No Place for a Lady

by Vivian Vaughan

  Mortification mobilized Madolyn. She scurried into the parlor, pretending—or trying to—that she hadn’t overheard the ribald remark. She wasn’t exactly certain what Goldie had in mind, but Tyler must have known, for she heard him growl a reply under his breath. Indistinct though his words were, she had no doubt he had uttered one of his frequent oaths.

  “Come on in, Tyler,” Goldie invited. “You might as well join us, since we’re fixin’ to discuss your town.”

  “My town? What about my town?”

  The heavy mixture of fragrances in the parlor almost overwhelmed Madolyn. Lavender and roses and violets and geranium. Somehow they were never so stifling mixed in a garden. In this room, applied with the heavy hands of Goldie’s girls, one was left with no doubt as to the sort of establishment this was. The soiled doves perched on velvet-covered settees, chairs, and cushions.

  What had she gotten herself into, coming into this parlor? But she was here, and she saw no recourse but to hear these women out. The sooner they got down to business, the sooner she could escape the presence of the soiled doves and Tyler Grant alike. Calling upon her years of training, she charged ahead.

  “We should take our seats, Mr. Grant. Obviously, we have interrupted a meeting in progress. Where should we sit, Miss Nugget?”

  “Over here, Tyler,” Annie invited.

  “There’s room beside me, honey bun,” Two-Bit called.

  Madolyn’s skin prickled at the lurid invitations. She took a seat on the edge of a gaudy gold-brocade sofa. These women needed her help, she argued silently. She must not treat them with less respect than she would any other downtrodden woman who called upon her. But even that little lecture failed to still the cold trepidation that tightened inside her chest.

  She sat rigidly on the edge of the sofa, knees pressed together; when her ankles began to knock, she pressed them together, too. Lord in heaven, she hoped their request was simple…and decent. She wondered fleetingly whether she would understand their problem.

  Tyler did not take his seat, at her direction. In fact, he stood staring at the vacant place on the sofa in an indecisive manner that was quite foreign to his usual nature, which was to attack a situation head-on. At length, he crossed to stand at the window beside the sofa.

  Goldie, garbed as before in a brassy gold kimono, henna-tinted hair flying about her painted face, began the meeting by addressing Madolyn from the center of the gaudy carpet.

  “Price Donnell told us about your work with the suffrage movement, Miss Maddie. We’re hopin’…” She indicated the girls who sat in an arc behind her. “To be quiet frank, honey, we need your help.”

  Madolyn eyed the garish gathering, careful to avoid eye contact with either the madam or the soiled doves. With great effort, she was able to suppress her desire to jump up and run from the room. “If I can help, Miss Nugget, I certainly shall. I have dedicated my life to improving the lot of women in this cruel world.”

  “Has Tyler told you about our divided town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some of it,” Tyler corrected. “What’s that got to do—”

  “Some of it,” Goldie interrupted. “What he didn’t mention, I’d venture, is the havoc it’s playin’ on our business.”

  Madolyn felt certain her heart would beat itself out this time. “Well…” She paused to clear her throat. Her mouth had never been so dry. “…I’m not sure what I could do about that.”

  “For starters, maybe you could talk some sense into your brother.”

  “My brother?”

  “Morley. It’s all his fault. Mostly, anyhow. If you could persuade him to sit down with Tyler and work out a way to reunite the town—”

  “Hold on a cockeyed minute, Goldie,” Tyler barked. “I’m not so sure I want this town reunited.”

  “Spoken like a true man.”

  Madolyn did a double take. “I second that, Miss Nugget.”

  “What I mean is,” he explained, “reunitin’ the town under Morley’s conditions will come near to ruinin’ me.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed”—Goldie’s tone was icy—“it is already ruinin’ everyone else.”

  Madolyn took heart. “Your establishment isn’t the only business hurt by the division?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  Her enthusiasm mounted. “Then I suggest you get together with the other townsfolk and work this out.” She glanced to Tyler. “Mr. Grant and my brother are only two among many. This is a democracy. Or it was, last I heard.”

  Her final remarks were directed to Tyler, and she was pleased to see him grimace.

