Lonestar's Lady

by Deborah Camp

  “Something troubling you there, Augusta?”

  “Nope.” She fluffed her skirt and petticoat. Yesterday she’d repaired the tears in her petticoat and figured she’d have to buy another soon. Her one and only was falling apart. She’d worn it nearly every day for three years, so she’d gotten her use out of it. She stared at her gloves – mainly, the mended one. Lonestar had made good on his promise to sew up the ripped seam.

  “You sure you’re okay? You look a little peaked this morning.”

  She glared at him, side-eyed, not caring for the smirk he was giving her. “I’m just ready to get down from this wagon is all.”

  He issued a scoffing grunt and she had the feeling he was calling her a liar. Well, he was right, but a gentleman would let it pass.

  The wagon cleared the bend and she glimpsed Van Buren ahead of them. Wagons of all sizes, buggies, both drab and fancy, and horses of all colors paraded along the wide street. People milled about, their voices drifting to Gussie in a low rumble. She’d been to Van Buren before and excitement shot through her at being in town again. The isolation of the country was good for the soul, but the tension of living with a man, who happened to be her husband, had stretched her nerves to the breaking point.

  “The auction is on the other side of town,” Lonestar said. “Anything you need, we ought to get it while we’re here.”

  She thought about a new petticoat, but she shook her head. He was talking about needs, not wants. “You said something about saddle soap, witch hazel, and turpentine.”

  “That’s right.” He snapped his fingers, then pointed at her. “I’m glad you have your head on straight. Mine’s fuzzy.”

  The sun struck his face full on and she noticed dark circles under his eyes. Looked like someone else needed shut-eye, too. Good. Misery loved company. “You look plumb tuckered out and it’s not even midday yet.”

  “Hmmm?” He glanced at her. “No, I’m fine. Just got a lot on my mind.”

  She made a harrumph sound, garnering his attention again.

  “What did you say?” he asked, squinting at her.

  Rounding her shoulders, she debated whether to be blunt or not. Tact was too much effort on such little sleep. “You’re not sleeping sound.”

  “And how would you know that? Do you stay up all night and watch me?”

  “I might as well,” she grumped, looking away from him.

  “Are you saying that I’m keeping you from sleeping?”

  She shook her head, not comfortable with where this was headed. Sitting taller, she glanced around. “There’s the general store.”

  He stopped the wagon alongside the store and set the brake. “Wait a minute and I’ll help you down.”

  “I can do it.” She grabbed the handrail and eased herself down from the buggy. Her feet had just touched the ground when Lonestar gripped her elbow. “I’m fine.”

  “Yes, you are, but there’s nothing wrong with me giving you a hand now, is there?”

  She caught the irritation threading through his voice and saw it reflected in his slight scowl. Having anyone do for her wasn’t common in her life, but his solicitous attitude toward her made her more aware of her tendency toward denying him his small favors.

  “Thank you,” she said, in lieu of an apology.

  “My pleasure, Augusta.”

  The way her name slipped from his lips sent an unexpected longing through her so that she straightened away from him . . . away from his tender touch. What was happening to her? One moment she was irritated with him and the next she wanted to melt against him. Confused and wooly-brained, she marched into the general store with Lonestar right behind her. He walked along the aisle, selecting the items he needed, and Gussie found herself drawn to the back of the store where bolts of material were stacked. She eyed the muslin and spools of thread, imagining the petticoat she’d make from them. Resting a hand on the bolt of muslin, she glanced at the other material nearby. Brown and white striped, pale pink with rosebuds, sky blue with tiny bouquets of white flowers, sunny yellow and—.

  “May I help, ma’am?” a woman asked, stopping near Gussie.

  Gussie gave a little start, having not heard the woman’s approach. “I . . . oh, no.” The woman wore a sweet smile and a stylish gray dress with a draped skirt front and high collar. “I’m just waiting for Lone . . . my hub . . .” She nodded toward Lonestar. “Him.”

  “I see.” The woman turned toward Lonestar where he stood paying for items, his back to them. “Sir! I found her!”

