Lonestar's Lady

by Deborah Camp

  “What’s wrong with you? Have you been acting a fool, too?”

  He gathered his hands into fists. “No.” He scowled. “It has to do with me being half Osage.” He shrugged. “Well, that’s part of it.”

  “Osage,” she repeated. That was a tribe she hadn’t read about.

  “My father, Lonestar, was Osage.”

  “Lonestar,” she repeated, unable to keep the smile from her face or her voice. “That was his name? You took his name!”

  His brows knitted and his eyes moved up to confront hers again. The scowl eased off his face. “That’s right.”

  “Was he a chief?”

  He tipped his head to one side, studying her, his eyes narrowing with interest. “No. He was a chief’s son.”

  “Then he would have been a chief one day.” Just like in the stories she’d read! “What happened to him? Were you raised you in a tipi?”

  He shook his head a little, a smile playing at the corners of his wide mouth. “He drowned when I was five. I don’t remember much about him. He worked on a ranch and he was herding cattle across a swollen river. His horse reared, he fell off, and was trampled. I guess the current was too swift. Anyway, that’s what my mother told me. They lived in a house. Well, more like a one-room cabin. And they were shunned by almost everyone.”

  Shunned. She hated that word and all it represented. “Then your mother married Susan’s father.”

  “Yes. William Wilson was the only father I ever knew. But my mother told me stories about my birth father so that I would know something about that part of my birthright.” He waved aside that subject. “Being part Osage is why I haven’t . . . I don’t have any . . .” He looked away from her again, clearly irritated. “Respectable folks in these parts don’t want a half-breed son-in-law. Also, I was in prison for five years.”

  Gussie was glad she was sitting because she felt as if the world fell away from her for a few moments. “What for?” she asked, surprised she could get the words out.

  His eyes were a dark, sorrowful brown as if shadows lay on them. He no longer smiled. “I killed a man, Miss Horton. A good friend of mine. In a fight in a saloon where we had too much whiskey and too little sense.”

  Chapter 3

  She felt thunderstruck. Were there no honorable, sober, bachelor men in these parts?

  “I was charged and convicted of manslaughter,” he said, hastily. “Not murder.”

  A gust of derisive laughter burst from her. “Is that supposed to make it better? Am I supposed to breathe a sigh of relief now?”

  His brows lowered like storm clouds. “Just stating a fact. We got into a fight and he fell and hit his head on a potbelly stove. The doctor said it was the blow to his head that killed him. But if I hadn’t been fighting with him . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment and his features tightened, his lips stretched in a straight line of tension. “It was my fault he died. My fault.”

  He said the last as if it were something he’d repeated often to himself. Gussie let silence speak for her, keeping her gaze pinned to him, waiting for him to continue. This was his story. Let him tell it.

  “That’s why I don’t have any prospects. Can’t marry.” He scowled and stared at his fists for a minute before slowly uncurling his fingers, straightening them, and placing his hands flat on the table again. “Babbitt wants the land only because he knows I want it. It’s been like that between us since we were boys. We raced horses and my horse won. He tried to buy the horse off me, but I wouldn’t sell. He became my sworn enemy after that. Every summer when the cotton’s in, there’s a county fair. Babbitt and I would enter the games – hatchet throwing, darts, bale totin’, sack races, foot races, you name it. I won. It stuck in his craw. Then I went to prison. Susan said he all but crowed about it to anyone who would listen.” A bitter smile tainted his lovely mouth. “He’d finally won. That’s how he saw it. I was locked up and he was free.”

  “You saying that Bob Babbitt’s not interested in farming? He just wants to take something you want?”

  “That’s right. He could work on his family farm or help one of his brothers with their crops, but he never does. He works in town doing odd jobs.” He leaned forward a little, arresting her attention more fully. “He never showed a lick of interest in that land until he found out that I was trying to buy it. Since then, he’s been hounding Mr. Poindexter about selling it to him instead of to a ‘half-breed convict.’”

