“I didn’t see any need to talk about it. I suspected you wouldn’t be crazy about the idea.”
“But you went ahead and did it anyway.”
Tom rose, took a step forward, and looked down at Lucille. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m the man of the house, the head of the family, and I’m the one who makes the decisions around here. I believe when you married me, you promised to faithfully love, honor, and obey me.”
“I didn’t mean a word of it, and you know that. Nothing about this marriage is real. I don’t love you,” she said, fighting back the awful aching in her heart.
“You were lying last night?”
“Yes, I was lonely, Tom, that’s all. Men lie to women all the time to get their way. Why shouldn’t a woman do the same?”
“I suppose I should be flattered.”
“Don’t be. The truth is, I don’t love you, I won’t honor you, and I certainly will not obey you.” Pushing past him, she headed for the door. “I’ll be sleeping in Faith’s room.”
Tom’s arm snaked out and grabbed her around the waist. “Hold on a minute. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Let go of me.” She tried to move away, but he held her close beside him.
“Take it easy,” he whispered as she pounded her fists against his chest. “You’re acting crazy.”
“Are you going to get her out of this house?”
“No, I’m not.” Tom must have known it would be pointless to continue the argument. He let go of his wife and stepped back. “I did what I thought was best, Lucille. You might not like it, but that’s how it is.”
“At least we agree on one thing.” She opened the door, then looked back over her shoulder. “As I said, I’ll be sleeping in Faith’s room. You might not like it, but that’s how it is, and that’s how it’s going to be as long as your mother is living in this house.”
* * * *
If Lucille had thought for a moment that Tom would change his mind, she’d been sadly mistaken. By the same token, if Tom expected her to give in, he was every bit as wrong. Neither had the slightest intention of backing down, which left them—and their marriage—at a weary stalemate.
Tom always rose early. He was gone before Lucille and Faith awakened. He kept busy all day, either repairing fences on the property, or riding out with Gustavo to work on the corrals they were building off to the west. Rarely did he return until long after sundown.
His mother, however, was a constant fixture in the farmhouse. As soon as Lucille carried Faith into the kitchen each morning, Charlotte took the child. She played with Faith, she sang to Faith, she bathed her, dressed her, fed her, changed her…and did it all with a cheerful smile.
Lucille felt anything but cheerful. On the rare times she saw her husband, he never spoke to her, never really even looked at her, and the tension between them grew thicker each day, becoming so tangible it pressed against her heart like a heavy weight. At times, she struggled to get through the day, barely able to lift her arms and legs.
“I have to do something, Mama,” she complained one afternoon, settling into her father’s old chair in the parlor. Unable to tolerate Charlotte’s constant presence even a moment longer, she’d snatched Faith from the woman’s arms and driven home to visit her mother.
Sitting on Granny Olive’s lap, Faith giggled and cooed, delighted by the games of pat-a-cake they played. Lucille wished she could be so young and carefree again.
“Give it time, honey,” her mother advised.
“Time isn’t going to help. I’m afraid it will only make it worse.” She’d promised herself she would not break down. Lord knows she didn’t want to give her mother cause for worry. Despite her efforts to hold them back, the tears came. “I’ve tried so hard to please Tom. I want to be a good wife, but everything is a mess. It’s all because of her. I hate her, Mama.”
“You mustn’t talk that way. I know it’s a trial for you, but in the end, this will make you stronger. It will make your marriage stronger.”
“Our marriage is a joke.” She hadn’t meant to say it.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” her mother counseled, bouncing little Faith on her knee. “Tom loves you, and even though things are a little rocky now, it will all work out. That’s how love is.”
“He doesn’t love me.” Lucille’s mind reeled as she admitted—and accepted—the brutal truth. Not once had her husband ever uttered those words she so longed to hear. Not even during their passionate lovemaking.
Her mother laughed. “Tom wouldn’t have asked you to marry him if he didn’t love you.”
