by Deborah Camp
The sincerity in her tone and the kindness of her smile interrupted Gussie’s flight. The woman had certainly described her situation, and hearing it said so succinctly made her reconsider her options. Which were grim. She could sleep under the stars again or take the Karlssons up on their generous offer of a bed and a roof. Her back ached and her muscles groaned as she imagined herself settling down on the ground tonight. Eyeing the gathering clouds above her, she figured a downpour would just be her luck.
Her quick start and stop had jostled her straw hat. It slipped sideways over one ear and she righted it with her free hand. She ought to just take the decrepit thing off and fling it into the street. Let the dirt have it.
Susan reached up and touched the ragged brim, her golden brows dipping over her blue eyes. “What happened to your bonnet?”
“A goat took a bite out of it.”
A deep chuckle whipped her around in time to see the half-breed’s grin before he ducked his head and angled away from her. Anger pumped through her. She wouldn’t go with them and continue to be a source for his amusement!
“Listen here,” she said, facing the woman again. “I’m grateful and all, but I’m not used to taking things from folks. I’ll handle my problems somehow—.”
“No, please!” Mrs. Karlsson tipped sideways so she could look past Gussie and send a narrow-eyed glare to her husband. “Pay him no mind. He didn’t mean to insult you. My conscience won’t allow me to leave you here without some provisions. Spend at least tonight in our home and we’ll see how things look in the morning.”
Gussie let go of a long breath, her resolve weakening. “If I do this, I insist on helping you around the place. Cleaning, washing clothes, whatever chores need to be done. I’m no stranger to hard work, and I’ll not stay more’n a day or two. I’ll figure something out.” She could feel Lonestar behind her. The heat of him warmed her back, and if she wasn’t wrong, the scent of soap and rainwater wafted off his skin.
Susan Karlsson patted her shoulder and smiled with relief, showing off the shallow dimples at the corners of her mouth. “Understood. Let’s load up. We came into town to pick up a few things and we should set off before the sun gets any lower.” She glanced at Gussie’s satchel. “Max, take her bag from her, won’t you, and place it in the wagon.”
He reached for the satchel and his fingers slipped over Gussie’s. The touch was so combustible and startling that Gussie released the satchel as if it had burst into flames. He almost dropped it, but caught the handle and jostled it, testing its weight.
“What’s in here besides an anvil?” He eyed her, up and down, up and down. “You’re stronger than you look.”
For a few moments, her thoughts were suspended like a hummingbird between blossoms. Every place on her body that his gaze had slid over felt aroused, alive, and yearning. She wanted to cross her arms and give herself a big, rapturous hug. Then her sensibility gave her a swift kick and she blinked, realizing that she was staring moony-eyed at him. She hastily retreated a few steps. Susan Karlsson was there, placing a hand on her arm, and bringing her back to earth.
“You can ride up front with me. Max, you sit in the back.”
“No need for that. You sit up there with your husband. I’m used to riding in the wagon bed.”
“My . . ?” Susan’s eyes widened, and she looked at Lonestar and laughed lightly. “Max isn’t my husband. He’s my brother. My husband is at home with our children and I know Erik’s about ready to tear his hair out.” She angled closer to Gussie and lowered her voice. “He’s a wonderful father, but he doesn’t do well with them on his own. They run circles around him.”
Her brother. Susan guided her to a red wagon hitched to a pair of dapple gray geldings. The black and gold painted wheels gleamed and the metal on the harnesses was as shiny as new coins. Bushel baskets loaded with flour, sugar, and feed sacks, as well as apples and peaches, sat along one side of the wagon bed. A tall stack of lumber and a keg of nails took up most of the other side, leaving little room for anyone – especially an anyone with long legs and a wide torso.
“He won’t be comfortable. There’s not much space back there,” Gussie noted.
“Don’t be silly,” Susan admonished. “Help her up onto the seat, Max. My gracious, what is wrong with you? Mama taught you better manners.”
He was at her side in one long stride.