  “It isn’t that simple, honey,” Goldie moaned.

  “Most of the men don’t give a rat’s ass about this town.”

  Goldie frowned at Daphne.

  “Well, they don’t,” Annie retorted. “An’ you know it, Goldie.”

  “That’s why we turned to you, Miss Maddie.” Daphne flung her mane of yellow hair, which must have prompted the moniker Gold-Dust; or perhaps it was the other way around, Madolyn mused.

  “The minute Donnell told us you were workin’ for women’s rights, we knew you could help us out,” Annie added.

  “It’s like you’ve been sent to us from heaven above, Miss Maddie,” Two-Bit chimed in.

  Heaven above? Madolyn glanced inadvertently toward the pressed-tin ceiling. Heaven above? Realizing the object of her attention, she felt a heated flush race up her neck. Heaven above! The business of this house was conducted just beyond that fancy ceiling. She recalled the threadbare carpet. If business was bad…

  Lord in heaven! How had she gotten herself into such a situation? She ducked her head—or attempted to. But instead, without knowing how or why, she found herself gazing into Tyler’s amused brown eyes.

  It was all she could do not to clasp her hands to her face. But even that would not have retarded the glow that flushed her from the inside out. The roots of her hair felt singed. Her lips trembled, and Lord help her, but the feel of Tyler’s lips sprang suddenly to mind. She pursed hers and in that instant, she knew he was thinking the same thing. Lord in heaven, how had she ever gotten herself into such a predicament?

  Swiveling her head with a haughtiness designed to put an offender in his place, she returned her attention to Miss Nugget and the girls. “I’m not sure that the Lord had much of a hand in this, Bertie, nor what I can do to help, for that matter. This is not the sort of situation I regularly deal with.”

  “That’s right, Goldie—”

  “We’ve already heard your objections, Tyler. It’s time for us women to get to work. Daphne was right, the men in this town don’t give two spits in a rainstorm what happens around here. When they divided the town—”

  “Morley divided the town,” Tyler snarled.

  “And you sat by and let him,” Annie accused.

  “When they divided the town,” Goldie repeated, “the men gave no thought to services needed to run a home or household. The school is on this side of the tracks, which means only the children in Buck have use of it.”

  “They have the mercantile,” Daphne explained.

  “We have the livery.”

  “They have the hotel.”

  “We have the church.”

  “They have the bank.”

  “And we have the newspaper,” Madolyn added, “which will certainly work in our favor.”

  “Our favor?” Tyler exploded. “You’re not gettin’ involved in this, Maddie.”

  Before she thought not to, she looked the man straight in the eye. His brown eyes were serious now. Pained, might be a better word. His mouth was grim-set, giving his chin a bluntness she had not seen before. The brown lock that fell over his brow softened the effect somehow, reminding her again of an overgrown child fighting for his toys. But Tyler Grant was no child; she had learned that lesson today. And this town would be no one’s play toy.

  “I will involve myself in whatever causes I deem important, Mr. Grant.”

  “
Now, Maddie—”

  “The women in Horn don’t get the paper,” Goldie broke in.

  Madolyn returned to the problem with new enthusiasm, as the looming fight overrode her hesitancy to align herself with the sort of women who reclined around the room, their posture and costumes leaving no doubt as to their trade. Not that any of them seemed inclined to deny it.

  “Why can’t Mr. Rolly and Mr. Cryer deliver the newspapers?” she inquired.

  “Now hold on a cockeyed minute. This little tea party has gone far enough.”

  Goldie glared at Tyler. “It’d probably be fine with Donnell, Maddie, but the Horn merchants might stop them.”

  “There is a way. There has to be.” Madolyn was in her element. Her brain began to function, as though Tyler Grant had never turned it to mush. “We shall find a way.” She jumped to her feet, paced to the window, parted the lace curtains, and peered out into the swept yard. “Yes, that will be our first step. We shall place a notice in the Buckhorn News.”

  Lost in thought, she hadn’t realized how close she stood to Tyler. When he grabbed her arm, he startled her.

  “There’s no need for you to involve yourself in this little difficulty,” he drawled in that soft voice that washed over her.

