Lonestar's Lady

by Deborah Camp

  “At a county fair. We started talking about livestock and then about crops. The way he spoke about growing grapes . . . it sounded like poetry.” He chuckled, and sunlight sparkled in his eyes, turning them almost gold. “I guess he hooked me that day. I took him up on his invitation to come see his farm and that did it. I knew I was going to grow grapes if I ever got my own land.”

  “How many acres does he have?”

  “I’m not for certain. Maybe close to a thousand.”

  She issued a low whistle. “And all they grow are grapes?”

  “No, but the grapes are their main crop. You know, like most farmers they grow hay and alfalfa, vegetables, and the like. They have several hundred acres full of blueberries, blackberries, strawberries, and huckleberries. Mr. Hoffmeister says he likes to experiment with adding those to his wines.”

  “But we won’t make wine.”

  He grinned at her and patted her knee. “No, Augusta. We’ll just grow them, not ferment them.”

  As they neared the Hoffmeister home, they were greeted by five or six barking dogs, two goats, several cats, and a pack of Hoffmeisters. Mrs. Hoffmeister, who insisted that Gussie call her by her first name, Franka, delivered a warm welcome with her beatific smile and merry blue eyes. She’d braided her brown hair and it sat in a crown atop her head. Her voluminous skirts disguised her pregnancy. Her sons and daughters all had her bright blue eyes and dimpled smile. They buzzed about, eager to make their guests feel at ease, while Mr. Hoffmeister huffed out suggestions, such as, “Marta, go fetch an extra cushion for that chair Mrs. Lonestar is sitting in.” “Stefan, put another log on the fire, why don’t ya?” “Lorraine, show Mrs. Lonestar the needlepoint you’re working on.” “Karl, bring me my farm journal. I want to show Mr. Lonestar here how I keep track of my vines and what they produce.”

  After an hour or so, they’d dropped the Mister and Missus among them and were Max and Augusta and Han and Franka. However, the Hoffmeister offspring continued with the formal address, being well-brought-up.

  Supper was laid on a long table in a dining room that was the size of the Lonestar’s whole house. The meal was a mix of ordinary dishes – fried potatoes, creamed corn, and green beans – along with German and Swedish ones. Gussie particularly like the rouladen, kartoffelpuffer, meatballs, and cinnamon buns that were served as dessert. She ate until she was as stuffed as a Christmas turkey and then had one more cinnamon bun with a cup of coffee because she couldn’t resist.

  After supper, the Hoffmeister daughters cleaned the kitchen while Franka and Gussie sat near the fire in the spacious parlor. The Hoffmeister home was the largest Gussie had ever been in with seven bedrooms, a front parlor and a back drawing room, a big kitchen and dining room, and a bath room where a huge, copper tub sat, fit for a king.

  The men took a stroll on the grounds. Franka told Gussie that their main building was constructed in the side of a hill and was partly underground to keep the grapes cool. They made wine there, too.

  “Han is always working on the recipe,” Franka said, taking up her knitting while she conversed with Gussie.

  “Wine has a recipe?”

  Franka’s blue eyes twinkled. “Of course! Every year the grapes are different, depending on what kind of weather we had, and so the wine will taste different. Then, if Han puts in a few blackberries or boysenberries, he gets a whole other flavor. Ours is a young vineyard, so we’re still finding our way when it comes to wine. Back in Germany, Han’s family vineyard is old and they make a fine table wine. Very fine.”

  “Are you from Germany?”

  She nodded and the firelight made waves of light across her crown of hair. “My people are from Germany and Sweden. I met Han in a little village in Germany called Bamberg. One look and I was smitten. He was so tall and broad-shouldered! I had to tip back my head and look way up at him.” She giggled. “Where did you meet your Max Lonestar?”

  Gussie swallowed the nerves that fluttered in her throat. Such a simple question, but the answer certainly wasn’t. “We met in Pear Orchard,” she said, then wondered if she had to say anything else. When Franka sent her an expectant glance, she added, “He looked as if he’d stepped out of the pages of one of the romantic novels I so love to read.”

  “He is a handsome man, for sure. Han likes him very much. Han appreciates hard workers and he said he can tell that Max has no quit in him.”

