Lonestar's Lady

by Deborah Camp

  Curling her hand in the crook of his arm, Gussie left the church and stepped outside into the sunshine. People passing by stared at them and two young boys whipped off their hats and brayed like donkeys.

  “She roped and saddled him!” one of the boys shouted amid a spate of laughter.

  “She dropped her loop and that thar Injun done stepped into it,” the other said, hee-hawing like a mule.

  “Hush, you foolish children!” Erik blustered at them, striding in their direction and making them scatter like rabbits.

  Ignoring them, Lonestar led Gussie to the buggy that had brought them to town and helped her up into the seat. Erik and Susan went to the wagon parked behind it.

  “See y’all back at the farm,” Susan called.

  “We’ll be there after a while,” Lonestar rejoined before dropping beside Gussie and taking up the reins. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure no one was coming down the street and then clucked the big, chestnut gelding into a walk.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Poindexter’s. The sooner we finish this deal, the sooner he’ll move.”

  She smoothed the satiny skirt of Susan’s dress. “How many horses do y’all have?” she asked, needing something to get her mind off the uneasiness squirming in her stomach. That he was so blamed eager to see Poindexter rankled her a little. Made her feel like her part in this was over and he’d gotten what he needed from her.

  He gave her a bewildered look, but answered, “Susan and Erik have six. I have two. Why?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “Just wondering. Is this one of yours?”

  “No. This is Hank. Mine are Quick and Clover.” He jabbed a thumb behind him. “Lewis and Clark are pulling their wagon. Their plow horses are Bea, Boris, and Beauregard.”

  She smiled at the names. “Erik and Susan are doing well for themselves, aren’t they?”

  “The last few years have yielded good cotton crops,” he said. “Erik is a good farmer.” He sent her a baffled look. “This is a peculiar conversation to be had right after getting married.”

  “What should we be talking about? You getting the land you want?” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended.

  “The land we want,” he amended as he grabbed his hat off the footboards and fitted it back onto his head. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when you said your name was Adele. Did your mother give you that name?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.” She shifted, putting a bit more space between them as the intimacy was making her squirm inside. She was married to him. This man. This man was hers now. “Who named you? Do you know?”

  He grinned. “Of course, I know. Why wouldn’t I?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know if Indians take note of such things.”

  “I was raised among white people,” he said. “I was a winter baby, born the thirtieth of December on a snowy night on a ranch near Fort Clark, Missouri. My mother said I arrived in the world red-faced, with a headful of dark hair, and waving my fists in the air.” He chuckled to himself. “My father was so proud he went outside and shot off his rifle.”

  “He named you Maxwell James?”

  “No.” He laughed at that notion. “Mother did. Maxwell was her maiden name and James was her father’s name.”

  “And Lonestar was your daddy’s name.”

  “That’s right.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her. “And you like that name, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “I’d rather call you that than Max. Suits you better.”

  He shrugged. “That’s okay with me. I reckon it’s good that you like it because it’s your name, too.”

  Gussie sucked in a breath. Her name! He was right, of course, but she hadn’t thought of it like that.

  “Augusta Lonestar,” he said, sliding his hand in the air in front of him as if reading a big sign. “Has a nice sound to it.”

  Yes, it did. Didn’t even sound like her, but that’s who she was now. She fidgeted and wished she could change out of Susan’s dress. Then she’d feel more like herself again instead of somebody she didn’t rightly know. Some married lady named Augusta Lonestar.

  “We should have changed out of our fancy clothes first.”

  “Why? You’re pretty in that dress. Maybe I want to show you off.”

  She gathered her lips into a bud of disapproval. “I’m not some prized heifer.”

  “True enough, but in your wedding dress, you are a prize, Augusta.”

  Her neck and cheeks grew warm. She averted her face from him, staring blindly at the rows of cotton they passed, mostly already picked clean. “This isn’t my dress.”

  “You fill it out better than Susan did.”

