No Place for a Lady

by Vivian Vaughan

  “I don’t understand it,” she pined one evening after the women departed. “The men should be eager for us to succeed. We’re trying to save their businesses.”

  “Men are kinda like sheep,” Goldie mused. “They stick together.”

  “Are you saying they will stand by Tyler even if it means losing their livelihoods?”

  “Sheep generally follow blindly where the leader leads—even if that’s off a bluff.”

  “That abominable man!”

  “Now, now, Maddie. Don’t go blamin’ Tyler. He didn’t have a chance to nip this in the bud. He was off in Mexico when Morley took his notion. By the time Tyler returned, the town was divided, loyalties, too. To change things, he would’ve had to start a shootin’ war.”

  “That’s what he said. I thought he was exaggerating.”

  “Tyler Grant usually speaks the truth, Maddie. He’s an honorable man.”

  “No man is an honorable man, Goldie.” Madolyn hoped Goldie couldn’t see the glow that burned inside her at the mere mention of the man’s name. “You, most of all, should know that.”

  “Quite the contrary. My customers are some of the most loyal people in the world.”

  “Loyal to whom? I doubt their wives consider them either honorable or loyal.”

  “You have a point there, honey. You surely do.”

  Daily, the women painted canvas signs with slogans Madolyn helped them compose:

  BUCKHORN REUNITED! REUNITE IT NOW!

  And: OUR CHILDREN DESERVE MORE!

  And: LET FREEDOM RING!

  While they painted, Madolyn taught them songs. Some, like “Onward, Christian Soldiers” and “Rise up O Men of God,” were favorite marching hymns from other campaigns. Others Madolyn helped the ever-more-eager women adapt: “Shall We Gather at the Depot” and “Were You There When They Tore Apart Our Town?”

  By the time the ladies in Buck had been thoroughly introduced to the methods of marching and demonstrating, Madolyn realized it was time to take her campaign across the tracks to the ladies of Horn. Without cohesiveness from the women on both sides of the tracks, nothing could be gained.

  This second phase, as it were, proved tricky. Madolyn’s original idea—rather, Goldie’s idea—had been to use the men who slipped across the tracks to engage her girls’ services to spread the word on the Horn side of town. But those men weren’t thrilled about having their nighttime trysts made public, which would be a possibility if they served as couriers; by the same token, Goldie wasn’t eager to scare off her Horn customers by insisting they aid the campaign.

  Madolyn searched for an alternative method. The only one that presented itself as feasible required Madolyn, herself, to slip across the tracks. It was the only workable solution, since only Madolyn could teach the ladies of Horn the slogans, chants, and practices they would need when the hour came for reunification.

  So, on the next dark night, Madolyn slipped across the tracks, armed with names of friends the ladies of Buck had not seen since the towns were separated. Clements led the way, a lantern held high to light a path through the briars and brambles at the southern edge of town. She arrived with dust clinging to her black skirts, and ringlets torn from her tight bun.

  The ladies of Horn were as reticent, yet as eager, as the ladies in Buck had been. They met in the back room of the Bank of Buckhorn, where Constance Allen, wife of banker Sam Allen regularly conducted deportment classes of an evening. Every night for a week they met, and their numbers grew. They painted signs and patiently learned every word of the slogans and songs Madolyn had taught their Buck counterparts.

  According to plan, the campaign would begin slowly, leading up to the combined rally day, the date of which would be held in strictest secrecy. Already several of the more courageous Buck women had gathered to march through their dusty streets, past businesses where they drew attention to their cause with their shouted slogans and adapted marching hymns. Their short marches always ended with one pass along the Buck side of the railroad tracks. But they never attempted to cross over.

  After Madolyn’s fourth clandestine visit to Horn, those ladies took up the march. On her instructions, they were to pay no heed to the women across the tracks; indeed, they tried to time their marches for different parts of the day.

  As she had done in Buck, Madolyn put the march date to a vote in Horn. Democracy, after all must be preserved. The ladies in both towns saw the appropriateness of the date.

