His Rip-Roarin' Bride

by Martha Hix

  “She’s hungry,” Lisa-Ann surmised, smiling.

  He pulled Cassandra into his arms. “How did you know?”

  “I love cats. Granny Fan and I had several, but none that lived in the house.”

  “This cat definitely lives in this house. Shall I show you the kitchen, while I feed her?”

  “Of course.”

  Detached from the main house but attached by a breezeway, the pale yellow kitchen came complete with a multitude of white cabinets, a sink with a pump handle to access well water, nice pots and pans hanging from wrought-iron racks, and a wide assortment of gadgets and appliance. “Is that an icebox? My goodness, Wes. It is! I’ve only read about them. Do you mind if I look inside?”

  He took a can from a cabinet and a punch-type opener from a drawer. “Go right ahead, but it’s empty.”

  “Empty?”

  He poured tuna fish in a beautiful porcelain saucer that he took from a china cabinet. Immediately, she recognized the pattern. It was the same one that Rosa Schneider used for the most formal of her dinners. Limoges, made by Haviland.

  Limoges? Haviland? Hundreds of books, money to buy hideous artwork. Where is the evergreen money tree?

  “The icebox is empty,” Wes said. “There’s no icehouse around here.”

  She wondered and wondered about how a sheriff and his widowed mother afforded so many nice things. Surely he wasn’t crooked...was he?

  Lisa-Ann didn’t want Wes to be bad. He was the nicest thing that had ever happened to her. Please, dear God in heaven. Let him be good!

  She said the first thing that sprang to mind. “Why in the world would you waste money by buying one?” She flushed. “Pardon me. That’s none of my business.”

  He set the saucer to the floor, and Cassandra dove in. “Someday, there’ll be an icehouse in Lubbock, and this house will be ready for it.”

  To move past her embarrassment for mentioning money, which was “talking out of school,” as folks on The Divide called it, she chattered. “I’ve spent a lot of my life in kitchens. That’s where Granny Fan taught me so much. Cooking, baking, and everything else. She’d been a schoolteacher before marrying my grandfather. When we cooked, or cleaned up, she gave educational lectures and colorful travelogues as we mixed ingredients.”

  “She must have been an extraordinary woman.” He grinned. “I loved the part about the golden farts and money tree ears.”

  They both chuckled, with Lisa-Ann saying, “Really, that wasn’t like her at all.”

  “Where did you pick up your more than colorful vocabulary?”

  “The sheep sheds of Kerr County. I’m just about the best sheep shearer around there. No brag, just fact.”

  He threw the empty can out and put the opener away. “I’ve never known anyone to curse as profusely as you.”

  “I never did, not until Orville came along.”

  Reminded of her reason for being in Lubbock in the first place, she felt frustration creep in her being.

  “You’re tired,” he said. “I see it in your eyes, and the wilt in your shoulders.” He paused, his expression concerned. “Your shoulder. Did it heal properly?”

  “Not really.”

  “I was afraid of that. This might be a good time to sit down and commune with a couple of shots of Scotch whisky. Single malt. Imported from Inverness.” He opened a cabinet to display an array of mostly filled bottles. “Shall we?”

  “I don’t think so. That’s not on principal. Scotch gives me a headache.” She eyed him boldly. “I can’t shake something that’s bothering me. They don’t give that whisky away. Do you mind me asking how it came to be yours?”

  “Good heavens! I worked for the money.”

  It might be wrong to trust him on this, but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Shall I make you some supper now?” she asked. “We never even got to that cobbler and coffee from the café. I’ll bet you’re starving.”

  “No. Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go to the Nicolett and just have some quiet time.”

  “Whatever makes you happy.”

  “Thank you, Wes.”

  The quiet time was good for her. Wes was good for her. He was the nicest man she had ever met. The leaves on his money tree? Maybe it was an inheritance. Maybe being a sheriff paid better than she imagined.

  As the days wore on, she took an unmitigated thrill in how he enjoyed the meals she prepared.

