Frontier Woman

by Joan Johnston

  “Then we’re finished here. We’d better get back to the house. I’m sure Amy could use your help to get ready for the party, and I’ve got work to do.” He walked away, not looking back to see if she followed.

  Cricket took one last glance around the secluded glade before she bent to delve into the underbrush. Everything was as beautiful as when she’d first seen it, but somehow the magic had fled the place.

  Cricket knew Creed was avoiding her when he sent Belle to the bedroom to ask for his wool frock coat, embroidered waistcoat, tucked linen shirt, and kerseymere trousers. He also sent the message he was going to dress downstairs so Amy would have time to help her with her hair. Cricket wasn’t fooled. She knew the real reason he was staying away was that he couldn’t stand to be near her after she’d acted like such a . . . lily-livered coward . . . in the glade. She cringed at the memory of how she’d shivered like a scared rabbit in Creed’s arms. Somehow she kept her composure while she collected the formal clothes and gave them to Belle, adding the neckcloth Creed had forgotten to ask for when he’d made up his list.

  Amy’s excitement made it difficult for Cricket to concentrate on her self-pity. The young woman was determined to act the Fairy Godmother to Cricket’s Cinderella. Meanwhile, Cricket had never felt so much like an ugly stepsister.

  “Look at you, Cricket,” Amy exclaimed as she scrubbed Cricket’s back in the tub. “You have the most beautiful skin.”

  “It’s brown. From too much sun.”

  “Nonsense. It’s like golden velvet. Jarrett’s a lucky man.”

  Amy wrapped Cricket in a large white towel and sat her down in front of the dressing table in her bedroom. “Anything I add to this face will be icing on the cake,” Amy insisted. “But I’ve always liked icing myself.”

  “In my case, you’ll have to take the bitter with the sweet.”

  Amy laughed. “You have the most marvelous sense of humor, Cricket . . . and the most mysterious eyes.”

  “They’re plain gray. Like a barn cat.”

  “Oh, no. A man could lose himself in those eyes. And see how they change color when you’re angry? From light gray to a much darker, more smoky color . . . definitely mysterious,” Amy said with a laugh.

  Cricket snorted.

  “Hold still now while I add some rouge to your lips.”

  “Ur asting ur ime,” Cricket said through stiff lips.

  “If polishing an apple to make it pretty before you eat it is wasting time, then perhaps I am,” Amy agreed cheerfully. “But, oh, Cricket, how delicious you look. Jarrett will gobble you down in one bite.”

  “He’s going to be put off when he finds the worm inside,” Cricket muttered.

  Amy hauled Cricket out of the chair and handed her a sheer chemise and matching pantalettes.

  Cricket’s eyebrows arched in amazement.

  Amy blushed. “Tom gave these to me. I . . . I’ve never quite had the nerve to wear them. But Tom says no woman wearing such filmy underclothes can fail to feel like an enchantress. Won’t you wear them, Cricket?”

  Cricket gulped.

  “Please?”

  “All right, Amy. I’ll wear them. Hand them over.” When Cricket was dressed (barely), Amy pulled her over to the bed where Belle had laid out the beautiful gown she’d altered for Cricket. “This emerald gown will be perfect with your auburn hair. Oh, my goodness. I guess I better do your hair first. Come back over here and sit down again.”

  Cricket trudged back to the dressing table and sat down. “I can do it, Amy. I’ll braid it like—”

  “You’ll do no such thing! I’ve been planning all week what to do with your hair. Now you sit back and let me work. We haven’t much time.”

  Amy chattered on vivaciously, tugging and pulling and mussing and arranging Cricket’s hair. Of course, Cricket knew her hair was too long for the fashionable sausage curls Amy wore, but there was no convincing Amy of that. She was determined Cricket should wear her hair in the most current style. Amy parted the unmanageable mess down the center, and drew it back on either side, decorating it with ribbons. Then she went to work with the curling iron. The result was a riot of copper curls framing Cricket’s face, sliding across her bare shoulders and trailing halfway down her back.

  “It isn’t exactly what I set out to do, but considering what I had to work with, I’m more than satisfied,” Amy announced at last.