  Gussie blinked in astonishment, then realized that a smiling Lonestar was striding toward them.

  “There you are. I thought you’d slipped outside when I wasn’t looking.” He nodded to the other woman. “Thank you, ma’am. She’s a little thing and I didn’t see her back here.”

  Little! Gussie flashed him a startled look. She’d never been described as “a little thing” since back when she was in pinafores!

  “Like most ladies, she’s admiring the bolts of material,” the woman said. “I bet you’ve already imagined a few dresses you’d like to sew up for yourself, haven’t you?”

  “I . . . well.” Gussie forced herself to stop stuttering. “I was looking at this muslin. I’ll be needing some soon.”

  “Get some now if you need it,” Lonestar said. “Any other notions, too.”

  She shook her head, edging away from the temptation. “No. I’ll wait.”

  “How much of it do you need? Tell this lady.” He lowered his head and his eyebrows, looking stern, but his next words were cajoling. “Augusta, please?”

  Her resistance wavered and she nodded. “Two yards and a spool of thread, please.”

  “Just the muslin?” the store clerk asked.

  Gussie nodded, admiring Lonestar’s long-legged stride as he made his way to the front of the store again. He cut a striking figure, she thought, admiring the proud set of his shoulders and the fit of his trousers on his lean hips. She joined him at the long counter where he paid for the material and thread. The woman wrapped it in brown paper and handed it to her.

  “You be sure to come back and buy a yard or two of our prettier fabric,” she said, smiling at Gussie.

  Not knowing what to respond to that, Gussie tucked the package under her arm and hurried outside to the wagon. She tried not to stiffen like a board when Lonestar placed his hands on her waist and steadied her as she climbed up to the seat. Sitting down as quickly as she could manage, she didn’t miss the glinting amusement in his eyes. He settled beside her, released the brake, and took up the reins again.

  “What’s the muslin for? Curtains?”

  Curtains? She shook her head, then realized she probably should make curtains before she worried about a petticoat. Some of the ones in the house were beyond ragged. “No, I was going to make a . . .” She swallowed, wondering if she should mention her underclothes, then deciding he could handle it. “Petticoat. But you’re right. Curtains are more sensible.”

  “No, I’m not right. Make something for yourself. You should have done what the lady in there said and bought a yard or two of other fabric. Make yourself a couple of new dresses.”

  “Those, I can do without. I have work dresses and they’ll do.”

  His sigh spoke of fatigue and irritation. “You’re one of the most stubborn women I’ve ever come across.”

  “The auction ought to be starting now. Let’s get along.”

  Shaking his head at her, he flicked the reins to get the horse moving at a faster clip. “I’ll be depending on you during the auction.”

  “Depending on me for what?” she asked.

  “To pick out solid mules. You’ve been around more of them than I have. I’ve never even placed a bid. I’ve always just been a spectator.”

  “I’ve never bid on anything either.” She clutched her hands tightly in her lap as a wave of self-doubt washed over her. “But I’ve watched others. The trick is to act like your pockets are stuffed full of money.”


  “Oh?”

  “You have to make folks believe that you’re not near finished bidding so that they’ll drop out of it sooner than later. If they think you’re ready to keep on upping the bid without breaking a sweat, they’ll give up faster.”

  “And how do I make folks think I’m flush with money?”

  She angled up her chin. “By being confident. When the auctioneer looks at you, you give him this.” She bobbed her head once with authority. She caught Lonestar’s raised brows and figured she’d impressed him. “Or you give him a bored look. You know, like you’re not even paying attention to how much money is being laid out. Like this.” She essayed a bored sigh and an apathetic nod. “See? Like the money don’t mean nothing.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything,” he said, quietly, a gentle smile touching his lips. “Yes, I see. I’ll do my best to use those tricks of yours.”

  She faced front again, feeling her color rise at having her word use corrected by him. She knew better, she scolded herself. She knew the proper way to speak, but her pa’s bad grammar had seeped into her brain and addled it. Sometimes his words popped out instead of the ones she knew to be right.

