Lonestar's Lady

by Deborah Camp

  “She owes you nothing.” He made a swipe with his hand and aimed a finger at Babbitt. “And you leave her the hell out of it. You’ve got a quarrel with me? Talk to me, man to man.” His patience severed, the last threads of it falling away. Max took one step closer and lowered his voice. “Nothing disgusts me more than a sniveling coward.”

  Hatred made Babbitt’s eyes quiver in their sockets. Max pivoted and walked confidently back the way he’d come, feeling Babbitt’s stare and knowing with a twist in his gut that it wasn’t over. No matter how much he wanted it to be so.

  Babbitt wasn’t letting it go and this would not end well for either of them. He just prayed that Augusta wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.

  As he was retrieving his horse, a curvy figure caught his attention. Daisy Sherman eased around the corner of the undertaker’s building and leaned back against the wall, right between a couple of coffins. It wasn’t lost on him that the coffins hid her from prying eyes who might glance their way. Her crimson lips matched her dress. She smiled and her gaze moved over him like she owned him.

  “You looking for me?” she asked, her voice seductive and certain.

  Max shook his head, giving a low chuckle at her audacity. “No, ma’am. I was looking for Bob Babbitt and I found him.” He gripped the saddle horn and swung onto Clover’s back. “Good day to you, Miss Sherman.”

  She pushed herself off the wall to stand firmly on her feet and flung a poison-laden glare at him. “Don’t you dismiss me! You’re lucky I even give you the time of day, Max Lonestar!”

  Shifting to a more comfortable seat in the saddle, he marveled at her swiftly changing moods. “Daisy, I have no quarrel with you. I’ve enjoyed every minute we have spent together, but those times have ended.” He reined Clover around and spoke over his shoulder. “And you’re right. I am lucky. But it has nothing to do with you.” Giving Clover a tap of his bootheels, he let the horse break into a trot away from Daisy Sherman’s frosty glare.

  He had enjoyed Daisy, but it was difficult to reconcile those feelings with the ones he had for her now. Back then she had been an amusement and now she was a nuisance. A nuisance with a grudge against him. How in the hell had he made so many enemies in such a short span of time and why wouldn’t they leave him alone? Seemed like everyone was brewing for a fight he didn’t want to have but was helpless to prevent.

  Augusta cried when Max told her about the fate of Louise. He’d known she would. Shoot. He’d shed some tears himself when he’d buried the cow. But watching the tears build up in Augusta’s eyes and tremble on her cheeks had turned him inside out. He’d gathered her to him, running his hands up and down her back in an attempt to console her.

  “You know who did it,” she whispered against his chest.

  “I know.”

  “Something ought to be done.”

  “I went into town and told him I’m fed up.”

  She angled back to look at him. “When?”

  “This morning. I told Babbitt that if he trespasses again, I’ll shoot him.”

  “You did?” Her watery blue eyes widened.

  “I did.”

  “But you won’t. You wouldn’t shoot him.”

  He regarded her, surprised by her skepticism. “I would and I will. He has no business on our place, causing trouble for us. I thought he’d tire of pestering us and get on with his life, but this has gone on for too long.”

  “If you shoot him, you could go to jail.”

  “Not if he’s trespassing and after what he’s done.”

  “There’s no proof that he’s done anything to us.” She rested her palms flat on his chest and gave him a little shove. “Listen to me. If you see him around here, you fire at him, but you don’t plug him. We don’t want to make things worse by you ending up behind bars . . .”

  “Again,” he finished for her since she couldn’t do it.

  “He’s not worth that, Lonestar.” She shoved at him again. “Promise me.”

  He chuckled, finding her pushy actions adorable. “All right. I promise.” He ran his thumbs across her damp cheeks. “You’re getting to be a bossy, little thing.”

  “Getting to be?” She grinned mischievously at him.