  “Independence Day! We’ll give it new meaning!” Nancy Peebles, wife of the Buckhorn Hotel owner enthused.

  “Or lose what little independence we have,” Angie Thompson fretted.

  “Ladies, ladies,” Madolyn cautioned. “We only lose that which we are willing to forfeit.”

  The slogan sounded like it had come from Miss Abigail’s own mouth, Madolyn thought proudly, when, in fact, she had composed it herself. But the long hours quickly took their toll. Days in Buck, nights in Horn left little time for necessities, such as sleeping and eating regular meals.

  Not only did this double duty exhaust Madolyn, but she felt continually grimy after her clandestine treks through underbrush and down dusty streets in the dead of night. To make things worse, with the onset of summer, water usage had to be more closely restricted.

  Conscious of the worsening water shortage as summer grew ever hotter and drier, she dared not ask for a bath in the middle of the week. Primarily, because she knew Goldie and Lucky would oblige her. Everyone was dirty and needing baths. She could not, would not ask to be the exception. If only it would rain. But that, too, seemed improbable. During her almost six weeks in this wilderness, it had not rained once.

  Night after night, she bathed in her little wash basin, and, tired as she was, she fell asleep without really minding that she was dirty. On Goldie’s suggestion she took up the hours of many of the girls in the House of Negotiable Love—she slept until noon, at which time Lucky brought a light luncheon. While she ate, she prepared for her afternoon session with the ladies of Buck.

  By Friday of the second week after undertaking such a marathon schedule, the heat had become heavy, sultry, almost unbearable. Even though she stripped down to chemise and bloomers, she found it difficult to sleep that morning. Clyde Thompson, mayor of Horn, had discovered his wife’s involvement in the cause and forbade her to continue meeting with the group, to the end that the other Horn women were so fearful of Mayor Thompson telling their husbands, that only two women showed up for the meeting. Fear of failure took on a realistic face.

  A face that plagued Madolyn into the early morning hours. Even the dusty air that blew in her open windows felt heated. She tossed and turned on damp sheets, then finally gave up trying to sleep. Perspiration and dirt had worked their way into her hair like a curse.

  Selfish or not, she decided, she could not wait one more day to wash her hair. Not one more day, even though, this being Friday, tomorrow was bath day. She wasn’t first in line for the bath water this week, anyway.

  Dawn was fast approaching, and with it the breeze had died down. Her lace undercurtains hung limp. Cautioning herself to use as little water as possible, she carried a pitcherful from the container outside her door and poured it into her hand basin. She dipped her head into the basin. What luxury! The coldness inched up her scalp, jarring her senses, then relaxing her. She scrubbed her head vigorously, working the rose-scented soap into a fine lather.

  It called to mind her scented baths, and she decided then and there that the first thing on her list when she returned to Boston would be to soak for two full days in a warm, scented bath. When her eyes started stinging from the soap, she squinched them closed. The second thing she would do when she got back to civilization would be to wash her hair in a tub where she wouldn’t get soap in her eyes, and rinse it with a whole barrel of rainwater.

  For now, however, there was nothing for it but to finish. The water was soapy, her hands were soapy, and she didn’t have any clean water. Then, as though in answer t
o her prayer, Lucky came to her rescue.

  At the welcome knock, she sighed contentedly. “Would you fetch me a pitcher of clear water, Lucky, please? I’m in a tight place.”

  Feeling a bit on the giddy side, now that help was on its way, Madolyn continued to scrub and as she scrubbed, she hummed the latest marching tune she had taught the ladies.

  On our way rejoicing,

  Gladly let us go;

  Conquered have we ladies,

  Vanquished is our foe.

  Tyler stood outside Maddie’s door, trying to decipher her request. She needed clean water. He understood that. But why?

  When she started to hum, his senses did, too. What would he find on the other side of that closed door? Dare he open it to see? The answer to that question was never in doubt. He dashed back to his own room for a pitcher, dipped it in the communal container, and, taking a deep breath to still his pounding heart, opened the door.

