Spirit of Love

by Duncan, Alice

  “Oh, my.” Vernice stared at Georgina, aghast.

  Georgina was a little aghast herself. She’d never spoken to an older person in such a disrespectful tone of voice. Still a body should only be ‘expected to take so much. She said so. “I’m tired of having you bothering me all the time, Mr. O’Rourke. There’s nothing I can do to sway my grandmother. You ought to know her well enough by this time to know that no one can influence her if she doesn’t want to be. I don’t understand why you persist in haunting Aunt Vernice and me. It’s Grandmother whom you need to sway, not us. We’d give anything if she’d say whatever you want her to say so you’d disappear.” She bit savagely into her biscuit.

  “Has he been showing up in your bedroom at night?” Georgina eyed Maybelle, not sure she liked the gleam in her little black eyes. “Yes. Why?”

  “Why, you lecherous old goat!” Maybelle hurled a coffee cup at the ghost this time. It shattered with an earsplitting crash, and shards of china flew all over the room.

  “Mother!” Vernice shrieked, starting up from the table.

  Georgina, more practical than her aunt, made a quick sweep of her arms, thus gathering the rest of the breakables into a heap in front of her. She leaned over so that Maybelle couldn’t get at another one without a struggle. She said, “Stop it!” not with any hope it, would help but out of habit.

  Devlin shot up and hovered against the ceiling. “It’s not what you’re thinking!”

  “The devil it’s not! I know good and well the only reason you’re going to Georgina’s room at night is so you can see her undress, you rascal!”

  “Good Lord.” Georgina looked up from the pile of crockery she’d been guarding. “You don’t mean it.”

  “Like hell I don’t!” Maybelle jumped up from the, table, remarkably spryly, considering she was old and had sustained a broken ankle not many months before. “He’s a lying, cheating reprobate, and I’ll never, never tell him that I love him. Because I don’t!”

  “But love!”

  “Don’t you but love me, you swine!” Maybelle shook her fist at Devlin. “You never loved me! Why should I say I love you?”

  Georgina, too dejected to offer any further objections to this argument, merely shook her head and sighed again. Vernice, who had already fetched the broom to sweep up biscuit crumbs, now began to ply the broom on the crockery shards.

  “You’re wrong, Maybelle! You’re one hundred percent wrong about me, and I’ll haunt you until the day you die to prove it.”

  Georgina shut her eyes and wondered if she were evil for wishing her grandmother would die soon and solve all of their problems.

  Probably. She was very discouraged.

  Ash’s eyes ached. So did his head. His mouth felt as if someone had stuffed cotton wadding into it—after he’d wiped the bottoms of his boots with the cotton.

  He hated chinking. Although, it must be admitted, his hangover had at least ousted Georgina Witherspoon from first priority in his mental processes this morning.

  When he’d been fighting Indians, he and the other soldiers had learned one or two tricks from the enemy. Ash used one of them this morning in an attempt to cure his aching head. Willow-bark tea. Worked swell for headaches, even if it did taste like something the cat had coughed up.

  Hell. When had his life taken this turn, anyway? How had he let one lone female succeed in banishing several years of and peace in his life? It wasn’t fair. After he’d quit the army and Phoebe had finally quit him, he’d thought the only thing he’d ever crave again in the world was peace and quiet. He’d thought he’d found it here in Picacho Wells.

  Ash wrinkled his nose, held his breath, and swallowed the tea. He managed to keep it down with an effort.

  He’d left home when he was sixteen, seeking adventure. Since both the Mexican and the Civil War were long over, he’d joined the army of the West in hopes of fighting Indians. He’d found adventure, all right. And plenty of Indians. And fights. He’d seen enough bloodshed and grisly death to last a lifetime. He’d also seen more famine, despair, illness, and grief than he’d realized existed on earth. He’d believed, in fact, that during the Indian war he’d seen the worst life had to offer a man.

  And then he’d married Phoebe.

  He shook his head slowly, wondering how one relatively small woman could have affected him so painfully. He’d loved her so much. When he’d realized she was nothing but a tart in fancy clothes, it had broken his heart. Nearly killed him. He’d been such a fool for that woman.

