Lonestar's Lady

by Deborah Camp

  “That’s it,” she’d whispered. “Now we’re into foolish money.”

  “But we need a couple of mules.”

  “We do. But we don’t need to pay sixty or seventy dollars for a mule that shouldn’t be fetching more than forty-five or fifty.”

  The last bid was seventy-five from a man in a red checkered shirt. He glanced around, grinning like a monkey and puffing out his chest. Dang fool, Gussie thought with a huff. He probably did get the best mule of the whole bunch, but he overpaid.

  She looked up at Lonestar and noted his defeated frown. “We’ll come away with one or two mules. Or maybe even that fine looking Morgan horse. She’d pull a plow.”

  “We might ought to pay more than fifty on this next go-round.”

  She shook her head, stubbornly holding her ground. “You just keep looking confident – instead of how you’re looking right now.”

  “How am I looking?”

  “Like someone just took your penny sucker before you even got a good lick.”

  He smirked at that, but his mood lightened right before her eyes. He shoved his hands into his pockets and directed his attention back to the auction.

  Nearly an hour crept by before the Morgan horse moved majestically into the center of the clearing. Murmurs rose from the spectators and Gussie’s heart sank. Dang it! She’d wanted that horse, but from the appreciative looks being given, her plan to own the mare were dashed.

  “How high will we go for this one?” Lonestar asked. “I’d say we could top out at—.”

  “Don’t bother,” she cut in. “We’re not getting that horse.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing. She’s solid and she has a good temperament, but I can already tell that the bidding’s going to be fierce. Too deep for our pockets. We’ll hang our hopes on those other two mules coming up.”

  “Now who’s looking like someone swiped her sucker?”

  She glanced at him, catching his smile, but not giving it back. “Someone’s gonna get a right fine horse.”

  He nodded and focused on the rapid-fire bidding, as did she. The bids were already at one hundred fifty. At one-eighty more than half of the bidders dropped out. At one-ninety, there were only two men still in it. At two hundred, one of the men shrugged with disappointment.

  “Two-twenty-five?” the auctioneer asked. “Will that help you any, sir? Don’t drop out now.”

  Lonestar raised his hand and the auctioneer acknowledged him with a snap of his wrist. Gussie almost swallowed her tongue.

  “Hell’s bells! What in tarnation are you doing?” she hissed at him, grabbing his arm although it was too late.

  The other bidder bit on two-thirty-five. Lonestar gave a curt nod at two-forty-five before Gussie could give his arm a yank. Panic slithered through her. He’d gone loco! Spending money like they had more of it than good sense! When Lonestar’s head bobbed at two-fifty-five, Gussie was ready to either slug him or faint. She couldn’t make up her mind which would be better.

  The auctioneer’s voice rang out, his words echoing in her head. “The bid stands at two hundred and fifty-five for this handsome three-year-old mare, folks. And it’s going . . . going . . . it’s gone! Sold to the fella in the blue shirt! You got yourself the best horse of the day, you did.”

  Lonestar’s eyes slid sideways to take in Gussie’s furious frown. “Hear that? Best one of the day.”

  She huffed out a breath and folded her arms. “And now we don’t have money to bid on those mules.”

  “We have some money left, Augusta, so wipe that scowl off your face.”

  “You paid too much for that horse.”

  “No, I didn’t. She’s young and she can be bred. We’ll be able to get some nice foals off her. We can breed her to Suze and Erik’s Friesian stallion.”

  “We just need plow pullers. Nothing fancy.”

  “Here come the mules. They’re being sold together.”

  Gussie felt flattened like a bug under a wheel. “Then we sure won’t be able to secure them.”

  Lonestar nudged her with his elbow. “Will you quit being such a naysayer? I thought you were the auction expert here.”

  “I never said I was any such thing. All I know is that we need plow mules and we’re going home with no—.” She clamped her lips together, realizing she was talking to the wind because Lonestar was bidding again. The man in the checkered shirt was in the thick of it. He’d bid and then glare at Lonestar, who never even glanced his way, but kept his attention on the auctioneer. The bids flew, and she could barely keep up. Finally, with just Lonestar and the man in the checkered shirt still in it, the bids rose to one hundred for both mules.

