Caress of Fire (11 page)

“Thank you, ma'am. That'll be enough.”

It better be. Gil picked up the oak piece again. Weeks on the road were getting to the entire company, he knew It would be a good thing, reaching Lampasas and its whore. Trouble was, what the devil was he going to do, once they got there? He couldn't visit the doxies, and he wouldn't seek Lisette out.

At that moment Blade Sharp raised up from his nap. “Say, Miz Good Biscuits, since ya're of a mind to doctoring, think I could talk ya outta a little barbering?”

Not replying, Lisette replaced the cap on the liniment bottle.

Johns Clark took the harmonica from his mouth and studied the goings-on. Gil kept an eye on it all, too.

Sharp rolled a cigarette and lit it. Taking the stogie from his mouth, he picked a piece of tobacco from the tip of his tongue to examine it. “You ain't gonna help me out, gal?”

Gil did the answering. “See the barber in Lampasas.”

While he trusted Tannington and the others to keep their lusts to themselves, he held no such respect for Blade Sharp.
Best keep an eye on that one.

 

 

The morning after Blade Sharp had asked for a haircut, Lisette set the breakfast dishes to rights, then picked up the ax. Dawn was sending ribbons of orange across the eastern horizon as she split firewood. The only man left in camp was Matthias Gruene.

He walked up to her and took the ax out of her hand. His brown eyes troubled, he said, “You have a right to help, Lise.”

Since her wedding, he'd tried to speak with her, but she had avoided him, thanks to his criticism of the union. Today, though, she replied, “I ask no favors for being a woman.”

“Being a woman has nothing to do with it.” Aggravation dented Matthias's mouth. “As nighthawk, Willie Gaines would be doubling as cook's louse, were he alive. Besides that, the cowpokes are supposed to pitch in and help you.”

“That wasn't what I was given to understand,” she replied, and could have bitten her tongue.

“Gil said you're supposed to do everything?”

“He said nothing of the kind.”

But Gil
had
spelled out a cook's duties. The day he'd asked for marriage, he had been clear about her responsibilities. Why had he lied?

Common sense had a word with her suspicious mind:
Think about what you'd accuse him of.
He wasn't a liar. And he was the boss. It was within his right to set any conditions, any responsibilities for his underlings. If he expected her to work alone, then fine. She would continue to do so.

Since she had no wish to discuss her husband, she switched the topic. “I understand we're to reach Lampasas tomorrow.”

“Right.”

“The men have been talking nonstop about it,” she said. “They all seem to have plans. You, on the other hand, haven't said a word on the subject.”

He didn't comment, and she scrutinized her brown-haired friend. Matthias was tall, hale, robust, and even-featured–the attributes young ladies found attractive. Yet she'd never known him to have an affair of the heart. Of course he was young–twenty-three wasn't old for a bachelor–but wasn't it a shame he'd never found someone to love and make marriage and a home with, rather than taking to the lonely life of a cowboy?

“What about you, Matthias? Will you seek out the Lampasas ladies?”

An odd look crossed his square-jawed face. “Ladies don't interest me.”

“Matthias!” A vision from the past burst forth. “Surely you aren't like Rudolf Klein!”

He chuckled. “No, Lise, I am not like our old schoolmate. I do have an interest in the fair sex. I said
ladies
don't interest me. I am interested in one lady”

“Who, Matthias? Tell me. I want to hear all about her.”

“Frau Busybody, I will not tolerate your prying.” He shook a finger. “I came over to chop wood. Will you allow me?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“You're too pigheaded for your own good,” he said, exasperated.

“Work, Matthias–it awaits you. But not
my
work.”

As he walked away to collect his hat and lariat, she wondered about him. She had been prying, but why didn't he wish to discuss his lady friend? He rode out of camp. And Lisette hoped everything would turn out well for him.

You've turned into a romantic, just like Anna Uhr.
Given the hopeless situation with Gil, Lisette supposed she'd lost the last grip on sanity.

Ten minutes later, she rubbed her brow with the back of a hand . . . and caught sight of Blade Sharp. A shiver of revulsion went through her. Every man in the outfit had been cordial and nice, except him. For the past week–and always away from the others–he had made a nuisance of himself. Last night had been his closest to showing his true colors in front of her husband.

Forget any more firewood. She tossed what she had in the cooney, then rushed to finish harnessing the draught horses. But she wasn't quick enough to deflect Blade Sharp.

Running an overlong nail down the scar on his face, he asked, “Got any more coffee, gal?”

“You'll have to wait for the midday break.” She hurried with the harnessing.

“Don't want no coffee, noways.”

“Aren't you supposed to be herding up the mother cows?”

