Lonestar's Lady

by Deborah Camp

  “Your mother liked farming, did she?”

  “Yes. William, her husband, was more of a gentleman farmer. He hired people to work the fields for him. Mother liked to get her hands dirty. She would check on the crops every day and she decided what to grow in which fields and when to harvest them.”

  As he spoke of his mother, his voice and his expression gentled. Gussie smiled, touched by his unabashed reverence for the woman who had raised him.

  “You loved your mother, huh?” she asked, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear him say it.

  He turned his head, his gaze finding hers. “Yes. I could never love her enough. That’s how much I loved her.”

  Gussie’s throat tightened and a cloying emotion stroked her heart. She looked away from him as she gathered her composure. To be loved so completely, so abundantly! What must that feel like? Like Mr. Darcy loved Elizabeth and Mr. Bingley loved Jane. She smoothed wisps of her hair away from the corners of her eyes as remembered scenes from Pride and Prejudice charmed her once again.

  “Your glove is torn.”

  She stared at the rip in the leather. “I know. And this is my best pair.”

  “I’ll fix it for you. I’ll make it good as new.”

  His confident assertion had that odd feeling circling her heart again. He’d said it like his duty was to take care of her. Was his chivalry born of his belief that she’d accept his offer of marriage? He was tempting, that was for sure, if only he hadn’t been in prison. That was a hard hill for her to get over.

  “We’re on Poindexter land now. Up here’s the turnoff to the house. I’d like to stop in and say hello to Mr. Poindexter. Do you mind?”

  “No. I’d like to meet him.”

  “He’s a rascally, old codger, so don’t expect much. He can be as blunt as a dull spoon, too.”

  The path bowed around a clump of oak trees and then the house came into view. Gussie sat straighter and leaned in its direction like it had hooked her and was pulling her in. White clapboards dazzled her eyes and she smiled when she spotted a swing suspended from an oak tree limb and chairs were visible on the columned porch. Out back was a privy and a chicken coop. Down the path, a ways from the house, stood a big barn, painted rusty red. A huge elm tree in front of the house dipped its leafy limbs low, giving shade and shelter. Plowed fields ran right up to the wagon path. Row after row of soil baking in the sun. Thick stands of trees stood tall behind the house.

  “It’s like a picture in a book,” she whispered, enchanted with images of herself in the swing, shucking peas, humming to herself, while hens clucked busily in the front yard. “It must pain him to think about leaving it.”

  “Maybe, but he’s hankering to go live with his daughter. He’s getting too old to work this land. He’s planted some cotton and a bit of wheat on the back twenty and that’s it. The rest lies fallow.” As he pulled on the reins to stop the black buggy horse, a pear-shaped man with a floppy, white mustache stepped out onto the porch. “Morning to you, Mr. Poindexter,” Lonestar called out to him.

  The man nodded and hitched his cotton twill pants higher, nearly to his armpits. His button-down shirt was wrinkled, and his boots were badly scuffed. What little was left of his white hair stuck out from behind his ears and over his shirt collar. He peered at Gussie with avid interest.

  “Who you got there, Lonestar?”

  Lonestar tied off the reins, sprang from the buggy, and trotted around to assist Gussie as she stepped to the ground. “This is Miss Horton. She’s a guest from Missouri.”

  Gussie raised a brow and met his gaze for a moment, impressed with his vague introduction and momentarily glad for it. Smiling at Mr. Poindexter, she conjured up her best manners. “Hello, sir. Nice to make your acquaintance. You have a lovely home here.”

  Mr. Poindexter ran a finger along his mustache. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. What brings you to these parts?”

  She paused, unsure of how much to reveal to him of her situation or if she should even attempt to be evasive. A bantam rooster strutted around the side of the house and let go of a raucous crowing, saving her from forming an immediate answer. A white dog, no more than a pup, skidded around the corner and nearly ran into the bird, sending feathers flying and the dog barking excitedly.

  “Hush up that racket!” Mr. Poindexter flung his hands out at them. “Buster get away from that rooster, you fool hound you! How many times do I have to tell you not to chase the fowls!”