  “Can I get one and a quarter?” the auctioneer asked. “They’re worth every penny, folks. Both males, both four years old. Come on now, sir. One and a quarter.”

  The man in the checkered shirt stared at Lonestar. Gussie didn’t care for the way he squinted his eyes and the hard set of his mouth. He lifted his hand and Gussie held her breath, but then released it in a long sigh when the gesture became one of dismissal. He was out.

  “One hundred going once . . . twice . . . sold to the man who bought that handsome Morgan horse! He’s going home with some top-dollar horseflesh, I’m here to tell ya!”

  “Top dollar is right,” Gussie groused under her breath.

  “Can you give me a smile, Augusta?” Lonestar asked. “Just one little grin? We got more than we even bargained for, didn’t we? It’s been a good day.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, but was pulled away from his cajoling expression when she caught sight of the man in the red checkered shirt striding toward them. He stopped in front of Lonestar, his squinty-eyed gaze raking him up and down.

  “Where’d an Injun get money enough to bid like that?”

  Gussie sucked in a breath, shocked that he’d speak so uncouthly. She took a step toward him, ready to do battle. “And where did you get the gall to think that’s any of your business?”

  The man’s mouth dropped open at her temerity. Lonestar’s long fingers curled around her upper arm and he pulled her back to his side.

  “Augusta,” he murmured to her in a warning before addressing the man. “Max Lonestar’s the name.” He held out his hand.

  The man shook his head disgustedly at Lonestar instead of shaking his hand. “Hope you can pay for what you just bid on. This auction don’t take kindly to folks who can’t back up their bids.”

  “And we don’t take kindly to strangers who shoot off their mouths about things that they’re ignorant about,” Gussie retaliated.

  “Augusta,” Lonestar hissed at her this time, his lips thinning.

  The other man’s eyes narrowed even more. “So, you’re the one with the money, eh? That makes more sense.”

  “We have a place out by Pear Orchard,” Lonestar said in his quiet, still way.

  “You squatting?”

  Gussie quivered with pent up fury. The unsightly gall of this varmint! She clamped her teeth together as Lonestar’s fingers bit into her arm.

  “We own land. We need draft horses and plow mules. It’s good that we found them here today.”

  “Pear Orchard,” the man repeated and scratched at his reddish-blond beard as he gave Gussie the once-over again. “Augusta, you say is your name? Huh. I heard-tell that a little gal named Gussie came this way to marry a friend of mine. Bob Babbitt. But then she lost her fool head and hooked up with a half-breed. That wouldn’t be you now, would it?”

  Lonestar’s fingers closed tighter around her arm, but she paid him little heed. She didn’t like being gossiped about and she sure didn’t care one whit for this nosy stranger.

  “Rodney Williams is my name.” He rocked forward in a truncated bow. “And you’re Gussie. Right?”

  “I also know Bob Babbitt,” Lonestar said before Gussie could answer. “When you see him, tell him that all’s fair in love and war.” His smile was tight and chilly. “I asked her and
she said yes. The better man won. Simple as that.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go settle up, Augusta.”

  She flicked a glance over her shoulder as they walked away. Rodney Williams squinted at them and then spit on the ground where they’d been standing.

  “What gives him the right to talk to us that way?” she fumed.

  “You have to let it roll off you like water on a duck’s back.”

  “I will not!”

  “I used to fight or want to fight every man who looked askance at me. You know what it got me? A prison term.”

  She winced inwardly, but kept it off her face. Being looked down on wasn’t new to her. As the daughter of a drunk, she had suffered the surly looks of people who didn’t know anything about her, but assumed they did. But she didn’t know if she could ignore insults. She’d never been much good at turning the other cheek once she’d been slapped.

  She realized he still had his arm around her shoulders and that it felt natural as rain. In fact, she’d almost given in to the gesture of placing her arm around his middle and had checked herself at the last moment.