  She inhaled a deep breath to steady her senses, and breathed in, not the heavy perfumes of Goldie’s girls, but Tyler’s heady scent, the faintest hint of bay rum, a strong bouquet of masculinity. He hovered over her, filling her senses again. Heat swirled up her spine. Passion such as she hadn’t felt for a cause in a long time coursed through her.

  “Oh, my, but there is, Mr. Grant. For several very good reasons—my brother divided this town, and you brought me to these ladies. Perhaps Bertie is right. Perhaps I was sent here for this very reason.”

  “Maddie, for God’s sake, listen to me. You have enough trouble with Morley as it is. You’ll play hell gettin’ his help if you don’t stop your meddlin’. A lady shouldn’t—”

  “A lady shouldn’t what? Stand up for her sisters? She wouldn’t be a very fine lady if she hid her head in the sand when called upon. Like Miss Abigail says, we cannot pick and choose our causes, men have already chosen them for us.”

  “Who the hell is Miss Abigail?”

  Before Madolyn could respond, Goldie interrupted. “A vaquero‘s here to see you, Tyler.”

  Tyler glared at Madolyn. Finally, Goldie’s words seemed to register. He glanced toward the door. “Sánchez? ¿Qué pasa?”

  Madolyn followed Tyler’s gaze. A swarthy-complected cowboy with a drooping black mustache stood awkwardly in the foyer. He twisted a very large, stiff-brimmed hat in his hands. His chaps were dirty but elaborately decorated with tooled engravings and silver medallions.

  “Rurales, jefe,” the man responded. “They’re comin’.”

  “Damn.” Tyler’s eyes found Madolyn’s. She was ready.

  “Miss Abigail is founder and president—”

  “Save it, Maddie.” He searched her face with silent questions, but for the life of her she didn’t know what he was asking. “Come here.” Without releasing his grip on her arm, he pulled her across the room, shouldered past the man called Sánchez, and drew her out the screen door to the front porch.

  “Who is he?”

  “A vaquero who works for me. I’ve gotta go with him.”

  She returned his heated gaze, unable for some unfathomable reason to look away. His nearness engulfed her, heating her as never before. His voice, like his bold features, was stiff.

  “That’ll mean leavin’ you here for a while.”

  A dozen different retorts came to mind, but none of them seemed appropriate at the moment. Actually, she couldn’t think of a thing that was appropriate, so she asked a question that was doomed to show her ignorance. “What are Rurales?”

  “Mexican soldiers. Accordin’ to Sánchez, they’re crossin’ the river.”

  “For your cattle?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  She smiled. “Then you have troubles of your own, Mr. Grant. Don’t worry about me. Your town will be perfectly safe in my hands.”

  “Like hell it will.” But his tone wasn’t gruff. Indeed, he smiled when he said it; his features relaxed; his eyes danced. Before Madolyn knew it was happening, he had drawn her to him and covered her lips with his own.

  Ah, such a blessed sweet tenderness swept over her. Caught unaware, by the time she thought to object, his mouth was moving over hers, wet and hot. Although she knew her actions—and his—were the height of indecorum, she was powerless to object, for never had she imagined anything as sweet and tender.

  When he lifted his face, his eyes mesmerized her further with their sultry, heated perusal, as though he were delving into the very soul of her. He kissed the tip of her nose. “If this Miss Abigail of yours claims a lady wasn’t meant to be kissed, stand forewarned, Maddie, I’m out to prove her wrong.”

  Then Lord help her, before she could grip her senses, he kissed her again. “Another thing, Maddie, when I get back to town, we’re gonna do something about that ‘Mr. Grant’ nonsense.”

  Your town will be perfectly safe in my hands. Like hell! Buck, Texas, would be safer in the hands of Morley Sinclair than in the clutches of his sister—a woman with a cause. The difficulty worried Tyler for the better part of the following week. He couldn’t keep his mind off it.

  Rather, he couldn’t keep his mind off her. And he came to fear that even his town was safer in the hands of militant Maddie Sinclair than was his life—his future, leastways.

  He had so much trouble concentrating on business, that once a Rurales’ bullet whizzed past his shoulder, leaving a tear in his shirt and powder burns on his arm, before he realized he was in enemy territory.

