling her Miz Good Biscuits, since it reminded her of Sharp. The visual reminders remained: Lisette’s bruised face and the stitched skin over her husband’s cheekbone.

  Life went on.

  The Four Aces outfit reached the cedar-flecked outskirts of Lampasas the next day at noon and corralled the longhorns there. The cowboys were more than ready to partake of all the town had to offer, and Gil advanced them their pay.

  They drew lots to see who would be the first ones into town. Oscar Yates and the brawny, slow-talking boy in charge of the remuda, Fritz Fischer, lost out and were left to guard the herd. Fritz was crestfallen.

  The grizzled former cookie took it better, saying, “Aw, shucks, I be too old fer antics, anyhoo. I’ll keep an eye on the dogies and Her Majesty Sadie Lou, here.” He patted the dog’s head and received a snap for his efforts. “Ye boys have a good time. And pinch some gal’s rear fer me.”

  Wink and Dinky headed out to do Oscar’s bidding. Jakob Lindemann, a man of few words and a large appetite, set a course for the local bakery.

  Johns Clark left, but not before smiling and announcing, “Seems to me there’s a gal named Jean Dodson lives over by the springs. Think I’ll see if she’s still got an itch I can scratch.”

  Matthias departed without a word.

  Now, with no one else around, Gil having taken him off to tally the herd, Preacher Wilson called Lisette aside.

  The Good Book tucked under an arm, he said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk with you about.”

  “I’m listening.”

  His eyes moved upward. “ ‘Defraud ye not one the other, except it be with consent for a time, that ye may give yourselves to fasting and prayer; and come together again, that Satan tempt you not for your incontinency.’”

  “Please, please. Don’t quote the New Testament.”

  “Are you not a believer, child?”

  “I believe I’ve heard enough.”

  She began to turn, but he caught her arm. “Forget religion, then. The law says I must file a marriage license for you and the mister. That will make your marriage legal. But, Mrs. McLoughlin, I’m not blind. I can tell you and your husband aren’t married in the spirit of Canaan. Just by the looks on your faces I see this.”

  Embarrassed that their private life read like an open book, Lisette wished to be far, far away. Yet she wouldn’t turn from the reed-thin preacher, nor from his wise hazel eyes. Never before had she really looked at the man.

  He was on the down side of thirty, and had thinning hair and an air of reason. Of course, he had once called her a harlot, but why wouldn’t he think such? No wife of Caesar would have stalked a trail drive, would have agreed to a marriage less than sublime. Lisette McLoughlin wasn’t above reproach, but she did have her pride, and she said, “Mind your own business, sir.”

  “I am a man of God . . . but I am also just one of the flock. You are a good woman, you are young, and you could have your choice of husband. I also see that you are unhappy. I could . . . I could neglect to file that license.”

  Though appreciative of his sacrifice, she could not give an immediate response. Still, she wouldn’t lie. “You wed Gil and me in the eyes of God, for better or for worse. And the marriage is real, though it isn’t without its flaws. We have consented to disagree.”

  Lisette spotted a carefree pair of bees flitting above a cedar bush; would that life could be so simple! But it wasn’t. She addressed the preacher as well as her marital problem. “I think you should speak with my husband before making a decision on filing the license.”

  “I did, three days ago. He told me to forget it.”

  Why would such an answer shock her? She should have expected as much, yet a dagger of regret lanced her heart. Her eyes snapped to the source of her hurt. Gil was handing his sorrel ov
er to the wrangler.

  He wanted to end their marriage. Well, why make it easy for him? All right, she hadn’t come to the marriage a virgin, but he had been the one to pester her into submission. Pester? From the beginning, her desires had superseded all reason. Whatever the case, Gil was bound by God; why not let him be bound by law? Marriage had been his idea.

  “Reverend, we are married under God’s ordinance. I have given myself to him. And we have agreed not to agree. But it’s a long way to Kansas, and there could be a child. God wouldn’t want me to name such a babe a bastard. File the license.”

  Eli Wilson smiled. “God will be merciful.”

  “I hope so.”

  He bowed and took himself off.

  Remembering her husband’s admission that she hadn’t satisfied him as a woman, Lisette was rocked by what she had asked Eli Wilson to do.