  “Dammit, she’s dead.” He spoke fiercely, hoping in that way to jar the unhappy memories of his marriage out of his aching head.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t work. They all came swarming back: Phoebe in her wedding gown, looking more beautiful than any woman had a right to look. Lord, he’d been proud—and so happy. His eyes watered, and he wiped at them, telling himself it was the hangover making them drip.

  Then the other images came: Phoebe whining at him because she didn’t want to live in the territory. Phoebe telling him how much she hated him; how she’d only married him for his money; how she wanted to stay in Galveston where there was some fancy society and other men—men who made her feel pretty, and wanted.

  His heart ached in time with his head, and he took another couple of swigs of willow-bark tea. The stuff was foul.

  What had really hurt—hurt more than anything—was when she said she’d rather die than bear his child. She’d refused to go to bed with him after the first week or so. Didn’t want, to ruin her figure, she said. Told him he could go rut with whores if he had to, but she wasn’t going to. At least she’d had the grace to die before she’d ruined his life completely, although at times he wasn’t really sure that she hadn’t. And he’d still loved her at the end. He didn’t know why. A man’s fantasies died hard, he reckoned, although hanging on to one about Phoebe being anything but a sucking leech seemed nonsensical.

  And now, as much as he hated to admit it, he was in danger of falling for another fancy city woman. The idea made his stomach, which had almost settled down, churn feverishly. He fought his nausea and drank some more tea.

  “Dammit, she’s not Phoebe.” He told himself that because he couldn’t stand feeling like a fool twice in one lifetime, “She makes butter. Well, she tries to make butter. She more or less milks a cow. She almost quilts. She even cooks, after a fashion. She at least attempts to do things Phoebe wouldn’t have been caught dead doing, and she even seems to like trying to do them. Besides, she has the only good voice in the choir.” That didn’t work, either. He still felt like hell.

  That was neither here nor there. Ash Barrett would be roasted on a spit before he’d let Miss Too-Good-for-this-World Witherspoon know she’d gotten to him with her fancy airs, sweet smell, and low-cut ball gown. He’d go to church today if he had to crawl there.

  He glanced in his shaving mirror and wished he didn’t look so green. Aw, hell.

  Ash still didn’t feel human when he mounted Shiloh and headed to the church, his head aching in time to the rhythm of Shiloh’s gait.

  “What the devil are you looking at?”

  Georgina had been driving the Murphy wagon down Picacho Wells’s main street, preparing herself to enter the church and face her doom—that is to say, preparing to face Ash and Payton. Her grandmother’s sharp voice startled her. She turned her head to see to whom Maybelle had addressed her pungent remark.

  She frowned when she caught sight of the same ruffian who’d stared at her so rudely the other day staring at her lecherously again today. He lounged against the wall of the Turquoise Bracelet Saloon and didn’t so much as bat an eye at Maybelle’s question. He only continued to leer at Georgina, who lifted her chin and pretended to ignore him

  “Damned jackanapes,” Maybelle muttered. “If he says a word to you, Georgina, shoot him.”

  Georgina eyed her grandmother. “I don’t have a gun, Grandmother.”

  “No gun?” Maybelle stared at Georgina as if she’d just t
old her she had no head. “How in the name of glory do you expect to survive out here if you don’t have a gun, girl?”

  “I don’t have a gun, Mother,” Vernice pointed out. “I’m surviving quite well.”

  Maybelle snorted. “Hell, Vernice, you’re too old to inspire any man to ravish you. You don’t need a gun.”

  That was mean, and Georgina didn’t appreciate it. She said, “Don’t be nasty!” in a reproving tone.

  Maybelle reacted as was normal for her. She ignored both the words and the tone. “I’m going to teach you how to use a derringer, Georgina, and you’re going to buy yourself one. Tomorrow. I’ll come to town with you and help you get a good one from the dry goods store.”

  Feeling unequipped to argue this morning, Georgina only said, “Fine,” and hoped her grandmother would shut up. She did. Thank heavens.

  After she tied the horse under a tree and fetched her Bible, she took a deep breath, said a brief prayer, and headed for church. She was holding her head so high she nearly tripped on the stairs leading .to the sanctuary. Her grandmother cackled, and Georgina felt silly.

