Caress of Fire

by Martha Hix

  “I believed that to be so, but I had to ask.” Cactus Blossom tossed a black braid over one shoulder. “You see, I love Matthias. We will be married in Fort Worth.”

  Her suspicions confirmed, Lisette sighed. What happened to his feelings for that “one lady” he’d mentioned before reaching Lampasas? Evidently, absence made his heart grow colder. Well, it was his life, and she wouldn’t be judgmental.

  “I wish you the best, Blossom. But you must be careful, extremely careful. There’s my husband’s reaction to consider, but he’s not the real problem. Once Mister Hatch discovers all this, there will be a lot of trouble.”

  “I have already told him.”

  “And he didn’t object?”

  Cactus Blossom looked her in the eye. “No.”

  Lisette opened a can of tomatoes–always a special treat to cowboys–and recalled her friend’s earlier strange look. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “I fear Mouth That Beckons will have no use for me if–”

  “If he discovers your profession?”

  “He knows about that.” Cactus Blossom turned away. “I have changed my mind. I do not want to speak of my troubles.”

  Lisette sighed. “If he loves you, Matthias will forgive you anything.”

  “To the Great Spirits, I pray this.” Cactus Blossom sliced the large roast, then said in a change of subject, “This meat is much favored by Mouth That Beckons. What do you call it?”

  “Sauerbraten.” Lisette paused. “What about Matthias’s job? Will he go on without you? You’ll need his salary.”

  “Long Legs says he cannot go with him to the land above the Territory.”

  Lisette, her brow tightening, said, “You misunderstood. Gil wouldn’t fire Matthias. He wouldn’t.”

  “He did.”

  “Surely not. You’ve taken something out of context.”

  Lisette, needing to get the matter straight, her apprehensions building with each passing moment, hurried over to the triangle and rang it to announce the midday meal. But Gil didn’t appear; she untied her apron. If Cactus Blossom wasn’t confused, Matthias was not going to be dismissed, not if Lisette had any say whatsoever.

  Frank Hatch eyed Lisette as she rode off on a dun mare from the remuda. Good, she was gone. And he was glad the heathen bitch was out of sight, too. The last thing he wanted was his former squaw’s flapping mouth. He was truly glad she wanted to tie up with that slow-talking German.

  And he, Charles Franklin Hatch, late of Charlwood, would come out smelling like a rose.

  His only regret where she was concerned had to do with her sin at Dead Buffalo Bluff. She would, however, pay for it. In good time, when it would best serve him.

  He scanned the luncheon gatherers. Thankfully, none of the Yankees took the first shift. The old man, Yates, was griping about his “rheumatiz,” while Jackson Bell, Toad Face Walker, the Mexican, Ochoa, and Wink Tannington squatted close to the chuck wagon and shoved food in their mouths.

  Hatch watched Tannington. Going back to Cleburne had been a boon. The Mississippian had come over to his side in the war against Major McLoughlin of the Union Army. It hadn’t taken much to get Tannington’s help, just a few comments about the trail boss’s autocratic ways, plus some well-placed reminders of Yankee abominations against the South.

  And Tannington had assured him that Jackson Bell, a young man of robust health and good Virginia lineage, would be easy pickings, if the cards were played right.

  Hatch needed allies in his quest for revenge.

  “Say, Mister Bell, I understand you were with General Lee at Appomattox.” Hatch glanced at the Virginian. “How do you feel about lining the coffers of a Yankee major?”

  Jackson Bell’s fork stopped midway between his plate and his mouth. “What do you mean?”

  Hatch turned to Toad Face. “I understand you were with General Beauregard. You gentlemen had it rough, didn’t you?”

  Yates, his bones creaking, got up and hobbled over to Hatch. “What’re ye getting at, Hatch?”

  “I’m just thinking how things would have been different, had the Bonny Blue flag not been lowered.” Hatch shook his head in a show of dejection. “Who would’ve thought, back in ’61, that the Confederacy would lose so much . . . that we–fine gentlemen of the South–would be employed by a damnyankee?”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Tannington interjected on cue.

  Toad Face Walker took a plug of tobacco into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he spat a brown stream. “Far as I’m concerned, the war’s over.”