  “I . . . don’t mean to embarrass you,” she whispered, then fidgeted on the seat, feeling far less confident than she had a few moments ago.

  “Embarrass me?” He scoffed. “If anyone gets embarrassed today, it will be you being seen with me.”

  “Why? Do you think folks around here know you were in prison?”

  He tipped his head to the side. “Maybe. What they will surely know is that I’m a half-breed married to a white woman.” He sent her a speaking glance. “And they’ll look at you and wonder what a nice lady like you is doing with a dirty savage like me.”

  She winced. “They won’t. People ain’t . . . aren’t that backward. Not all of them. You’re part white and God-fearing. That’s what they’ll mostly see. I bet most of them won’t even think you’re part . . . what was it? Osage?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t know anything about them.”

  “You know about other tribes?”

  “Only what I’ve read. Apache. Cheyenne. Crow. I’ve read about them.”

  “We are from the Great Plains,” he said, giving her a half-smile. “The Osage, that is. Osage is from a French word that means warlike. But in our language, we say Wazhazhe. We are fierce fighters and known for our tall, handsome men and courageous, beautiful women.”

  She smiled at him, entranced. “Tall and handsome, huh?”

  He nodded, unsmiling but gold lights danced in his eyes like embers.

  “Fits you, I reckon.”

  He chuckled as he maneuvered the wagon in the shade of an old barn. He helped her alight and they walked toward the platform where several men stood in front of a cleared off space. To the left and right of them, livestock stood with ranch hands, waiting for their time on the auction block.

  They milled around among the livestock, stopping at every mule and draft horse. Lonestar gave her the lead, and although Gussie tried to appear nonchalant, her nerves lit up inside her like a jar full of lightning bugs. She had examined horseflesh before, but she’d never placed even one auction bid in her life. Now Lonestar expected her to help him select good stock and confer with him as to how high to go on each one once the bidding commenced. Her confidence in her ability wavered, but she soldiered on, not wanting to disappoint Lonestar – or herself.

  After a careful inspection, she settled on three mules and one Morgan mare that she took a shine to. The Morgan was jet black with a blazed face and a gentle disposition. The mules – two blacks and one dark brown with white socks – were young and of good weight. They let her run her hands down their sturdy legs and along their short manes and quivering withers without any reaction at all. They let her examine their teeth, croups, and knees while standing stock still. They’d do. They’d do fine.

  “You sure you have enough money to bid on more than one mule or horse?” she asked him.

  “I’m sure.”

  “How come? Didn’t you spend most of what you had on the land?”

  Lonestar motioned toward an upturned barrel and Gussie sat on it while he stood beside her. “I did, but I’ve been putting back money for several years now, hoping to have enough one day to buy it. With the money my mother left me, I can use what I have for livestock and feed.”

  Although people stood in front of her, she could peek through gaps and see the auction area from time to time. Flies were thick and she had to flap her hands to keep them off her. Dirt and dust kicked up by the livestock settled in her mouth and throat and she wished she’d thought to bring something to drink.

  Lonestar rested a hand on her shoulder and bent closer to her ear. “I’ll be right back.”

  Before she could ask where he was going, he was striding away from her. Frowning, she hoped he returned before the first of the mules she wanted to bid on made its way to the front of the livestock line. Minutes ticked by as the sun climbed higher and the flies became stickier. She glanced around, looking for Lonestar and not finding him. Where in tarnation had he taken off to, leaving her to fret about him?

  Facing front again, she batted at the annoying flies trying to land on her nose and hair. She spied a stocky cowboy with a shock of blond hair ambling toward her. He removed his hat and waved it in front of her as he sent her a friendly grin.

  “These old shoo flies are a pest, ain’t they?” he asked with a chuckle. “How do, ma’am. Henry O’Reilly at your service.”

  Wariness gave her a kick, but his toothy, boyish smile chased it away. She felt her lips curve into a shy grin. “Thank you, Mr. O’Reilly. That breeze you’re making feels mighty nice, I must say. It’s hot out here, even in the shade.”