“You’re her brother.” The words slipped out before Gussie could stop them. He nodded solemnly as he gripped her elbows, but his gaze slipped down to her lips as if drawn there like a bee to nectar. In the next moment, she was lifted – lifted right off the ground as if she had grown wings! A squeak escaped her, but in her startled state, her feet somehow found purchase and her hands grasped the side rail. Her backside landed on the padded seat and she bounced. Gasping, she stared down into Max Lonestar’s handsome face. His brown eyes sparkled with mischief and he was having a devil of a time trying not to laugh at her again.
“Half-brother,” he informed her and then looked past her to his sister, sending her a wink. He placed a boot on the front wheel, gave a little hop, and swung up and into the back of the wagon, lithe as a mountain cat.
Yes, Gussie thought. He did smell as clean as rainwater and lye soap.
Squeezing his masculine frame into the space in the middle of the bed, he settled against the tailgate so that he faced the two women in the front, and stretched out his legs.
Gussie realized that she’d turned halfway around in the seat to watch him. She chided herself and faced front. He fascinated her. Probably because he was part Indian. She’d read many stories about Indian tribes. Or maybe it was the liquid way he moved, the rough velvet of his voice, or his unflinching, unapologetic regard.
Half-brother. That meant that he and Susan had either the same mother or father. Had to have been his father who was an Indian. Lonestar. Gussie looked at the woman seated beside her who had taken up the reins. Her imagination sparked with the notion of Susan’s mother sporting with a savage in a loin cloth and headdress! Had she lived in a tipi with him? What had happened to Lonestar’s father? Had he been killed in an Indian massacre, cut down by an equally savage white man?
Susan caught her staring. Gussie focused on the bobbing heads of the horses and searched for something safe to say. “How many children do you have?”
“Only two. So far.” Susan’s bright smile put her at ease. “Brigit is four and Elias is two.”
Gussie nodded, running out of questions about her. However, she had a dozen more about her half-brother.
“Our farm isn’t far. Three miles west of Pear Orchard. It has belonged to our family – on my father’s side – for three generations.”
“Oh. That’s nice. Do your parents still live there?”
“No. My father passed on a decade ago and we lost Mama almost two years ago.” She heaved a sigh. “Doesn’t seem like she’s been gone that long . . .” Shrugging, she placed a smile back on her rosy lips. “We’ve been cotton farmers, mostly, but we’re branching out.”
“Sounds like a good piece of land,” Gussie said, although she knew little or nothing about what made land good or bad. She and her pa had traveled from town to town. They’d never had much of anything except what Pa needed for his work and a few pieces of clothing. Lonestar hadn’t been far off with his quip about her toting around an anvil in her carpetbag. Her pa’s trade was blacksmithing.
“We’re happy with it.” Susan flicked the reins. “Pick up your pace there, Lewis and Clark. So, do tell how you and Bob Babbitt selected each other.”
Gussie fidgeted with the loose threads along the tear on her glove, telling herself not to be ashamed. Not every woman could find a suitable husband without resorting to drastic measures. “My letter was published in newspaper matrimony columns. Mr. Babbitt’s was the first missive I received from willing suitors. I liked that he had a business and was a landowner.” She huffed out a sigh. “But it appears that he’s a big liar. I put in my letter
that I would not tolerate or consider any man who drinks liquor.”
“Bob isn’t a bad man,” Susan said, drawing out the words as if she didn’t really believe them. “But I’m certain that you can do better for yourself. Even right here around Pear Orchard.”
Gussie regarded Susan’s confident smile. What was she up to? Something was afoot that Gussie hadn’t quite caught onto yet. “There are a lot of eligible men in these parts?”
“There are a few.” She glanced behind her. “My brother, for one. He isn’t married. Yet.”
“Suze . . .” The man spoke, his tone a growling warning to his sister.
Susan laughed lightly. “Hush up back there, you! We’re having us some girl talk up here.” She rocked her shoulder against Gussie’s. “Max has turned more than a few feminine heads. He’s quite good looking, I think.”
“Is he a whiskey drinker?”
Susan’s expression became as somber as a Bible-thumpin’ preacher man’s on Sunday morning. “No. Absolutely not.”
