Lonestar's Lady

by Deborah Camp

  “I’ll be right back,” she told Susan, and then followed him. Rounding the corner, she saw him leaning one shoulder against the side of the house. He looked up from the grass he was studying and beckoned her toward him with another head jerk. She gathered in a big, calming breath as she neared him. “I reckon you’re fit to be tied.”

  He shook his head. “You are the prickliest woman I ever did meet, Augusta Lonestar.”

  She folded her arms in front of her. “And you’re the stubbornest man I ever did meet, Max Lonestar. You could have spoke up for yourself, you know.”

  “Why? You said enough for both of us. As usual.”

  She pressed her lips together to stop the barrage of words that crowded on her tongue.

  “I’m not mad at you,” he said, pushing away from the wall. “But let me tell you what my mother used to tell me. And I wish I had heeded her words earlier.” He rested his hands on her shoulders and held her gaze with eyes that were kinder and more understanding than she felt she deserved. “Dwell on where you’re lucky instead of where you’re lacking.” He squeezed her shoulders. “Why complain, Augusta, when we have so much? We have a home, good farm land, livestock, family near us, and each other. We should thank our lucky stars every day and night.”

  His words doused the fire inside of her and she slumped, her body pressing against his as his arms came around her.

  “I’m a terrible person,” she mumbled against his shirt that smelled of him and sawdust.

  “No, you’re not.” He smoothed a hand over her hair. “You’re a cantankerous, little porcupine, that’s what you are.”

  “Hey!” She gave him a playful punch in the ribs that make him laugh and step back from her. “That’s not nice.”

  He bent and branded her mouth with a quick kiss. “Speaking of nice. Try being that the rest of the day.” Then he grabbed her by the shoulders again, turned her in the direction of the tables, and gave her a little push. Other men were striding toward the half-finished barn, their bellies full and their spirits revived. “Go on now. I have a barn to finish.”

  Grinning, she trudged back to the women, who had taken seats at the table along with the children to eat what the men had left for them. Susan made room for her and Gussie sat on the bench. Her stomach growled like a bear and she realized that she was hungry. She reached for a piece of fried chicken and her gaze collided with Mrs. Sherman’s stern countenance.

  “You’re called Gussie, is that right?” the woman asked.

  “That’s right.” Gussie eyed her as tension built. Now what?

  Mrs. Sherman pushed the platter of chicken closer to Gussie and her expression warmed slightly before she moved to sit at the head of the table and ease into her husband’s previous seat.

  “Everything all right?” Susan asked, passing a bowl of green beans to Gussie.

  “Fine and dandy.” She glanced over her shoulder at where the desserts were stationed. “I hope they left some of that brown betty. It looked larrupin’.”

  “There’s plenty of it left,” Susan said, and her smile was one of pure relief.

  Gussie felt a twinge of pity for her. Susan disliked confrontations and Gussie had been putting her through a few lately. Maybe she was a mite too prickly, she thought, but then brushed that silly notion aside. If she didn’t stick up for herself, who would? That was a lesson she’d learned in life and it had served her well. Anything she’d gotten in life, she gotten by grabbing on and not letting go.

  But as she vanquished her hunger with a drumstick, potato salad, green beans, pickled okra, and delicious brown betty, Lonestar’s wise words wove through her. For once in her life, she did have luck on her side. If she didn’t cling to it, it might run out on her.

  Chapter 14

  Han Hoffmeister tugged on the reins of the big draft horse, making him finally stop and prance in place. “Whoa there, you ornery beast.” He grinned through his mustache and beard at Gussie, who’d come out of the house when she’d heard the clatter and clomp of the arriving horse and wagon. Wiping her wet hands on her apron, she gave him a nod and a smile.

  “Good afternoon to you, Mr. Hoffmeister. You’re here to speak with Lonestar, I reckon.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me visiting without an invitation.” Hoffmeister lifted his straw hat off his head in a gentlemanly salute before setting it back over his bald spot. “I was in Pear Orchard and heard about your troubles.”

  She tipped her head to one side. “Which ones?”