  Crouching and laughing under her breath at the pup’s escapade, Gussie clucked her tongue, calling him over to her. She let him give her chin a lick as she fondled his folded-over ears. She loved dogs and cats and nearly every domesticated creature. As a child, she’d yearned to have a kitten or a puppy, but Clem would never allow it.

  “Come sit.” Mr. Poindexter motioned to the porch chairs.

  Lonestar extended his hand to Gussie. “Shall we?”

  She slipped her hand in his and stood, but she addressed Mr. Poindexter. “Do you mind if I have a drink from your well, sir?”

  “Sure ʼnuff. Go on inside and help yourself to the bucket of water in the kitchen.”

  “Why, thank you.” That’s what she’d been hoping for. She dearly wanted to have a look inside the place. Upon entering, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of tobacco and musty, old things. Need’s a woman’s touch, she decided. Maybe that’s why Mr. Poindexter wanted to sell to a married man. He knew, first-hand, how a woman could make a place a home. A sweet-smelling, clean home.

  Gussie made her way through the parlor to the kitchen. A small table and three chairs sat in front of a low window that looked out on the side yard. From there she could see a clothes line and part of the chicken coop where half a dozen hens pecked and talked with each other. A wood stove against another wall had open shelving on either side of it and a sideboard across from it. She located the bucket, dipper, and a few glasses on the sideboard and helped herself to a drink. Smacking her lips, she determined that the well’s water was right tasty. A good sign.

  Fingering the dingy curtains, she guessed that they’d once been red and white, but were currently pale pink and light tan. The cook stove’s oven was sizable and could probably turn out some respectable biscuits and bread. She wondered if Mr. Poindexter bothered cooking anything much for himself. From the looks of things, he’d been without his missus for a spell.

  Moving quietly, she peeked into the bedrooms. One was larger than the other. Thin blankets tacked across the windows let in muted light. She could make out beds and trunks and that’s about all. However, even with little to see, her imagination decorated each space. She envisioned brightly colored curtains on the windows, doilies on dust-free tables, lanterns placed in strategic spots, books shelved in every room, and vases of sweet-smelling flowers and grasses sitting here and there. This could be a peaceful, restful place. A home.

  Her home.

  A tingle of excitement zipped up her spine. She’d never been allowed to put furniture where she wished or own linens, dishes, and whatnots. She could make this place hers. All she had to do was marry Lonestar. She’d come here to marry, after all, so it wasn’t as if her plans were greatly altered. Except that Lonestar wasn’t what she’d bargained for. If anything, he was more. More intriguing. More complicated.

  Easing closer to the front door, she tipped her head, listening to the two men on the porch. Mr. Poindexter was doing most of the talking. The man’s creaky voice rang clearly.

  “. . . when I was there I talked to Arvil Sherman and he said that you and Babbitt are making eyes at his daughters, but he won’t consider either of you as sons-in-law. ‘Specially now that Babbitt’s got himself throwed in jail. You know you never had a chance with those two gals.”

  “Why would I know that? I haven’t asked either one to marry me.”

  “Don’t go getting your back up. You ain’t asked because you know what the answer’d be. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve tried being fair with you, haven’t I? I’ve overloo
ked things about you outta respect for your ma’s memory. She was a fine woman and she raised you right. Wasn’t her fault that you killed someone and broke her heart. She’d done raised you. That was on you.”

  “I know that, sir.” Lonestar’s voice was strained, like he was speaking through clenched teeth.

  “She did her best, but she couldn’t undo the mistake she’d made taking up with your father, bless her. You got Injun blood in you and no lady is gonna tie up with you and have half-breed children. Some might say that ain’t right, but there you have it. And now you’re an ex-convict and that’s another black mark agin ya. All you can hope for is a saloon trollop and I ain’t havin’ anyone like that in this here house. No, sir.”

  Listening to the old man’s tirade, Gussie realized that she’d fisted her hands so tightly that a couple of stitches in her gloves popped. She flexed her fingers and stared down at her torn glove that Lonestar had said he’d repair. Just like that. Like it was a natural instinct to take care of her and what was hers.