  When she angled her face up, he realized she wanted a kiss, so he obliged. Her lips parted to accept his tongue. As the kiss deepened, she drew his lower lip between hers and sucked gently, sending a bolt of desire straight to his groin. She gave his lip a nip before pulling away. Running her fingertips around the buttons on his shirt, she hummed a few notes of something sweet and haunting. A line formed between her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “We don’t have a milk cow now.”

  He nodded. Buttons was young and wouldn’t produce milk until after calving in the spring. “We can get some from Susan and Erik. We still have goat’s milk.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “Yeah. The goats are contrary and hard to milk. Louise was such a good cow. She never once tried to kick me or even knock over the milk bucket.”

  “I know, I know.” He embraced her, giving her a long hug. “Don’t get weepy again. It breaks off a piece of my heart to see you cry.”

  She sniffed and moved a step back from him as she wiped her hands down the front of her apron. “I got to get back to my canning and you have work to finish before sundown, too.”

  He watched her for a minute as she added more wood to the cookstove and lowered tightly capped jars full of jam into a big pot of boiling water. She could be as soft and fragile as a newborn kitten one moment and tough as tanned leather the next. But he knew that he was one of the few people she ever showed her soft side to and he was grateful for that.

  He smiled. Hell, he was grateful for her.

  Chapter 16

  Erik arrived right after church Sunday and he and Lonestar wasted no time in tackling the work left on the barn. They voiced hope that, if they worked steadily through the afternoon, they might finish enough of it so that Lonestar could do the rest by himself. Gussie had her doubts.

  The rebuild was taking longer than they’d expected because the loft had more damage than they’d first determined and they were running out of good lumber. What with having to shore up fencing that had been torn up, they had run short and were scavenging for useable boards. Erik had completely depleted his extra planks and Lonestar was trying not to spend any more money than he already had on the barn.

  Erik had brought nearly a gallon of milk with him and Gussie had decided to use it to make butter out of it. She carried the churner out to the porch where she sat and began the arduous and boring chore. Buster trotted onto the porch to keep her company. He nosed around the churn and she shooed him away.

  “This isn’t for you,” she said, easing the dog farther away with the side of her boot. “You’ve had your breakfast this morning.”

  Hammering, mixed with grunts and an occasional curse, floated to her as she gradually separated the butter fat from the liquid. She poured the buttermilk into a pitcher and checked on the butter. Almost there, she surmised, tipping a few dippers of water into the churn before renewing the up and down motion that had her shoulder sockets burning.

  Half an hour later, she squeezed the last drops of water from the newly churned butter and salted it. Then she rolled it out, divided it, wrapped it in cheese cloth, put it in a deep bowl, and set the bowl in a pan of cold water to keep the butter firm. She covered the pitcher of buttermilk and set it out on the back porch where it would keep in the cooling air. Autumn was moving in. Every morning now, the farm was covered in sparkling frost that melted within minutes once the sun was up. She’d picked the summer garden clean and had protected the winter plants with a bed of hay.

  Buster barked out front and she made her way through the house to see what had excited him. A wagon pulled by two draft horses angled off the road and came toward the house. As it drew closer, she recognized Han Hoffmeister, flanked by two younger men with white blond hair sticking out from u
nder their hats.

  “Guten Tag to you, Mrs. Lonestar!” Mr. Hoffmeister gave a big, over-the-head wave of his arm, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “I trust you are well this fine day.”

  “I am.” She stuffed her cold hands into her apron pockets. “What brings you here today?”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the wagon bed. “Brought you some lumber we had lying around and my two eldest sons to help hammer it into place in your barn. This is Stefan and Viktor. Say hello to the lady, boys.”

  “Hello,” they both mumbled, giving nods of their heads in her direction.

  Gussie couldn’t quite believe her ears. They’d brought lumber? For their barn? And they were here to work? “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.

  Hoffmeister let go of a hearty laugh. “Is your mister at the barn?”