  His responsibilities kept him from home most of the time. It was the start of a very busy season for the county, with livestock beginning to drop their young during the freezing hours of predawn, which made for general excitement and liveliness, some of which resulted in problems for the sheriff and his deputies. Not only did Wes provide botany advice, he evidently had enough skill with veterinary medicine to assist, if not take charge when a cow or even a ewe got into trouble birthing her baby.

  Evidently the stress of ranching on the plains in the cold took its toll on the menfolk, who spent more time at the painted lady’s barroom. At least that was the gossip in the hotel’s common room. Lisa-Ann heard there had been several fistfights, with one ending up as a stabbing.

  As for herself, she had had enough excitement to do her, thank you very much. She preferred to spend her time either at Wes’s home or at the hotel. Of course, as a guest of the inn, she couldn’t bury her head in the sand, so to speak. The proprietor and his employees always had a word to say about this and that, with whatever the subject, they managed to loop the conversation around to the wonders of Wes Alington.

  Church ladies always seemed to find her, usually as she walked back and forth from the Nicolett to the home on Avenue B, or in the mornings, when she fed and groomed Priscilla and the gelding Razor—a mount Wes never rode, it seemed—and set them into the pasture by his home.

  They didn’t miss an opportunity to remind her of scheduled worship services. As she well knew, people in Texas who didn’t show up for devotions were considered pariahs. She did want to attend. She figured to try the one that most of the ladies attended, a nondenominational church called Heaven’s Gate. But not yet.

  Everyone commented on how the last preacher was far better than the one they had now. The general run of conversation boiled down to Brother Ted Alington being the finest man they had ever known. But his son equalled! If only the elder Alington hadn’t tried to stop that pushy wife of his from taking an ax to Jenny Benoit’s fine mahogany bar, he would still be alive today. Apparently Wes’s father fell dead from an apoplexy.

  They all seemed glad Mrs. Alington was “no longer with us.”

  To avoid such yammering, Lisa-Ann decided by the first Thursday since her release from jail—she didn’t wish to hear anyone speak ill of the dead, especially when the dead was Wes’s dear mother.

  Nor did she wish to spend too much time plotting on how to find Orville Bellingham. She came to the conclusion that the only thing she could do about the past was learn from it. The lesson of Orville? She would not allow him to poison her todays.

  She concentrated on routine. Breakfast, dishes, prepare the main meal to serve at noontime, then cover the leftovers to have for Wes’s supper. Tidy up the midday dishes, clean the rooms, and fix his dessert to be eaten after she left for the evening.

  Taking care of the Alington home didn’t even prove to be a challenge.

  She was glad to have distance from Wes at night, since she quickly got the impression he would not have turned down kisses and cuddles. Then again, he filled her nights’ dreams.

  It was all she could do to keep a distance.

  Thankfully—yet strangely, regretfully—he was gone most of the time.

  She grew bored, restless.

  “I wonder how much money it’d take to collect tools to build my honeycomb ovens?” she said to Cassandra one morning. The hardest part was the first oven, a necessity being to bake bricks for the next ones. “I’d need a place to build my kiln. An
d then I’d need a wagon to haul bricks to the building sites. Priscilla couldn’t pull such a thing. She’s old, and a Palomino. It would be beneath her dignity, being a draught horse.”

  Ovens were out of the question for now.

  Often, after finishing chores, yet still having time to waste before Wes’s return in the evenings, Lisa-Ann would meander into his sunroom. At first, she simply read the titles of this book or the next. He did have many good ones. She liked to sit in a rocker with Cassandra curled in her lap, reading stories of days gone by in places far, far away.

  One day, about ten days after she began paying down her debts, A.J. dropped in to see if she needed provisions from Jones Feed & General. No, she needed nothing. The shelves and pantry were overstocked with food. All this richness continued to prey on her mind.

  “A.J., Wes certainly does well for a sheriff.”

