Waltz with the Lady Read online

  Waltz with the Lady

  Betina Lindsey

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1990 by Betina Lindsey

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition October 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-141-8

  Also by Betina Lindsey

  The Serpent Beguiled

  The Swan Series

  Swan Bride

  Swan Witch

  Swan Star

  In memory of my great-great-grandmother, Isabella Graham Blaine (1817-1907), who in the true pioneering spirit emigrated from Carlisle, England, and settled in Spring City, Utah, in 1863. Being widowed, she made the journey alone. Well, almost alone: she brought her nine children with her.

  Dedicated to my husband, parents and family; the writers of the Utah Romance Writers of America Chapter; Gail Olsen; the sisters of the Mormon Women’s Forum; and feminists everywhere.

  Women dream many dreams and see many visions while bending over the washtub.

  —Ann Ellis

  Chapter 1

  A woman’s scream, magnified by night and the late hour, reverberated through the pine wood wall. India Simms’s goose-quill pen stopped mid-stroke and her full lips clamped together in indignation. Last night it was weeping and the night before shouted threats, she thought. In good conscience she couldn’t let another night pass with such goings-on. The lace apron of civilization might not have reached Cheyenne, Wyoming—but India Simms had!

  Getting to her feet, she fastened her silk wrapper more tightly around her diminutive waist and strode out the door and down the boardinghouse hall. Locks of abundant auburn hair carelessly fastened in a top knot tumbled down her shoulders as her lively, blue eyes focused on her neighbors’ door. Though barely five feet tall and weighing little more than a hundred pounds, India Simms was one to take hold of any situation with determination and bravery. Combine this with her youth, beauty and refinement, and any ruffian would be prepared to lift his hat upon meeting her.

  She stopped in front of the door, and clearing her throat, she summoned her best finishing school manners while trying to recall the couple’s name. Bramshill, yes, that was it.

  “Mrs. Bramshill,” she called out, “is there something wrong?” Of course something dreadful was wrong, India thought. She just wasn’t sure of the extremity.

  In reply, she heard a crash and a shriek. Losing some of her composure, she raised her fist, and pounded urgently on the door. “Mrs. Bramshill!”

  The door flew open under India’s hand and she gasped at the sight that greeted her. Mr. Bramshill had his wife pinned against the bed, and was choking her to silence.

  In her twenty-six years India had never witnessed such a thing. For a moment, etiquette and embarrassment nearly sent her back to her own room, but if she left, who would intervene and save the poor lady? No one will announced the voice of her conscience.

  She rushed into the room. “Mr. Bramshill, I beg you, let her go!”

  He ignored her plea as Mrs. Bramshill’s face was purpling. In desperation, India ran to the man and tried to pull him away, but his fist flew out and knocked her aside. Gathering her courage she snatched an empty whiskey bottle off the floor and brought it down on his head. He released his grasp on his wife’s throat, staggered sideways and, with a handful of gingham curtain, went down cursing.

  India ran to Mrs. Bramshill and helped her to her feet. “Are you all right?”

  Mrs. Bramshill panted hoarsely, unable to speak, while India unbuttoned the collar of her dress. But a hasty glance at Bramshill sent India into motion. He was groping for his holstered gun. Horrified, she pulled Mrs. Bramshill to her feet and shoved her through the door. The lady needed little encouragement and together they fled down the hall, taking the stairs by threes. The screen door banged behind them as they stumbled down the porch steps and out into the moonlit street.

  “The marshal!” India cried. “Run to the jail.”

  Mud sucked at India’s feet and clung to the lace hem of her wrapper as she ran down the street, pulling along her floundering companion. The screen door banged again and she glanced back to see Bramshill’s bulky figure chasing after them. Hindsight was a great teacher, especially in the thick of things. Yes, she thought desperately, she should have minded her own business—or at least have hit him harder with the whiskey bottle.

  With Bramshill roaring and running after them, they veered in front of an approaching horseman and made for the sanctuary of the jail. Together they flung their full weight against the split wood door, which quickly gave way, causing them to sprawl into the dozing marshal.

  “Marshal Bassett…” India wheezed between breaths, “her husband…is drunk…he’s…”

  The startled marshal had no time to hear the rest, for at that moment Bramshill loomed in the doorway.

  “Our differences are our own, Marshal. My…” his voice wavered into a hiccup, “my wife must return to me.” He leaned forward with a watery-eyed stare. “Sarah, you must learn obedience to your husband. I’ll not hurt you.” Beneath the slur of drunkenness, the voice was educated, but even Marshal Bassett seemed doubtful of the sincerity of his promise.

  Bramshill took a swaying step nearer. Before the marshal could right himself, Bramshill pointed his pistol.

  “Release my wife, sir!” Like a dowsing rod, the pistol barrel oscillated in his hand. “I’ll shoot, sirrr…” was his final threat, his face paled and his eyes glazed. He teetered forward and fell, landing face down with a thud.

  Spurs rang outside. “Well, now, ain’t that a stroke of lady luck if ever I saw one,” drawled a resonant voice.

  India’s eyes lifted from the heap on the floor to the figure in the doorway. His spurs clinked on the dirt-streaked floor as he moved into the light for a better view. Tall, over six foot, angular and well proportioned, he bore a face marked by the strong jaw line and high cheekbones of aggressive daring. His self-satisfied grin matched his confident motions. Though she knew they must look like foolish ninnies, trembling in the marshal’s arms, India resented the cowboy’s amused regard.

  “You wife-stealing again, Asa?”

  “Why…why, Gat,” Bassett stuttered, slightly perplexed. The marshal disentangled himself and rose to his feet. “Wipe that grin off yer face and help me lock this coyote up. Get his feet on yer way in.”