  He laughed up at the sky, his eyes twinkling with merriment. “Which ones, eh? Things been going that poorly around here? Your barn! I heard that it caught fire.”

  “Oh, yes.” She gestured in its direction. “One wall of it went up and part of the loft. We were lucky, though. No livestock lost and we saved most of the hay stored in the loft.”

  “Yep. Could have been worse.” He squinted into the distance. “I see lumber and such over yonder. You haven’t finished rebuilding?”

  “No, sir. We have so much work during the week that Lonestar and his brother-in-law only get around to it on Sundays. Another couple of weeks, and it should be finished.”

  He nodded, a contemplative expression erasing some of the wrinkles around his merry eyes and usually smiling mouth. “What set it off?”

  “Somebody,” she said without hesitation. “Had to be somebody doing it on purpose.”

  His overgrown brows lifted to almost touch his hairline. “Sounds like you made an enemy, Mrs. Lonestar.”

  “Not on purpose, I assure you.” She gave a helpless shrug. “Lonestar’s out there in the barn right now if you want to head over there to talk with him. He came in a few minutes ago to grab some tools. There’s some fencing down he’s got to fix.”

  “I shan’t delay him long, ma’am.” With another slow nod, he urged the horse and wagon forward toward the barn.

  She sat in the rocker and stroked Buster’s head and muzzle while she watched Hoffmeister stop the wagon in front of the barn and stroll inside. The men’s voices drifted to her as they greeted each other, but then died down so that she heard nothing, save an occasional burst of laughter from Hoffmeister.

  “He’s a nice man,” she told Buster and the dog thumped his tail on the porch. “It’s good there are some nice men around these parts.”

  Not like Bob Babbitt. She frowned, thinking about how this was the third or fourth time in the past two weeks that Lonestar had found trampled fencing. He hadn’t said so, but she knew he suspected that someone was tearing up the posts and busting up the thin rails. He was having to use some of the lumber for the barn on the fence repairs, which meant they would have to buy more lumber before long or chop down some trees and fashion their own fence rails. More time spent on work they hadn’t expected.

  Almost certainly, the fence buster was Babbitt. Had Babbitt been this vengeful toward Lonestar before she’d arrived on the scene to stir the pot even more? She hated to think that she’d brought so much trouble to Lonestar, but she had to admit her part in it. Her marriage had been the final blow to Babbitt’s dream of owning this farm. But, then, what in tarnation would he have done with it? She couldn’t imagine him toiling from sunup to sundown as Lonestar did every day. Babbitt would have bragged about being a landowner, but Gussie doubted he would have made a good steward of this good earth.

  Hoffmeister’s laugh floated to her again and she looked in its direction to see him and Lonestar striding out to the wagon. Each man carried several lengths of cut lumber and tossed them into the back of the wagon. Lonestar climbed up into the seat beside Hoffmeister. Gussie stood as the wagon approached. She grabbed one of the porch posts and leaned against it as the wagon pulled even with her.

  “Mr. Hoffmeister is going to help me repair the fence right quick,” Lonestar said. “Be back in a little while.”

  “Okay.” She smiled, touched that the man was giving Lonestar a helping hand. She’d offered to help him earlier, but he’d said he could handle it fine with
out her. He was like that. He didn’t want to add work to what she already had to do every day.

  After they’d left, she went around the back to finish up the laundry she was washing on the washboard. Bending over, she grabbed a shirt and began scrubbing it in the soapy, gray water. Her thoughts circled back to Babbitt. Maybe she shouldn’t have sassed him, she reasoned, but her stubborn streak rose up to reject that. He deserved a good tongue-lashing after what he’d said about her birthing papooses. Like it was any of his dang business. With renewed vigor, she shoved the shirt up and down the rough washboard and wished it were Babbitt’s smugly smiling face instead.

  Later that night after supper, Max sat near the front window, a lantern giving him enough illumination to read the pages of the novel he’d borrowed from his sister. It was about the life of George Washington; a man of courage and intelligence who had led men into war but had always fought for peace. He finished the chapter and closed the book. Augusta had been reading earlier – The Three Musketeers she’d also borrowed from Lonestar – but she’d retired to wash up and get ready for bed.