  “That’s true. Was the same for his daddy. Brother Ted, he preached at the Heaven’s Gate. He used to give money away, right and left.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “Never said. His widow, she didn’t, either. The sheriff? He’s even more closemouthed. But Miss Temperance’s husband, he told a friend of mine from Brownwood that somebody done robbed a bank for all that money.”

  An awful feeling clawed at her. “Do you think that’s true?”

  “No. No, I don’t. I never seen Sheriff Wes be anything but on the up and up.”

  Thank goodness!

  * * *

  One afternoon, Lisa-Ann set Cassandra to her paws for a nature call in the quite amazing bathroom. Everyone on The Divide, even the Schneiders, used outhouses. Or chamber pots. In fact, Pepaw used to joke around, much to Granny Fan’s disgust. “We’ve got a canopy over the bed and a can o’ pee under the bed.”

  As for bathing, she and her grandmother pulled a big tub into the kitchen once a week for baths, “whether we need a bath or not,” Pepaw always joked.

  There was no such rustication in the Alington residence.

  A very large claw-foot white tub dominated a bathroom offering a working toilet and running water, both to the tub and a lavatory. The tub even had a kerosene water heater, just above the faucets. On a shelf adjacent to the tub stood a wooden shelf holding store-bought soap, bathing bubbles, and a large bottle of lanolin. Never in her life had Lisa-Ann known the joy of such a bath, and she wondered if she might sneak one in, one of these days.

  What about today?

  She didn’t expect Wes for hours, really.

  Why not? Why not indulge, just this once?

  I’m going to do it...just this once!

  * * *

  God is going to strike me blind for being a peeping Tom.

  “Who cares,” he muttered under his breath, for there was lovely Lisa-Ann, naked, bathing in that claw-foot tub.

  Her hair was twisted atop her head with curly tendrils escaping, now wet. What really caught his attention? Her right shoulder. Jesus! That son of a bitch almost blew her arm off. It’s a wonder she has use of that arm at all.

  He prayed she would never again know such pain.

  Suddenly short of breath, Wes knew he ought to do the honorable thing and back out of there, quickly and quietly. He couldn’t. All these days of having her so close, yet so far from his arms—he could take no more. He yearned to hold her close and comfort her. Stop lying to yourself, Alington. You may want those things, but it’s her you want. Want her in the most basic of ways.

  He reached back to knock quietly on the doorframe.

  She jumped, startled, twisting her torso around. Her eyes rounded, a shy blush blooming on her cheeks...and on her nose. He particularly found her red nose interesting. He was grinning as she quickly covered one lush, plump breast with a hand and tried to reach for a towel.

  “Don’t. Don’t, sweetheart. I love seeing you like this.” His voice was husky. “I wish every day for the rest of my life, I could come home to you in this bathtub.” So aroused that his staff pushed painfully at his fly, he stepped a little bit forward, then sat back on his heels. He took a washrag from a pile by the tub.

  “Just lie back,” he whispered. “Allow me to bathe you.”

  He expected a fight. Maybe some of those blue words she knew so well. Didn’t happen. She lay back, resting her nape on the tub’s edge.

  “I guess this was inevitable,” she whispered. “I must have inherited a particular weakness from my mother.”

  “Most likely. Don’t fight it, my sweet. We all inherit sensual desires from our parents. If not, there wouldn’t be any children.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Lisa...” He didn’t want to add the Ann to it. It seemed childish, the Southern habit of calling people by both given names. “I just want to bathe you. No. That’s a lie. I want way more than that from you, and I think you want the same. But for now...let me wash away your fears.”

  From behind her, he dipped the rag into the bubbles, then moved to the both rigid and puffed purple scar at her shoulder. Tenderly, he bathed it. Then kissed it with the same tenderness.

  “This must have hurt badly,” he said, absorbing her quivers in his fingers. “How could anyone damage you this way?”

  “Damage?” Her voice was a whisper. “Am I so damaged that you can’t see beyond the scar?”

  “Not in the least. It’s part of you. I could never be turned off by you.” He paused. “Unless you’re wearing that horrible old coat of your grandfather’s.”