  She saw Payton as soon as she and Vernice walked into the choir room to put on their robes. He seemed to be hiding behind several other choir members, although she couldn’t be sure. Georgina felt a good deal of contempt for him if he was trying to avoid her. The idiot. Not only was he too tall to hide behind a bunch of women, but it was undignified and cowardly for him to want to do so. She’d bet money that Ash—the abhorrent wretch—wouldn’t try to hide from her. She wasn’t going to hide, either. She didn’t aim to allow an indiscretion to daunt her. She had too much pride for that. She wasn’t going to let Payton or Ash think she was ashamed of herself. The fiends. Smiling for all she was worth, she walked right over to the banker. He blinked at her and looked terrified. She greeted the women who had been talking to him, and then took the bull by the horns. Or the chicken by the feathers. Whatever.

  “My goodness, Mr. Pierce, what a terrible bruise you have.” She gave him her friendliest, most open and honest and sympathetic smile.

  He seemed to shrink a little. “Er, yes. I—ah—had an accident.”

  She tutted appropriately. “I’m so sorry to hear it.”

  “Yes, ah, thank you.” He swallowed, then cleared his throat, then blurted out, “Miss Witherspoon, may I talk to you for a moment? Only a small moment?”

  For pity’s sake, now what? Georgina really didn’t want to be alone with the man. Not that she couldn’t defend herself against any puny assault he might manage to launch, derringer or no derringer, but she didn’t much want to have to. On the other hand, what could happen to her in church on a Sunday morning?

  She smiled graciously. “Of course, Mr. Pierce.”

  “Thank you “ He sounded almost inhumanly humble. Georgina’s contempt for him swelled.

  They walked outside and paused at the gate to the churchyard, a locale Georgina considered rather ironic, although she didn’t say so. “Yes, Mr. Pierce? You wished to speak to me?”

  He cleared his throat again and fidgeted. Thunderation, the man was nervous. “Yes, Miss Witherspoon, I—ah—I wanted to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am about my conduct yesterday evening. I stepped beyond the hounds of polite behavior, and I apologize. I don’t know if you will ever be able to forgive me, but I would consider it noble of you if you would at least consider it.”

  Hmm. Georgina pondered her options. She actually hadn’t intended to punish the man—after all, she didn’t fear Payton Pierce in the slightest. On the other hand, perhaps it might be wise to withhold total forgiveness for a little while. Make the worm squirm, as it were. Then again, she could probably use. Pierce. Ash didn’t like him and perhaps if Georgina pretended to be fond of the banker, it would aggravate the sheriff.

  No. That was too conniving. Georgina didn’t play games like that. She’d seen other young ladies use coy tricks of that nature in New York and had always deplored their dishonesty. She didn’t intend to sink to their level. She opted, therefore, to tell Pierce the truth.

  “I forgive you fully and freely, Mr. Pierce. Let’s try, to forget all about the incident.” To show him she meant it, she held out her hand for him to shake.

  Pierce eyed her hand for a moment as if he wanted to make sure she really meant to shake his hand and not slap his face with it. His nerves appeared to have been soothed when he finally took her hand in a limp clasp and shook it. “Thank you very much, Miss Witherspoon.”

  “Think nothing of it, Mr. Pierce.”

  He kept her hand in his. Drat the man, what was the matter with him? Georgina frowned slightly.

  “Miss Witherspoon ...”

  “Yes?” She tugged on her hand, and he released it. Good thing, too. She might have had to hit him, and it would be nowhere near as satisfying to wallop Payton Pierce as it was to dump liquids on Ash Barrett.

  “Er, I know I disgusted you last evening with my deplorable conduct, but I hope I haven’t ruined myself irremediably in your eyes.”

  “Heaven’s no, Mr. Pierce.” What was the man talking about?

  Whatever he thought they were talking about, he appeared comforted by her answer. “I’m’ so glad. Then, ah. well, do you think I might still hope?”

  For what? Georgina didn’t know, so she figured she had nothing to lose. “Of course, Mr. Pierce.” She gave him a sweet smile to let him know she meant it, even though she wasn’t sure she did since she didn’t know what he wanted to hope—

  Oh, good Lord. Suddenly Georgina realized what it was he wanted to hope for. “Er, that is, well...”