  “Let them think what they want,” she said. “I’m as good as the next person – and so are you.”

  He slowed his steps and then stopped. Wondering why they weren’t still walking, she turned to him and her breath lodged in her throat. A sunbeam bathed his face, making his brown eyes glimmer and his smile that much brighter. Seized with a sudden onslaught of shyness, she eased out from under his arm and nodded toward the wagon.

  “We better settle up and then get going. Daylight’s wasting away.” Her voice came out whispery.

  “I believe you like me, Augusta.”

  She lowered her brows, wondering what he meant by that. “I married you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you liked me when you did. Now I do believe that you’re even a little fond of me.”

  “Quit talking silliness. ʼCourse I like you. Why wouldn’t I?” she said, starting forward again, but his hand closed around hers and he brought her up short. A quick tug and her front bounced against his. He felt as solid as a rock wall.

  “I like you, too,” he said, low, his warm breath causing goosebumps to spread across her neck. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “And I’m fond of you. Getting fonder every day.” He touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger. “But let me fight my own battles my own way. I appreciate you speaking up and all, but I’ve had a lot of practice dealing with horses’ asses like Rodney Williams. So, you curb that tongue of yours and rein in your hot temper or there will be hell to pay.” That said, he strode toward the wagons with her in tow.

  Chapter 8

  The two mules they’d purchased already had names they answered to – General and Sarge – so Gussie and Lonestar decided to keep them. The Morgan had a name attached to her, too – Virginia – but she didn’t seem to know it. Lonestar insisted that Gussie select a name, and after a few days, she decided on Majesty because the Morgan was such a regal horse.

  Lonestar had hitched Majesty to the plow and tilled land beside the house for a late summer garden. Gussie had gone right behind him with hoe in hand and planted carrots, beets, winter cauliflower, onions, and cabbage. They’d spent two days on the garden, but it was work Gussie had enjoyed. She thought that Lonestar liked it, too, because he was in such a good mood that he’d whistled while he’d worked. She’d also caught him looking at her a lot when he’d thought she didn’t notice. But she had. It was like she could feel the heat of his gaze, as if his eyes were little suns beaming at her. Except instead of perspiration, they caused tiny shivers along her skin – the kind produced by caresses.

  Her thoughts continued to meander to him as sure as fish to a clear stream. She dwelled on inconsequential things about him. The way his hair curled on the ends where it brushed past his shirt collar and stuck out behind his ears. How his dark umber eyes could light up suddenly with gold streaks and sparkles when he laughed. The timbre of his voice, not quite a purr or a growl, but something in between. She had trouble not thinking about how he looked shirtless, especially when he stretched his long, lean body beside her in bed every night. She no longer dreaded sleeping beside him. Now she looked forward to it. She liked the security of him next to her and the lullaby of his deep breaths. She liked breathing in the scent of him, clean but manly and bracing. He smelled of freshly turned earth, pine-perfumed air with notes of musk and lye soap.

  Sometimes when she awakened before him, she felt his hardness poking against her hip or in the small of her back. It made her wonder if he dreamed of her or, maybe, he dreamed of other women like the flower sisters.

  That thought made her straighten from her bent-over position in the vegetable garden. She pushed back her bonnet in quick frustration. Why had she let those harpies invade her brain? she asked herself, crossly.

  Leaning on the hoe, she gazed out across the land – their land – and wished she could see Lonestar out there. But he was too far away, upturning earth in the far fields that were fallow. He meant to plant sorghum. He’d decided to plant winter wheat nearer the house to make it easier to haul to the barn. Listening to his plans every night over supper had become one of her favorite parts of the day. She’d never known a more ambitious and hard-working man in her entire life! When he wasn’t working, he was making a list of chores he wanted to do as soon as the sun was up again.

  With a sigh, she dropped the hoe and went to the house where she’d set a jug of water on the porch. Collecting it, she drank deeply from it and felt instantly cooler as the water flowed into her. Buster lay on the porch and flapped his tail against it.