  He huffed off, which was fine with Hatch. Toad Face, who was aptly named and whose crudity rivaled the vilest of human amphibians, was just too ragged and filthy for Hatch’s taste.

  “War ain’t over for me. My brothers died at Vicksburg. And I lost this”–Tannington raised his stump–“at Shiloh. And what did we get for it?”

  “Why don’t ye shut yer traps?” Yates hitched up his britches. “The cap’n, he ain’t answerable for what go’d on afore.”

  Curling his lip, Hatch asked, “Tell me, Mister Yates, were you a part of any campaign?”

  “Naw. But me nephew Homer done sided with Jeff Davis.”

  “Unless you’re taking your kinsman’s side, I suggest you shut your mouth and finish filling your face.”

  A hush fell over the campfire, the pop of a flame the only sound, and Hatch itched to set the chuck wagon aflame.

  “Since when do you give the orders around here, Hatch?” McLoughlin stepped out from behind the chuck wagon.

  Once before, Frank Hatch had seen that look on McLoughlin’s face–the day Charlwood had gone up in smoke. It was a look of supremacy and be-damned-to-you. Major McLoughlin would suffer for it, and soon.

  “I was simply speaking with my fellow workers,” Hatch replied. “Surely you don’t seek to take away my right to free speech . . . as set out by your Constitution.”

  Right then Lisette rode up on the dun mare and dismounted. “What is going on here?” she asked, not looking too pleased.

  “Find something to do.” McLoughlin scowled at her, then turned back to Hatch. “Since you don’t want to ‘fill the coffers of a Yankee major,’ I suggest you pack your gear and ride out.” His eyes cruised over the others. “That goes for anyone who doesn’t ride for the brand.”

  Her hands on her hips, Lisette watched as her husband gave those orders. She glanced worriedly at the men, then took a step in McLoughlin’s direction. “Maybe–”

  “I told you to find something to do,” the trail boss said to her.

  Jackson Bell, his shoulders hunched, shouted at McLoughlin. “You’re acting like a typical Yankee. Why don’t you quit picking on the lady? She’s done nothing.”

  Ochoa and Tannington agreed. McLoughlin’s face looked like thunderclouds, black and dangerous, and the expression intensified when Lisette shook her finger at the men and said, “Now listen here, all of you. Leave my husband alone. And if you don’t like him or the way he runs this outfit, I suggest you do as he suggests. Pack up and ride out.”

  She turned on the toe of her shoe and went over to fiddle with the chuck box. McLoughlin’s fingers made fists at his side as he glowered at her. And Hatch hid a chuckle. Evidently there was one thing McLoughlin disliked more than disloyalty from his cowboys, and that was his wife wearing the pants.

  Hatch grinned at his men who would become his allies, by the grace of the Bonny Blue. The second phase of his plan for retaliation was proceeding even more smoothly than imagined.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Now what have I done?

  After defending her husband against the Southerners, Lisette followed as he stomped away from the noon meal-camp. She called over her shoulder, “Oscar, take the chuck wagon,” then rushed on. “Gil!”

  He deigned not an answer; he climbed into Big Red’s saddle, heading north, and Lisette collected the dun mare she’d left ground-tethered only minutes ago.

  She looked to the
rear, seeing that all the men, including Hatch and his compatriots, were peaceably taking their places with the herd. What might have been a disturbance had been put down, whether by Gil’s threat or by her defense of him, she didn’t know, but she was thankful for the outcome.

  Across the prairie south of Fort Worth, she rode forward, catching her husband five minutes later. “We need to talk,” she said, the mare prancing beneath her. “Gil, talk to me.”

  One hand on the saddlehorn, he replied, “I have nothing to say.”

  “I do. Gil, what is the matter with you?”

  “I warn you, Lisette. Don’t push me.”

  From the distance she heard the longhorns passing through the mesquite grove. Eyeing her husband, she said, “You’re treating me as if I’m nothing more than one of your hirelings.”

  “You are the cook.”

  “I’m your wife, too. That should count for something.”

  He maneuvered Big Red toward her mount, leaning his face toward Lisette. Through clenched teeth, he answered, “Maybe we do need to powwow, since I thought we got the chain of command straight after you pulled that snit over packing calves along.”