  Cricket was impressed. She looked almost . . . pretty.

  “Now, let’s get you dressed,” Amy urged.

  Cricket crossed to pick up the gown, but Amy caught her before she could slip it over her head.

  “You’ve forgotten your corset, Cricket.”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything. I’m not wearing a corset.”

  Amy stomped her foot. “This isn’t a matter of choice, Cricket. A lady always wears a corset. Besides, that tissue silk dress won’t fit unless you’re tied tightly into a corset.”

  “Amy, I—”

  “Put it on.”

  Cricket sighed as she picked the corset up off the bed and circled it round her. Amy quickly pulled the laces snug.

  “That’s enough,” Cricket said.

  “Oh, no. Breathe out, and I’ll pull tight once more.”

  “I can’t breathe out any more.”

  “Oh. Well, let me tie these laces off.”

  Cricket tried to bend to pick up the emerald silk dress and couldn’t. She turned to Amy and put her fists on her hips. “This is ridiculous.”

  “It is, is it?” Amy grabbed Cricket’s elbow and pulled her over to the full-length oval mirror in the corner. “Look at that woman, Cricket. Isn’t she a picture? Tiny waist, lush, full breasts, womanly hips.”

  Cricket had trouble accepting the description Amy gave of her, but as she stared into the mirror, she grudgingly admitted that it fit. Thanks to the corset, her waist looked inches smaller. Or perhaps it was the way her bosom was shoved up and out at the top. . . . Where had the brat in buckskins gone?

  “Now,” Amy said, all business again, “let’s add a few petticoats, and then slip your dress on.”

  In moments Amy had Cricket laced into the emerald gown. The long-sleeved gown framed her shoulders, but left them bare. It fit snugly through the bodice, ending in a V just below her waist and falling in gathered folds to the floor. As she gazed at herself in Amy’s mirror Cricket was surprised to see a pretty . . . no, a beautiful . . . young woman looking back at her. Why, a woman like that could seduce Jarrett Creed with both hands tied behind her back.

  “Oh, Cricket. You’re so lovely. Such a lady.”

  “Yes, I am, aren’t I,” Cricket agreed with a delighted laugh. She turned from admiring herself in the mirror to embrace Amy. “Oh, Amy, thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  “Just remember what you’ve learned, and use it to enjoy yourself tonight,” she said. “That’ll be payment enough. If you’re ever in a pinch, look at me and follow my lead. Don’t worry about anything, because you’re going to do fine. Jarrett will be so proud he’ll be strutting like a peacock before the evening’s through. You wait and see.”

  Cricket still couldn’t believe she was the woman in the mirror, who could easily sweep Jarrett Creed off his feet and into bed. That woman could not doubt her femininity. That woman could not fail to satisfy her man. She had never been as beautiful as she was tonight. She took a deep breath as she came to a decision. Tonight she would find out what it meant to be Creed’s woman.

  She was more nervous than she was willing to admit. Her palms were wet, and her knees were knocking. Any doubts she had about her success fled when she saw Creed’s expression as he stood waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. His eyes adored every inch of her, then came to rest on her lips, making Cricket ache to have him kiss her. Her lips parted in invitation, and she heard Creed’s hissing intake of breath.

  Creed hardly recognized the woman in the emerald silk gown, her lips invitingly rouged, her smoky gray eyes exotic with kohl, her hair casc
ading around her like a copper nimbus. There was an aura of femininity surrounding Cricket he’d never noticed before. He almost took her in his arms and carried her back up the stairs to bed but managed to catch himself before he did such a recklessly impulsive thing. After all, the beautiful woman who stood before him had already rejected his advances once today.

  Creed’s jaw tightened in irritation. He’d intended to dance with his brava once and leave her to the country gentlemen, but he could see he was going to have to revise his plan. If he left this innocent beauty in the clutches of those lecherous bumpkins, who knew what could happen. He decided without further ado to spend the balance of the evening with his lovely wife at his side.