At her own question, she grimaced. The practice of leaving newborn calves behind was an abomination which no one seemed to mind . . . except for Lisette.

With Blade Sharp advancing on her, this was no time to be thinking of cows.

“Ya sure are purty, gal. I been hankering for ya since the first night ya showed up. Figgered ya'd set sights on McLoughlin, him being the nabob boss, but I been biding my time.”

“Go away.”

He cupped his private parts, jiggling them. “The two of ya ain't been getting along, I can tell by the way he's been sneering at ya. So I'm going to show ya what it's like to have a real man betwixt yar legs.”

“Get away from me.” She hurried toward the wagon steps.

“I like the ones that fight. Makes me get real hard.”

He insinuated his reeking bulk between her and the chuck wagon. She shrank from his presence and the stink of his liquored breath and ducked away.

She put her foot on the wagon step, but he grabbed her from behind, forcing the air from her diaphragm, and snapped her against his damnable body. She tried to scream but found no voice.

The buckle of his gunbelt dug into her spine. She kicked his shin and tried to elbow his side as he rasped, “I'm wantin' me a piece of something tart. Like a big piece of Miz Good Biscuits.”

He threw her to the ground. She tried to roll away. But he was on her before she could move. His greasy hand clamped over her mouth. “Ya're a good fighter, girl. Hope it don't get so rough I have to kill ya. But I will if I have to.”

The other hand loosened his gunbelt as well as the buttons of his trousers. She continued to fight him, yet he managed to rip Willie Gaines's britches from her waist. When he did, she hoisted a hand to gouge his eye, drawing blood but missing her target. He hauled back his fist, connecting it with her jaw. Dazed from the pain, she went limp.

Again he hit her face, this time with the flat of his hand. Reds, blues, and whites flashed in her eyelids. She tried to fight him–tried. With the last strength she had, Lisette clamped her thighs against his invasion.

And then he went still . . . as a gun barrel clicked above their heads.

“Get off my wife,” Gil demanded.

Gil shoved the six-shooter's barrel against the back of Blade Sharp's head, morning light glinting off the steel. It had been naive of him to think such a jackass as Sharp would leave Lisette be, simply because she carried the McLoughlin name.

“Unless you want your brains scattered all over the State of Texas, you'd better get off my wife.”

Sharp rolled away from Lisette. She clutched the tatters of her clothes as her molester grappled for footing. Sharp's breeches collected at his feet; he pulled them up fast.

“Lisette, get back.” Gil reached for Sharp's discarded gunbelt. “Way back.”

She scrambled to huddle behind a wagon wheel at the same moment that Sharp challenged, “If ya think ya're man enough, McLoughlin, come on. Fight for yar woman.” His fingers crooked in invitation, and his eyes went to the hand holding his gunbelt. “Let's make it a fair fight, though. Gimme my gun.”

Gil was at the point of murder, thinking about those paws on Lisette, yet he was done with killing, thanks to the war.

He replaced his gun, Thelma, in her holster, then tossed Sharp's gunbelt across Big Red's saddlehorn. His hand made a fist as he stepped closer. “Frankly, Sharp, you're not worth a bullet.”

Sharp laughed. “Ya're yellow, McLoughlin.”

As Gil reared back to punch him, he said, “I never said anything about not defending my lady.”

His fist connected with Sharp's nose; he heard the bone pop. Blood splattered. Sharp tumbled backward; he righted himself to advance again. Gil caught the fist with his arm before landing another punch on the cowhand's jaw. The man roared in anger, bending forward to thrust his elbow into Gil's stomach. Gil feinted away from the blow.

A punch from Sharp ripped the skin under his left eye. He wasn't down. Both his arms flipped upward; Sharp crouched to grab Gil's shoulder. After kicking a knee into his opponent's stomach, Gil pounded his fist into the jackass's face.

At last, the cowpuncher fell to the dirt, clutching his gut and face simultaneously

“Whew.” Gil rubbed his brow.

Sharp slithered toward the chuck wagon, reached to the underbelly, and plucked an ax from the cooney. Gil kicked his wrist. The ax whirled out of reach.

With his head, Gil motioned southward. “Collect your gear, Sharp.” Panting, he rubbed his injured cheekbone with his bandana. “Your services are no longer required.”

Sharp spat blood while wiping the back of his hand across his mouth; he turned his eyes to the gunbelt laying on Big Red's saddlehorn. “I ain't leaving without my revolver.”

“Yes, you are.”

Evidently Sharp knew Gil was serious. He said, “I'll get ya for this, McLoughlin.”

“The only thing you'll get is packing. Do it, Sharp. I want you gone in five minutes.”

It took less than three.

