Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (34 page)

“I do solemnly swear that I’ll do my very best to see that Katherine Burns Rowe will be very uncomfortable straddling a horse tomorrow, so uncomfortable, in fact, that she will insist upon sitting on her husband’s lap all the way to Trinity.” Laughter rippled in his voice at the last.

“Well, Mr. Billy Goat Rowe.” Her eyes glinted up at him. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

He pounced on her like a cat. They rolled on the blankets, arms and legs tangled, her hair covering the both of them. He captured her mouth, kissing, nibbling, growling, while laughter bubbled out of her.

“Rowe!” she gasped when she was able to free her mouth. “The door’s open and we’re naked—”

“There’s no one to see us except the platoon of soldiers camped in front of the cabin.”

“Noooo . . .” She reared up and grabbed for the covers. When she saw the delight on his face she paused, reached around him, and pinched his bottom. “Garrick Rowe! You’ve got to do something about your lying,” she said with exaggerated sternness.

“What do you suggest?” He rolled her over him, kissed her face, and nibbled on her neck, biting softly and sucking gently.

“Prayer. Repentance. Self-flagellation. You great lout! You scared the fool out of me—”

“Mrs. Rowe,” he said firmly, “stop your complaining. You’ve got better things to do . . .”

Twenty-one

By two o’clock almost the entire population of Trinity had gathered at the baseball field either to play on one of the teams or to watch the game. It was the last event of a full afternoon of celebrating. Most of the players had to be taught the rudiments of the game, but once they got the hang of it, they played as if life or death depended on the outcome. John, the blacksmith, was the captain of one team and Art Ashland, the freighter, the captain of the other.

Elias had been recruited to act as umpire. He was reluctant to accept the role, but when he was finally persuaded to officiate, he did so fairly and firmly. His first close decision had been met with curses and threats from Art Ashland and his team. Elias stood his ground and declared that as umpire his decisions were final, and if there were any more threats of violence, the other team would be declared the winner. Art scowled, backed down, and snarled at his team to keep quiet.

Laura, sitting beside Mary, cheered in support of Elias Her shout was lost in the roar of approval from John’s team.

“That just tickles me to death, Mary. This is one time that big hairy beast isn’t going to push Elias around. Elias has more brains in his little finger than that arrogant man has in his entire unwashed body.” She pushed strands of hair back into the knot pinned to the nape of her neck and eyed Mary accusingly.

“My goodness, Laura. I agree with you!” Mary looked at her friend’s set features and tilted chin and added softly, “I declare if you don’t sound like a woman in love.”

“Where did you get that idea? What a thing to say! Just because I’m glad Elias is standing his ground doesn’t mean . . . doesn’t mean—” Laura sputtered, and her face turned a delightful pink.

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Mary said staunchly and giggled. “Elias Glossberg is a very nice man. He’s good-looking, gentle, intelligent, and as dependable as the day is long. He likes children, is a hard worker, is interesting to talk to, likes to read and discuss various topics . . . Hummm . . . I just now realized all those nice things about Elias. I should set my cap for him.”

Mary’s words washed the pink from Laura’s face, leaving it pale and her eyes bleak.

“But, Mary, I thought that you and Hank—you said that you thought Hank was . . . nice.”

Mary placed her hand on Laura’s arm when she saw the distress in her friend’s face.

“I was teasing, Laura. Hank is nice and I think I’m in love with him. Elias is perfect for you. I’ve been hoping that things would work out for the two of you. I’ve seen him watching you and I’m sure he’s smitten, but he’s afraid to say anything.”

“Afraid? Well, for goodness’ sake. Why would he be afraid of me? I don’t know what I would have done without him while we were on the trail. Every other man that offered to help me wanted something in return. Elias was there each time I needed someone and later he’d just disappear.”

“He may be afraid of being rejected. You’re friends now, and he may not want to take a chance of losing your friendship.”

“He wouldn’t!”

“He doesn’t know that. Elias is a gentleman. That’s why it’s hard for the men in this rough country to accept him. Not that Hank isn’t a gentleman,” she added quickly.

“It just makes my blood boil when these ignorant louts refer to him as the Jew. They don’t call other men ‘the Irish’ or ‘the French’ or ‘the English.’ Elias is a man who happens to be Jewish. People with prejudices are small-minded.”

“Speaking of small-minded, there’s Mr. Longstreet.”