  As they greeted their guests, Cricket’s fingertips rested on Creed’s arm with enough pressure to make him constantly aware of her. Each time he leaned down to speak to her and tell her a little about the guests they were greeting, a flowery perfume assailed his nostrils. Soon he found his head bent more than it was upright, because he was trying to identify all the places she’d dabbed that alluring scent. He’d noticed it was strongest at her temple and at the base of her throat behind her left ear. He knew she’d put some on her wrist, too, because he’d smelled it through her glove when he’d taken her hand to lead her down the stairs. He wondered where else she’d put it. Between her breasts? Behind her knees? Perhaps a drop in the navel? He wanted all these people gone so he could find out.

  Cricket felt a sense of triumph at Creed’s attentiveness. She was totally unaware of the sensation she was causing amongst the other men. The gentlemen planters of the upper Brazos were entranced with the new Mrs. Creed. More than one bewailed the fact she was already taken, but almost all planned to indulge in the privilege of holding her for the length of a dance.

  The fiddlers finished tuning at about the same time the last guest arrived. Tom stepped to the center of the parlor, from which all the furniture had been removed to make an area in which to dance, and announced, “My friends, I’ve asked you here tonight to celebrate the marriage of my brother, Jarrett, to Creighton Stewart. The servants are passing among you now with glasses of champagne all the way from France by way of New Orleans. Please help yourselves.”

  Creed saw Wilmer Peatman eyeballing Cricket like she was a new racehorse he’d consider buying. He possessively slid his arm around her waist to make it clear he’d tolerate no trespassing. When the champagne came around he took a glass in his other hand.

  Cricket also took a glass of champagne, since it seemed to be expected. She looked to Creed to make sure he had no objection, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her. He appeared to be glaring at some man across the room. Cricket followed his gaze and found a tall, heavy-framed gentleman boldly staring at her. Cricket tried to remember if Amy had ever told her what she was supposed to do in such a situation. Nothing came to mind, and she couldn’t very well search out Amy to ask, so she did what came naturally. She smiled and stared right back.

  Wilmer Peatman had never received quite so much encouragement from a pretty woman when her husband was standing right next to her. Maybe that explained Jarrett’s scowl. It wasn’t Wilmer’s fault if Jarrett’s wife liked variety. He sure wasn’t going to deny her the pleasure of sampling him. He’d wait a while and give her a chance to catch him alone. Then he’d taste those ruby-red lips and stick his hands in all that long, curly hair.

  Cricket knew she’d done the right thing when the tall man winked at her and headed for the refreshment table. This wasn’t going to be as difficult as she’d feared. Everything was going to be fine, just as Amy had predicted.

  Creed saw Wilmer’s wink and turned quickly to see if Cricket had done anything to precipitate it, but her attention was on the glass of champagne in her hand.

  “Now that you all have a libation, I propose a toast to the newlyweds,” Tom said, his arm around his wife’s shoulder, his glass held high with the other hand. “To Jarrett and Creighton, may they live long, love well, and raise lots of healthy little Creeds in the great Republic of Texas.”

  Shouts of “Bottoms up!” along with the clink of glasses signaled that the party had begun. The fiddlers bowed into their first tune, a slow one, and Creed turned to take Cricket’s glass and set it on the tray of a passing servant so they could dance.

  “The first dance will be led by the bride and groom,” Tom said. There were cheers and huzzahs from the collected company that melted to a general buzz as the ladies and gentlemen remarked on the beauty of the bride and the handsomeness of the groom.

  “Shall we?” Creed asked, holding his hands out to Cricket.

  Buoyed by Creed’s expansive smile, Cricket stepped confidently into his embrace. She saw his surprise when he realized her waist was corsetted.

  “That was Amy’s idea,” she whispered.

  “You don’t have to explain, Cricket. I know about women’s underclothes,” he whispered back.

  She tried not to think about how he knew so much.

  Creed laughed gently at Cricket’s worried frown as he grasped her other hand in his, and they began to dance.

  There was something magic about being in Creed’s arms. The glow in his eyes was warm. More than warm, it was welcoming. Cricket couldn’t keep her eyes off his lips. She imagined those lips on her flesh, touching and caressing. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back as though to allow Creed’s mouth access to her throat.