What would her mother think if she knew Lucille had been the one to propose? Tom had only accepted because he wanted something. Of course, wasn’t that always the reason men gave up their freedom and willingly accepted the yoke of marriage? They wanted sex, and the best way to get it was to give love in return. Only it didn’t work that way in their marriage. If Tom wanted sex, he must be going somewhere else to get it, so why should he bother giving any love or affection to his wife?
“We got married because of Faith. You know that, Mama.”
“I still say he loves you.”
Lucille broke down and sobbed. “He’s never home, Mama. Every morning, he’s up at sunrise and gone before I even get out of bed. He saddles up and rides off, and that’s the last I see of him until dinner.”
“He’s working, isn’t he?”
She grabbed for the handkerchief her mother held out to her, then wiped her eyes. “He’s talked about catching wild horses in the mountains somewhere. I suspect it’s all talk, nothing more.”
Her mother threw a disapproving look her way. “Aren’t you being a little hard on him? He’s got a heavy burden on his shoulders. Maybe you need to be a little kinder. After all, he’s doing it for you.”
“No, he’s not. He’s doing it for Faith, and for his mother, not for me. I could disappear tomorrow, and he wouldn’t even notice I were gone. If he did notice, he wouldn’t care.”
Across the table, her mother’s mouth screwed up in a confused expression. Lucille wasn’t sure if the woman meant to frown, to scowl, or if she was simply too puzzled to know what to make of her daughter’s revelations.
“At night, when Tom gets home, he loves you, doesn’t he?” Her face colored, and she stared down at the child in her arms. “I mean, you do have relations?”
“Do you mean sex, Mama?” Lucille chortled. “I don’t even know what that means anymore. To answer your question, no, we don’t have relations. My husband never touches me, won’t even look at me.” She left out the fact that she’d driven him away. She’d been the one to refuse him, but certainly Mama didn’t need to know all the details. “We don’t even sleep in the same bed,” she finished on a whisper.
Both remained silent for several moments. Faith jabbered, clapped her hands together, and giggled. The playful sounds intensified Lucille’s misery. The little girl knew nothing of the heartache and unhappiness that filled her home. Thank God, she knew nothing of the anguish and hatred that dwelled there.
Faith deserved to know only love and happiness.
“I suppose I need to talk to Tom.”
She should have done it long before now. For Faith’s sake. She should never have let the argument between them go on so long. Difficult though it would be, she would have to swallow her pride, accept her mother-in-law, and apologize to the man she’d come to love so deeply.
After leaving her mother’s farmhouse, Lucille drove into Sunset with Faith. Her spirits had been renewed, her hopes were on the rise, and she resolved to make a genuine effort to pick up the pieces of their marriage and fasten them together again.
Her mother had given her a few dollars, and she knew exactly how she would spend the money. She would stop at the mercantile before going home and purchase one of Tom’s favorite treats. He loved green pickles.
She’d buy something for Charlotte, too.
Peace offerings.
With a resigned air,
she drove the wagon toward the livery. As she approached, a horse in the corner corral lifted its head and neighed as if in greeting. Lucille turned, surprised to see Dandy, Tom’s beautiful blue roan.
Her heart froze.
Tom was nearby, and it didn’t take much thought to know precisely where he was. Lucille glanced toward the Red Mule, pursed her lips, then willed her heart to start beating again. He was supposed to be working, not drinking…or worse, carousing with the saloon girls.
No wonder he hadn’t come crawling to his wife for sex. He was probably getting all he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
“Get up, there,” she called out, flicking the reins and setting the wagon in motion again.
No need to stop at the mercantile now.
There would be no peace offerings given.
For that matter, there would be no peace, either.
* * * *
Tom downed another shot of whiskey, then nodded toward Goose and Ignacio. “It’s been a hell of a lot of work, but you know, it’s going to pay off for us.”