  His heart almost ceased altogether at the sight—Maddie, bending over the wash basin, her hair soapy, her eyes squinched shut. Her body was barely covered in a chemise made of tissue-thin batiste and bloomers nearly as revealing.

  “You came in the nick of time, Luc—” Her head flew up. Long strands of wet black hair slung soapy water around the room. Most of it landed on Tyler, on his shirt, in his face.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice was scarcely louder than a squeak. As quickly as she had opened them, she squinched her lids shut again.

  “Let me help.” When he took her by one shoulder, she attempted to pull away, but he held fast. “Whoa, now, Maddie. Simmer down. Let me get the soap out of your eyes.” Dipping a corner of his clean shirttail in the fresh pitcher of water, he proceeded to bathe her eyes until she opened first one, then the other.

  “That better?”

  She didn’t respond. Not in words. Her eyes fastened on him like she had seen a demon or some fool thing.

  “I thought you were Lucky.”

  “I know.” His eyes left her face and traversed her scarcely clad form.

  Instantly she flung her head down, as though to verify what he saw. Wet through and through, her chemise and bloomers clung to her skin. Two rosy nipples puckered beneath the wet fabric, beckoning him, before she crossed her arms over her chest.

  “What are you doing here?” Her eyes returned, imploring him—to leave, more than likely. “You’re supposed to be in Mexico.”

  “We drove another herd in last night. Raúl and Sánchez have ’em bedded down outside town.” Even dashed with cold water, his body heated in a slow burn. “I rode on into town, late, to, uh…to see if you were still here.”

  She stared at him a moment, as though she didn’t comprehend. “I’m still here.”

  “And if you were real…” Speaking, he took up the flannel towel from the dresser and began squeezing water from her hair.

  “Real?” Now, she really didn’t understand. Hell, neither did he. He chuckled at her confusion.

  “I decided you were an apparition.”

  “An apparition?”

  She wasn’t used to being teased, he could tell. Sometimes he was able to make her laugh; he loved seeing her laugh, hearing her laugh. But this time he wasn’t joking.

  “You haunted my dreams, Maddie. Damned if you didn’t haunt ’em…night and day.”

  She ducked her head, a sure sign she was hiding something.

  “You thought about me, too, didn’t you?”

  After a long moment, she faced him again. “Does it matter?”

  “Does it matter?” He dropped the towel, clasped her face in his hands, and kissed her, long and deep and wet, like he had dreamed of doing for two long weeks. Did it matter? Hell, yes, it mattered.

  But it shouldn’t. Couldn’t.

  By the time he released her, he had a grip on his runaway brain. “This is what matters.” He kissed her again. “Don’t tell me you didn’t think about it, too.”

  She nodded, a jerky sort of nod, which he took to be affirmative.

  “Did what?” he prompted.

  “I thought about it…” She grinned up at him, then added, “…Tyler.” His body tightened at the soft, sensual sound of her saying his name, and at her rare attempt to tease. But even as she made the admission, she struggled to free herself.

  He pulled her wet chest to his. Her arms were crossed between them, denying him the contact he craved.

  “This isn’t right,” she whispered against his wet shirt. He felt her heart beat rapidly against him. Or was it his? Or both their hearts, throbbing in unison?

  “What isn’t right?” Gently, he tugged her arms up and around his neck. When her fingers curled into his hair, his head began to hum. Then he pressed her chest to his and was unable to suppress a shudder, for at last he felt what he had dreamed of feeling, her nipples. They were hard as juniper berries, but he knew from experience they tasted a whole lot sweeter.

  “This,” she mumbled.

  “Cuddlin’?”

  “This is more than cuddling.”

  “Didn’t I tell you there was more?”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “Didn’t I tell you it was even sweeter?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And didn’t I promise to show you?”

  “Um-hum.”

  “How ’bout I show you right now?”

  He felt her tense. “Now?”

  “Unless you think Lucky might walk in on us.”