  Fiddlesticks! What could she say now? Again, she opted to tell the truth, surprised at having found honesty the best policy twice already today—and it was still morning. On the other hand, it was Sunday. Perhaps the sanctity of the day had something to do with it.

  “What I mean is, well, there is a gentleman named Henry Spurling in New York ...” She let the sentence trail off, hoping Payton Pierce was smart enough to figure out the end of it on his own.

  He was. His face fell. “Oh. You mean you’re already promised?”

  “Not exactly. There’s been, ah, an understanding—of sorts—between us for several years now.” She dipped her chin and tried to appear dainty and demure. She never used to have any trouble appearing dainty and demure. Perhaps she was getting more into this rugged territorial life than she’d given herself credit for.

  “I see.” Pierce sounded morose. He brightened slightly and said, “But nothing is fixed irrevocably between you?”

  “No. Not exactly. But our parents have desired the match for a long time now.”

  He grabbed her hand again. Georgina frowned at him “What about your desires, my dear Miss Witherspoon? You must consider your own feelings in a matter of such great import.”

  She pulled her hand out of his grip. “Yes. I am considering my own feelings. Thank you for your concern.” She made her voice the tiniest bit colder to warm him against trying to snatch her hand again.

  “Of course. But—but—but if you haven’t yet given your word, then I may hope?”

  There he was again, back to hoping. Georgina was really tired of this conversation. “You may do as you see fit, Mr. Pierce. Now I believe we should get back inside the church. The Reverend Voorhees is ringing the bell.” As if to prove she wasn’t lying, the hell in the church steeple gonged.

  “Yes, of course. Pierce looked anything but satisfied. Well, that was his problem and he’d have to learn to live with it. Georgina wasn’t going to give him a promise she didn’t intend to keep—or even hint at one. She wasn’t that sort of woman She smiled at him to let him know that she didn’t hate him, even if she’d rather die than let him kiss her again.

  With fair grace, he bowed and crooked his elbow. Georgina placed her hand on his arm, and they walked to the church’s backdoor together. She was happy when she saw that Ash looking none too healthy this fine summer morning, had seen them at the churchyard gate and
had stopped to stare. His expression was more than merely sour. It was really quite murderous.

  She was glad of it. Pretending to ignore Ash, she warmed her smile up a few degrees for Pierce. She hoped Ash would choke to death on his bile.

  “It was kind of you to apologize to me, Mr. Pierce. I fear you did rather startle me last night.” She shouldn’t have said that, because the man blushed. After sliding another glance at Ash, she decided maybe it wasn’t a bad thing after all. The sheriff looked ready to commit foul deeds and mayhem.

  Georgina was pleased with herself when she joined the choir, filed in with them as they took their places in front of the congregation and began to sing –”Christ, Whose Glory Fills the Skies.” Ash sat right next to Maybelle, looking about as stormy as a New York City sky in February.

  “I don’t want the sheriff to teach me how to shoot your blasted derringer.” Georgina glared at her grandmother, who glared back at her.

  “Too bad. He’s coming to dinner today. He said he’d teach you how to aim and shoot my derringer, and that’s what he’s going to do.”

  Horsefeathers. Georgina’s feeling of triumph had come to a crashing halt shortly after services had ended and she’d started to drive them all back home. They hadn’t been in the wagon for more than ten minutes before Maybelle had sprung the news of Ash’s impending visit. Georgina was not at all happy about it.

  For one thing, she didn’t trust him with a gun in his hand and herself present. For another, she didn’t trust herself with a gun in her hand and him present.

  Add to that the flutters in her stomach that always showed up when he did, and Georgina knew she was in for an unpleasant afternoon.

  Ash wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of teaching Miss Cozy-Up-to-Rich-Bankers Witherspoon how to shoot a gun. Even a derringer.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t have refused Maybelle’s invitation to do so if his life had depended on it. He chalked up his lack of resistance to his hangover, and cursed himself for drinking so much. He refused to acknowledge the slight—the very slight—tingle of anticipation in his innards at the notion of sparring with Georgina again.