  “Y-yes.” She nodded and swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “He’s out there with Erik, his . . . I mean, our brother-in-law.”

  “That’s where we’ll be heading them.” Reaching between his feet, he lifted a large, corked jug and offered it to her. “Brought you some of our fresh grape juice. Just finished bottling it this week.”

  She took it from him. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s delicious.”

  “It will make you want to dance a jig.” Laughing again, he slapped the reins against the horses’ backs and they set off for the barn. “Good to see you, Mrs. Lonestar.”

  She stared after them in wonder that soon gave way to exultation. The barn would be finished today! For sure! With the Hoffmeister’s lumber and extra hands, they’d finally be back to normal and just in time, with the temperature dipping and the wind nipping sharper every day.

  Hugging the jug, she danced around in a circle as relief mixed with happiness. Lonestar and Erik would be grinning right about now, she thought, ever so grateful for the help. The Hoffmeisters had traveled from Altus to help them, while their own neighboring farmers hadn’t offered even a kind word, much less any assistance. She stopped dancing and set down the jug as some of the joy drained out of her. Looking around at the land she’d come to love, she wondered if there would come a time when she and Lonestar were truly part of the tapestry of this place. If that day never came, would it be an anchor around her heart? She told herself that she didn’t care if folks accepted her or not, but in her heart of hearts, she did yearn to be on equal footing. She wanted it as much for Lonestar as she did for herself.

  They’d never accepted him into their circle. He’d been tolerated because people thought a lot of his mother and her husband. But now that they were gone, Lonestar had become the “half-breed” and the “ex-con,” instead of “William and Adele’s son.”

  Of course, he claimed it gave him no worries, but she had noticed the shadows in his eyes when he caught people whispering about him or turning sharply away from him. It had been so evident at that barn raising. She thought back to that day and how Lonestar had worked his tail off and those folks hadn’t even wanted to sit beside him at meal time.

  She blew out a hot breath and realized she stood stiffly on the porch, her hands balled tightly, and her heart thudding almost painfully in her chest. Reining in her emotions, she went inside to see what food was in the larder. Those men working on the barn would deserve a good meal in a few hours and she was just the woman to provide it!

  “Did you know that Hoffmeister has ten children and another on the way?” Lonestar asked.

  “His wife must be about worn out,” Gussie said, putting aside the shirt she was mending and rubbing her eyes. It was getting late and she and Lonestar sat near the cookstove, enjoying its warmth, as wind and rain kicked up a fuss outside.

  She smiled, thinking that Lonestar looked relaxed and lazy, even though he’d worked like a mule today on the barn. But it had been fruitful work and she could tell he’d enjoyed it. He’d been all smiles at supper, joshing with the other men, and thanking the Hoffmeisters and Erik profusely for helping him finish repairing the burned barn. They’d all set off for their homes following the meal. She and Lonestar had completed their daily chores and had settled in to read and sew and rest their bones. The rain had blown in after sundown.

  “My father was from a family of sixteen.”

  That made her jolt. “Lordy! Did you meet any of them?”

  “No. If I did, I don’t recall because I was a babe when we left that area. Mother told me about his family. She met most of them, I guess.”

  “So, you have a regular army of aunts and uncles and cousins milling around.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose I do. You don’t have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. Pa and his missus never aimed to have me. I was a mistake from the get-go.”

  He frowned at her. “You are not a mistake, Augusta.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.” He stared at the small flames leaping in the belly of the stove. “Mother wanted more than two children, but she had woman troubles. Susan said that Mother told her once that she’d miscarried several babies.”

  “I hope I don’t have troubles like that.”

  He gave her the side-eye. “How many children do you want to have?”

  The thought of having his children made her a little breathless, a little dizzy. Was a babe already growing inside her? “I don’t know. A couple, I suppose.”

  “Just two?”

  “How many do you want?”

  “Five? No, six. Maybe seven.”

  She laughed, pleased with his eagerness to grow a family with her. “Tall, strong sons like Hoffmeister’s to help you with the farm work around here?”