  There was no backing out; the preacher had mounted a mare from the remuda and was gone.

  Now what should she do?

  It would be best to take matters as they happened, and deal with them as needed. Which didn’t mean she had to slink away. After all, the preacher had spoken to her husband three days ago, before the Blade Sharp incident, and Gil had been civil since. Civil, and almost husbandly. Hope wasn’t dead–it merely slept.

  And when he ambled over to her, she asked, “Will you drive me into Lampasas?”

  “I’d figured to.”

  Within minutes she was sitting beside him on the spring seat and they were on Main Street. Leaving the team and wagon at the livery stable, he set off to make arrangements for Willensstark’s return to Adolf and to post some letters.

  “Would you mind posting this one, too?” Lisette asked, handing him an envelope for Anna Uhr.

  In a veiled report, Lisette told Anna about the wedding, about the bouquet pressed in Gil’s Bible, and about the wonders of travel over the trail. Pride had kept her from apprising her friend of anything negative.

  Lisette did, however, caution Anna against making any mention to Adolf of her plans or proposed whereabouts. She didn’t feel safe from her brother’s clutches, even though she wore Gil McLoughlin’s ring.

  While she had no wish to inform Adolf and Monika of her whereabouts, she wondered about them. Had the peach saplings taken root? Who would butcher the hogs this spring? Would Adolf’s bad leg get worse from bending over to plant the cabbage garden? How was Monika enduring her pregnancy? Most importantly, how were the boys?

  Lisette’s chest tightened as she recalled baby Ludolf. Soon he would be walking, and she’d miss that significant event. And Karl and Viktor. She chuckled, remembering their pranks, their scruffy faces, their unruly caps of blond hair. Right then, she wished she could be brushing their hair.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered.

  Glancing around as she waited on the courthouse lawn for her husband, Lisette saw oak and pecan trees, a multitude of low-growing cedar, plus a few native stone buildings among the clapboard ones. Lampasas was a pretty town, for Texas. The edge of town wasn’t so winsome, she recalled. There, the feeder to the Chisholm Trail had cut a deep groove into the sea of grass, and there hung in the air a dust smelling of cattle, cattle, cattle. She’d grown accustomed to the sharp aroma over the past weeks. Nonetheless she yearned for a real bath and a real bed.

  Lisette eyed a general store nearby. Shop, shop, shop, a voice in her brain intoned. That store would sell the makings for bonnets, plus the ready-made clothes which would free her from britches and men’s shirts.

  She had three twenty-dollar gold pieces in her pocket. Gil had told her to use them for anything she wanted, but she hesitated. She wouldn’t spend a penny of his money, not when so much remained unsettled between them.

  Instead of careening through Litton’s General Store as if she were set on buying out their wares, and especially their hats, Lisette glanced down the street, to the Lusty Lady Saloon. Tinny piano music blared from its swinging doors. A painted woman, plumes in her hair and red satin draping her voluptuous body, emerged from the establishment, her arm around Matthias.

  “Your lady would be ashamed of you,” Lisette scolded him sotto voce, certainly out of earshot.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.”

  She turned to the strange voice holding a Southern drawl considerably softer than a Texan’s accent. A nattily dressed gentleman approached Lisette and tipped his hat. He looked to be in his early thirties and had a refined air about him.

  “Excuse my forward–good heavens, ma’am, you’ve been injured.”

  “I had an unfortunate accident. That’s all.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help? I’ve heard a cold steak helps bruises.” Concern in his dark eyes, the stranger went on. “Why don’t you let me fetch one?”

  “Please don’t bother. I truly am fine.” And she was–a bit beat up, but fine. “My husband is taking wonderful care of me;” she overstated.

  “Where I come from . . . well, you don’t want to hear all that.” He took a step forward. “May I present myself? I am Charles Franklin Hatch. And you are . . . ?”

  “Lisette Kel–McLoughlin.”

  “McLoughlin.” A muscle ticked above his eye as he smiled. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. McLoughlin.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, sir.”

  “Your husband . . . Where is the fine man?”

