No Place for a Lady

by Vivian Vaughan

  Until mere moments later, he exploded inside her, filling her with a love so powerful she knew she could never live without him. She held him close, fiercely, as he had loved her.

  After another few moments, he collapsed, rolled them to the side, and kissed her tenderly. His breathing came in heavy bursts. “Are you ready to say yes?”

  She clung to him while the soft breeze cooled their damp skin. “I want to in the worst way.”

  “Not any worse than I want you to, Maddie. I’ll be a good husband. I swear it. I can’t promise you luxuries—”

  “That doesn’t matter. What if I couldn’t be a good wife?”

  His eyes caressed her face, while his hands stilled on her cooling skin. “No chance, love.”

  “But I don’t know how. I mean…I’ve never known anything except…I won’t be submissive, Tyler.”

  “I don’t want you to be. We’ll argue some, but we’ll laugh more. And we’ll have love, lots of love, every day, every night, forever.”

  She kissed him, then grinned. “And lots of babies.”

  “If that’s what you want, we’ll have a houseful of the little critters.”

  The ride back to the stable was idyllic. Even facing the dangerous trip to Texas, she couldn’t dredge up the slightest regret over her journey to this magical land. Indeed, since her afternoon in Tyler’s arms, she felt renewed, like she might be able to overcome her fears. Like she might be able to live a normal life. A life filled with love and one perfect man.

  The test would come later, after they returned to Buck. After they left this paradise. But how could he be any different there than here? He was honest, open, he didn’t hide anything. How could he have a dark side? She had been with him night and day. Never once had he resorted to violence.

  Oh, she didn’t doubt he would defend himself, or her, should the Rurales attack. But he didn’t go looking for a fight, like her father had done. He didn’t blow up every time she challenged his thinking or took an opposite point of view. He actually seemed to appreciate her independent nature; he said he did. And he acted like he spoke the truth.

  By the time they arrived back at the stable, the moon had come up, round and white. A beautiful full moon, a seal of approval for her decision to take a chance on love, on Tyler.

  “Sonofabitch!” His oath startled her. “Who the hell…?”

  Madolyn followed his gaze to a plume of dust that moved swiftly away from the stable in the opposite direction. No more than the silhouette of the rider was visible in the moonlight, but that was enough.

  “Rurales?” she questioned.

  Tyler gave no answer. Instantly wary, he reined in and indicated that she should halt, too.

  “I’ve got to check this out, Maddie. And I want you out of the way while I do it.” She watched him glance up the stone staircase to the room they had shared the past week. All was dark, still. “Slip out of your saddle and get up those steps. Be quick and quiet.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “No. Now go. I’ll take care of the horses.”

  She obeyed, never questioning, and when she gained the safety of their room, she was proud of herself. She had not questioned or argued, and she didn’t feel submissive for the lack of either. She didn’t light the lantern, knowing she shouldn’t do so until Tyler returned. She hovered near the window, listening, watching.

  In the pale moonlight, she saw him leave the horses back in the oaks. When he exited the trees, his right arm was cocked, like he carried something. A gun. Her heart stopped. She wanted to run down the steps, but restrained herself—her actions, not her imagination. He couldn’t face danger alone. She couldn’t let him.

  But she must. Anything she did could— A series of shouts erupted below. Tyler. He spoke in Spanish, rapidly, angrily, words she didn’t understand, except for a few, like Rurales, Sánchez, María. She had never heard him so angry. But he wasn’t the only one. As though engaged in a duet, a woman’s voice shouted back, giving him tit for tat, or so it sounded.

  Then the woman screamed. “¡NO! ¡Por favor, no!” The screams continued; the woman sounded for all the world like María. Madolyn could stand by no longer. She was needed. Tyler couldn’t deal with a terrified woman, angry or otherwise, and Rurales, too. She slipped out the door and down the steps, keeping her back to the wall to eliminate showing her profile. At the bottom she edged along the adobe building in the same manner, coming at length to the door through which Tyler had led her that night so long ago. At least it seemed long ago.