As Blade Sharp dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and headed out, Gil turned to his wife. Huddled under the wagon, her shoulders hunched, she had buried her face in the crook of her elbow. Instinct shouted to him to give her comfort. Yet the only words forming were rough: “Lisette, you can get up now.”

He heard her muffle a German reply against her forearm. “I'm sorry for speaking as a Hun.” Shaking her head, she peeked between the spokes. Anguish written in each line of her lovely face, she said, “Believe me, I did
nothing
to invite his advances, and I–Gil!”

She crawled from beneath the wagon; a shaking hand reached up to him. “Your face! You're bleeding. Oh, God in heaven, let me help you.”

He barely noticed his injury. All he saw was the start of two bruises, one on her cheek, the other on her jaw. And he warmed to his wife's tenderness and consideration. After nearly being raped, she was more concerned for him than for herself.

“I must get you stitched,” she said worriedly.

He crouched beside her, closing his fingers around her hand. “Don't worry about me. I'm worried about you .”

“I ... I'm all right.” She tore a strip from her apron, dabbed it against his cut. “It would take more than the likes of Blade Sharp to ruffle me.”

“You mean it?”

She eyed him squarely. “I have never lied to you, not openly . . . and I don't intend to start now.”

He believed her. He thought back on all that had transpired between them. Except for the lie of omission about her lack of virginity–she could have actually told him, since she had spoken in German the day they had had sex, when he'd provoked her into it–there had always been a certain honesty to Lisette.

Maybe he ought to hear what she had to say about herself. Trouble was, she didn't need any more emotional upsets.
You're looking for a way out,
he told himself. Maybe. It was tough, trying to break a vow never to allow a woman to discuss her sexual conquests.

Suddenly he realized how tough it must have been for Lisette, owning up to her past. How very difficult it must have been. How should he handle the here-and-now? Until he could gather his courage, he would quit being so damned mean.

Swallowing, he watched as she collected needle and thread to sew up his wound.
Give her a chance. She'll put the whole
of you back together.

Thinking back on something she'd said, he squeezed her arm and offered, “Lisette, I want you to know something. Never for a moment did I think you made a play for Blade Sharp.”

Relief made her lift and drop her shoulders, and her beguiling eyes moistened. “Thank you. Thank you for believing me.”

 

This was how Lisette viewed Sharp's attack. It had brought a modicum of peace to her relationship with Gil, and for this she was thankful. Maybe there
was
hope for them.

And she was glad to be free of the dastardly cowhand.

No one seemed to notice he was no longer a part of the outfit. To a man the cowboys were indignant over Sharp's attack. Dinky Peele, Preacher Wilson, and Johns Clark offered to go after him, but the boss put the halters on their idea.

“He's gone,” Gil said, “and that's the end of it.”

It ended another habit as well. The cowboys quit calling her Miz Good Biscuits, since it reminded her of Sharp. The visual reminders remained: Lisette's bruised face and the stitched skin over her husband's cheekbone.

Life went on.

The Four Aces outfit reached the cedar-flecked outskirts of Lampasas the next day at noon and corralled the longhorns there. The cowboys were more than ready to partake of all the town had to offer, and Gil advanced them their pay.

They drew lots to see who would be the first ones into town. Oscar Yates and the brawny, slow-talking boy in charge of the remuda, Fritz Fischer, lost out and were left to guard the herd. Fritz was crestfallen.

The grizzled former cookie took it better, saying, “Aw, shucks, I be too old fer antics, anyhoo. I'll keep an eye on the dogies and Her Majesty Sadie Lou, here.” He patted the dog's head and received a snap for his efforts. “Ye boys have a good time. And pinch some gal's rear fer me.”

Wink and Dinky headed out to do Oscar's bidding. Jakob Lindemann, a man of few words and a large appetite, set a course for the local bakery.

Johns Clark left, but not before smiling and announcing, “Seems to me there's a gal named Jean Dodson lives over by the springs. Think I'll see if she's still got an itch I can scratch.”

Matthias departed without a word.

Now, with no one else around, Gil having taken him off to tally the herd, Preacher Wilson called Lisette aside.

The Good Book tucked under an arm, he said, “There's something I've been meaning to talk with you about.”

“I'm listening.”

His eyes moved upward. “ ‘Defraud ye not one the other, except it be with consent for a time, that ye may give yourselves to fasting and prayer; and come together again, that Satan tempt you not for your incontinency.'”

“Please, please. Don't quote the New Testament.”

“Are you not a believer, child?”

“I believe I've heard enough.”