  While she considered Mr. Hatch a gentleman, she was beginning to think him much too nosy. And she was somewhat suspicious of his intentions. “Mister Hatch, I really think it wrong, my speaking to you without proper introductions.”

  Gallantly, he nodded. “You’re right, Mrs. McLoughlin. Where were my manners? As a gentleman of Georgia, I apologize for putting you in a delicate position.” He began a retreat, then stopped. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, when your husband is present. I’d be honored to buy supper for the two of you .”

  He tipped his hat and went on his way, and he dropped from Lisette’s thoughts.

  She scanned the surroundings again. Once before she had waited on a courthouse lawn for Gil McLoughlin. Was it mere weeks ago she had been so filled with hope for the future?

  At present she had no idea of what it would hold.

  “Lisette.”

  She straightened and turned to her husband. He stood a couple of yards in the distance, near the street, his brow shaded by a new, wide-brimmed straw Stetson. He held a cigar, the first she’d ever seen him smoke.

  Of course he wore his usual attire–gunbelt and Thelma, bandana, denim shirt, doeskin vest, close-fitting britches–but the leather chaps had been left in the chuck wagon. She noticed his feet. New boots, those were new boots, larger ones. They made a statement. As did his fresh haircut.

  She yearned to make peace with her handsome, unhappy husband.

  “Did you buy dresses and hats?” When she shook her head, he said, “We’d better rectify that. You can’t go on wearing Willie Gaines’ gear forever.” He took off in the direction of Litton’s. In the middle of the street, he turned back to her. “What’s keeping you?”

  An hour later, they checked into the Keystone Hotel, two boxes hanging from strings in Lisette’s hands and a hat tugged down over her brow to shade her bruises. Three boxes were tucked under Gil’s arm as he signed the registry.

  An odd realization was that they would be sharing one room. She had suspected Gil would ask for two.

  “We have baths,” the desk clerk pointed out, leaning back to get away from the clientele’s odor. “Hot springs baths. They’re extra, of course. Fifty cents. You interested?”

  “We’re interested.”

  “That’ll be a buck-fifty for the room and the baths.”

  Gil handed over the appropriate sum and took the skeleton key from the bespectacled clerk. He dug in his pocket, extracted a coin to flip it across the counter. “Get someone to fetch my trunk. And send up some food, will you?”

  “Of course.” Smiling and revealing a gold tooth, the clerk pocketed the extra specie. �
�Anything else, sir?”

  “Leave us alone after you’ve done as I requested.”

  Lisette’s heart tripped. Gil wanted to be alone with her. Why?

  Chapter Thirteen

  If Gil had expectations of bathing with her, or even talking with her, he didn’t act on either, and Lisette swallowed a large dollop of disappointment. Disappointment was made to be swallowed.

  Outside the Keystone Hotel dusk came and went while she twiddled her thumbs and waited for her husband to join her. She knew he had entered the bathing area; she’d been with him at the time. When she’d waited in the corridor, fully dressed and smelling of lilac-scented soap, he had yelled out, “Go on to the room. I’ll be there after a bit.”

  Hours had passed since the wooden trunk was delivered. The meal sent up by the desk clerk had grown cold and congealed. Right now, as the clock on the bedside table struck eight, the fried chicken had withered to petrified proportions and the potato salad probably had enough sickness in it to fell the entire Prussian Army.

  She paced the room. Her eyes kept catching on the five boxes. Litton’s General Store sported a large selection of dry goods. Gil had picked out five dresses and the proper underpinnings, though Lisette had eschewed a corset.

  “I refuse to lace myself into one of those contraptions, fashion or no fashion,” she had announced vehemently Even if I could afford one, she added silently

  “I don’t blame you,” he’d said. “What about this bonnet? Your face is getting brown. Like it?”

  It was a hideous thing of calico, though in vogue for most pioneer women, and Lisette hated it. Yet the beast nestled among the pile of purchases.

  And Gil had insisted on purchasing lanolin “because your hands are rough,” plus ribbons and hairpins “since you lost yours a while back.”

  “I don’t want these things,” she protested in a small voice, not wishing to be beholden to him. She dug in her pocket and turned to the proprietor. “I’ll have this cake of lilac soap, and that will be it.”

  “Wrap it all up, and add some lilac water.”