by Lori Wilde
I rested my cheek against his back.
My audacity shocked me, but I did not move my head. Just rested my ear against him, and listened to the steady beating of his heart, my fingers still interlaced in front of his ribs.
I held my breath, waiting to see how he would react. I wasn’t the only one full of surprises.
John placed a hand over mine, his calloused thumb rubbed across my knuckles; a comforting touch to be sure, but it also aroused feelings deep inside me. Feelings I’d been struggling to suppress for weeks.
My skin tingled. My heart was a trapped dove inside my chest, fluttering and flapping. Way down low, I felt a feminine stirring. A stirring that I could not name, but it was an overwhelming, primal force, urgent and demanding. I wanted to dance and sing and laugh and cry. I wanted to both praise God and do all manner of sin with this man.
But it was a tenuous thrill and I well and truly knew it. I would be no Ruthie, no matter how much I might want to lie down with John and give my body over to him. And it wasn’t because I was a good girl, although I usually tried hard to be one.
Rather, my restraint arose from the huge class chasm between us. He was a rich man at the top of the heap, the king of the Trans-Pecos, and I was nothing more than a maid at best. At worst, I was simply the pity-case daughter of a man who’d been killed in one of his mines. I understood my place in the world and it was not with a man like John Fant.
The problem was that with John dressed like a cowboy, the lines between us blurred. For a few minutes, it was easy to pretend that he was just a lonesome cowpoke, raised on the land, not so different from me. He even smelled familiar, like Jeff Davis County earth. Home. He smelled like home.
For a dangerous stretch of time, I foolishly let myself dream.
We rode like that for several minutes, not speaking, just being there together in the saddle.
“Millie,” he said after a while.
My eyes were closed and I was concentrating on listening to the beating of his heart and absorbing the heat from his body and marveling how good it felt to be so close to him. I knew this moment couldn’t last and I was milking it for everything it was worth. “Uh-huh.”
“I’ve made a decision.”
“About what?” I murmured.
“The mine.”
“Are you going to close it?”
“I’m going to repair the mine and keep it open.”
“Even though it will cost you more money than you can get back out of it?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s the right thing to do.”
I squeezed him tight, letting him know how much that meant to me.
He chuckled. “Ease up a bit, I need to breathe.”
Embarrassed, I dropped my arms.
“You can still hang on,” he said. “Don’t want you to fall, Millipede.”
Millipede! He’d given me a nickname.
We were long past the rocky incline, on the flat ground of the valley floor; there was no need for me to keep hanging on tight, but I did it anyway. Sliding my arms around him, feeling his warmth seep through me all over again.
Millipede. He’d called me Millipede.
A grin spread over my face bigger than Texas. This was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to me.
But my grin quickly faded away. This was also the most wretched thing, because even though I could never say the words out loud, I realized something that my heart had known since that day on my daddy’s porch.
John Fant was my one true love and there was no way in the whole wide world that we could ever be together.
AFTER OUR HORSEBACK ride, I didn’t see John again for an entire month. By day, he filled my thoughts. By night, he ransacked my dreams and I’d awake achy and restless.
Finally, I worked up the courage to ask Mabel about his absence.
“Oh, he’s out at the Fant Oil Field in Pecos County. They’re drilling a new well and he’s helping to get it started.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Why are you asking?”
I shrugged. “Just noticed he hadn’t been around lately. That’s all.”
Mabel’s frown deepened. “Well, stop noticing. His comings and goings are not the business of a maid. Now wash out those Mason jars. We’re canning tomatoes today.”
It was late August and miserable hot. That’s one thing I hate about gardening. The crops come due at the hottest part of the year and you have to fire up the stoves for canning. Mabel had all the windows raised and the electric ceiling fan whirling, but it didn’t do anything except stir the heat.
Right in the big middle of canning, when Mabel and I had every surface in the kitchen covered with either tomatoes, tomato skin peelings, Mason jars, or vats of boiling water, Mrs. Bossier strolled in.
“My Lord, it’s hot in here,” Penelope said, fanning herself with a copy of Harper’s Bazaar that the postman had delivered that very morning.
“Canning, ma’am,” Mabel said.
“I can see that,” Penelope said a bit peevishly, scooted a basket of tomatoes off a kitchen chair, and set them on the floor, before flopping down to where the tomatoes had just been.
“Is there something you need, ma’am?” Mabel asked. “Glass of ice cold water?”
“Indeed.”
Mabel snapped a finger at me and pointed to the icebox. I turned to fetch the glass of ice water.
“I’m in charge of the Ladies’ League charity event this year and I’m all out of ideas. I can’t think of a theme that hasn’t been done to death.” Penelope picked up a kitchen towel and dabbed the sweat from her forehead.
“I thought you were through with that bunch,” Mabel said, screwing the lids down tight on a batch of canned tomatoes she was readying for the boiling water.
“One can never be free from charity responsibilities and this is my opportunity to redeem my family name.”
“You didn’t do nothing to ruin the family name,” Mabel said. “It was all Ruthie’s fault.”
Penelope clucked her tongue. “What did I tell you about mentioning that girl’s name in this house?”