  “And daughters with brains and gumption to help keep them in line. There will be plenty to do once the vineyard produces.” He linked his fingers and rested his hands on his belly. “That grape juice of theirs is mighty tasty. Any of it left?”

  “Not a drop. We drank the whole jug with supper.”

  He chuckled. “See there, Augusta? Grapes don’t have to be just for making wine.”

  “You’re right. I just don’t like the idea of us providing more spirits to men who don’t need more temptation or libation.”

  He grinned at her word play. “Well put.” His gaze moved to the clothing pooled in her lap. “What’s that? One of my shirts?”

  “Yes.” She held it up, examining the cuff she’d mended. “I noticed it had a couple of ripped places.”

  “Thank you.”

  His simply spoken gratitude made her blush with pleasure. “I can’t have you going around looking like you’re not well cared for.”

  When he didn’t say anything, she looked at him and her heart caught in her throat at the blazing passion in his dark brown eyes and the way his gaze moved slowly to her lips and stayed there. He stood up, throwing a long shadow across her. Plucking the shirt from her fingers and laying it aside, he pulled her to her feet. Before she was even balanced, he caught her up in his arms, making her gasp and clutch at his shoulders.

  “It’s been a good day,” he said, skimming his mouth across hers.

  “Yes, it has.” Her lips tingled from his touch.

  “Let’s make it a good night.”

  Longing bolted through her, tightening her in some places, loosening her in others. “Yes.” It was the last coherent thing she said for the next few hours.

  The next week flew by with Lonestar finishing up his field work and Gussie canning the last of the vegetables and fruit and helping Lonestar replace some rotted boards in the hen coop to make it warmer come winter.

  And winter was coming.

  Every morning the frost was thicker on the grass. By the end of the week, a thin coating of ice shone like rows of diamonds along the tree branches, but disappeared in the blink of an eye once the sun was up.

  The horses’ coats thickened, and the goats frolicked more to get the blood pumping warmth to their extremities. Goats’ milk replaced cow’s milk on their supper table and every time Guss
ie drank some of it she cursed Bob Babbitt for killing sweet Louise. She had no proof that he’d done it except for knowing it to her very core. His vengeful acts reminded her of something Miss Irene had said when Gussie had threatened to do something evil to Lonnie Jamison for tripping her and making her fall into a bramble bush. Revengeful thinking is like drinking poison and waiting for the other guy to die.

  Hadn’t made a big impression on her back then, but it had stuck in her brain and came forth whenever she plotted mischief or mayhem. Lately, it popped up a lot because she sure would like to find a way to make Bob Babbitt pay for his trespasses on her and Lonestar.

  Mid-week one of the Hoffmeister boys rode up on a sleek, black gelding. He came with an invitation to sup with his family that Saturday. Lonestar accepted, so come Saturday after chores were done, he and Gussie hitched Quick and Clover to the wagon and set off for Altus. They admired the scenery, talked of books they’d read or were reading, and Lonestar told her a little more about the Osage, making the hours and miles click by. A few miles outside of Altus, they began to see vineyards.

  Gussie sat up, her interest piqued by the rows of vines, looking like soldiers, straight as posts running from near the road along the rolling countryside to the horizon.

  “Look at that,” Lonestar said, his tone almost reverent. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Looks so different from cotton fields.”

  “There’s no comparison in growing cotton and grapes. Grapes are more finicky, I’m told. But once they grab hold and get going, the harvest can mean money in the bank. This year cotton brought in a half a cent less than the year before. That’s how it’s been going since the end of the War Between the States. Everybody said that cotton would bounce back and be king again, but it hasn’t happened. Not like everyone thought.” He motioned toward the neat fields of staked vines. “With the Hoffmeister’s help, vineyards could be our cash crop.”

  “Mr. Hoffmeister has been mighty kind to us. How’d you meet him?”