  “Glad to oblige a pretty lady like yourself . . . Miss . .?”

  She started to answer, but a deep voice behind her beat her to it.

  “Mrs. Lonestar is her name.”

  Henry O’Reilly’s brown eyes widened and traveled from Gussie’s face up, up, up to Max Lonestar’s. His reaction was written in his slack mouth and nervous chuckle. “Uh . . . oh. Right.” He stuck out his hand to Lonestar. “Henry O’Reilly. Glad to meetcha. Mr. Lonestar, I take it?”

  Lonestar shook his hand. “Max Lonestar.”

  Gussie turned slightly to see him better and blinked when he held out a glass of water to her. She took it, gratefully. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Café down a ways. I promised to bring the glass back to them when you’re finished. Figured you might be parched.”

  “I . . . I was. Thank you.” Touched by his thoughtfulness, she drank thirstily. Water had never tasted so good to her.

  “Got your eye on anything special here today, Lonestar?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Maybe some mules.”

  “Yeah? Me and my brothers are eyeing a couple of mustangs and a paint horse. Got some good-looking stock today.”

  “Looks like it,” Lonestar agreed. “So, you live near here?”

  “Yeah. Our place is about a mile south of here. We run cattle.”

  Lonestar rested a hand on Gussie’s shoulder again. “We’re farmers.”

  Gussie looked up at him. The newness of being someone’s missus and included in activities like farming and land owning made her feel a mite giddy. The way he’d staked his claim on her in front of this man made her heart gallop, even though she’d tried to pretend it had irritated her for him to take over the conversation.

  “Lonestar. Sounds Indian.”

  She went still inside, waiting for Lonestar’s reaction. Should she speak up? Change the subject?

  “It is. My father was Osage.”

  “Osage. Huh.” O’Reilly wedged his hat back onto his blond hair. He nodded at her and began shuffling backward.

  “Good luck. Hope you get some fine mules today. Nice talking to ya.” Then he turned and walked quickly away.

  “Was he bothering you?”

 
Gussie blinked. “Bothering me? No. He was being right nice. He was fanning flies away from me and creating a cooling breeze while he was at it.” She finished the water and handed the glass to Lonestar. “Thank you, kindly. I needed that.”

  “You’re welcome.” He turned the glass upside down. “Thanks for saving some for me.”

  “I . . . you . . .” She pressed her lips together as her dismay dissolved when she realized he was joshing her. “You just love to get my goat, don’t you?”

  “It’s becoming one of my favorite sports,” he agreed. “I’ll take this back to the café as promised. Try not to attract more men who want to fawn over you while I’m gone.”

  She rolled her eyes at such a notion, but inside her heart did a little dance. This time, she turned and watched him walk away and realized that he was taller than most of the men, making it easy for her to keep him in view. He had a confident stride with a bit of a swagger that she found attractive . . . riveting, even. She wrenched her gaze from his departing figure and faced front again.

  He was gone only a few minutes, arriving in the nick of time. A dark brown mule picked its way into the center of the clearing and Gussie grabbed Lonestar’s shirtsleeve. “Lookee there! That’s one of the mules I picked out for us! Get ready to bid.”

  He tensed and his hand lifted from her shoulder as the auctioneer asked for opening bids. Gussie grabbed his wrist and yanked his arm down.

  “Not yet! Wait until the early jumpers bow out.”

  “Early jumpers?”

  “Folks who bid first on everything, hoping they’ll get something good for practically nothing while others aren’t paying close enough attention. What did you decide was our top dollar for this one?”

  “Fifty.”

  “We ought to be able to get it for forty.” She let go of his wrist. “It’s at twenty-five. You can wade in now. Remember. Don’t flinch or give pause. Look confident and like you’re made of money.”

  He smiled at that, but raised a finger to grab the auctioneer’s attention and get into the bidding war. The battle was fast and over in less than a minute. As instructed, Lonestar kept giving quick nods like a man who had made up his mind and that was that! But when the bids went past fifty, Gussie nudged him.