No Place for a Lady

by Vivian Vaughan

  “Morley’s ranch?” she questioned after Tyler climbed up on the wagon beside her. “How far is it?” His broad shoulders took up more than half the seat and she gave it to him. Moving to the far edge of her side, she readjusted her parasol and held it aloft in a silent declaration of her own space.

  “Ranch house is a good half-day’s ride from here.”

  “Then we can drive there this afternoon.”

  “We could make it out there before it gets good and dark,” Tyler admitted. “But we couldn’t return tonight. That road’s not safe to travel after dark, leastways not for a lady.”

  His slow, almost lazy, drawl, mesmerized Madolyn. To counter its effect, she drew herself up, stiffened her spine, and called forth her most imperious tone. “I shan’t be returning to town, Mr. Grant. Not right away.”

  Tyler cast a backward glance at her baggage, which rose shoulder-high behind them. “I don’t know how else to say this, Maddie.” He paused, savoring her reaction to his use of her pet name. She had the damnedest way of blanching he had ever seen. Those green eyes looked downright sultry. Not that she was likely to know what that meant. But he could— “Morley’s lifestyle isn’t, well, it’s…What I’m trying to say—”

  “Yes, Mr. Grant? I’m listening. What is wrong with my brother’s lifestyle?”

  “Nothing, accordin’ to him. But, well, his house is a mite small for all this paraphernalia. I mean, we’d be puttin’ everyone else out to pasture, if we were to carry all these trunks and valises and bandboxes and—”

  “I take your meaning, sir.”

  They rode in silence.

  “Your recommendation?” she questioned abruptly.

  “That you put up here in Buck at the, uh, the hotel. You’ll have comfortable rooms with plenty of space to stretch out. You can go and come to the ranch as you please.”

  Madolyn thought about it. Absently, she readjusted her reticule cords on her arm. It was a sound idea, no doubt about it. “Was that Morley’s idea? Or yours?”

  Tyler hit a pothole head on. “Mine, for the most part.” He stared pointedly at the reticule and wondered whether it was empty or just naturally flat. “If you’re short on funds, I’m sure Morley’ll take care of your room and board for a few days.”

  “A few days?”

  “For the duration of your visit,” he amended. “You didn’t say how long that would be.”

  “And you didn’t ask. I told you, you were a gentleman, Mr. Grant.”

  “I never doubted it, Maddie. Never doubted it.” He winked at her. “But you surely did.”

  Two

  One of the few truly feminine indulgences Madolyn allowed herself was a steaming, soaking, scented bath. It was a habit rooted in childhood. To soothe her fears and anxieties, her mother would fill a tub with tepid water, pour in violet-scented salts, and set a tense, crying Madolyn into it. In a matter of minutes the scented water had combined with her mother’s gentle hands and soft, rhythmic crooning to set Madolyn’s world aright.

  It wasn’t until much later that she realized her mother’s songs had more nearly resembled dirges than nursery rhymes, and that she herself had not caused her mother’s tears by her terrified screams.

  No one knew about Madolyn’s secret passion for scented baths, which made them all the more enticing. Certainly, she had never mentioned such a shortcoming to Miss Abigail or to any of her co-workers in the Boston Woman Suffrage Society. Anything as sensual as a scented bath would be frowned upon as submitting to one’s baser nature. With the plight of women in today’s world, one’s baser nature must be submerged at all costs.

  In her heart, however, Madolyn looked upon the baths as therapeutic; they relaxed her body and soul and revived her mind for the difficult and important work she performed.

  For that reason, and for a multitude of other reasons that tantalized her from the fringes of her subconscious, Madolyn had been instantly seduced, rather than offended, by Tyler’s suggestion of a hot bath. And he hadn’t been speaking idly, she discovered, when no sooner had the last of her baggage been deposited in the luxurious, rose-red draped parlor of her two-room suite, than a freckle-faced young man entered, lugging a sitz bath. He was followed by a short but plump maid who looked much too old and grandmotherly to be carrying two buckets of steaming water. But she managed them without spilling a drop. Finished, she rested a round fist on one hip and smiled up at Madolyn with such an affectionate expression, Madolyn half-expected a hug.