  He liked that they both enjoyed reading. Most nights, that’s what they did after supper and before they met up again in bed. It had become a pattern that he relished because it felt like home. His mother had loved books and had passed the devotion on to her children. Even when his step-father had chided him for “getting your nose stuck between the pages of a book,” Max had paid him no mind. Books were his escape. In prison, he would have gone ʼround the bend if he hadn’t been able to get books from the warden, who had also been an avid reader and had allowed Lonestar to borrow from the ones in his office. The selections had been meager and not the sort of stories he would have chosen, but Max had been grateful and he’d read every volume. Most of them twice.

  Putting out the lantern flame, he sat in the darkness with light provided by the full moon’s beams slanting through the windows and the banked embers glowing in the cook stove. He could hear Augusta moving about in the bedroom, but he couldn’t see her. Only the play of shadows.

  He should be cross with her, but he couldn’t work up much of a lather. While he appreciated her spirit, he worried about how others might retaliate against her sharp tongue. The girl was all grit and heart and he liked that about her. He loved the way she jutted out her small, round chin, just begging people to come back at her. Or how her lovely eyes darkened to a stormy blue when she was truly riled over something. And nobody could top her when it came to mulish expressions! She could set her jaw, thin out her luscious lips, and glower with the best of them.

  But he wasn’t being fair to her, he chided himself. Most of the time, she was as sweet and charming as could be. She never complained about the hard work on the farm or that there was little to no money to spare on things she certainly deserved, such as new dresses, better shoes, and pretty combs, scarves, and hats for her golden hair.

  Her uncomplaining disposition sprang from her loveless upbringing. She’d learned early in life to keep her head down and work hard if she wanted the bare necessities of food and shelter. That she’d been dragged around like a steamer trunk throughout her growing up years pricked him like hot needles when he pictured her as a child. Fair-haired, big, sky-blue eyes, and a cherub’s mouth set in a round, almost angelic face. A slip of a thing being worked like an indentured servant instead of a treasured child.

  “Shameful,” he murmured, then hauled his thoughts from the past and his body up from the chair. He padded barefoot across the floorboards to the bedroom. Standing on the threshold, he beheld her, his breathing suddenly shallow and rapid.

  She stood in front of the window and moonlight limned her womanly curves. Although slight, she was well-proportioned with full breasts, tucked in waist, and hips that begged for the grip of a man’s hands. Her hair tumbled down to the small of her back. She wore a simple white shift, the ragged hem stopping short of her ankles.

  Humming softly, she swayed a little. Lifting one hand, she rested it against the window frame, the gesture nothing special and yet everything soft and feminine. Her hand, so small and white against the dark wood frame. Her voice, so melodic and haunting in the stillness of the night.

  “Augusta.” He said her name along with the release of his breath.

  She turned sideways, her lips curving in a lazy smile. “You done reading?”

  “What were you thinking about just now?”

  She cast her gaze up to the ceiling for a few seconds, her smile growing wistful. “About silly things.”

  “What things?”

  “Gentlemen and ladies promenading at a ball in London. How the ladies must have smelled like flowers and the gentlemen like cigar smoke. How they all moved as graceful as swans on placid ponds.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Silly things because of the books I’ve read.”

  “Pride and Prejudice,” he said, naming her favorite novel.

  “Yes, that’s right. But, you know? People were just as pig-headed back then as they are now, talking when they should be listening more.”

  He dipped his head and chuckled. “Some things never change. Speaking of being pig-headed . . .” He waited for her to glance over her shoulder at him. Although he couldn’t see her face clearly, he could feel her hackles rise. “Mr. Hoffmeister said people were bandying about your name in Pear Orchard. What with your speech last Sunday and your shopping trip with Susan, seems that you’re the talk of the town. Maybe even of the whole county.”

  She turned away to stare out the window. “They’re still yapping about what I said to the reverend, huh?”

  “That and what you said to Bob Babbitt and the Sherman sisters.” He saw her shoulders lift fractionally as her spine stiffened. “You forgot to tell me about that, I guess.”