  “You’re as lazy as the day is long,” Gussie told him, pouring some of the water into a pan she kept on the porch for the dog to use.

  Replacing the lid to keep the flies out of it, she set the jar on the porch again and eyed the swing with longing. No, she argued with herself. She couldn’t be lollygagging about. Not when Lonestar and the mules were out there busting up dirt clods. Wouldn’t be right. She’d sit in the swing after supper tonight and watch the fireflies put on their show.

  Speaking of supper, she should finish up hoeing and weeding the garden and then get to peeling potatoes and carrots. Turning to go back to her work, she paused when the hair on her nape lifted slightly just as Buster growled. She pivoted and lifted her hand to shade her eyes against the afternoon sun. A horse and rider turned off the main road onto the one leading to the house. Who in the world would be visiting them? she wondered as she stepped up onto the porch. It wasn’t Susan or Erik. She knew their horses and they nearly always traveled in a buggy or wagon. Someone Lonestar knew, she figured. Got wind that Lonestar had bought himself some land and had decided to see for himself.

  Buster leaped off the porch, yapping and barking and making a scene.

  “Buster,” Gussie called to him. “Come here, boy.”

  Wagging his tail, he trotted back up the steps and sat at her feet so that she could lean down and stroke his head and ears. He kept fussing as the stranger neared.

  The rider was a big man, broad of shoulder with a thick waist. Dressed mostly in black, his hat pulled down low to shadow his face, he bounced heavily in the saddle. He rode a broad, gray and white Appaloosa, its dappled rump and chest flecked with lather. The big man leaned back on the reins as he drew closer to the house. Gussie could see that he had a black beard and mustache, rounded shoulders, thick legs. His boots were black and silver. He stopped the horse a few feet from the porch steps and dipped his head in her direction.

  “Well, well. Hello there. Max Lonestar around?”

  “He’s plowing a field.” She pulled her bonnet back up to cover her hair. There was something about this man that didn’t sit well with her. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m—.”

  “You’re his new bride,” he said, cutting her off. “His wife.”

  She didn’t much care for his voice – it had a whine to it. She
propped one hand at her waist while cautioning herself to be cordial, although something about the way he’d spoken to her made her want to tell him to get. “That’s right . . . mister?”

  He pushed back the brim of his hat with his thumb. His eyes were close-set above a beak of a nose. He wasn’t what she’d call a handsome man. Not like Lonestar. But he wasn’t homely. No doubt, he’d attract his share of women. She just wouldn’t be among them.

  “Mrs. Lonestar,” he said with a sneer in his voice. “Now ain’t that sweet?” Leaning a beefy forearm on the saddle horn, he glared angrily at her. “I’m the man you were sworn to marry.”

  She stared at him as her heartbeats slowed and she felt the blood drain from her face. His slow, cheerless smile was like a bucket of ice water thrown at her. She drew herself up, realizing that she’d lifted a hand to her throat in a defensive gesture. She made herself relax, even while her heart boomed in her chest.

  “You’re Babbitt?” she asked, then cleared her throat of the gravel in it. “Bob Babbitt? The man who wrote a pack of lies to me.”

  His lips twitched into a deep frown. “The man who bought you a train ticket so’s you could travel here and take up with another man. Practically the first man you laid eyes on in town from what I hear.” His eyes bored into her, challenging her, trying to shame her.

  “That train ticket didn’t bring me here. My two feet and riding in the back of hay wagons with goats and pigs is what got me from Ft. Smith to Pear Orchard. Did you spare one thought about my plight while you were drying out in jail?” Her temper rose, hot and scalding. She’d been praying for this day – this day when she could face Bob Babbitt and tell him what she thought of him. Her tongue itched to lash out at the sorry excuse for manhood.

  “You didn’t think about bailing me out, either, did you? Just turned your back on me and married the first man what asked you. And don’t go thinking he liked you none, neither! All he wanted was this here land and he woulda married a plucked chicken to get his hands on it.”