Gussie felt her brows lift with surprise and delight. He was as tempting as sin and he didn’t drink! What were the odds of that? Should she even believe it? So far, everything Bob Babbitt had written to her had been lies. Why should it be any different with Susan and her half-brother?
“I do believe we might have a remedy for your dilemma,” Susan said, her tone chipper.
“What’s that?” Gussie’s hackles rose, her sixth sense telling her that she should be on guard.
“We’ll explain it all when we get to the farm.” She turned her happy smile on Gussie again. “Bob Babbitt being in jail could be most fortunate for you, Miss Horton.”
Stretched out in the wagon bed, Max tried to catch every word spoken by the two females up front, but the clop-clopping of the horses’ hooves and squeaking of the wagon wheels drowned out most of what was being said. He heard enough, though, to know that Susan was nudging Miss Gussie Horton away from the notion of Bob Babbitt and toward that of marrying another – namely, him.
He looked away from them, irritated and yes, anxious about the scheme Susan had cooked up in the undertaker’s office. Once she’d figured out the predicament Babbitt’s intended was in, she’d whispered to Max that this was opportunity knocking on his door and he’d better open up and grab it.
Bob Babbitt had sent for a wife! Max shook his head, amazed. Damn if that wasn’t inspired. And he’d almost pulled it off! If he hadn’t been thrown in jail, Babbitt would have met that train and married the gal, effectively winning the prize he and Lonestar had been fighting for these past seven months. Daniel Poindexter’s farm.
He swung his attention back to the girl in the goat-bitten hat. He admired her spunk. Susan was right about the courage it took to board a train headed for parts unknown where she would wed a man she knew little about. He’d noticed her right off. She’d hopped off Zeb Watson’s wagon and looked around as if she were sizing up the town and found it about as appealing as a plateful of cow dung. The proud angle of her chin told him that she might be short of stature, but she had no shortage of gumption. And he liked girls with sass and grit. From what he’d observed of her so far, Gussie Horton fit that description.
In profile, he could see more evidence of her stubborn spirit in the hardness of her jawline. She pursed her lips in a frowning pout; an expression she seemed to have mastered and one he found himself wanting to erase with the pressure of his mouth on hers. She probably had an appealing smile. She certainly wasn’t bad looking. In fact, he suspected she might be pretty if she didn’t frown so much, removed that ridiculous hat, and brushed the knots out of her dark blond hair.
Of course, he shouldn’t be critical, seeing as how she’d been on the road for several days. Had she slept outside? What had she found to eat? Worry nibbled at him as scenes of this slip of a girl flitted through his mind – of her standing, alone and forlorn, at the train depot in Ft. Smith, of her sleeping, scared and hungry, out in the woods or alongside a road, and of her accepting rides from strangers. Bob Babbitt had sure enough put her through hell – and he hadn’t even met her yet!
Had she worn those clothes at the depot? Surely not. Those were traveling clothes. She must have prettied up to meet her suitor. Where had she traveled from? Why hadn’t she latched onto a man where she’d been living? Did she have family that approved of this letter bride arrangement? The questions piled up like firewood. If his sister had her way, those questions would be answered before morning. What’s more, if Susan had her way, he would take Bob Babbitt’s place at the altar.
Trepidation sloshed through him, cold as a mountain stream. Could he do such a thing? Marry a girl he hardly knew, a girl he wasn’t even physically attracted to? A voice inside him called him a damned liar. There was some attraction, he admitted. When she’d pressed her breasts against him as she’d shimmied out of the undertaker’s office, the contact had sent a current of awareness through him. She cut a right nice figure and was soft in all the right places – except, maybe, her heart. She did seem a mite frigid, but that could be due to her circumstances. A young gal had to be careful in these parts – or, he reckoned, anywhere for that matter.