She began to turn, but he caught her arm. “Forget religion, then. The law says I must file a marriage license for you and the mister. That will make your marriage legal. But, Mrs. McLoughlin, I'm not blind. I can tell you and your husband aren't married in the spirit of Canaan. Just by the looks on your faces I see this.”

Embarrassed that their private life read like an open book, Lisette wished to be far, far away. Yet she wouldn't turn from the reed-thin preacher, nor from his wise hazel eyes. Never before had she really looked at the man.

He was on the down side of thirty, and had thinning hair and an air of reason. Of course, he had once called her a harlot, but why wouldn't he think such? No wife of Caesar would have stalked a trail drive, would have agreed to a marriage less than sublime. Lisette McLoughlin wasn't above reproach, but she did have her pride, and she said, “Mind your own business, sir.”

“I am a man of God . . . but I am also just one of the flock. You are a good woman, you are young, and you could have your choice of husband. I also see that you are unhappy. I could . . . I could neglect to file that license.”

Though appreciative of his sacrifice, she could not give an immediate response. Still, she wouldn't lie. “You wed Gil and me in the eyes of God, for better or for worse. And the marriage is real, though it isn't without its flaws. We have consented to disagree.”

Lisette spotted a carefree pair of bees flitting above a cedar bush; would that life could be so simple! But it wasn't. She addressed the preacher as well as her marital problem. “I think you should speak with my husband before making a decision on filing the license.”

“I did, three days ago. He told me to forget it.”

Why would such an answer shock her? She should have expected as much, yet a dagger of regret lanced her heart. Her eyes snapped to the source of her hurt. Gil was handing his sorrel over to the wrangler.

He wanted to end their marriage. Well, why make it easy for him? All right, she hadn't come to the marriage a virgin, but
he
had been the one to pester her into submission. Pester? From the beginning, her desires had superseded all reason. Whatever the case, Gil was bound by God; why not let him be bound by law? Marriage had been his idea.

“Reverend, we are married under God's ordinance. I have given myself to him. And we have agreed not to agree. But it's a long way to Kansas, and there could be a child. God wouldn't want me to name such a babe a bastard. File the license.”

Eli Wilson smiled. “God will be merciful.”

“I hope so.”

He bowed and took himself off.

Remembering her husband's admission that she hadn't satisfied him as a woman, Lisette was rocked by what she had asked Eli Wilson to do.

There was no backing out; the preacher had mounted a mare from the remuda and was gone.

Now what should she do?

It would be best to take matters as they happened, and deal with them as needed. Which didn't mean she had to slink away. After all, the preacher had spoken to her husband three days ago, before the Blade Sharp incident, and Gil had been civil since. Civil, and almost husbandly. Hope wasn't dead–it merely slept.

And when he ambled over to her, she asked, “Will you drive me into Lampasas?”

“I'd figured to.”

Within minutes she was sitting beside him on the spring seat and they were on Main Street. Leaving the team and wagon at the livery stable, he set off to make arrangements for Willensstark's return to Adolf and to post some letters.

“Would you mind posting this one, too?” Lisette asked, handing him an envelope for Anna Uhr.

In a veiled report, Lisette told Anna about the wedding, about the bouquet pressed in Gil's Bible, and about the wonders of travel over the trail. Pride had kept her from apprising her friend of anything negative.

Lisette did, however, caution Anna against making any mention to Adolf of her plans or proposed whereabouts. She didn't feel safe from her brother's clutches, even though she wore Gil McLoughlin's ring.

While she had no wish to inform Adolf and Monika of her whereabouts, she wondered about them. Had the peach saplings taken root? Who would butcher the hogs this spring? Would Adolf's bad leg get worse from bending over to plant the cabbage garden? How was Monika enduring her pregnancy? Most importantly, how were the boys?

Lisette's chest tightened as she recalled baby Ludolf. Soon he would be walking, and she'd miss that significant event. And Karl and Viktor. She chuckled, remembering their pranks, their scruffy faces, their unruly caps of blond hair. Right then, she wished she could be brushing their hair.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she muttered.

Glancing around as she waited on the courthouse lawn for her husband, Lisette saw oak and pecan trees, a multitude of low-growing cedar, plus a few native stone buildings among the clapboard ones. Lampasas was a pretty town, for Texas. The edge of town wasn't so winsome, she recalled. There, the feeder to the Chisholm Trail had cut a deep groove into the sea of grass, and there hung in the air a dust smelling of cattle, cattle, cattle. She'd grown accustomed to the sharp aroma over the past weeks. Nonetheless she yearned for a real bath and a real bed.

Lisette eyed a general store nearby. Shop, shop, shop, a voice in her brain intoned. That store would sell the makings for bonnets, plus the ready-made clothes which would free her from britches and men's shirts.