Mary and Laura watched the Southerner walk up to where his daughter, Agnes, sat on a makeshift bench with Myrtle Chandler. He stood several feet away from them for a moment, fingering the watch chain looped across the front of his vest and looking around. Presently he moved up behind Myrtle and rubbed himself against her back. The young girl inched forward, then stood, and moved away. Agnes would have followed, but her father pressed her down on the seat with a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Did you see that?” Laura asked, shocked. “That lustful old lecher was pushing himself against Myrtle. One of us should tell Mrs. Chandler.”

“We can’t . . . now. The men are so worked up it could start a fight if she screamed loudly enough. Oh! That nasty man. Why doesn’t he go after one of the girls from the Bee Hive? She’d know how to handle him.”

“Poor Myrtle. She’s going over to stand beside her mother.”

Mrs. Chandler had brought a dishpan full of bearclaws to the game and was busily handing them out and taking the coin.

“Look, Mary. Lizzibeth from the Bee Hive is glaring at Mr. Longstreet. She saw what he did and she doesn’t like it—”

“Goddamn you, Jew! I’m not out!” The shout came from first base. A miner picked himself up out of the dirt and shook his fist at Elias.

“You’re out! Get off the field.”

“Make me, Jew—”

“It ain’t Mr. Glossberg’s job to make ya, Arnie,” Hank yelled. “It’s mine. Do what he says or you’ll forfeit the game.”

“Ya cause us to lose this here game, ya mule-headed jackass, and I’ll stomp yore ass in the ground,” Big John yelled.

“Awright! Goddammit, I warn’t out.”

“Ya was too out. Yore a sorehead, Arnie Dorenkamp,” the player at first base called as the disgruntled miner walked back to his teammates, and the next batter stepped up to the gunnysack that served as the plate.

“Oh, dear,” Laura said. “I hope Elias doesn’t get in trouble.”

“Don’t worry. Hank has already told the players that if there’s any trouble there’ll not be another game. Some of the men have asked Elias to read to them from the rule book. I think you’ll find after this the men will have more respect for Elias. It could be what Hank had in mind.”

A low rumble of thunder came from the southwest where the sky had darkened, and wind was pushing rain clouds toward them.

“I hope the rain holds off until they finish the game. My goodness, Mary. Here come Julia and Theresa walking hand in hand with Pearl from the Bee Hive!”

Mary laughed. “Shocking, isn’t it? We’re in a different time and a different place, Laura. What used to be unheard of back home is normal here.”

“Julia has a tummy ache,” Pearl called as they approached. “Poor little darlin’s had too many sweet tarts.”

Later that night after Mary had put a tired Theresa to bed, she moved the lamp to the table and opened her journal. Hank had promised to come by after he made a tour of the town to see if everything was peaceful. In the meanwhile she would record her thoughts of the day.

Trinity, July 4, 1874.

It has been a grand day of celebration. Sack races were held before noon and two girls from the Bee Hive won. The wood-chopping, barrel-rolling and axe-throwing contests followed. Flossie Chandler won the footrace for the women and was given a length of dress goods donated by Elias. The miner’s cook won the leather gloves. Everyone enjoyed the horse and mule races, but the baseball game was the highlight of the day. Art Ashland’s team won. Each man was given a silver dollar by the mining company. All in all, it was a very nice day. Even the rain held off until the game was over. I wish Katy and Rowe had been here.

Today I discovered that Laura is in love with Elias Glossberg. I’m almost sure he has feelings for her. His dark eyes are so sad at times, but they brighten when Laura and Julia are around. The bad part of the day was the way Mr. Longstreet stood on the sidelines with a sneer on his face. There is something sinister and wicked about the man. His own children stay as far as possible from him.

Hank has kept peace but some of the miners are getting restless. I think they miss their families.

While Mary was putting her journal back in the trunk, a particularly loud crash of thunder caused her to wince and glance at the sleeping child on the bed. The wind whipped the side of the funerary with rain, and the tin roof rumbled. The sound of boot heels on the porch and the soft rap on the door brought a smile to her face as she hurried to open it. Hank stood outside with water dripping from the brim of his hat, his cotton shirt glued to his broad shoulders and chest.

“Hank! For goodness’ sake! You’re soaking wet.” Mary reached for his hat when he stepped inside.

“I’ll muddy up your floor, Mary.”