  She had been the one frightened that night. Of him. Outrageous even to think such a thing now. Not only had she lost her fear of him, she had learned to trust and admire him. She had always loved him, or so she felt.

  Then she peered around the corner into the kitchen, and her world was shattered by the hand of the man she loved. In horror, she watched María recoil from an open-handed blow to the side of her face; she fell to the stone floor, sobbing.

  But Madolyn’s attention was on María’s attacker. She clutched at her chest, suddenly unable to breathe. Her gasp drew his attention.

  “Maddie!” Tyler looked as though he had seen a demon. He rushed toward her.

  She backed away but was unable to run. It had nothing to do with submissiveness now. She was gripped by the horror of what she had witnessed.

  “Maddie, listen. It isn’t like you think.”

  Suddenly he was the demon. She stood riveted to the spot, while inside, her heart splintered.

  “She’s sleepin’ with one of the Rurales—or several of ’em. That’s who we saw leavin’. She brought us here on purpose. She told them where to find us.”

  Madolyn struggled to keep her balance, to breathe, to work through the haze. Her heart might be broken, but she must force her brain to function. Now! “What excuse will you use next time?” Before her tears could break loose, she turned and fled up the stairs, conscious only of escape.

  Seventeen

  “No, miss, I can’t rent you no room in this place.” Henry Peebles, portly proprietor of the Buckhorn Hotel, stood behind his pine counter, squinting down his nose in the general direction of Madolyn, unable to meet her eyes.

  She had known when she walked into the hotel, slapped her reticule on the desk, and demanded a room, that she would have a difficult time convincing Mr. Peebles to rent to her, since Morley had forbidden anyone in Horn from even speaking to her. But she had no choice. She could not remain at Goldie’s one single night and retain a semblance of sanity. Not with the memories that place held. Not even if, as she feared, the women of Horn denounced her for a harlot for spending two unchaperoned weeks in the company of a man.

  But the women of Horn had not condemned her. Rather, they stood behind her, a single pillar of support. Madolyn tipped her chin. “Then I shall sleep on the boardwalk, sir.”

  She paused to allow the proprietor to hear the gasps of these brave women. They had gathered piecemeal, after learning through the swiftly moving grapevine that she had crossed the tracks, bag and baggage, in broad-open daylight, headed for the Buckhorn Hotel. “The last few months have inured me to hardship,” she added. And to heartbreak. Her will to fight wavered.

  But behind her the women crowded near, like schoolchildren seeking the presence of a revered teacher. They wouldn’t have gathered in defiance of everything their husbands believed had she not taught them to stand on their own feet. A swelling of pride struggled to replace her anguish.

  One day it would, she insisted. One day she would forget all about Buck and Horn and Texas and Mexico and Morley and…Yes! She would even forget Tyler Grant. One day she would forget everything about him, except the lesson she learned in Mexico, a lesson she would pass on to other women who found themselves attacked by weapons of the heart.

  “That boardwalk out yonder ain’t no place for a lady to be sleepin’, Miss Sinclair. An’ well you know it.”

  “Then how about one of the benches down at the depot, where passengers on incomi
ng trains can see how Horn, Texas, treats a lady?”

  “Ladies,” corrected a timid voice behind her.

  Mr. Peebles’s eyes bugged. “Miz Handleman? Mind what you say. Your husband’s jest next door cuttin’ hair—”

  “I know where my husband is.” The woman’s voice gained strength; she took a step forward. “And I know where I am. Standing right here beside the most courageous woman in all the world.” She gazed up at Madolyn with undisguised adoration. “I shall be honored to share a bench with you, Miss Sinclair.”

  Madolyn’s heart swelled.

  “And I.”

  “Count me in.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Ladies! Ladies!” Mr. Peebles stretched pudgy hands toward the women, as though bestowing a benediction. “No use gettin’ riled—”

  “We’ve been riled for some time now, Peebles.” The voice belonged to Thelma Rider, who stood eye to eye with Madolyn, but outweighed her by a good fifty pounds.