Mabel pantomimed like she was locking her lips shut and throwing the key away over her shoulder.
I set the glass of water down in front of Mrs. Bossier.
“Thank you, Millie.” She smiled at me, but I couldn’t help feeling she was comparing me to the infamous Ruthie.
And to tell the truth, I was feeling a sad kinship with the Bossiers’ unfortunate former maid, loving a man she could never have.
Penelope sipped her water and leafed through the magazine. What was she doing hanging out in the kitchen?
Mabel met my gaze, shrugged, and inclined her head toward the stove. Message received. Get back to work.
I was snagging blanched tomatoes from the hot water with a slotted spoon and dumping them into a bowl of cold water so I could peel the skin right off them after they cooled down, when Penelope let out a whoop.
Mabel and I both jumped and turned back to see what had made her squawk.
Penelope was on her feet doing a little dance and flapping the page of Harper’s Bazaar around.
“You okay, Mrs. Bossier?” Mabel asked.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it?”
The way she was dancing, I was wondering if she had chiggers.
Mabel pushed a damp strand of gray hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, wiped her hands on her apron, and went over to Penelope. “What is it?”
“The theme of the Ladies’ League charity event. It’s right here in Harper’s Bazaar. They’re all the rage on the East Coast.” She thumped the page. “We’re going to hold a dance marathon.”
Mabel took the magazine from her, read the article about dance marathons. Fascinated, I peered over her shoulder to read it for myself and discovered that dance marathons for charity required the contestants to get sponsors to pay them for the length of time they danced, say a penny an hour. The marathon continued until there was only one couple left dancing.
Mabel eyed Penelope. “How you aimin’ on doing that?”
Penelope placed a palm over her heart. “I’ll have you know, I was one of the best dancers at Oldfields Finishing School, second only to my best friend, Wallis.”
“Her best friend was a boy?” I whispered to Mabel.
“Wallis is a girl with a boy’s name,” Mabel whispered back.
Penelope was waltzing about the room, bumping into bushel baskets full of tomatoes. “Her first name is Bessie, but she hates it. Wallis has such a strong personality. The name suits her much better than Bessie.”
“I wasn’t talking about your dancing abilities.” Mabel steered her back on topic. “I was speaking of Mr. Beau. That man has two left feet.”
“True, Beau would rather have his head stuck in a tin can than get out on the dance floor.” Penelope sighed. “And we’re all better for his lack of interest. John will be my partner. He’s the best dancer in Cupid.”
At the mention of John’s name my pulse quickened. He knew how to dance too? Was there anything the man could not do?
Mabel shook her head. “Mr. John doesn’t have time to practice with you. Not with rebuilding the silver mine and bringing in that new well.”
Penelope paused, momentarily stumped. “You’re right. I need someone to practice with. I don’t know the new dances at all.” She eyed me speculatively. “Millie, do you know how to dance?”
“I can square dance, ma’am.”
“I suppose you’ll do. We start practicing tomorrow. I’m going to go call Wallis and see if she’s got any tips.”
With that, she waltzed away.
Mabel let out a long held breath, shook her head. “I don’t envy you.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“When Penelope gets an idea in her head, she’s like a bulldog with a bone. Mark my word. She’ll dance the legs right off of you.”
Chapter Five
PENELOPE’S FRIEND WALLIS SIMPSON was sending a dance marathon promoter from Chicago out to Cupid to orchestrate the event, and she was over the moon. More than once, Penelope said, “I’m going to show those old biddies. We’re going to put on a dance unlike anything the Trans-Pecos has ever seen.”
The Ladies’ League charity event was always held the last weekend in September. That gave us six weeks to practice, and Mabel’s prediction was indeed prophetic. Penelope and I danced three to four hours a day. Danced until our legs were so achy and sore that we often woke in the middle of the night with painful charley horses.
When I’d protest that I wasn’t getting all my cleaning done, Penelope would wave away my complaints. “This is more important than a few cobwebs in the corner.”
Margaret Fant watched her grandchildren, keeping the kids from getting underfoot while we practiced. I appreciated how this family worked together and supported each other, but it made me homesick for my own kin.
We learned every single one of the hot new dance crazes sweeping the cities from a chart that Penelope’s friend Wallis sent us—the Charleston, the fox-trot, and the Baltimore Buzz. I was surprised at how quickly I picked up the steps, and Penelope declared me a natural dancer. When I danced I felt freer than I’d ever felt in my life. Dance took me out of myself and into the music spilling from Penelope’s Victrola.
“You have an elegant grace,” she said. Flattered, I blushed, until she added, “That you rarely see in someone from your station in life.”
There it was. The unbridgeable gulf between her class and mine. She might use me as a standin dance partner, but I would never be her equal. I knew that, but it still stung.
The closer it got to the dance marathon, the more Penelope pushed me, and we’d finish our dance sessions exhausted, but exhilarated.
“I’m going to set this town on fire!” Penelope declared, and rubbed her palms together.
“Will Mr. Fant know these dances?” I asked Penelope, not daring to say John’s first name. I was careful to look away from her when I asked the question, so she couldn’t see from my eyes how I felt about her brother. I didn’t want to lose my job.