  Her eyes widened, but she didn’t look at him. She couldn’t tell if she was offended or pleased by what he’d said. The man had her spinning like a top! With any other man, she’d caution him to curb his tongue, but with him . . . with him and his tongue . . . A fluttery feeling invaded her tummy and she pressed the flat of her hand there to try to still it.

  “Do you know much about horses and mules?”

  She rolled her eyes, confounded by this sudden turn in the conversation. “Enough, I reckon.”

  “We’ll need to buy a couple for plowing. I can till the land for next season. I could plant some sorghum and maybe get a decent crop before the first winter freeze. I’ll plant some winter wheat soon, too. You think you could put in a vegetable garden? Mr. Poindexter might have a small one going, come to think of it.”

  Hesitating, she wondered if she should tell him that she’d never planted a blessed thing in her life. Instead, she pretended to consider his question. “We’ll see, I guess.” There. That should satisfy him.

  “Augusta, have you ever planted a garden?”

  She slammed her eyes shut, realizing that he couldn’t be fooled so easily. Facing him, she was surprised to see that he was smiling. “If you listened to me when I talk, then you’d know that me and my pa never stayed anyplace longer than for a couple of weeks. Excepting for when we were at Miss Irene’s and she was a teacher, not a farmer. So, I s’pose I’m not going to be much good to you.”

  “Planting and tending a garden isn’t all that hard. Won’t take you long to get the hang of it. I’ll teach you all you need to know.” He flicked the reins, urging the horse to go faster as the sun rose higher in the sky. “Besides, you can do things that I can’t do.”

  “Like what?”

  “I bet you can shoe a horse.”

  She squinted one eye. “I can.”

  “There you go.” He flicked the long reins again. “That’s something I’ve never done, but you can teach me.”

  Leaning back into the padded interior, some of the tension eased from her body. He could teach her, and she could teach him. She liked that. It’d be like they were partners in a business. That would be right pleasant. She enjoyed learning new things and he struck her to be a patient teacher. Not quarrelsome like her pa. Working with Clem Horton had been as much fun as dancing with a grizzly – and, sometimes, nearly as dangerous.

  The Poindexter land came into view and Gussie realized that she was wringing her hands and a nervous excitement had her insides trembling. This would be Lonestar land soon. That little house in the distance would be hers – well, theirs. Hers to call home.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  She started, not realizing she’d been smiling. “I was thinking that this wouldn’t be called the Poindexter place much longer. It’ll be the Lonestar farm.”

  His eyes widened a little and then he grinned. “Sounds right, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded and her gaze went back to the house. It would be her first real home.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty,” she answered without looking at him. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  She shrugged. “I reckon you’ve sowed your wild oats by now. I don’t doubt you’ve had more than your share of pr
etty girls chasing after you.”

  He chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Not nearly as many girls as you seem to think.”

  She looked at him, sensing the change in his mood. Sure enough, he wore a brooding expression. “Oh? How come? Because you’re part Indian?”

  “Because I spent five years in prison.” His eyes had darkened to almost black. “There aren’t any pretty girls there. I went there when I was nineteen. Your age. I was released when I was twenty-four.”

  The haunted look on his face pained her. “That was a horrible time for you, wasn’t it?”

  “The worst time of my life. Prison changes a man.”

  “How did it change you?”

  “It aged me, for sure. Took some of the spunk and love of life out of me. But it taught me things, too. It taught me that time is a yardstick we can’t see, so you’d better live each day as if it’s your last – your final legacy and how you’ll be remembered.” He tugged the reins, slowing the horse and steering him to the lane that fronted the house. He heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. “The penitentiary nearly broke me, but I managed to bear up under it.” He leaned back, pulling the reins taut to stop the buggy. “Whoa there, Hank.”