  “I’m Lucky, Miss Maddie. Sure is a pleasure to have you here.”

  Madolyn tensed at the use of her childhood name; Tyler had been quick to spread the news. Just like a man. “Lucky at what?” she had asked, refusing to fret over that man. She prided herself on being able to shut out unwanted thoughts at will. She’d had enough practice, Lord only knew.

  The maid laughed, setting two round cheeks to bobbling. Pink scalp peeked through thin strands of white hair that stretched up the round head to form a sparse topknot. “Lucky’s my name, honey, but truth be known, I ain’t been lucky at nothin’ all my life. Miss Goldie, she give me the name, but it ain’t changed the course of history, not so’s I’ve recognized it.” While she spoke, Lucky traipsed back and forth carrying additional bath water from a container in the hallway.

  Madolyn surveyed the elaborately appointed parlor. It was so littered with baggage that one could hardly squeeze between the trunks and valises, certainly not before removing one’s bustle. Her eyes strayed to the steaming water.

  Lucky set a stack of flannel bathing towels on top of a trunk. “I’ll be back direc’ly, Miss Maddie. You sink into that water while it’s pipin’ hot.” She offered to help Madolyn undress, which Madolyn declined; offered to bring her a fresh gown, which Madolyn also declined.

  Lucky eyed the assortment of baggage. “I could run a flatiron over a dress of your own, if you could find one.” Although her tone indicated the assessment of such a search as futile, Madolyn went straight to the trunk that held her dresses and pulled out a two-pieced black faille creation, devoid of lace or decoration, and handed it to the surprised maid.

  “Soak yourself, honey. When I git back, I’ll make your bed so you can climb in an’ take yourself a nap.”

  Madolyn glanced up from a valise, where she searched for bathing paraphernalia—flannel bathing cap, a long-handled back scrubber, a bar of rose-perfumed soap, and a vial of bath salts. “I never waste daylight hours in bed, Lucky.” Or in a scented bath, she thought, already feeling guilty for indulging herself, when she needed to straighten up the parlor. If Tyler proved right about the size of Morley’s house, she would have to arrange to store some of her belongings in town.

  “I have too much to do to rest,” she added. “Besides, I’m anxious to meet Mrs. Nugget.” From another valise she took her silver comb set and from yet another, a complete change of underclothing.

  “You mean Miss Goldie?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s Miss Nugget?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “She owns a fine home.”

  “She surely does that, honey. Runs the place, too.”

  “Well, tell her I’m anxious to meet her. I’m a staunch advocate of women’s rights, you see. I feel ever so much safer boarding in a private home than I would in a hotel that caters to drummers and cowboys.”

  This time Lucky’s laughter rattled the lamp globes. Little you know, Madolyn thought. If women in Buckhorn had ceased to worry about their safety, the lot of women must have advanced with the westering frontier. Perhaps the gentleman on the train had been right about hanging being an effective deterrent against accosting women.

  Left alone, Madolyn quickly undressed and slipped as far into the sitz bath as she could. Even by doubling up her legs, she was cramped. That was far from unusual. With her long legs, she rarely found a mattress long enough or a tub with enough room to stretch out. But that did not lessen her pleasure as the soft warm wetness slipped up her body. It soothed her swollen feet and
stung her blistered neck. Unconstricted by whalebone and laces, her body relaxed.

  Her mind turned to Tyler Grant. With his size he surely never found— My, oh, my! She pulled her wits together. She had never been attracted to a man, thank heavens. Until today she had never been alone with a man, even in broad open daylight. Fortunately, Tyler had proved himself a gentleman, if the most direct person she had ever met. He and Miss Abigail would make a pair.

  The idea was ludicrous! But her estimate of him had risen dramatically after he brought her to this respectable boarding house. Even so, she had been taken aback that he expected her to enter by a rear staircase.

  The back door! She snuggled deeper into the soothing water; its warmth and familiar rose scent calmed her. She smiled, recalling Tyler’s reaction when she hesitated to obey his command.

  “Just do it, Maddie,” he had retorted.

