by Deborah Camp
“Looks like he ruined that set,” Lonestar said.
“It’s no matter. I planned on making patches for quilts out of these anyway.” She looked at him when she heard him chuckle. “What are you laughing at?”
He ran a hand across his grinning mouth. “I was thinking about that other goat that took to your hat that first day I spied you.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’d just as soon forget that day and the days right before it.” She wrinkled her nose as the smell of stale tobacco smoke and rancid cooking odors assaulted her. “Everything in here needs a good scrubbing.”
Mr. Poindexter had left the kitchen table and its four chairs, a few blackened pots, a short stack of metal plates, a smattering of utensils, and a slop jar. After setting her satchel on the table, Gussie propped her hands on her hips and began a mental list of chores. Scour the countertop and stove, sweep the floor, remove the stinky curtains, and look for firewood. She turned to see Lonestar with a broom in his hands. He swept the broken glass into a pile. Gussie grabbed one of the plates and bent down, placing the edge of it against the floor. “Here you go. Sweep it up onto this for now.”
He did so, his eyes sparkling with something that tickled him as she stood up and laid the plate full of glass shards on the table. “Our first shared chore as husband and wife.”
She sent him a baffled look, but then her mouth twitched into a reluctant grin. “First of many, I reckon.” Clapping her hands once, she huffed out a breath of determination. “Hand over that broom and I’ll sweep the dirt out of here.”
He let her have the broom that had most of its bristles missing. She eyed it. “I’ll remake this into a proper tool when I have the time. For now . . . it’ll have to do.”
“I’ll bring in the rest of our things and unhitch the wagon.”
She nodded, and with that, they got to work.
The day rushed by like a frightened doe. The sun was setting in no time and Gussie was ever so thankful for the corn chowder and loaf of bread Susan had insisted they take with them in case the kitchen wasn’t properly set up. They’d brought along staples – flour, sugar, salt, lard, beans, sorghum, and the like – and she’d gathered six eggs from the hens’ roost, but that was about it. She had discovered an overgrown garden, but all it amounted to was a hill of potatoes and a few rows of carrots, turnips, rhubarb, and beets. Behind the house, Gussie found blackberry bushes and wild strawberries flourishing among thick stands of tall pecan trees. Apple, pear, and peach trees stood along the fence line.
In the back bedroom, when she lifted an old rug, she found a surprise. The door to a root cellar! Carefully, maneuvering down the five steps, she found canning jars on the shelves and even six jars of pickled cucumbers and two jars of blackberry jam. She’d been so excited, she’d called Lonestar in to look at her discovery.
“That’ll come in mighty handy,” he’d said, surveying the small underground chamber. “Funny place to put it, though. Most of them are outside.”
“I like it.” She’d angled a glance his way. “Maybe it was built as a hiding place from Indians and outlaws.”
His eyes had glinted in the darkness. “I’ll know where to find you when you go missing.”
She’d grinned and flounced back up the steps.
Another grin spread across her lips, recalling his teasing. She stirred the corn chowder as it heated on the stove. Then she placed two glasses of water on the table, two, chipped shallow bowls she’d found in the cupboard, and two spoons on the table. Standing back, she eyed the tableau, thinking it looked cozy and so unlike the way she’d eaten scant weeks ago.
She had supped alone most of the time because her pa usually took his meals in town. In truth, he had drunk most of his meals. She’d sat by a campfire outside of whatever town they’d wandered to and had partaken of whatever she’d been able to roust up for herself – cold biscuits, cold beans, sometimes a bit of salted pork or dried beef. She’d usually search for berries, fruit, wild greens and onions, and mushrooms. Hunger was something she knew – intimately.
She’d eat good here, she thought. They both would. She’d make sure of it. And it would be pleasant to have company at mealtime. Maybe they’d talk about the work they’d done that day or what kind of weather was stirring up and heading their way. He might tell her about his Indian forebears and the ways of his tribe. What were they? Oh, yes. Osage. She’s never read about that tribe. Mostly, she’d read about Apache, Cheyenne, Crow, and Arapahoe. Fierce, proud fighters, determined to protect their people and their hunting grounds.