  She toyed with her ruffled cuff. “He showed how desperate he is by sending for me to marry.” She was proud that she spoke with cool candor, despite the ache in her chest.

  His eyes narrowed briefly as he examined her face, her hair, the set of her shoulders. “I can assure you, he would have thanked his lucky stars if he’d been there when you stepped off the train, Miss Horton.”

  She dropped her gaze, unable to withstand the heat of his. Her face grew hot and the coldness inside her melted. Still, she reminded herself that she had been duped. Unforgivably duped. “I was taken advantage of, and I don’t appreciate it. I came here honestly. I told him my circumstances. I didn’t fib or dress up my situation.”

  “And what is your situation? Why did you agree to come here and marry a stranger?”

  She sat straighter. “That, sir, is none of your concern.”

  “What if I wanted to make it a concern of mine?”

  “I don’t know what—.”

  “What if I asked you to marry me, Miss Horton?”

  His question stunned her, stole the words from her mouth, swept her mind clean.

  “What if I begged you to consider marrying me?” he pressed on, his deep, rich voice breaking through her momentary paralysis. “I’m not lying. I’m not selling you a bill of goods. I’m an honest, hard-working man. I want that farm, Miss Horton. It was my mother’s dying wish that I buy that land and that my sister and I stay close, be neighbors, and raise our families near each other. She tried to buy it for me, but Mr. Poindexter wasn’t ready to sell. He told me that he’d rather sell it to me, but he won’t let go of his old-fangled idea of placing his land in the hands of a family man.” He took a breath. “Yes, I’m desperate. I admit it. I don’t know what else I can do. You can make it happen for me, Miss Horton. You’re my last, best hope.”

  His eyes had taken on a feverish sheen that pulled at her. She could feel his need, his unguarded desire to acquire the farm, to live his dream. To win. To beat Bob Babbitt one more time. “You sure you aren’t just trying to get another one over on Mr. Babbitt? Sounds to me like you two are mostly interested in drinking, fighting, and bragging.”

  “No.” He shook his head, all serious and resolute. “I’m done with hard liquor. And you won’t find me in a saloon either.” He spread out his hands in an appeal. “I accidently killed my friend. What kind of a heartless, brainless fool would I be to ever put myself in the position to do that kind of harm again?” He massaged the back of his neck in an anxious gesture and breathed deeply for a few seconds to calm himself. “A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about Hank Bishop, the man I killed. I know his whole family. They live over by Alma. They have a small farm there and Hank would have taken it over, being their only son. When I got out of the penitentiary, I went to their place and I worked on their farm for a year. I didn’t take anything from them but daily meals. It was the only way I knew how to lift some of the grief from my heart.” He paused, and his throat flexed when he swallowed. “They’re good people. They forgave me. They said that it was partly Hank’s doing for getting drunk and picking fights.” His gaze lifted for a moment, touching hers long enough for her to see his remorse. “But I’ll never forgive myself for acting like a heathen, for being what people think I am. A savage.”

  She flinched, the ugly word offending her. No doubt, there were people in the world who would fit that description, but for the life of her, she couldn’t believe that Max Lonestar was one of them. His family thought well of him. Susan had a good heart and wouldn’t be pushing any
woman toward her brother if she thought him to be cruel and animalistic. But he’d been in prison! For killing a friend. She closed her eyes, finding it difficult reconciling the two images of him.

  “I don’t expect you to say anything right now,” he said, his voice just barely above a whisper. “It’s a lot to take in. But, please think about it. I can take you out to see the land and the house tomorrow, if you like.”

  She rounded her shoulders. “I suppose.”

  “One more thing.” He cleared his throat. “If, after a year, you decide that this union of ours isn’t working out and that you don’t want to live with me anymore, I will give you half of what I pay for the farm and you can leave and make a new life for yourself.”

  Startled by such a proposition, she could do nothing but stare at him. He ran a finger along his shirt collar as if her steady regard made him sweat a little.