  Actually, if she recalled correctly, they hadn’t arrived at the boarding house in too good a humor, neither of them.

  She had ridden the distance from the depot pressed against the side rail of the wagon seat, and Tyler had driven the team like a man with a purpose—his jaw set, his eyes focused on the road ahead.

  As though he were racing the devil, she remembered thinking, he allowed the team to barrel down the center of the road, neither steering the horses around potholes, nor slowing for corners.

  Terrified, Madolyn had feared for life and limb. She clutched the seat with one hand and gripped her parasol tighter with the other, holding it aloft as if it could keep the wagon upright and its occupants seated.

  When her bath water began to cool, Madolyn hurried. Her mind, however, wasn’t on removing grime or relieving the aches and pains induced by her two-week trip in cramped railcars and hours spent sitting on hard benches at depots, awaiting connecting trains. Her mind was filled with Tyler Grant.

  Lathering her body absently, she recalled how the wagon had hit one pothole after another, the last with such force she bounced on her bustle. It was a Langtry bustle, constructed to fold when one sat, and to spring out again when its wearer released it by standing. A comfortable invention, designed strictly for horsehair sofas, Madolyn learned, for she had bounced up and down on the hard wagon seat that had little or no padding.

  “Sorry,” Tyler mumbled, after hitting a pothole that more nearly resembled a meteor crater she had seen once.

  “I’ll just bet.”

  “I’m not used to drivin’ draft horses, Maddie.” He bit off the words with a curtness that further infuriated her.

  “What do you usually drive, Mr. Grant? The four horses of the Apocalypse?”

  He had chuckled at that, then surprised her by saying, “You’re definitely Morley’s kin.” Her body flushed, recalling his soft drawl and the inspection he had given her person. “’Course the old reprobate’s not anywhere near as comely.”

  “Spoken like a true man.” To cover her discomfiture, Madolyn had flounced on the seat, then studiously rearranged her skirts. But the battle had gone her way, for Tyler guided the team around the next pothole and slowed at subsequent corners.

  To Madolyn’s relief, he seemed disinclined to conversation, which suited her just fine, for she had never been one for idle prattle, especially not with a member of the opposite sex.

  She used the respite to peruse the town. The train had passed through several places similar to Buckhorn, but having never ridden down their dusty streets or among their weathered buildings, she was unprepared for the harshness, the downright ugliness.

  Most of the houses were small square buildings constructed from a substance called adobe, which was no more than dirt and water, if she understood correctly. Obviously she had, for Buckhorn’s houses looked exactly like the earth on which they sat. They had flat roofs and deep-set windows and were surrounded by earthen yards, some swept, others unkempt.

  She glanced at her driver, wondering quite without design whether his yard would be swept or overgrown with scrawny weeds. Swept, she decided, since his shirt was ironed and his britches creased. To her dismay, Tyler caught her staring at him.

  His brown eyes danced over her face with a playfulness that took her aback. He looked like an overgrown child with a secret he was fairly bursting to share. For a moment her mind played with what that secret might be.

  But coquetry wasn’t in Madolyn’s repertoire. The prospect that she might be engaging in some sort of intimate exchange further discomfited her. Redirecting her gaze to the rutted road, she scooted away, or attempted to, an action that wedged her hip into the seat bracket. She willed her heart to still.

  What was the matter with her? Miss Abigail would be mortified! Why, she had almost flirted with the man, for heaven’s sake. She, secretary of the Boston Woman Suffrage Society. She, Madolyn Sinclair, who everyone agreed would someday follow Miss Abigail Blackstone as president of what was widely held to be the most active suffrage group in the country.

  That is if she didn’t end up in the poorhouse first.

  Shouts from the left drew her attention. She watched Tyler lift a hand in greeting. Aghast, she turned quickly away from the cluster of rowdy men gathered around a— A saloon! Her opinion of Tyler plummeted lower than the bottomless pit of some of Buckhorn’s potholes when he returned their whoops with an ear-splitting greeting of his own.