A long, wide shadow fell across the floor, snapping Gussie from her woolgathering. A fierce, proud, part-Indian filled the doorway.
“Supper ready?”
“Yes.” She turned to the stove and lifted the lid off the pot of chowder simmering there. “It’s a good thing your sister sent this chowder. I’ve been so busy cleaning this place, before I knew what was what, the sun was setting and I hadn’t given one thought about supper.” She ladled the aromatic corn chowder into the two bowls and placed them on the table along with some slices of Susan’s wheat bread. “Sit yourself down and dig in.”
“Let me wash up first.” He strode back outside.
Curious, Gussie went to the window where she could see him by the well. He removed his hat, and then in a flash, he yanked his shirt up and off, draping it over the side of the well. He cranked up the bucket, the ropy muscles in his arms and shoulders writhing under his light brown skin. Tufts of dark hair peeked out from his underarms and swirled across his chest. Gussie told herself to look away, but she couldn’t. Quite simply, she was mesmerized.
He dunked his hands into the bucket of water and then brought them up, cupped, and threw water all over his face. Rubbing his hands briskly up and down his arms, he splashed water across his furred chest, over his flat, brown nipples, and along the thin trail of hair that ran straight down his middle and disappeared under his waistband. If she followed that trail, it would lead to his—.
Gasping at her wanton, wandering thoughts, Gussie spun from the window and sat down with a thunk in one of the kitchen chairs. She covered her hot face in her trembling hands as she tried to forget what she’d seen and the direction it had taken her. Holy Moses! What was wrong with her? Why in heaven had she even thought about his unmentionables? Why hadn’t she done the decent thing and averted her gaze from him immediately when he’d stripped off to display his naked flesh? And why had she felt that . . . that tingle in her stomach that had spread lower?
“Augusta?”
She uncovered her face with a start. He stood across the table from her, wearing his shirt again, and leaned down a little to get a better view of her face.
“Something wrong?”
“No!” The word blasted out of her like a load of buckshot.
He retreated a step and held up his hands to ward off another volley. “Fine, fine. Glad to hear it.” He sat opposite her and glanced around the table. “I worked up an appetite. How about you?”
She nodded and spooned chowder into her mouth so that she wouldn’t have to say anything to him. The food was hot and stuck to the roof of her mouth, blistering it. Her eyes teared up and she grabbed a glass of water and drank frantically, washing the scalding chowder down her throat. She coughed and realized that Lonestar was staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
“You okay there, Augusta?” He blew on a spoonful of chowder, cooling it sufficiently before slipping it into his mouth.
She nodded again and drank more water.
“This is our mother’s recipe,” he said, smacking his lips. “One of my favorites.”
“It’s good,” Gussie managed to whisper.
“It is.” He helped himself to a slice of bread. “I took a look at the garden. Not much left out there, but the apple and pecan trees will bear this fall. That’ll be good.”
“Gonna have some blackberries, too.”
“Oh? Where’d you find those?”
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nbsp; “In among the trees. Some wild strawberries, too.”
“When we go into town, we’ll get a few more staples to see us through. You make a list, so we won’t forget anything.”
Her nerves settled and she enjoyed the meal and the idle talk of going to the auction to see about buying a mule or two, and the mama cat and three kittens Lonestar had found in the barn.
“Their eyes are already open, so she’ll be weaning them soon, I reckon,” he said, running a piece of bread around the bowl to soak up the last drops of chowder. He stuck the bread into his mouth and sent Gussie a wink.
She blinked, startled by the gesture. “I can’t do that.”
“Do what? Wink?”
She nodded. “Never have been able to.”
“I can wink both eyes.” He demonstrated his ability.
She blinked again. “That’s as close as I can come to it.”