  Madolyn watched the portly proprietor of the Buckhorn Hotel fidget with the register. Before he could overturn the bottle of black ink, she interrupted him.

  “All you have to do is rent me a room.”

  “I’ve got my orders, miss.”

  “From my brother. Nevertheless, I must have a place to stay until after Independence Day. I promise to take the first train that leaves this station after July Fourth, eastbound, that is. I have seen enough of the West, thank you. In the meantime, Mr. Peebles, all I’m asking is for a room.”

  “I take it you ain’t full-up,” Emma Butler observed.

  Mr. Peebles rolled his eyes upward, toward what Madolyn knew must be a nearly empty establishment. This far from civilization and irregular as the train service was, the hotel had probably never been full one day since it opened.

  “You aren’t averse to making a living, are you?” Angie Thompson questioned.

  “No, we are not,” came a feminine reply from the back of the crowd. A slight woman with mousy brown hair topped by a yellow straw bonnet pushed to the front and stood defiantly before Henry Peebles. It was the death-blow.

  “Nancy?” he mouthed, for his voice deserted him at sight of his little wife in company with the rebellious women.

  “Give her room ten, Henry. It’s nicer and further away from the smoky parlor.” Nancy Peebles’s tone could only be described as sweet.

  Weapons of the heart? Miss Abigail’s phrase came back to Madolyn like a slap in the face. Did women use them, too? If so, she decided, pulling her wits together, they were well justified, what with the havoc wreaked on them by the male race.

  Henry shook his head. “Morley ain’t gonna like it.”

  “I suggest you let my brother do his dirty work, Mr. Peebles,” Madolyn said quietly. “Now, while I move into room ten, will you please send someone out to Morley’s with word that I must speak with him immediately?”

  Capitulation was difficult for Henry Peebles; Madolyn could tell that. But he turned the register to face her. “Sign here, miss. Until Independence Day, you say?”

  “One week from today, sir. After which, I shall board the first eastbound train.”

  Taking up the key to room ten, Henry Peebles led Rolly up the stairs with the first of Madolyn’s baggage. She took the private moment to thank the women.

  “I appreciate your courage in standing up for me.”

  “We’re honored to have you on our side of the tracks,” Angie replied, as though prompted by her position as wife of the mayor of Horn to issue a formal welcome.

  “And we’re mighty glad to hear you’re not runnin’ out before the march.”

  “I wouldn’t run out on my sisters.” I couldn’t. Even though every moment spent in this barbaric land was a moment of self-inflicted torture.

  “We have a lot left to do,” Constance Allen confided.

  “Like coming up with that contingency plan you mentioned, Maddie. Case all else fails.”

  Madolyn couldn’t recall ever saying anything of the sort, but then her brain had been damaged. It would recover, she vowed. “I’ll put my mind to it, Emma.”

  “When shall we meet?” Nancy wanted to know.

  “As soon as I’m unpacked.”

  “Where?”

  Madolyn scanned the parlor of the Buckhorn Hotel. Smoking room would be a more apt term for the dimly lit area adjacent to the entrance. “If you don’t mind the smoke—”

  “How about our barn?” the mayor’s wife whispered after a glance up the stairs. “That’s where we’ve been painting.”

  “We’ll have privacy to practice our songs.”

  “Wonderful,” Madolyn agreed. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “You’re invited to my house for supper,” Constance Allen told her. “We’re having chicken and dumplings, if they haven’t burned while I’ve been upholding my rights.”

  The other women laughed. They exited together, leaving Madolyn alone in the foyer of her brother’s hotel, feeling lighter than she had in days. A dinner invitation, for heaven’s sake. When she had expected condemnation, or at best disapproval. The camaraderie she had developed with these women warmed her heart.

  But her warm heart quickly turned cold again once she was alone in the modest room on the second floor of the Buckhorn Hotel. The unadorned oak dresser and iron bed with its lumpy cotton-batting filled mattress couldn’t compare with Goldie’s carved walnut furniture and plump featherbed. With unbleached muslin curtains and bare pine flooring, austere was too fancy a term for the accommodations at the Buckhorn Hotel.