  “If that’s another way of saying he’s stubborn as an ornery mule, then I agree.”

  Franka giggled again. “You’re planning on starting a family soon, I suppose.”

  She blinked in surprise, then wondered how having children had become such a popular topic of late. “I suppose,” she hedged, then added before she could stop herself, “Lonestar wants five or six children.”

  “Men.” Franka grinned. “It’s easy for them to decide such things, eh? I say that the woman should decide on the size of the family since she’s the one who will have to grow it in her belly and feed it from her breasts.”

  “So, you decided to grow a big one.”

  “I did. But this is the last.” She rested her hands on her mid-section and patted her stomach. “There is only one in here now. Thank the Lord. I’ve had two sets of twins.” She rolled her eyes. “Dear, I would not wish twins on any woman. They require double the work and give you double the headaches.”

  “I will have all I can do to wrangle one at a time,” Gussie agreed.

  They were silent for a few minutes and Gussie’s thoughts went to rocking a black-haired, dark-eyed baby in her arms and then of seeing Lonestar holding that same baby, beaming as his child clutched his finger in a firm grip.

  “Ah, here come the men,” Franka said, pushing up from the cushioned chair.

  “Yes, we should be getting back home.” Gussie stood and sent Franka a grateful smile. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your company. We don’t . . . well, we don’t see many people, so this was like a holiday.”

  “Then you must come back soon.” Franka rested a hand on Gussie’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. She motioned for her children. “The Lonestars are leaving! Let’s give them a sendoff fitting for new friends!”

  The Hoffmeister clan gathered around the wagon and chorused “good-byes” and “come back soon!” Gussie laughed as the wagon pulled away, turning in the seat to wave at them.

  “That was so nice, wasn’t it?” she asked, facing front again.

  “It was. I ate so much my waistband is biting into me.”

  “I know! Those cinnamon rolls! I have a sweet tooth and I do believe I could have eaten another one or two of them.”

  He nudged her with his shoulder. “It’s good to see you happy, Augusta.”

  She felt color pool in her cheeks. “Of course, I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “We haven’t had an easy go of it. Seems like we’ve taken one step forward and two steps back. But we seem to be heading in the right direction.”

  “Sure we are.”

  “So, you’re fine with being grape farmers now?”

  “Yes, as long as we put in a sizable cotton crop. You said it will take a couple of years before we harvest any grapes.”

  “That’s right. Our cotton will see us through for a few years. The grapes are our future.”

  Our future. She liked the sound of that.

  During the next hours, they shared impressions of the Hoffmeister’s farm and family, laughing again at Han Hoffmeister’s bawdy observations and Franka’s whispered pleas, “Mind your tongue there, Han! Little pitchers have big ears!”

  It was nearly dark as they passed by Susan and Erik’s place and moved on toward their own farm. Gussie noticed the glow on the horizon first. She sat up, staring hard at the funny colored sky. “Is that a fire up ahead?”

  Lonestar leaned forward and slapped the reins to speed up the horses. “Could be someone burning a brush pile.”

  “It’s in the direction of our place, isn’t it?”
r />   “Hard to tell from here.”

  She heard the note of concern in his tone and her heart froze in her chest. “Oh, God. I hope he hasn’t set fire to our barn again.”

  Sniffing, she caught the first acrid scent of smoke. The horses laid back their ears, their instincts telling them that they should be running away from the fire and not toward it.

  Lonestar flapped the reins again. “Haa!” The horses broke into a fast trot, making the wagon jostle and lurch.

  Gussie held onto the sideboard, her gaze fastened to the glowing sky as her insides began to quiver and her tears burned her eyes. She knew. She knew beyond a doubt that something was burning on the Lonestar land.

  Chapter 17

  It was the house.

  Flames licked up the back of it lashing up higher than the roof. Max let the horses race past it and pulled them up on the other side of the barn. If they didn’t see the fire, they wouldn’t spook as much. Augusta sprang from the wagon like she was half rabbit, her eyes looking as big as dinner plates in her small face. Leaping from the wagon, Max hit the ground running. He was halfway to the house when the whole roof went up like dry kindling. In a flash, it was a solid blanket of orange and yellow flames.