  She found his confession disturbing, if enlightening. She’d not thought much about his time in prison, but he’d just given her a much clearer idea of who he was and why. He seemed to her a happy-go-lucky sort of fellow, but he wasn’t. There was a darkness to him, put upon his soul by years behind bars – years when most young rowdies were kicking up their heels with their pals at barn dances and stealing kisses from gals behind those barns. In fact, he must have always had a rough going, what with folks looking down at him for being part Indian and then being sent to prison when he still had some boy in him.

  All this time, she’d been focused on how fortunate he was to live on a nice spread in a pretty house where there was a soft bed to sleep in and good vittles to eat. He was fortunate in those ways, she thought, but good fortune had not always been his. Just the opposite.

  “Augusta?”

  She realized he was already out of the buggy and had come around to her side to help her alight. She placed her hand in his and stepped down carefully, mindful not to snag the skirt of her borrowed dress. Mr. Poindexter came around the side of the house along with his yapping pup.

  “Well, lookee here,” he said, squinting at them. “Did y’all just get married?”

  “We did, sir,” Lonestar said, grinning from ear to ear. “I’ve brought you the legal paper, as I promised.” He handed the parchment to the old man. “Pastor Sherman married us this day.”

  “Let’s see here.” Mr. Poindexter unfolded the paper and squinted at it. “Yep. Says you two are hitched for life.” He chuckled. “Augusta Adele.” His wizened gaze lifted to Gussie. “Adele, huh? That was his mama’s name.”

  “Yes, he told me.”

  “Ain’t that something.”

  “It’s a sign,” Lonestar said. “A good sign. Things like that don’t happen for no reason.”

  “Maybe so.” The old man handed the paper back to Lonestar. “All right. You’ve kept your end of the bargain, so I’ll keep mine. Come inside. Got the deed ready for you to sign.” His faded gaze moved slowly around him and his eyes misted. “I gotta admit, I’m gonna miss this here place. Had some grand times here.”

  “There will be more. We’ll make this a happy home. Won’t we, Augusta?”

  Hearing her given name sounded so odd – but nice. “Yes,” she managed to whisper.

  “You planning on a big family?” Mr. Poindexter asked.

  Gussie felt her eyes widen and her cheeks burn. Good gravy! What was she supposed to answer to that? Luckily, Lonestar saved her the trouble.

  “One thing at a time, Mr. Poindexter.” He nodded toward the front door. “First off, we have some papers to sign. Augusta?” He angled out his elbow.

  Feeling unsure and wobbly-kneed, she curled her hand around his arm and the big muscle there flexed under his sleeve. Then, like the Queen of England, she ascended the steps of a home that would soon be hers.

  Chapter 6

  The past two days had been exhilarating and exhausting for Gussie. She existed in a swirl of nervous anticipation as to when she and Lonestar would be able to move into their new place. Lonestar had been anxious, too, and had even gone to Mr. Poindexter’s both evenings to help him pack and load his wagon.

  Exhaustion had set in both nights as Gussie endured fitful evenings in Lonestar’s bedroom. He had announced that he would continue to sleep in the barn while they remained at his sister and brother-in-law’s house. Lying in the dark, Gussie had wondered if he’d sleep in one bedroom and she in the other once they settled into their own home. How would she feel about that? Relieved? Confused? Insulted? It would be a relief, of course, but confusing. If he decided to keep to himself, then something was wrong with him or he thought something was wrong with her. No other options.

  Tossing about in his bed, she’d found few answers and more questions. Sometimes she pictured his smile and the way his eyes smoldered when he looked at her and she wanted to feel his arms around her and his mouth on hers. Other times, she squirmed with thoughts of him touching her in her private places and taking her virginity. She’d heard that it hurt. Women even bled afterwards! Didn’t sound like something to look forward to . . . and yet . . . when he’d kissed her, she’d felt womanly, through and through. Parts of her body had throbbed and her heart had ached for something she couldn’t name.

  Even now as she sat beside him in the old wagon he’d purchased from Susan and Eric, she couldn’t identify exactly how she felt. It was thrilling and fearing all at once.