“We will catch many horses, I am sure.” Ignacio nodded. He spoke with the same accent as his brother. Although a few years older, a few inches taller, and maybe a few pounds heavier, he and Goose might have been identical twins. Tom hoped he could keep the two Mexicans straight, especially after a few rounds of whiskey.
Earlier, they’d finished building the corrals where they would hold the wild mares. Tom would keep the best stock and use them to start his own bloodline of horses. The rest would be sold, and the profits shared equally among the three of them. Both Goose and Ignacio had agreed to come to work for the Henderson Horse Farm.
Henderson Horse Farm.
Just saying the name excited Tom in ways no woman had ever done. Well, no woman except for Lucille, but it would be a damned cold day in hell before she’d let him back into her bed again. Lucky for him he had his dreams to keep him warm at night.
“Lupita!” Gustavo called out to the pretty, black-haired señorita, and when she joined the men, he nuzzled her neck, smooth-talking her with Spanish words that sounded downright dirty.
Ignacio had grabbed another of the saloon girls, a tall blonde somebody said had come all the way from Sweden. She didn’t speak Spanish, didn’t even speak much English, but when it came to entertaining gentlemen at the Red Mule, everybody spoke the same language.
Lust. The universal tongue.
Tom laughed, knowing that his two Mexican hands didn’t give a rat’s ass about the horse farm, the corrals, or any wild mares at that moment. Let them have their fun.
He slapped a few coins onto the bar and got to his feet.
“You leaving us so soon?” Goose stopped nibbling Lupita’s neck long enough to ask. “It’s too early, man. Why you want to go home now?”
Ignacio chuckled. “You know why.” He nudged his brother’s ribs. “He got his woman there. He got no need to pay no whore for it.”
“Must be nice, get a little cuca anytime you want.” Pulling Lupita closer, he turned his attention to her again, forgetting all else.
“Yeah, nice,” Tom muttered. “All I want. Whenever I want it.” Hell, what point was there in going home? He sat down and let his gaze roam across the bar. “Then again, a man gets tired of riding the same horse all the time, know what I mean?”
Ignacio grinned. “You like the tall ones?” He pushed the blonde in Tom’s direction. “Maybe we both take her, you think?”
For less time than it took him to blink, Tom considered the proposition—and rejected it. Once he might have been turned on by such bawdy talk, and he might once have been aroused by a long-legged blonde with a narrow waist and breasts falling out of her gown each time she bent down. She seemed to do that a lot.
But instead of being aroused, he only got annoyed. Women shouldn’t be exposing themselves in stinking saloons, teasing horny cowboys, and getting paid to spread their legs.
Some of them had no choice. That’s what his mother explained once when he’d asked about it. Women had a hard lot in life. Unless they had a man to take care of them, they had to support themselves in whatever way they could. There weren’t all that many options, and sad to say, whoring paid a hell of a lot better than most jobs. It sure beat doing laundry.
“You cowboy?” The blonde sidled up to him, ran a hand across his chest, and stuck those damned milk jugs out as far as she could. “You like me, cowboy? You want some good time?”
He reached for her hand and moved it away.
“What’s the matter, cowboy?” Her hands went to her neckline and tugged it lower. Tom glanced down. He could see the dark aureoles surrounding her taut nipples. “You need some love?”
“We all need love,” he replied, wetting his lips. His parched throat craved more whiskey, but his glass was empty. “That’s not what you’re offering.”
“I give you lots of love.” The buxom creature leaned toward him, her ripe breasts bouncing beneath the skimpy bodice. “All you want, cowboy.”
A bottle of whiskey came sliding down the bar toward him. Tom blinked, caught it, and grinned.
“On the house,” Jake Walker called. “Looks like you might be getting a bit hot down there.”
Gustavo and Lupita had disappeared, Tom noted, as he glanced around the saloon. No doubt they’d slipped upstairs. Ignacio had found himself not one, but two new girls—another blonde and one whose henna-colored locks couldn’t possibly have come from nature.
“Cowboy?”