  So, who was he? The man who fell into a drunken rage and killed his friend? The man whose smile was tender and tantalizing? Or was he a man who fell from grace and was climbing his way back up, one rung at a time?

  “If you could give me a few more weeks—.”

  “Can’t do it. I’ve decided to talk to other buyers, Lonestar. I can see that it’s not going to work out. And I’m not selling to Babbitt either. He’s shown himself to be of poor moral fiber.”

  “Mr. Poindexter, please. Just a few more days.”

  Gussie winced, pained by the desperation she heard in Lonestar’s voice. His dream was slipping away and he was trying his best to hold fast to it.

  “No, don’t waste your breath. I’ve made up my—.”

  Unable to let his dream be wrenched from his grasp, Gussie stepped out on the porch. She forced a smile to her lips and tamped down her temper as the two men focused on her. Lonestar, as she expected, wore a look of desperation. His wide mouth was set in a grim line and he was leaning forward toward Mr. Poindexter, his hands fisted in frustration. Mr. Poindexter looked unruffled – even a bit holier-than-thou. She couldn’t abide how he’d been speaking to Lonestar. Like he had no recourse, no way to find even footing.

  “Excuse me for interrupting,” she said, tipping up her chin and telling herself to follow her instincts and not worry about consequences right now. “Has Mr. Lonestar told you of our news?”

  Lonestar rose slowly to his feet and she moved to his side. Boldly, she slipped her hand in the crook of his arm and smiled up at him. He answered with a knitting of his brows and a wariness in his eyes.

  “We’ve been talking business,” Mr. Poindexter said.

  She smoothed her free hand down her skirt in a nervous gesture, rounded up every shred of courage, and looked Mr. Poindexter square in the eyes. “We’re to be wed – Mr. Lonestar and I.”

  She heard the hitch in Lonestar’s breathing and felt his body give a little jerk. Would he contradict her? Question her?

  “You two are getting married?” Mr. Poindexter’s eyebrows scrambled up his forehead. “This is right sudden, ain’t it? I was just talking to Lonestar about him courting Daisy Sherman and he didn’t deny it.”

  “It is sudden,” she allowed. Daisy Sherman? She filed that name away. “I’ve no doubt that he’s courted other ladies, but we have decided to marry, so his courting days are over.” She wished the butterflies swarming in her stomach would settle. Having been in more small towns that she could rightly recall, she knew a few things about them – such as, news traveled fast. Mr. Poindexter would hear about how she came to Pear Orchard soon enough, so she determined that there was no need for her to try to hide it. “Originally, I was to marry Bob Babbitt.”

  “What?” The old man ran a hand down his face. “Babbitt, you say?”

  “Yes. I had corresponded with him. But, when I arrived I discovered that he’d lied to me about his station in life. I met Mr. Lonestar and he and his family took it upon themselves to offer me temporary lodging until I determined my next move. They’ve been very kind to me. Mr. Lonestar told me about his desire to be married and raise a family on this land.” She gave his arm a little squeeze and chanced a glance at him. Wonderment sparkled in his brown eyes and a smile poked at the corners of his mouth. “He asked me to marry him and I consented.”

  For a few moments, it seemed that the birds stopped singing, the crickets stopped chirping, the hens stopped clucking, and even her heart stopped beating. Lonestar narrowed his eyes ever so slightly and then placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. Just that simple touch settled her nerves and started her heart again. She released her breath in a quiet whoosh.

  “Where’d you come from?” Mr. Poindexter asked.

  “Missouri. My father is a blacksmith and I’m not a stranger to hard work. We will make a fine living here, sir. When will you sign over the deed?”

  Mr. Poindexter blinked in surprise. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”

  Lonestar squeezed her hand. “We made a deal, Mr. Poindexter. You said I could buy the land if I married.”

  “How do I know that this gal didn’t come from some saloon somewhere?”

  She felt Lonestar stiffen beside her and quickly fired back, “I am not a saloon girl.”