  Somehow she felt as if pointing out the success of her idea wasn’t the best thing to do. She dismounted to wind the mare’s reins around a mesquite trunk, and faced her husband’s disgust.

  He had secured the sorrel, was standing not five feet in front of her, murder in his eyes.

  “I don’t appreciate what you did.” His voice pitched in a dangerous level, he added, “I won’t have my men thinking I hide behind apron strings.”

  “All I did was leap to your defense.”

  “You fight your battles and I’ll fight mine.”

  Should she try to apologize for overstepping her bounds? No ... he didn’t like apologies, for one thing. And for another, she didn’t feel as if she’d been in the wrong, flying to his defense. Any good wife would defend her husband.

  She watched him keep a distance between them; his body spoke the language of separation–of body and spirit. He just couldn’t let go, could he?

  Hoping that a good, honest talk would open his eyes, she asked, “Is that what marriage is all about? Two separate beings, going through life without working through the trials and tribulations together?”

  “I’m not talking about marriage.” His hand sliced the air. “I’m talking about a trail drive.”

  She crossed her arms under her breasts. “Let me tell you something, Mister McLoughlin. When our marriage became a lifetime agreement instead of a temporary arrangement, I gave up my dreams of freedom. I set a new goal for myself. I made up my mind to make a success of our marriage, and it wasn’t just for my own benefit. Your successes became equally important to me. And we depend on the cattle drive for our mutual success. If you can’t handle that, you’re not the man I married.”

  “If I disappoint you, so be it.”

  “You’re exactly what I was running away from.”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  “I’ve worked myself ragged trying to please you, but you’re an autocrat and a tyrant, just like my brother, and I could have stayed in Fredericksburg–with a roof over my head–and gotten the same treatment.”

  “You’ll have a roof over your head. By tonight. And you can do whatever you please for the next few months.”

  “How easy it is for you, getting rid of pesky baggage,” she replied tightly. “You’ll be rid of me ... and Matthias will be gone.”

  “Matthias isn’t going anywhere, except to Abilene.”

  “I’ve been told you fired him.”

  “Only if he didn’t get shut of that Indian woman by the time we reach Fort Worth.”

  “Then he’s as good as fired. He and Blossom are going to be married.”

  “Damn.” His mouth flattened into a tight line. “Does Hatch know about it?”

  Lisette nodded.

  “No wonder Hatch was rabble-rousing.” Gil blew out a heavy stream of air. “Damn it, I thought Matt would’ve had enough of her by now.”

  “Maybe some people aren’t so eager to dispose of their loved ones.” Lisette wheeled around. “Personally, I’ll be glad to be away from you.”

  She was tired of trying to please Gil. She was sick of his domination. And she was at her wit’s end over the prospect of being dumped in Fort Worth. Yet . . . even though he had told her over and again that it was best for the cattle drive if she stayed behind, even though he treated her as if she were nothing more than an underling, she loved him. But she’d be left to the Comanches before she’d engage in another spat with Gil McLoughlin.

  Her attitude didn’t change as they reached Fort Worth and rented the three-room house to the rear of Mrs. Ruth Craven’s two-story clapboard boardinghouse.

  Annoyed by her silence and bossiness, Gil left Lisette at the boardinghouse to do her stewing and set out to take care of business–the business of Matt Gruene. He searched through the crowded streets of Fort Worth, futilely. At a small chophouse near the Trinity River, he found a lone diner. Jakob Lindemann was devouring an apple pie.

  “Have you seen Gruene?” Gil asked, straddling a chair.

  Lindemann wiped his mouth with a linen. “Ja. He is with Cactus Blossom. They have rented a house from Frau Two Toes.”

  Gil knew the place as well as the woman. Bertha Two Toes, white wife of a Crow from the Territory, had a shack on the banks of the Trinity. Big, young, and meaner than a rattlesnake, Jimmy Two Toes was the sort of no-good who made even the Comanches look good.

  But now wasn’t the time to ruminate over Two Toes.

  “You reckon Hatch knows about Matt?” Gil asked.