  The carpetbag that held her belongings sat in her lap and she hugged it as anticipation built in her like thunderclouds. “You’re sure Mr. Poindexter has moved out?”

  “He said he was leaving at sunup. I’ve no cause to doubt him. He was all packed up.” Lonestar leaned forward a bit to peek under her bonnet. “Are you okay under there? How come you’re frowning?”

  “Am I?” She felt the downward tilt of her mouth and straightened it out. “I’m just anxious to get there and get to work.”

  He chuckled. “I’m eager to set foot on our place, too, but I can’t say I’m all that eager to get to work. There’ll be plenty of time for that. First, we ought to enjoy being land owners. Check everything out real thorough and decide what needs to be done and what can wait.”

  She nodded, agreeing with his sensible plan. When they’d signed the deed papers with Mr. Poindexter, Lonestar had added more money for Poindexter’s chickens, two pigs, two Jersey cows, and four goats. Poindexter had thrown in Buster the dog for free. “We’ll need plow horses or mules. I say mules would be best,” she said.

  “Why are you partial to mules?”

  “I’ve heard they’re better for plowing. They’re sure-footed and aren’t as excitable as horses can be.”

  “You’re probably right. There’s a livestock auction every Saturday in Van Buren. We’ll go to the next one and see if they put any decent mules in the ring.” He glanced at her. “Don’t suppose you’ve done any plowing.”

  “No, but it doesn’t look like it takes much brains, so I’m sure I can learn it in no time.”

  He chuckled. “I was joshing. I wouldn’t ask that of you. It’s back-breaking work.”

  She lifted her chin a fraction of an inch. “I see women in the fields all the time. If you have two teams and two plows, there’s no reason why I wouldn’t be out there with you. Or I can plow and give you a break to do other work around the place. Like I’ve said before. I’m used to hard work. I’ve done it all my life.”

  “There will be plenty for you to do around the house.”

  She rolled her eyes. Stubborn, deaf man. Well, she’d work in the dang fields if she took a notion to, whether he liked it or not! Blinking, she realized that the house had become visible. A white square amid a ci
rcle of trees and out buildings. Her heart expanded and her backbone lengthened as she strained toward that place – that place that was now hers. Well, theirs.

  “This is ours now, Augusta,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Lonestar land.”

  She sucked in a big breath and held it while her eyes gobbled up the landscape. Releasing the air in a long sigh, she smiled as happiness brimmed and spilled over inside her. She hugged her carpetbag closer, feeling as if she might burst out with a giddy laugh if she didn’t watch out.

  “You’re awful quiet. Got nothing to say?”

  “I’m just . . .” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Anxious to move in.”

  “Me, too.” He tugged on the reins, veering the horses onto the road that led to the house. “It’s a pretty enough place, don’t you think?”

  She nodded, unable to speak with her heart lodged in her throat.

  “I might whitewash it next spring if I have the time. Paint the porch, too. But that can wait.”

  Buster greeted them, his tail wagging like a flag and his high-pitched yipping scattering the hens in the front yard.

  As soon as the wagon stopped, Gussie scrambled down from it, not waiting for any assistance from Lonestar. She bounded up the porch steps and opened the front door. The smell of wood smoke and kerosene drifted out. Blinking, she let out a little yelp of alarm when something inside the room moved, shuffled, and made crackling noises. A pair of eyes glowed.

  “Something’s in here!”

  Lonestar was beside her in a flash and then stepped in front of her in a protective gesture before the bleating of a goat split the air. A black goat with a white blazed faced sauntered into a bar of sunlight slanting the through the windows, its jaws working. Shards of glass sparkled around its hoofs.

  “Damn it all, how’d he bust in? He’s broken one of the lamps.” Lonestar strode forward, grabbed the goat by the scruff of the neck, and walked it outside. “Get outta here, you ornery critter,” he muttered.

  Gussie walked to the front window and examined the drab curtains that were now ragged from having been chewed on by the goat.