  “She is a lady, through and through,” Lonestar said, and his voice had grit in it. “And I’ll not have you talking about her or to her in that way,” His eyes glittered with warning.

  Pride lifted Gussie until she felt nearly as tall as the man beside her.

  Mr. Poindexter’s jaw came unhinged, but then he snapped his teeth together and squinted one eye, reassessing the couple in front of him. “Simmer down, you two. I apologize, ma’am. This is just a mite peculiar.” He twirled his mustache in quiet contemplation. “Tell you what. You bring me a marriage certificate within seven days and the money we agreed on for this place and I’ll sign the deed over to you, Lonestar.” He held up a finger and shook it. “Seven days. That’s all you get.”

  “That’s more than I’ll need,” Lonestar assured him. He stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Poindexter. We’ll be back soon.”

  The old man pushed to his feet and shook Lonestar’s hand. He gave Gussie a nod. “Hope y’all know what you’re doin’. Marriage ain’t something to play at. You’ll be hitched for better or worse, so you better think hard about it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lonestar escorted Gussie off the porch and helped her up into the buggy seat. He doffed his hat at Mr. Poindexter before taking up the reins and guiding the horse and vehicle into a semi-circle. It wasn’t until they were on the road back to the Karlsson farm that he turned slowly to face Gussie. “I appreciate what you did back there. Well, appreciate is too mild a word for it. But . . . are you sure?”

  “He had no right to talk to you like that.” She folded her arms and stared straight ahead. “I heard what he said about you being part Indian and how no self-respecting female would have anything to do with you.”

  “He’s right.”

  She glared at him. “Beg your pardon? Are you saying you were lying and that you think I’m not respectable?”

  “No, that’s not . . . of course, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that . . . well, most folks like me well enough, but not well enough to take me into their family.”

  She smiled, grimly. “I know how people can be. Two-faced. Saying one thing and meaning another. Smiling at your front and sticking their tongues out at your back.” Rolling her shoulders, she made herself relax. “Who is Daisy Sherman?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “One of the flower sisters.”

  “The what?”

  “The Sherman females are named after flowers. Their mother is Rose and the girls are Daisy and Pansy. Their father is the school master in Pear Orchard and also pastor at the Bible Baptist Church.”

  She fiddled with the tear in her glove. “Is Daisy your sweetheart?”

  “No.” He sig
hed. “I was . . . that is, I’ve been . . .”

  “Courting her,” she said, rescuing him from his tied tongue.

  “Not . . . yes. I guess. Yes.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Pretty enough.”

  Pretty enough. Well, that was a half-hearted compliment if she’d ever heard one.

  They rolled on as the day lengthened and the silence grew weighted between them. As the Karlsson farmhouse came into view, Lonestar shifted, his hip rubbing against hers.

  “Miss Horton, are you sure about this?”

  She huffed out a heated breath. “No, but I will be.” She glanced at him with razor-sharp intensity. “I won’t back out, if that’s what you’re fretting over. Once I say I’ll do something, then I’m doing it. Besides, we’re both getting something out of this. You’re not the only one with dreams, you know.”

  She felt his keen regard, but kept facing forward, feeling a little embarrassed for revealing more to him than she’d meant to. It was early times and she had learned the hard way not to show your tender spots to folks unless you could stand for them to be poked. Still feeling like a stranger in a strange land, she cautioned herself to watch her step, especially with a man as appealing as Max Lonestar. He made her want to believe in naive things like star-crossed lovers and one-true loves. That was dangerous – but in a good way. She hoped.

  Chapter 4

  Joy and relief had abounded in the Karlsson household with the news of an impending wedding and Mr. Poindexter’s agreement to sell Max Lonestar his homestead. Susan had barely contained her brimming excitement and had finally given in and bear-hugged Gussie. Max had turned aside so that Gussie wouldn’t see his amusement at the stricken, uncomfortable look on her face.

  Get used to it, he’d thought. Susan and Erik were not shy about showing affection – or any other feeling, for that matter. Suze came by it naturally. Their mother had never skimped on demonstrating her love to her children in everything from rib-crushing hugs to gentle sweeps of her hand over their hair.