  “Ja.” Lindemann cut another spoonful of pie. “At the Panther Saloon I heard him talking with Tannington. Hatch said he was glad to be rid of ‘that heathen bitch.’ ”

  “I’ve long suspected Hatch cared nothing for her, but I find it surprising any man would have such a casual attitude about losing a woman to another man.”

  The Fredericksburger shrugged. “She is only an Indian.”

  “She’s more than that to Matt.” And Gil got the uncomfortable feeling that he and Lindemann might be making too little of Hatch’s reaction. “See you later, Lindemann.”

  Gil left the chophouse and hurried through the darkened streets to Bertha Two Toes’s rental house. It took several knocks on the weathered door to rouse the occupants, and when Matt answered the summons, Gil knew from the strawboss’s tousled appearance that he’d interrupted sex.

  I ought to be making love. I ought to be with Lisette, settling that latest fight of ours. Tomorrow I’ll be leaving, and–

  “You want something, McLoughlin?”

  “A few minutes of your time.”

  Arranging her buckskin sheath around her hips, Cactus Blossom stepped to her lover’s side to say, “Come in, Long Legs.”

  Gil entered the modest quarters furnished with a single pallet. “I understand you’re going to be married,” he said without preamble.

  “That is right.” Matthias nodded and put an arm around Cactus Blossom’s shoulders. “Tomorrow.”

  “I’d like to talk you out of it. The strawboss job is still yours, Matt, if you’ll get back where you belong.”

  “You didn’t think twice when you took Lise’s hand.”

  “We didn’t have someone like Hatch after us.”

  Cactus Blossom lifted her chin. “Do not talk out of both sides of your mouth. Let us have our happiness, and go back to yours. We do not need you, Long Legs.”

  “You don’t. But I can’t imagine Hatch taking this lying down.” Gil grimaced. “I don’t think you’ve heard the last of him.”

  “Don’t concern yourself in our business.” Matthias scraped his fingers through his hair. “As I told you before, I’d rather we didn’t part on bad terms. Can’t you accept that you have no say in this, and go on? On good terms.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I can do.” Gil turned to leave, but his fo
rmer strawboss’s voice stopped him.

  “If we’re parting with no hard feelings between us, Gil, then I’d be honored if you’d stand up for me at the wedding.” A moment of silence passed. “Will you do it?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Gil left.

  In a private room of the Panther Saloon, which was a fairly clean establishment catering to cattlemen rather than their drovers, Hatch sat at a felt-top table and played stud poker. A pile of gold coins rested in front of him, a trio of gamblers flanking the table. Better let them win or I’ll have Hitt and his boys against me.

  Hatch needed the Hitt gang.

  He lost the next three rounds.

  “You gentlemen are too good for me.”

  “You ain’t givin’ up, are ya?” asked Asher Pierce.

  “Of course not.”

  Two more rounds lost. Hatch’s pile of coins declined to a handful. His eyes swept across his fellow players. None were youths, each had the etching of trouble in his harsh features. Two were Confederate veterans.

  The bald Asher Pierce, shuffling the cards with his meaty hands, puffed on a cigar. Rattler Smith sucked on a toothpick and studied his newfound riches. The last of the three, Delmar Hitt, was a carpetbagger from Ohio.

  Hatch had long known of Hitt. After General Lee’s surrender, when the Yankees had arrived to collect taxes in Georgia, Delmar Hitt had been among them. Within a year, the carpetbagger had absconded with the proceeds, had beat for Texas. If not for the taxes on the charred remains of Charlwood being a part of that booty, Hatch might have admired Hitt’s deviousness.

  Hitt, like McLoughlin, like Cactus Blossom, would pay for crimes against Charles Franklin Hatch. All in good time. For now, though, Hatch had plans for the infamous Hitt gang, and quarreling would gain him nothing.

  “Are you gentlemen interested in a deal?”

  “Yep. Ante up.” Rattler Smith tugged on the large mole that grew from an earlobe.

  “I don’t refer to cards. I refer to big money.”

  Smith took the toothpick from his mouth; Pierce set the cards aside. Hitt leaned his chair back on two of its legs, and lifting a graying brow, he fingered his cravat. “If you have something to say, say it.”