One side of his mouth kicked up. “That’s no substitute, Augusta. You do that to a fella and he’ll think you’re trying to focus your eyes instead of flirt with him.”
“I won’t be trying to do neither.” She looked at the ring on her finger. “I’m married now.” Her voice trailed as the memory of how shocked she’d been when he’d produced this ring came back to her. “Lonestar, this is special and I wonder if I should be wearing it. I don’t rightly need one and it belonged to your mama. It should probably stay with you.”
“It is, in a way. You’re not going anywhere any time soon, are you?”
“No, but—.”
“Then keep it. Mother wanted me to give it to my bride and that’s what I’ve done.” His fingers curled around hers, lifting her hand so that he could study it “A perfect fit.”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “She had small hands like yours. Small, but strong.”
The intimacy unnerved her. She gently tugged loose from him and began stacking dishes. “Guess we’d better button up everything for the night.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll go see to the livestock.”
She released a sigh when he was gone. Wilting into the chair, she stared at the wedding band that marked her as his. His promises to her in the wedding ceremony drifted back, curling around her heart like silken ribbons. He’d sounded and looked so sincere as he’d sworn his love and allegiance to her. Why had he done that? He could have simply recited the words given to him by the pastor. In those moments, she had fallen completely under his spell and had wanted his words to be true more than anything in her life.
And just now, when he’d held her hand and looked at his mother’s ring on her finger . . . the emotions shining in his eyes had undone her. She’d thought her heart might burst with the next beat or she might faint from the yearning circling through her – circling and circling, looking for a way out or for a way to let him in.
She didn’t know how long she sat at the table, trying to sort out her feelings, but it was dark in the house when she came back to her senses. Lighting a lamp, she washed the dishes and covered the rest of the chowder and bread.
Nightfall. A shiver coursed through her. Would he stay in the barn tonight or sleep in the extra bedroom? She’d leave that to him, she thought, taking the lamp with her into the larger of the two bedrooms. She closed the door and was glad for the solid click of the latch sliding into place.
An hour or two slipped by and Gussie had dozed off when the sound of the bedroom door opening brought her fully awake. She shot up, hugging the covers to her, feeling her eyes widen as she stared at the dark silhouette filling the doorway.
“I’m not sleeping in that other room, Augusta.” His voice was soft, but steel ran through it.
Gussie shivered and gathered the covers even closer. “What do you mean?” Her voice was high, breathy with nerves. “You want me to sleep in there?”
“No, I want you to stay put.” He stepped into the room and a pale shaft of moonlight lit one half of his face and body. He was still dressed, but his suspenders hung loose against his hips. “I’m not starting off here in our home sleeping apart from you. If I do, then it’ll become habit, and that’s not how it should be between a husband and wife.”
She realized she was shaking her head, so she stopped. An icy chill of anxiety knifed through her. “I’m not . . . ready.”
He released a dry chuckle. “Seems like you never are.” He sat in the straight-backed chair in the corner of the room and removed his work boots. “Tomorrow I’ll check the fence line to see if any of it needs fixing. I’ll decide what acreage should be plowed and planted and what should lie fallow until next year. I mean to put fresh hay in the barn stalls, too, and get the livestock sorted out. Make sure they’re all healthy.” He began unfastening the four buttons on his shirt as his gaze met hers. “What are your plans?”
Her mind whirled like a windmill and she could hardly comprehend what he was saying because she was mostly focused on his fingers as they moved down the front placket of his shirt. One button, two, three, four. And then he gripped the hem and pulled it up and off in a single, swift move. Just like that. He was bare-chested again. Gussie blinked, barely able to see anything much in the pale moonlight other than the sweep of dark hair across the width of him, shoulder to shoulder.
For the second time that day, she found herself staring at his bare skin and the muscles rippling in his arms. But this time he was aware of her eyes on him and it didn’t seem to bother him one little bit.