  “Damn it!” He spotted Augusta at the well, cranking the bucket up while she stared in horror at the house. At the porch, he hesitated. His plan had been to go inside, grab Augusta’s trunk that contained some of her clothes, shoes, and books, and save that at the very least. But the intense heat punching back at him, stopped him. Even as he argued with himself, he saw the front parlor go up, tongues of fire licking out through the front door. He retreated, smelling burned hair and knowing it was his. Lost. It was all lost.

  Augusta screamed his name and he swiveled to find her loping with a bucket of water in each hand toward the barn. She, too, had given up on the house and was now campaigning to save the barn. She was right. The wind could carry embers to its roof. Throwing the buckets of water against the side of the structure, she whirled and ran back to the well for more.

  “Wet it down!” she yelled at him.

  He ran into the barn for more buckets. The troughs had water in them, too. He’d filled them to the brims before they’d left for the Hoffmeister place. As he grabbed two buckets, he heard the horses outside whinny and then a grunt. Not a horse grunt. He froze, his ears straining, his sixth sense setting off alarms inside him. Another grunt and gasp. Max dropped the buckets and raced out of the barn and around to the opposite side where he’d left the horses and wagon. Squinting against the gloom, he saw a shadow on the ground near the horses. The shadow moved, ducked, dropped something, and sprinted away. A torch glowed on the ground. The horses reared, pawed the smoky air, and screeched. The whites of their eyes looked wild and sent another bolt of alarm through Max.

  He rushed forward and kicked dirt over the torch, killing the flame. Then he ran, ran like he was on fire, to catch up with the fleeing shadow man. The arsonist had fled to the wooded acres behind the house where pecan and walnut trees stood sentry with berry bushes and vines. Max wove through them, his boots catching on overgrowth, making him trip and lurch forward, but he kept upright and plodded on. He could hear someone ahead of him, thrashing and breathing loud like bellows. Then the sound diminished. He stopped and held his breath, listening . . . listening.

  Twigs snapped, and he spun around. The bastard had double-backed and was heading for the house again! He leaped over shrubs and shouldered past trees, making a new path for himself, his mind forging ahead of him. Probably headed for his horse, he thought. Needs his horse for a clean getaway.

  Augusta was there!

  With a snarling shout, he found a new burst of speed and sped past the final trees and out into the open where the house was nothing but a huge column of flames, lighting the area like the sun. Smoke clouds rose to obliterate the stars and moon. Embers flew in the air like swarms of fireflies. Dangerous, deadly fireflies.

  He spotted Augusta by the barn, still tossing buckets of water onto the barn walls, aiming as high as she could manage. Sweat poured into his eyes and he blinked, focused, searched as he ran to the east side of the house, his instincts guiding him there. A wide-shouldered figure was outlined against the orange light, moving fast. Max caught sight of the blazed face of a horse a few yards behind the chicken coop.

  Covering the space in a long-legged sprint, Max flung himself at the departing figure. His hands landed on the man’s shoulders and his body weight took the trespasser down to his knees. He knew who’d he’d nabbed. Knew it before he saw the hooked nose and droopy mustache.

  “Where the hell you think you’re going, Babbitt?”

  An elbow rammed back into Max’s ribs, making his breath whoosh out and his vision blur for a few seconds. Babbitt turned and plowed a fist into the other side of Max’s ribcage. Fury pumped through Max and he released a howl as he gained his feet and balance. He grabbed Babbitt around the middle and flung him sideways, putting some distance between them so that he could regain his breath.

  Babbitt’s face was streaked with soot and rivulets of sweat. His eyes glimmered like two round coals stuck in the sockets. He hunched over, his hands open and ready to grab and twist and pound, his feet planted apart. A sinister grin lifted one side of his mouth.

  “You’re lucky you and her weren’t in that house,” he said, his speech slurring a little from the liquid courage he must have drunk before he’d struck the match.