  Her breath caught against his chest. “No.”

  “No what, Maddie?”

  She took her time responding, and when she did, he could tell she had made up her mind. Her decision surprised him. And pleased him.

  Hesitant green eyes rose to his, and in them he saw determination. He watched embarrassment stain her creamy cheeks with splotches of red. When she spoke, her full lips moved in a slow, sensuous dance.

  “Lucky won’t come until noon.”

  That was a curious change in schedule, but one that scarcely tickled his brain. For his brain was full of Maddie. His brain and his arms, and his body yearned for the same sweet fulfillment.

  With infinite care he lowered his lips to hers, and for the longest time—too long, his body insisted—he kissed her. Nothing more. Except that it felt like more. Never could he recall a kiss holding so much promise. As if it were an act of lovemaking unto itself, he allowed the delicious agony to build, savoring the fast-approaching crescendo.

  Only after her heartbeat matched his own, only after her lips reached and stroked in response to his, only after she melted against him in unmistakable invitation, did he lift her ever so gently in trembling arms and carry her to bed. She felt like a bird in his arms, little and delicate, as though she needed protecting, and loving. With a jolt, he realized that was exactly the way he had remembered her. He had dreamed, not of the militant, meddling Maddie, but of the vulnerable Maddie who had been rejected by her brother and who couldn’t bring herself to hug her own nieces and nephews, when it was clear as creek water how badly she wanted to.

  And more. He dreamed of the passionate Maddie, the Maddie who took courting lessons from Goldie and used them to set his soul on fire.

  Except for a shaft of light from the parlor, the room was dark. He could barely make out the bed, a sight all the more enticing because it was still rumpled. Their lips dislodged when he placed her in the center of it. Her eyes flew open. Lowering himself over her, he claimed her lips again, only to have her fling her head aside.

  “No.” Hands pressed against his chest, she pushed him away. “No, please.”

  He lifted himself mere inches, propping his hands against the mattress on either side of her head. “No, what, Maddie?”

  “No, I can’t…I can’t…”

  “All right.” Disappointment speared through him. He had been afraid of this; he tried to tell himself it was best. He kissed her tenderly. “All right. If that’s what you want.”

  “It isn’t…but…I can’t.”
<
br />   “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I just can’t…”

  “You can. If you want to. Do you want to, Maddie?”

  “No.”

  “Truthful, Maddie; be truthful.”

  “It’s wrong to want to.”

  “But you do.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If it’s so wrong, why do we feel this way? Why do we want to be together…really together?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think it should be saved for marriage?”

  “Marriage!” She flung her head aside again.

  He heard the terror in her voice, felt its echo in his heart. If making love to Maddie meant marrying her, he would have to resist, too. But oh, how sweet she was. How sweet and inviting. Bending, he nudged her face up, kissed her lips. Little nips that finally succeeded in eliciting a response, of which he took full advantage, kissing her deeply, ending by moistening her lips with the tip of his tongue.

  “I shall never marry,” she vowed.

  “I know. You told me. And I told you I won’t either. But why should we deny ourselves…this…when we both want it…”—he kissed her again—“…so badly.” Lowering himself he allowed his fully clothed body to skim her almost-nude one. “I want you so bad it hurts.”

  “I want you, too.”

  And she did. With every fiber of her being, Madolyn wanted him to continue this sweet and sensual madness. And madness it seemed. For even before she raised her head out of the wash basin to see him standing in her parlor, she had known it was Tyler. Something alerted her. Not a sound, or even a smell, she had felt his presence. Deep inside, then prickling her skin, like that day at the schoolhouse. It confirmed her dreams—and her nightmares. Yes, she wanted him, but in a way she could neither define nor explain. And at what cost?

  In his absence she had been able to convince herself that her feelings were blown out of proportion; that he wasn’t the all-encompassing, integral part of her life he seemed to have become; that his body hadn’t excited her; that his kisses hadn’t been the mysterious harbingers of some intoxicating ritual; that she might die were she forced to go through life without experiencing it.