  But didn’t that match her life? Austere. She should never have traveled to this barbaric land. She should never have allowed Tyler Grant into her heart. She should never have crossed those railroad tracks. That had been her first mistake.

  But the mistakes that followed made her first stumbling trek across the tracks look like baby steps. The mistakes that followed were the most devastating of her life. They ruined her future. Now she would be forced to live with them forever.

  Forever is a long time, Tyler once said. Forever meant never.

  Forever meant always.

  But she would make it! She would throw herself into her work. The momentary lift she received from the support of the brave women of Horn gave her heart. She would throw herself into her work and receive strength and renewal from her sisters. One day she would forget her terrible mistake in Mexico. Her terrible mistake—trusting Tyler Grant.

  Trusting any man!

  She had fallen for his lies. The oldest lies in the world. And now she must pay the price. Loneliness, Goldie claimed. Already, she felt it. But for the time being, she was cursed by not being able to erase the scene at the stable from her mind. María’s screams; Tyler’s pleas.

  “Damnation, Maddie,” he had argued, “she put our lives in danger.” He had never seemed larger, looming over her, his once warm brown eyes dark with emotion.

  Short of breath, Madolyn could but gasp, “You struck her.”

  “Damn right. If she’d been a man I would’ve cold-cocked her.”

  “At least now I know you for the violent man you are.”

  “Violent? You want to see violence? Well, you just might. The Rurales know where the cattle are. That little wench told them. Raúl and Sánchez are with the cattle. The Rurales could kill them. They could kill us. They could kill you.” Sadness softened his expression. She backed away.

  “You solved all that by striking this woman?”

  “Hopefully. Now I know what she told them. She had refused to tell me. Damnation, Maddie, I had to know what she told them. I’m responsible for my men, for you.” He stepped toward her, tentatively, as though he didn’t know how to act.

  “I’ll thank you not to include me in your list of responsibilities, Tyler Grant, not ever again.”

  When he reached for her, she fled, although later she wasn’t sure whether she had fled him or herself. For even then she had wanted nothing except to throw herself in his arms. Ah, the weapons
of the heart. What destruction they wrought.

  The Rurales hadn’t killed anybody, much to Madolyn’s relief. But only because she and Tyler left the stable immediately and reached the herd ahead of them.

  The skirmish that followed took place by the light of the moon. Tyler left her back in the hills well out of harm’s way, with instructions not to move a hair on her head until he returned.

  She had never seen him so furious. But when she said as much, he retorted.

  “Damn right, I’m mad. I shouldn’t have trusted that woman. I should have been suspicious when she wanted us to move to the stable. I shouldn’t have trusted Sánchez. He never did have a brain where women are concerned.”

  During the ensuing gunplay, she had huddled in the darkness, worried, angry, heavy-hearted. When they returned, it was with few casualties. The Rurales recaptured the cattle, and they shot Raúl’s horse out from under him.

  “Raúl will take your horse, Maddie. You’ll double with me.”

  It was torture of the worst kind, riding behind Tyler’s saddle, forced to hold onto him to keep from falling off. But it was the only way back to Texas. She occupied her mind, or tried to, by planning her trip from Buckhorn to Boston on the very next eastbound train.

  “How can I convince you?” Tyler asked once before they arrived back in Buck. “It was the only way. If I hadn’t learned the truth from María, we would have lost a lot more than cattle. I’m not a violent man, Maddie.”

  “Convince yourself if you can,” she retorted. “I’ll thank you not to speak to me again.”

  “Then so be it. I’ll count myself the lucky one. If I had to weigh and measure every single action by your unrelentin’ standards, livin’ with you would be a curse!”

  Living without him was to be hers.

  Morley didn’t come at her first summons, but Madolyn was so busy she didn’t have time to worry about it. She had but a week to get the women ready for their big demonstration. They worked long into the night, practicing songs, painting signs. She instructed them on how to walk, how to look, what to expect from the onlookers—their husbands. It took her mind off Tyler.