  Behind Max the fire roared, charred debris fell in a burst of sparks, some landing on his shirt and burning holes to his skin. He barely felt it. His whole being focused on the man in front of him, all swagger and righteousness like he’d just done the world a favor. Max charged at him and the top of his head rammed into Babbitt’s shoulder, driving him back so that he stumbled over a rock and lost his footing. Max grabbed a handful of Babbitt’s shirt front and pounded his face with his free fist. Blood spurted from Babbitt’s lip. He spit in Max’s face and socked him on his right ear and jaw, setting off a clanging in Max’s head for a few seconds.

  Fists flew and made contact. Gristle caved in and bones fractured as the fight heated to a firestorm of grunts, groans, and cursing. One moment Max was on top of Babbitt, giving him hell, and the next he was being kicked by Babbitt in the side, stomach, and face. He grabbed Babbitt’s boot as it swung again toward his nose and held on tight, giving it a mighty twist that cost Babbitt his balance again. He landed hard on his back and Max rose shakily to his feet. Standing over Babbitt, he leaned into his swinging fist and landed a head-snapper on the man’s square jaw. Babbitt’s eyes rolled back and went limp, but Max was beyond noticing such trivialities. He grabbed his shirt again, hauling him up far enough to hammer him once more, then let him fall like a sack of grain to the ground.

  “Lonestar! You okay?” Augusta flung her arms around his middle and looked up at him, her face streaked with soot, her eyes alight and wide.

  “I didn’t want to fight.” Max shook his head and gently removed her arms from around him. He felt caged, jittery, not himself. He was breathing so hard, he could barely speak. Behind Augusta, the fire created a hellish halo, outlining her body and turning her hair crimson instead of gold.

  “I know, but he gave you no choice. What are we going to do with him? We can’t let him go. Not after what he’s done.” Her shoulders slumped, and he thought he heard her sob. She bent down to retrieve a bucket she’d dropped and turned slowly to stare at the inferno. “We have to save the barn, Lonestar. Let out the livestock in case we can’t . . .” Her voice dried up, evaporated by the hot wind.

  Max examined his stinging hands. The skin over his knuckles was red and split, oozing blood. He tasted blood, too. Babbitt moaned and kicked, but didn’t open his eyes. Augusta was right. They couldn’t let him go.

  “I’ll truss him up and put him in the wagon. Later, I’ll haul his sorry butt to the sheriff. For now, we’ll get the animals out of the barn and away from this fire. You do that, and I�
��ll take over wetting the barn and the ground between it and the house.” He took the bucket from her limp fingers. “Go on, now. Better keep an eye on the chicken coop, too. Might need to open the gate so they can escape if they have to.”

  She nodded and ran for the barn, her skirts whipping around her legs, her hair streaming out from the braid it had been in earlier. He glanced up at the embers floating in the dark sky. It would take just one or two to land on the barn roof and start another catastrophe. He loped to just inside the barn to grab a hoop of rope. Augusta flung open Majesty’s stall door and fit a halter over the mare’s nose and laid-back ears. She spoke soothingly to the prancing horse.

  Max hurried back to Babbitt, rolled him over onto his belly, and tied his hands behind his back, then hog-tied him for good measure. Hefting the unconscious man up was like lifting an anvil. Max finally hooked his hand under Babbitt’s arms and dragged him over the ground to the wagon. He left him lying on his belly beside the barn and checked the knots in the rope to make sure they were good and tight before leaving him. He’d deal with the cowardly weasel later.

  He dumped trough water on the ground around the barn, then made bucket trip after bucket trip to wet down the barn wall facing the burning house while Augusta led Majesty and the mules to the corral, then followed with the goats. The animals were agitated, racing around the corral, ears pinned back, eyes wild as they felt and saw the fire. The mules made eerie sounds, half-brays and half-whinnies, and turned their tails to the burning house as if by not seeing it, they would suffer no harm from it.

  Augusta joined the two-person bucket brigade again, seemingly tireless in her trips back and forth from the well. The sky had turned a pearl gray when Erik and Susan arrived with their children asleep and covered in quilts and blankets in the back of their wagon. Susan was already crying and Erik muttered in his native tongue when they joined Max and Augusta by the well. Max recognized some of the words and they’re weren’t usually uttered in front of women and children.

  “Max, you’re bleeding!” Susan said, sobbing.