  Cricket was brought from her reverie when Creed tightened his grasp on her waist, bringing her hard against the full length of his body. His lips came to rest against her temple and his nose buried itself in her hair as he murmured harshly, “Ah, Brava, you’re a woman worthy of the name. How you tempt me with this fond display. But we know the truth, don’t we? You want no man . . . least of all me.”

  Cricket jerked her head back to contradict Creed and came face-to-face with the fierce, almost overwhelming blaze of passion in his eyes. He wanted her. He wanted her as a man wants a woman.

  The sardonic curl of his lips held her silent. He’d found her wanting once and expected to do so again. She parted her lips seductively and watched his eyes blaze. She brushed the tips of her breasts against his chest and watched the pulse race at his temple. She gloried in her ability to arouse him.

  He would not find her wanting tonight.

  They were still staring into one another’s eyes when the music ended. Tom tapped Creed on the shoulder and said, “I believe this dance is mine, little brother.”

  Creed reluctantly released Cricket and she moved into Tom’s arms. Creed stepped away, but his watchful eyes stayed on her.

  The dancing went on and on, with Cricket gathered into one man’s arms after another. She had never known how enjoyable such an evening could be. She was feeling especially good because she’d used the right utensils with every course during the midnight supper and hadn’t had to think twice about it. After supper, she had such a good time talking with the ladies she never even missed having a cigar with the gentlemen. Not only that, but, as far as she knew, she hadn’t committed a single faux pas all evening.

  Creed had left her side for a moment to talk with Tom when a voice said, “You look like you could use a breath of fresh air.”

  When Cricket turned, she recognized the dashingly dressed gentleman beside her as Wilmer Peatman, the man who’d winked at her earlier. Since then, they’d danced together once, and he’d been impeccably polite. His offer sounded like exactly what she needed to cool off before the dancing began again.

  “A breath of fresh air sounds like a great idea,” she said with a smile. “Let me tell Creed—”

  “Jarrett’s talking with Tom and some other gentlemen in the parlor. We’ll probably be back inside before he even notices you’re gone,” Wilmer responded with a smile of his own.

  Cricket hesitated only a moment before she agreed, “You’re probably right. Let’s go.”

  Cricket was glad they’d come outside when she saw how beautiful the stars were in the
vast Texas sky. A slight breeze rustled through the spring growth of leaves on the pin oak in the side yard. She scooped her hair up off her neck with both hands so the cooling zephyr could reach her damp skin.

  Wilmer didn’t think he’d ever seen anything quite so lovely as Jarrett Creed’s wife with that mass of hair in her hands and her head thrown back and aimed at the moon.

  Cricket shivered as the cool wind did its work.

  “Cold?” Wilmer asked. “Here, let me put my arm around you to warm you up.”

  Before Cricket could tell him not to bother, a hard Tennessee voice cut through the moonlit night.

  “Get your hands off my wife!”

  Wilmer Peatman was no idiot. His arm came off Cricket’s shoulder faster than a lizard gave up its tail to a hawk. “Your wife took a chill. I was only going to help warm her up a little.”

  “Like hell you were, Peatman. I know exactly what you were doing.”

  Cricket tried to control her growing temper. Creed had grabbed her arm and yanked her over next to him as though she were helpless. She could have taken care of Wilmer Peatman herself. Besides, Creed was making something out of nothing.

  “Creed, I think you’re making a—”

  “Shut up, Brava,” Creed warned. “I’ll handle this.”

  Wilmer’s neck hairs stood on end in fright. Good Jesus Lord preserve me, he thought.

  “I can handle this myself,” she argued back. She turned to Wilmer and said, in the way Amy had taught her, “I’d like to thank you, Mr. Peatman, for the walk in the night air.”

  Wilmer began to feel a renewed sense of rightousness. After all, it wasn’t his fault the woman was a hussy.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Creed. The pleasure was all—”

  Creed’s fist landed in Wilmer’s mouth, cutting off the rest of his sentence, sending the man flat on his back in the grass at Cricket’s feet.

  Cricket whirled on Creed, her legs spread wide, her fists on her hips. “You woodenheaded ninnyhammer! What the hell did you do that for? He was just being nice to me.”

  “You’re no longer acting the lady, I see,” Creed mocked.