  “¡Chingaba, jefe!” Sánchez cursed. “You aimin’ to get us all kilt.”

  “Hell, Sánchez,” Raúl returned. “The chief ain’t interested in those heifers out yonder. It’s that little one in town’s got his attention.”

  “Cut the bullshit,” Tyler barked. “Give away our position, and we’ll be drawin’ black beans down in some Mex jail.”

  For the past four days and three nights, they had skirmished with the Rurales, reclaiming some of the cattle, losing others. But the Rurales managed to work their stolen herd ever closer to the Rio Grande—and safety. Now Tyler lay on his stomach between Raúl and Sánchez on a bluff overlooking a dry gulley that ran down to the river a hundred yards farther west.

  “There’s still six of ’em,” Sánchez whispered. “Reckon that shot of mine must’ve hit a mesquite tree instead of the man sittin’ underneath it.”

  They hadn’t gone in shooting, not that first day. Tyler insisted on trying to talk to the Rurales; he wanted to explain that the cattle they were ‘confiscating’ had been born and bred on Texas soil. But the Mexicans would have nothing of it.

  “I could’ve told you they wouldn’t palaver,” Raúl complained, after the trio was forced to hightail it under a barrage of rifle fire. “What the hell were you thinkin’, anyhow?”

  “Thinkin’?” Sánchez questioned, “Hell, he left his brain back at that whorehouse, along with the rest of his vitals.” He laughed at his own joke. “It figures. El jefe falls for the only woman in the house who don’t charge for her services.”

  The suggestive remark fired Tyler as even the fight with the Rurales hadn’t done. “That woman’s a lady, and both of you had better remember it.” He glared from one man to the other. “She means nothin’ to me. She’s Morley Damn-his-hide’s sister.”

  Tyler studied the scene below them; he tried to concentrate on the six Rurales who were at this moment herding his cattle down the ravine to a clearing just this side of the river. From all indications they intended to bunch the herd for a night drive across the river. Tyler recognized the tactic; hell, he invented it; that was his method for moving cattle from Mexico to Texas, spiriting them across the river in the dead of night. Trouble was, this looked to be a moonlit night.

&
nbsp; “It’s already late in the day,” Tyler commented. “Let’s let them do our work; once they bunch ’em, we’ll ride in from three directions. Maybe if we make enough racket, they’ll think we’ve come up with reinforcements.”

  “Shoot to kill?” Sánchez questioned.

  “Not unless you want both governments on our tail. Try not to wound them, just scare the hell out of ’em.”

  “Nothin’ we’ve come up with so far has scared the sonsabitches,” Raúl reminded his boss.

  Tyler swatted a bee that droned above his head. Sweat trickled down his neck and seeped beneath his shirt collar. Indications of things to come. Of summer.

  Would Maddie be gone by summer?

  Damnation! If he didn’t get his mind off that woman and on the business at hand, he would be the one not around come summer. The situation was unexpected, unwelcome, and unexplainable. Why, after all this time, had he started thinking about a woman? A woman wasn’t in his plans, hadn’t been for twenty years. Hadn’t he vowed never to shackle himself to another woman? After Susan?

  Susan, his wife. She had been pretty as a picture and they married in a shower of youthful bliss. For a moment her springy blond curls and pert little nose danced in his vision. A pretty picture, but one he hadn’t so much as thought of in twenty years. No, even before her death, Susan’s curls had ceased to spring, her lips to smile.

  The war. Sherman’s army. No one in Georgia escaped unscathed. Most lost everything. The lucky ones got out with their lives—and their sanity.

  Gone were the palatial homes and fashionable clothes. Gone, the balls and fox hunts and youth and innocence. Along with her youth and innocence, Susan had lost her mind.

  And Tyler had sworn on her grave never to shackle himself to another female as long as he lived.

  As long as he lived. Whether the end came this very night in a fight over a couple hundred head of cattle, or forty years from now on the deathbed of an old man, Tyler had vowed never to shackle himself to another woman.

  And he had damned well better get to remembering that pledge. Digging in his pocket he withdrew a watch that had belonged to his father.