“John is a man of the world,” she said. “He gets to Houston quite often and I know for a fact he’s been to some of the jazz clubs there. I’m sure some of the young ladies have taught him a thing or two.”
Jealousy made my stomach hurt. I didn’t like thinking about John dancing with other women. Silly of me, I know, but I could no more stop the jealousy than I could stop breathing.
“Maybe you should practice with him this last week before the dance marathon,” I broached the subject carefully. My reasoning was selfish. I wanted John in Penelope’s house.
“I’ve already asked. He’s says he can’t make any promises, but he’ll try to get in a practice session or two before the event.”
My hopes leaped. I saw John around town of course—at church or in passing on the street. He’d smile and lift his hat, but he’d never stop for a lingering conversation. Whenever I hung out the clothes, I’d peeked over the clothesline, but I never again caught him smoking his pipe. I assumed he’d given up the habit. I wondered if he’d already forgotten our ride home from the caverns. Or that he’d nicknamed me Millipede.
Penelope had ordered a flapper dress all the way from Chicago. It arrived on Friday, the day before the dance marathon, and John was the one to bring it into the house.
There was a knock on the door and I opened it to find John standing there with the package in his hand.
“I intercepted the delivery,” he explained.
I lowered my lashes and stepped aside. “Please, do come in.”
“Is that my dress?” Penelope came running into the room like she was the same age as my sister Jenny, her face alight, her hands grabbing for the package.
“Don’t I even get a kiss on the cheek, dear sister?” John asked, sweeping off his Panama hat and hanging it on the hook by the front door, where it rested beside Mr. Bossier’s newsboy cap. “I put aside everything to come dance with you.”
Instead of a kiss on the cheek, Penelope lightly punched his upper arm. “That’s for not coming to practice before now.”
“Ow.” John pretended she’d hurt him and rubbed his arm. “Relax. In a dance marathon, you don’t have to be a great dancer. You just have to have a lot of physical stamina. The point is to outlast the other dancers, not outshine them.”
“I intend on doing both.”
“I’m sure you will,” he told her.
“Wait here. I’m going to go try on the dress.” With the package tucked under her arm, she bounded up the stairs to the bedroom she shared with Mr. Bossier.
“Wow,” John said to me. “I had no idea she was this invested in the dance marathon.”
“Oh, she’s very invested.” I nodded.
“I’ve heard you’ve been my standin,” he said.
I finally dared to sneak a peek at his face. “No one could ever stand in for you.”
He laughed at that. A clever sound that made me smile. “You’ll be forever ruined for dancing with a man.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, alarmed. Many of my fantasies were centered on dancing with John and even though they were just fantasies, the thought of being ruined scared me to death.
“After this, you’ll always try to lead.”
I put a hand to my forehead “My goodness, you’re right. Mrs. Bossier taught me to lead.”
“But what’s wrong with that?” he asked with a wink. “Women now have the right to vote, they should have the right to lead if they wish.”
“I don’t want to lead,” I said, not wanting him to think I was manly.
“Everyone,” Penelope called downstairs. “Gather around so you can witness my grand entrance
.”
John and I grinned at each other and in unison we moved to the bottom of the stairs. I marveled at how we fell into step together, side by side.
Mabel came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and smelling of vanilla. “What’s all the fuss about?”
John waved with a flourish to the top of the stairs where Penelope had appeared.
She stood on the landing, posing with a dramatic flair in the stunning mint green dress. It was sleeveless, quite scandalous indeed for the likes of Cupid, and it had a straight loose bodice that dropped all the way to her hips. The hem hit her just a few inches below her knees, exposing lots of leg adorned in silk stockings. On her feet, she wore high-heeled shoes, and on her head sat a floppy mint green hat decorated with white lilies of the valley.
“My heavens,” Mabel muttered, “The world is turning topsy-turvy.”
I stared at Penelope, awestruck. She could have stepped straight off the pages of Harper’s Bazaar. Until this dancing thing, I had tended to think of Mrs. Bossier as matronly. She was well and properly married and had two children, but right now, she looked no older than I. Her passion for dancing shone like a beacon from her eyes.
No way would I dare tell her that when she appeared at the Ladies’ League event dressed like this, whether she earned hundreds of dollars for the charity or not, she would not regain her lost position with that tight-lipped crowd. In fact, appearing dressed this way might be her social undoing.
I wondered why John did not point this out, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d already noticed he wasn’t the type to put restrictions on the behavior of others. Which was better? Warning his sister of her potential downfall or giving Penelope her independence and allowing her to make her own mistakes? I’d grown up in a world marked by distinct right or wrong. This gray area confused me.
“You would look amazing in that dress, Millie,” John murmured so low that I was certain I had misunderstood him, but I couldn’t stop a sweet thrill from sweeping over me.
Penelope spread her arms wide. “Ta-da.”
John cupped his curled fingers over his mouth as if he were speaking through a megaphone and said, “Here she is folks, straight from Chicago, to grace our modest hamlet with her incredible dancing skills, the thoroughly modern Miss Penny.”