  “But I keep the farm,” he tacked on. “I’ll have papers drawn up and we can both sign them so there’s no way I can renege on the deal. I’ll come up with the money to give you or I’ll borrow it. But you’ll get it, if that’s what you want.”

  “What about what you want?”

  He shook his head, not understanding.

  “What if you don’t want to remain married to me? Will you expect me to pack up and leave?”

  He blinked a couple of times. “I doubt that would be the case. I’d be grateful to you for taking a chance on me and making it possible for me to acquire the land. I wouldn’t turn you out.”

  She scoffed at that.

  “Why are you laughing?” He angled closer. “Listen, I know you can do a sight better than me. I know that.” His gaze drifted to her bodice. “You could wear that pretty dress and promenade down any street in any city and have several men following you in no time.”

  Warm color climbed up her neck and pooled in her cheeks. No man had ever given her such high praise. And what’s more – she believed that he meant every word!

  “A woman like you would be aiming low to marry someone like me.”

  She laughed lightly, making him frown again. “That’s right nice of you to say, but I’m not some quiet, shy, sweet, sugar-lipped, little lady.” She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. Might as well lay her cards on the table, seeing as he’d showed her his hand. “My pa has likened me to a pestering crow, a squalling cat, a bellowing heifer, a mean-spirited, foul-tempered filly, and a giant bur under his saddle. And those are the things he’s called me that I can repeat among Christian souls.”

  He smiled – a big, beautiful smile – and Gussie caught her breath. Good Lord, he was pretty! Like men described in novels. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a man as handsome with his pitch-black hair falling across his forehead, darkly-lashed brown eyes, straight-bridged nose, high cheekbones, and teeth so startlingly white against his tanned skin.

  “We all have our cantankerous sides,” he said through his smile. “Truth be told, I like females who speak up for themselves and don’t take guff off anyone.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  I do. Suddenly, she imagined him saying those words to her standing in front of a preacher. He wanted to marry her. Well, not want. He needed to marry her.

  There was a ruckus outside of stomping feet and raised voices before the door swung open and Erik stuck his head in.

  “Are you finished talking yet?” he asked, grinning like a kid with a secret.

  Lonestar rolled his eyes. “I reckon. For now.” He looked at Gussie for a few seconds, his expression questioning and hopeful. “I was just asking Miss Horton if she would like to take a ride out to the Poindexter place tomorrow.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Susan said, coming in ahead of her husband. “It’s a good piece of land, Gussie, and the house is small, but nice. There are some repairs that could be made on it, but Max is certainly capable of fixing anything that needs it.”

  “What kind of house? Like this one?” “Gussie asked, her interest piqued.

  “It has two bedrooms and the front parlor and kitchen are separated. The kitchen being the smaller of the two,” Lonestar said. “There’s a good-sized barn, though.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing it,” Gussie said and tried to sound noncommittal, which she was. She needed time to ponder this odd proposition. Knowing that she’d been sent for as a way to secure a piece of property didn’t sit too well with her, but now that she was in the middle of this mess, she had to figure out her next move. “For now, I wonder if I could turn in. I’m worn out.”

  “Of course!” Susan grasped her by the shoulders as Gussie rose from the chair and gathered her into a hug. “You go right ahead. I hope you have a good rest and sweet dreams. If you need anything, you have only to ask.”

  “Thank you.” Gussie felt herself blush again, uneasy with the spontaneous embrace but liking it, all the same. “Umm, I seem to be taking over your brother’s room.” She looked at Lonestar. “Where will you bed down?”

  He leaned back against the front door. “The barn.”

  “Oh!” She frowned. “I . . . that doesn’t . . .”

  Holding up a hand, he stopped her stammering. “I’m used to it. I’ve spent many a night out there waiting for a mare to foal or watching over a sick plow horse.”

  “There’s a cot out there,” Susan said. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.” Gussie nodded to them all. “Good night, then.” She sought sanctuary in Lonestar’s room. Sitting on the bed, she held her head in her hands as images and ideas whirled inside her like dust devils.