  But he must be a gentleman, she insisted, striving valiantly to regain her composure. He was, after all, Morley’s partner. The disconcerting truth, however, would not be suppressed. She had not seen Morley in twenty years. When he left home at sixteen, he had been her best friend. If he remained true to his upbringing, he would now be thirty-six and…

  Not a gentleman. If Morley took after their father, he was certainly no gentleman. But he couldn’t have taken after their father. Not Morley; not her beloved brother, her childhood idol.

  Two blocks later, rowdy whoops again startled Madolyn. This time she felt compelled to express her disgust. “Another block, another saloon.” Tyler only grinned.

  “What are you, Maddie? A teetotaler or something?”

  “Or something, Mr. Grant. I am secretary of the Boston Woman Suffrage Society.”

  “No sh—, uh, kiddin’!”

  She stiffened her spine, savoring the satisfaction that flowed through her like a soothing cup of Earl Gray tea.

  “Son of a gun! Woman suffrage has arrived in Buck, Texas.”

  Not long afterward, the wagon rolled to a stop beside a magnificent frame structure, diverting Madolyn’s attention from her victory over the arrogant Tyler Grant. Momentarily stunned by the lovely building—three-story, freshly whitewashed, cheery red shutters—she belatedly realized that he had stopped at the rear. A narrow staircase led directly from the ground to the third floor. A premonition nudged Madolyn’s always-wary consciousness.

  “What is this place?”

  Tyler jumped to the ground. For a man his size, he was unusually agile—to her untrained eye, of course. The man called Raúl stepped from beneath the shade of a mesquite tree. He was a lanky man and wore earth-toned clothing and a large-brimmed felt hat. Several similarly-clad men followed him. Tyler executed a sweeping bow. “Buck’s only hotel, ma’am.”

  The premonition nudged a bit harder. “I would rather go straight to Morley’s.” As though she hadn’t spoken, Tyler motioned Raúl and the men to the baggage stacked on the wagon bed. Just like a man!

  “Tell you what, Maddie. Let us move you in here. Get some rest, and bright an’ early tomorrow mornin’ I’ll drive you out to Morley’s. If you still want to stay out there after seein’ the, uh, place, I’ll come back to town and haul every last stick of this stuff out there for you.”

  Lost in thought, she ran a finger inside her collar, relieving a bit of the sting. “You’re certain Morley’s house isn’t suitable—”

  “As certain as I am that your eyes are green, Maddie Sinclair.”

  Madolyn slumped against the sitz bath, faint even now, recalling the rush of heat that had s
wept through her. She scrubbed her face with the rose-perfumed soap she had ordered from an advertisement in Godey’s, attempting to remove all traces of the uncharacteristic blush she feared had blossomed again, just thinking about the intimacy.

  Tyler hadn’t seemed to notice the hornet’s nest he’d stirred up inside her. He rounded the wagon, offered her a hand, and Lord in heaven, if she hadn’t placed her hand in his.

  She, Madolyn Sinclair, who had vowed never to rely on a man for help in her life. Well, not after she prevailed upon Morley to claim their inheritance, of course.

  Fortunately, she had the presence of mind to jerk free the moment both feet were planted on solid ground. Perusing the whitewashed house with its red shutters, she knew she should be relieved that Tyler hadn’t taken her to some rat-infested shack. And she was. The only frame house in town, he claimed. It looked comfortable and respectable—except for the fact that they were gathered around the rear staircase like a band of thieves.

  “Isn’t there a front door?”

  “Sure, there’s a front door.”

  “Then I shall find it, Mr. Grant.” She hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps, however, when Tyler caught her elbow and pulled her around.

  He nodded toward the stairs, drawling, “Easiest way to transport your baggage.”

  “Perhaps, sir, but I do not require transporting.” Even as she spoke, her swollen ankles and aching feet protested the possibility that they might be required to climb such a steep flight of stairs.

  “Quickest way to a hot bath and soft bed,” he coaxed.

  Tired as Madolyn was, dirty as she was, those words went right to the heart of her. She knew instantly that she desired nothing else in the world, at least not for the moment.

  “As soon as I register, Mr. Grant—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Maddie, stop ditherin’; you’ll work up a sweat. I’ll send Goldie upstairs to take your money.”