“Do you have a lot of work to do in here or do you reckon you’ll see to the garden and hens mostly tomorrow?” he asked, like he was sitting there decent, instead of half-naked. He stood and his long fingers latched onto his waistband.
“Wait!” Gussie flung out one hand in a desperate gesture. “What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for bed.” His tone was even, quiet. Hers wasn’t.
“You’re not sleeping in here with me with no clothes on.”
“Tonight, just for you, I’ll keep on my drawers.” He sat on the edge of the bed and slid one knee onto the mattress as he shifted to look at her. The seriousness of his expression tethered her flighty attention. “I’ve never had to force myself on a woman and I’m sure as hell not going to start with my wife. I’m sleeping here with you every night.” He lowered his head a little and looked at her with hooded eyes. “I want you. I’m not denying that. But I won’t take what you’re not offering.” His gaze moved from her face, down the outline of her body under the sheet, then back up. “Someday you’ll burn for me, Mrs. Lonestar. You’ll want me as much as I want you. You’ll ask me to put out the fires raging through your body and I’ll gladly oblige. But, until that day, I’ll sleep next to you. That’s all.”
His calm yet assertive words created a sheen of perspiration on her skin and a buzz in her brain. She laid down slowly, keeping the covers clasped to her, and turned her back to him as she curled into a fetal position.
She couldn’t rightly say she was scared of him. No. She was scared, yes, of being taken by a man. Any man. While her pulses thrummed and she felt all hot and squirmy inside when she was around Lonestar, her rational brain reminded her that coupling wasn’t enjoyable for a woman. She’d been told stories of crying and begging men to stop, of being sore and tender afterward. But men went right ahead and coupled with their women again – sometimes that very same night!
The rustle of clothing told her that he’d shucked his trousers. The bed dipped as his big body sank onto it and the sheet in her hands grew taut as he covered himself. He punched his pillow a couple of times before she heard him release a long sigh.
“Good night, Augusta. I hope my snoring doesn’t keep you awake.”
“You snore?” She frowned into the darkness.
“I’m told that I do. How about you?”
“No! I do not.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“I have a hunch, you snore so loud that it’ll rattle the rafters.”
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sp; “You’re full of hog slop, too.” Her frown melted when she sensed that he was smiling. He shifted and his backside touched hers. Every muscle in her body tensed and she wiggled to the edge of the mattress. Any further and she’d be hanging off it. After a minute of no movement from him, she unwound and her muscles relaxed.
She waited for hours to hear his snores, but never did. All she heard were coyotes yipping and crying for each other’s company right before she drifted to sleep.
Chapter 7
After three days of working and three nights of restless sleeping, Gussie was cranky. Crankier than usual. Each evening, she’d sat up as late as she’d dared, huddled by a lantern reading one of her books until she had known that she had to get some rest. But it had been difficult sleeping next to Lonestar. She just wasn’t used to it and she wasn’t completely sure she trusted him.
Sitting next to him in the wagon, she fanned away the dust kicked up from Clover and adjusted her bonnet.
“How long have you owned this horse?” she asked, nodding at Clover.
“I bought her right after I got out of prison. Bought her along with saddle and tack. She rides good, too.”
The mention of prison stirred unease in her. She wanted to know more about his thoughts on being imprisoned, and on the other hand, she didn’t. She quailed at thinking about him being in such a place. “How much farther to the auction, you reckon?” she asked.
“Just around that bend,” he said, nodding ahead of them.
He was quieter than usual, she noted, then wondered if he was getting any better sleep than her. Why didn’t he go into the other bedroom where he could stretch out and be more comfortable? Why didn’t she? She knew the answer, but she didn’t much care for it. She was too dang stubborn. More stubborn than any mule they were likely to see today at the Van Buren livestock auction.
Truth be told, she’d rather be back at the house taking a much needed, unencumbered nap. It would be heaven to sleep by her lonesome without waking up every time a big body moved or someone made a snuffling noise in his sleep. She heaved a weary sigh and felt his attention shift to her.