  After a few minutes, she removed her clothes, carefully rolling the dress in the thin tissue paper and placing it her satchel. Slipping into a nightdress, she eased under the covers. Even though she could tell that Susan had placed fresh linens on it, she could smell Lonestar. The faintest scent of soap, rainwater, and leather lingered on the pillow case and sheets. Her imagination bloomed and she saw herself lying in bed beside him. Husband and wife.

  Would he expect her to perform as his wife in every way?

  She sat up, her eyes wide. Would he? That was certainly something she’d have to discuss with him if she decided to accept his proposal. If. If?

  With a sigh, she surrendered to sleep and to the knowledge that Max Lonestar probably wouldn’t be “lone” for much longer.

  The buggy ride to the Poindexter farm the next day was tedious for Gussie. Dressed in a simple calico frock and with her hair tamed into a bundle on top of her head, she attempted to be interested in the endless rows of cotton. However, she was acutely aware of the man beside her. The buggy seat didn’t leave much room between them – barely a couple of inches – and she could swear that she could hear his every breath and feel every flick of his gaze in her direction. The intense awareness she had of him nonplussed her.

  She’d been around men before. Shoot, she’d been raised by one. But never in her life had she been so flighty in one’s company. Her nerves jangled, her stomach quivered, her breathing quickened as if she were on the brink of something daring. It wasn’t a’tall like she’d felt when her pa’s drunk pals had tried to snare her attention or touch her in ribald ways. The nerves she’d felt then were more along the lines of feeling sick to her stomach and wanting to run and scream for help.

  “Where did you say you were from?”

  She jerked, then chided herself for her reaction. Settle down, Gussie. “I didn’t. I traveled with my pa.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Missouri.”

  He furrowed his brow at her. “Guess you don’t want to talk.”

  She shrugged, then rolled her eyes, miffed at herself for being such a ninny around him.

  “Joplin, Missouri. We settled there for some years. My pa worked at the livery. He hadn’t meant to stay, but I was born and that forced him to put down some shallow roots.”

  “Was your mother from Joplin?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know much about her. Pa
called her Lovey, but I don’t think that was her name. That’s just what he knew her as.” She glanced sideways and caught him gazing at her profile. Wonder if he liked what he saw or was just confounded by her? “I figure that Lovey worked in a saloon. Anyways, she was gone before I turned two.”

  “You mean, she left you and your father?”

  She lifted her chin, uncomfortable with his concern. She hadn’t told this part of her life to anyone because she didn’t much like to dwell on it and didn’t care much for being pitied. “That’s right. Pa sure wasn’t ready to raise me by himself, but he made a stab at it. Best thing he did was to take up with a schoolmarm and marry her. Least, he said he married her.” She frowned. That part of the story never felt right to her. “Miss Irene taught me to read and write.”

  “Good for her. And for you.”

  “How long did you go to school?”

  “Until I was fifteen.”

  Envious, she averted her face from him and stared blindly at the treeless fields of cotton. School had been paradise to her and she’d cried bitter tears when she and her father and had left Miss Irene, the school house, and the little house down the road from it for the last time. “We took off after Pa started liking the whiskey bottle more’n he did Miss Irene and she told him to get. She said I could stay, but I was afraid to leave Pa.” Should have, though, she thought. If she could have understood back then how joyless her life would be with him, dragged from place to place with nothing and nobody, she would have chosen a different path. Yanking her thoughts away from those long years of disappointment, she rallied her spirit. “How much farther?”

  He nodded ahead of them on the wheel-rutted road. “Up here a piece. It’s good land. Do you know much about farming?”

  She shook her head. “Almost nothing.”

  “Well, some farmers – most, really – don’t respect Mother Earth as they should. They plant the same crops year after year and leach the nutrients from the soil. My mother and Mr. Poindexter didn’t do that. They rotated their crops, giving the earth time to renew itself. So, my sister’s land and Mr. Poindexter’s give a good yield most every season.”