Admiring the proud set of her shoulders and her poker straight spine, he saw through the façade to what she had to be – running scared. Wherever she’d been before was someplace she didn’t want to be again and those she’d left behind were probably best left back there. Her prospects must have been slim to none and weren’t any better now. Which, he realized, made her the perfect mate for him. Maybe Suze was right. Maybe Bob Babbitt’s misfortune would turn out to be Max Lonestar’s pot of gold.
Chapter 2
The full-length mirror’s glass was smoky colored and wavy, but good enough for Gussie to size herself up in it. She sure looked better now that she’d had a bath and had changed out of those stinkin’ clothes. She’d been tempted to throw away the skirt and blouse, but sensibility had won out and she’d stuffed them into her satchel. Having only three dresses, two skirts, and two blouses to her name, she couldn’t be foolish and toss out outfits. When she got a chance, she’d wash them and be glad to wear them again.
She did throw away the hat. Flung it out the window and let the late summer breeze send it skipping across the cotton fields.
Standing tall, she turned slightly left and right, judging herself in the mirror with a critical eye. The dress had caught her fancy right off when she’d spied it in a hardgoods store in Dyersburg, Tennessee. Pink and violet plaid on a white background, the fabric was feminine and fashionable. The long sleeves ended in a pink ruffle at her wrists; the same kind of ruffle bordering the hem. The skirt gathered in the back to form a modified bustle. The oval neckline dipped low enough to expose her throat.
She’d bought the dress with money her pa had given her for her eighteenth birthday two years ago, which had surprised the stuffing out of her because he hadn’t given her anything on her birthday before. Evidently, he’d thought that eighteen was an important milestone.
Rolled in thin paper, the dress had been tucked in her satchel ever since as she’d never had an occasion to wear it. Not until Bob Babbitt had sent for her.
Stepping down from the train, she’d felt like a true lady in her best dress with her hair all pinned up under a pink bonnet and a touch of rouge on her cheeks and lips. An hour later, she’d felt like a gussied-up fool.
Allowed to use a private office in the depot, she’d changed out of the dress and put on travel clothes, having made up her mind to get herself to Pear Orchard and give Bob Babbitt a tongue lashing. Maybe she’d find that an accident had befallen him, or a close relative had taken deathly ill or was dying. She’d forgive him, and they’d go along with their marriage plans.
Of course, it hadn’t turned out that way. Jail. Her intended had landed in jail, drunk and disorderly.
With a sigh of regret, she beat down the remorse and focused on how nice the Karlssons were and how fortunate she was to have been invited to their
home. Susan had insisted on filling the copper tub in the back bedroom – the room she shared with her husband – so that Gussie could take a long, warm bath. Gussie had even washed her air and gotten the tangles out with Susan’s ivory comb. She’d fashioned it into a long braid and it was still damp to the touch.
After the bath, she’d been shown to this room where Susan said she’d spend the night.
Gazing intently in the mirror at the serious looking girl with big, blue eyes and full, bee-stung lips, Gussie decided that she was borderline pretty, all spruced up. There wasn’t a lot to her, but what was there was put together in a womanly shape.
What she didn’t much care for was the wariness in her eyes and the small lines between them. She forced herself not to scowl and the lines smoothed out. That was better. But she knew those lines wouldn’t stay gone. Life had toughened her. She knew that she was harder tempered than most twenty-year-old maidens. Living with a drunk did that to a gal. Had to learn quick to expect nothing much and be ready to land on your feet when you got knocked sideways.
She’d stopped trying to look pretty about the time she’d grown breasts. That’s when Clem’s drinking buddies had taken notice of her. They would slip into their campsite and try to touch her while her pa was out cold. She’d fought off more than she could count before making it a habit of sleeping near her pa with a hunting knife in her hand. That sent most a message that she wasn’t to be trifled with. Still, a few kept trying to paw at her. Finally, she could take it no more and decided she had to break away from her pa and his travels. Spotting an advertisement about men seeking wives, she decided to become a letter bride. Better to be the property of one man before she was ruined by many.
For as long as she could remember, she’d dreamed of a real home – a place all her own where she was the wife and mother and her husband was kind and respectful. He didn’t get crazy drunk. Didn’t yell. Didn’t use his strength against her or their children.