  “I guess.” Her voice barely registered in the quiet room. “I forget, which one of those gals did you sport with? Daisy or Pansy?”

  He hesitated, wondering if it were wise to answer that loaded question. He knew for sure that she’d hadn’t forgotten a damned thing about either one of the flower sisters. “Both, but mostly Daisy.”

  “Both.” She shook her head, still not facing him. “They say they wouldn’t wipe their muddy shoes on you.”

  “That’s what they’re supposed to say in public. I certainly don’t lose any sleep over what they say or think about me.”

  “Why not?” Now she whirled about, her face curtained in darkness. “Why don’t you snap back at them when they lie about you and call you vile names? It gets me hopping mad, so I can’t for the life of me understand why it doesn’t ruffle your feathers even a little.”

  “It does, but I’m done with all the fighting and jabbering. That got me locked up in prison.” He held up one hand to stop her from speaking. “It wouldn’t hurt you any to learn how to turn the other cheek more often than you do now.” He leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “Slapping Babbitt across the face with his hat?” He shook his head and tried not to smile, although the picture of that action made him want to hoot with laughter. “How was that supposed to make things better?”

  “You know what he said?”

  He shrugged. “What he said doesn’t matter. He’s always flapping his lips. Nobody pays him any mind.”

  “He said that I’d be popping out papooses soon.” Even in the dim light, he saw the glimmer of moisture in her eyes and hot fury coursed through him, so quick and potent that it blinded him for a few moments. He drew in a deep breath to clear his head and keep himself from roaring like an angry bear. It was one thing to spout off about him, but to bring Augusta into it . . . He closed his eyes, wrestling for control, nearly failing.

  “I was so mad . . . I had to lash out,” she said, the hurt and anger lacing through her voice and doing nothing to quell his ire. “It wasn’t so much that I was offended, but that he was speaking that way about the babies we might make. Disgracing them before they’re even here!”

  He wanted to throttle Babbitt and he thought the man lucky
to be far, far away from him. Unable to bear the pain he heard in her voice, he shoved away from the doorframe and took her into his arms.

  “I admit that I’d like to pound his face until it was nothing but blood and broken bones for saying that where you could hear,” he whispered into her hair. “Truth be told, it takes more strength not to fight sometimes. The way I see it, the more people witness that I’m not a savage or a dangerous criminal, the more they will accept me as I am. If I haul off and use my fists every time I hear a discouraging word aimed at me or mine, then I’ll be exactly who they think I am. Someone not to be trusted. To be feared. To shun.”

  She nodded, rubbing her cheek against the front of his shirt. “But sometimes I can’t stand by and let someone stomp all over me. I just can’t. I know you wish I were different—.”

  “No, darlin’.” He pushed her away to gaze into her misty, blue eyes. “I like you just as you are. I’m not asking you to change. You like to show that you’re all grit and gristle, but I know you have a soft heart and you want folks to be kind to you so that you can be kind to them. You could have stayed home Sunday, but you went to the barn raising because you wanted our neighbors to see that we are both part of this community.”

  She looked down at her bare feet, going shy on him. He ran the back of his fingers down her soft, pink cheek and a smile touched one corner of her mouth. Tapping her chin with his knuckle, he angled her face up so that he could stare into the limpid pools of her eyes and savor the intangible connection that had grown between them. Pressing a tender kiss to her waiting lips, he felt her fingers skim up his arms and grasp the collar of his shirt.

  Curious, he gave her a questioning look. Passion darkened her eyes before her lashes swept down.

  “I want to see you,” she whispered, giving the collar another tug.

  Her brash admission, unlike her when it came to intimacy, lit him up inside like a blast of dynamite. He brushed her hands aside and whipped the shirt up and off his torso, then jerked a little in surprise when he realized that she was unbuttoning his fly. He watched her progress as his body responded, growing harder and hotter. A self-satisfied smile touched her lips as she gripped his waistband and pushed his trousers and drawers down his legs. He stepped out of them, every pleasure point in him firing off as he stood nude before her, his arousal saluting her. It was difficult to believe that this woman, who was openly ogling him, was the same female who had been timid and afraid a few weeks ago.