  She chuckled. So did Wes.

  “I admit, it was pretty bad. But it was the warmest thing that I could find to wear. I hope the kitties at the livery stable are enjoying it,” she said.

  “I’m sure they are. And I am enjoying you, my Lisa love. Even in that awful coat, you had a heady appeal.”

  “Curiosity, I imagine.”

  Another shared chuckle, and then he said, “There is that.”

  He brought the rag to her cheek and the grins were over. He felt the pulse at her neck, beating rapidly, as did his.

  Bringing his lips to her ear, he laved the shell of it with his tongue. She squirmed. He wanted her to squirm. He wanted more, more, more...fast and hard, rough even. But he wouldn’t. He bathed her breasts, whispering about their beauty.

  “I could go lower. I can take this rag and clean your navel. Do you want that? You do. Good. I think I will.” And he did. She moaned, over and again, as he took a slow forward trail. He nibbled her neck as he did so. “Below this nice navel of yours, there’s a very private place. A place I bet no man has ever seen, much less touched. Is that right, my lovely Lisa?”

  “Yes. No one. I had no idea it could be this—oh, Wes! Oh, stop. No. Don’t. Oh, my goodness, Wes!”

  He did indeed find that private place, and he showed her what it was like, a schooled man’s touch. He thought it would take a long, long time to bring her to a climax. If ever, for a virgin. He was wrong. She found her ecstasy quickly.

  He had a good mind to pluck her from that tub to ravish her against the bathroom wall.

  No.

  He loved this maiden.

  When they made love, it would be right. Right and legal. Legal? Would she have him?

  He removed his hand, slipped to his feet, and turned.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For a shot of Scotch.”

  * * *

  That was interesting.

  “What do you want out of life, Lisa?”

  Somewhere in the last couple of days, he’d shortened her name. She didn’t mind. She could be Lisa, just for Wes.

  They were sharing a typical Texas supper of steak at the Jerry & Larry Cafe, washed down with Dr Pepper for her and “drams” of Scotch whisky mixed with well water, brought from Wes’s home, for him. The eatery would have been run out of business, were it to start selling liquor to their customers, but the management turned their head at “brown bags.”

  The café wasn’t particularly b
usy this Thursday evening, the next day after Wes caught her bathing. In fact, the back dining room was vacant, except for Lisa-Ann and Wes.

  He repeated his question, adding, “If you get your revenge against Bellingham, or if you don’t, what is next for you?”

  Gracious! She hadn’t thought about Orville, not in days, really. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you need to return to The Divide?”

  “No. I do miss the Schneiders.”

  “Is there even a home place to go back to?”

  “Yes, of course. Granny Fan had just paid the taxes before she...died. I sold the last of the lambs to catch up on taxes. Yes, I can go back. I just don’t know. I’m more worried about now, this moment.”

  “How is that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Would you rather stay here?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Do you regret...yesterday?”

  “No.” Oddly, she hadn’t felt shame from his intimate touch and didn’t mind tonight, when his hand snuck beneath the eating table to caress her inner thigh. Why? Why fret! It seemed right, as if it were destined. Yeah, I bet that’s what Violet thought, too, when she let the count have his way with her—for a decade!

  Wes versus Ludolph. They did not compare. Her father had been tall and Teutonic, very snobby and spoiled and demanding. She loved him like there was no tomorrow, even when he made empty promises. There were no tomorrows. Ludolph, Count of Langenaubach, lived a life of debauchery. But he never robbed a bank, not that she knew of.

  Had Wes? Had his forefathers? Back in early March, she didn’t even know this lovely man existed. Her life had become wretched...before Wes. Now she saw endless possibilities for the future. Did she dare to dream?

  “Don’t you want a husband?”

  Momentarily, the earth ceased to rotate. Her heart fluttered. Was her adored man on the verge of asking for her hand?

  “It’s only natural for a woman to wish for romantic love,” she answered. “A man and the children we’d bring into the world? How could I not want that?”