“Oh, pooh! Come on in. Don’t you have an oilskin? I declare, men are like children at times.”

Hank grinned at her scolding. “I’d of been just this wet, lass, if I’d gone to the bunkhouse to get it.”

“But you could have changed into a dry shirt and britches while you were there. Leave your boots by the door and come on over by the cookstove before you catch your death of cold.”

Hank kicked off his boots and accepted the towel Mary offered. He wiped his face and rubbed his dark red hair while watching her stoke the fire in the cookstove and set the teakettle directly over the blaze.

“After Rowe was shot, I fixed him a drink with hot water, whiskey, and sugar. There’s still some whiskey left in the bottle.” She glanced over her shoulder. Hank was still standing beside the door. “Come on. Sit right here.” She pulled a chair up beside the stove. “And take off that shirt so I can dry it.”

“I’ve not been bossed so much since I was a tad,” Hank grumbled, but there was a pleased smile on his face. He draped the towel on the back of the chair and removed his shirt.

Mary tried not to look at the curly hair on his broad, muscular chest, or at the hard, flat plain of his stomach as she took his shirt, squeezed the water from it, and hung it on a cord above the stove.

She moved behind him and dried the tight skin of his shoulders and back with the towel. A long red welt, the edges turning blue, ran diagonally from his shoulder blade down to the small of his back. Mary dabbed at it gently with the cloth.

“Hank? What’s this mark on your back?”

“What mark?”

“You know what mark. It must have hurt when it happened.” Mary leaned around so she could look into his face.

“It’s nothin’, lass. A bit of a scuffle at the saloon.”

“You mean a fight.” She ran the towel over his arms and chest. “Oh, Hank! There’s so many of them and only one of you—” Fear for him put a worried tone in her voice and anguish in her face.

He searched her face for a long moment, then gently pulled her down onto his lap.

“You’re not to worry, sweet lassie. Ashland’ll keep his men in line or he’ll be out of a job. And he wants this job.”

“I’ll be glad when Rowe gets back to help you.” Mary looped her arms about his neck. “Ashland is a mean man. Flossie Chandler said Lizzibeth won’t let him in the Bee Hive anymore.”

Hank grinned. “Lizzibeth is a woman to reckon with.”

“Stop grinning, Hank Weston! Do you . . . go there?” she whispered with her cheek against his, not wanting him to see her face.

“Well—”

Mary gave a strangled cry. Her head jerked back from his and her arms slid from around his neck. She looked into blue eyes dancing with deviltry and a weathered face creased with smiles.

“Would ya care, Mary mine?”

“Care? I’d be mad enough to kick a stump if you did! Oh, Hank, you don’t go there . . . do you?”

“Not for . . .
that.
”

“Then why?”

“A time or two someone was rough with the girls. Lizzibeth sent for me.”

“Art Ashland again. I’m scared something will happen to you,” she blurted.

“Ah . . . sweet lassie—” He held her close against him, feeling his heart pounding heavily against her breast. “Life is precious to me now ’cause of you and the babe. I be takin’ care to see nothin’ happens.”

“I love you, Hank. I said that once to another man. It was a long time ago, but I had my head in the clouds then and didn’t know the meaning of the word. I know there will be good times and bad times, but I’ll be a good wife to you, if you still want me.”

“Want you?” His voice was husky, tender. He was holding her fast and kissing her cheek. “I want you,” he murmured again and again. “I love you, love you—” He held her away from him and looked into her eyes with great tenderness. “When Rowe gets back, we’ll go to Bannack and be wed.” His hand began stroking her forehead, pushing her hair back and smoothing it caressingly. “We’ll make a home wherever you want.”

“It isn’t
where
we are that matters.”

He kissed her gently, lovingly. Her soft mouth parted with yearning, and the kiss deepened, and went on and on. When she drew back, her eyes were like two bright pools, her lips wet with his kiss. She looked down at the hand caressing the soft curve of her breast, covered it with hers and pressed.

“Hank, I’m not young and innocent. You want to do more than just kiss me, don’t you?”

“Mary . . . sweet lassie. I’d not be human if I didn’t.” His voice was a groan against her lips. He kissed her. The sweet burning pressure of his lips on hers fused them together, blotting out everything else. Finally he lifted his head. “I’m going to have to leave you, or I’ll be doin’ the
more
you spoke of.”