Tom shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ve got to go.”
“You don’t want my love, cowboy? I suck your cock.”
Damned, pathetic whores. What the hell was wrong with the world? No woman should have to resort to such despicable acts just to keep a roof over her head and food on her table.
He headed for the door, eager to ride home to his wife. Time to put all the quarrels aside and make things right between them.
* * * *
For two hours straight—the time it took to drive from Sunset to their little farmhouse—Lucille cried. Her shoulders shook with sobs, and if the old horse plodding along hadn’t known which way was home, she might not have even made it.
She’d lost Tom, all because of her foolish pride and her stubbornness. In refusing to accept his mother, she’d refused to accept him as well. The husband was meant to be the head of the home, the provider, and the decision-maker.
It wasn’t a question of regaining his love. She’d never had it to lose.
When she drove over the crest of the hill and stared down at the little house, the muscles in her neck tensed. A buggy sat outside the front door. It belonged to Abner Kellerman and was as woefully out-of-style as its owner.
Probably she should have been amused to think of the old doctor coming to call on Charlotte, performing his own version of the ritual of courtship. At the moment, Lucille couldn’t see much humor in anything.
She parked beneath the boxelder tree beside the house, unhitched the horse from the wagon, then returned to pick Faith up from her wooden carrier. How the child had slept through all the weeping and wailing Lucille had done was one of those truly inexplicable mysteries of life.
“Come on, little one, let’s get you inside.” Lucille sniffed back the last of her tears, and gave Faith a smile.
As soon as she stepped onto the porch, she heard the noises. Grunts. Groans. Raspy shouts and wild moans filled the air accompanied by the steady creaking of bedsprings. All of it came from the big bedroom downstairs.
“What do you think you’re doing!” she shouted, knowing all too well what the sounds were about. Shaking, she slammed the front door behind her—at which point Faith let out an ear-splitting cry. Lucille opened the bedroom door and slammed it again, wanting to make certain the occupants of the bouncing bed knew she’d returned. “Get out of my house!” she demanded.
They paid her no mind.
Trying to keep her eyes off the sweaty couple going at it in the four-poster, Lucille hurri
ed through the bedroom toward Faith’s room. The little girl squalled at the top of her lungs.
“Hush, baby,” Lucille crooned, placing Faith into her crib.
She squared her shoulders and stepped through the doorway to confront the fornicators.
“I should have expected this. Once a whore, always a whore, I suppose.”
Charlotte, at least, had the decency to grab a blanket and cover herself. Kellerman, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care that every flabby inch of his body was exposed, his flaccid penis now dangling uselessly between his legs. Lucille closed her eyes, knowing she’d never be able to erase the image.
“You’re no better than rutting hogs. I won’t have your filth in my house.” Lucille forced herself to open her eyes, but she couldn’t look at the bed again. Her gaze came to rest on the nightstand where a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses—all empty—sat beside the lamp.
“Now, wait a minute,” said the doctor, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “We’re consenting adults, and we’ve got the right—”
“Not in my home, you don’t. And not in my bed.” She saw Kellerman’s suit jacket on the floor, stepped over, and kicked it toward him with the toe of her patent leather shoe. “Get out, and take her with you,” she shouted, pointing toward Charlotte.
She banged the door shut as she hurried out. Once she reached the parlor, she collapsed on the old settee, buried her head in her hands, and wept. Faith’s cries echoed from her little room, but Lucille was in too much agony to answer. Through it all, she could make out the shuffling footsteps, the hushed words between Charlotte and Abner, and at last, the sound of the door opening and closing. Except for Faith’s wails, the house was quiet. Even Lucille’s tears had stopped. Maybe she’d finally cried out all the tears she had inside of her.
Chapter Seventeen
Lucille didn’t know how long she stayed there, simply staring at the wall, too shaken to think. The door flew open again, startling her from her reverie. Faith was still bawling, she realized, but she couldn’t find the strength to stand.
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