  India guided Sarah to a stool and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. Sarah’s long fingers clutched spasmodically at her bruised throat while she attempted to gain some composure. Her black hair fell in tangled wisps over her heaving breast, and she averted her red-rimmed eyes as the two men carried her unconscious husband into the cell and dumped him unceremoniously on the floor.

  The marshal’s keys clanked against the cell bars as he locked the door. Another jug-bitten drunk, bewhiskered and wearing a stovepipe hat, a preacher’s black frock coat, and trousers stuffed into high-topped boots, shared the cell. He leaned against the cracked mud and log wall mumbling snatches of inane verse. Suddenly, he reached a grasping hand through the cell bars and motioned to India.

  “As a parson I ain’t much, but as a drunkist…hic…I am a successist,” he
giggled throatily.

  “Cork it, Thirsty,” the marshal growled.

  India turned her head, swallowing her revulsion. It was all such a sorry affair, quite out of her experience.

  Sarah clasped India’s hand tightly, her bosom rose and fell with a futile sigh. In a sweet southern voice she said softly, “I should never have married him. It would have been better to suffer the miseries of spinsterhood.”

  The marshal, overhearing, came over. “Now, now, ma’am. Your husband will be a repentant and sober man in the morning. No need to be too hard on him.”

  Sarah’s long suppressed anger surged forth in a burst of unhappy words. “Mr. Bramshill has never been repentant in the morning!”

  India’s eyes skittered uncomfortably past the cowboy’s circumspect gaze to the marshal while Sarah continued bitterly. “Y’all can’t know that for a lady, marriage can be a purgatory with no escape.”

  The marshal rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. “Why, ma’am, I’ve never thought about it. Most ladies I’ve met hunt down a husband like a wolf looking for supper.”

  India saw more tears flood Sarah’s eyes, and she winced at his tactlessness. What a time to say such a thing! “Marshal, it might be best for us to go back to the boardinghouse,” she offered.

  The marshal’s jowled face brightened with obvious relief. “Yep, that might be best, don’t you agree, Gat?”

  The tall cowboy nodded, but said nothing. At least, India noted grimly, he wasn’t grinning any more. He touched the broad brim of his hat and moved out of the ladies’ way. India, passing with the grace of royalty, ushered Sarah to the door.

  “I beg a favor of you, marshal.” Sarah Bramshill paused momentarily, a hint of trembling touched her soft voice.

  “Anything, ma’am,” Bassett replied gallantly, though his demeanor belied the verbal courtesy. It was clear that getting tangled up in Sarah’s marital differences was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “Keep Mr. Bramshill in jail. You understand, Marshal? He needs time to sober up.”

  The marshal nodded sympathetically. “Ma’am, as you are a lady, you ain’t expected to know the intricacies of the law. I kin guarantee one day fer disorder and another fer drunkenness, but a third might be stretching things a bit.”

  India sniffed. From what she’d seen of Cheyenne the only intricacy of law which determined length of sentence was the capacity of the jail. If it got too full, the marshal would take Bramshill outside, ask which way he was going and point him in that direction.

  “Of course, Marshal,” India said indignantly, “I forgot wife-beating is a husband’s right. Too bad he isn’t guilty of a serious crime, perhaps spitting on the boardwalk?”

  She turned on her heel, leaving the marshal groping for a reply.

  “Pardon, ma’am,” the cowboy said, as India ushered Sarah out the door. “It’s late. The marshal or myself could escort you ladies home.”

  India raised a delicate auburn brow, her eyes flickered measuringly over him. She was surprised by his courtesy. The West abounded with cowboys who looked as if they bedded down in a sage brush patch every night and rode through a dust storm everyday. He had the continual squint and the unshaven face that seemed to be the hallmark of the Wyoming cowboy, though he was distinguished by a scar running from his temple down the left side of his face and cheek. Despite his good manners, his rough, rangy appearance prevented her from accepting his offer.

  “Thank you, sir. But we no longer need protection.”

  He started to smile, then seemed to think better of it. Instead he reached inside his boot and brought out a tiny pistol. “Ma’am, I wouldn’t go out unarmed in the streets of Cheyenne this time of night. I don’t suppose you should either. Take this,” he offered her the gun.

  At first she hesitated, then took the gun.

  “It’s loaded. Just pull the safety when you’re ready to fire,” he instructed with a nod.

  India looked at the gun warily, turning it over carefully in her tiny hand. She knew the women of the evening carried them, and rumor had it that most were deadly shots. The West was giving her quite an education, she thought ruefully.

  She was a bit confused. “Of course. Thank you, Mr…”

  “Ransom, ma’am. Gat Ransom,” he said. Her icy-blue gaze focused on his full lips encircled by the shadow of a beard, then rose to his smoldering eyes beneath black, arching brows. There was a wildness about him that wrenched her stomach and alerted her senses. In the face of his help she felt annoyed and defensive, yet she couldn’t think of a single reason why. He was disturbing, this Mr. Ransom; she wished they’d never met.

  She quickly gathered up her muddy-hemmed nightgown and led Sarah out into the darkened street. The bullet-cracked face of the wall clock marked half-past ten, and the chime accented the ladies’ exit.

  A sorrel horse at the hitching post snorted and India swallowed uneasily when she saw a muslin-swathed corpse on its back. A wild-looking dog kept guard beside the horse and eyed her steadily. Somewhere down the street whoops and hollers echoed through the spring night, punctuated by gunshots. She glanced back over her shoulder to Ransom uncertainly. “I’m sorry but…but exactly where is the safety on this…this…”

  “Derringer, ma’am,” Ransom said. He reached over and released the catch. She gave him a tight smile and a polite nod. Linking her arm through Sarah’s, she began to walk down the dark street with the derringer hidden in the fold of her silk wrapper.

  She heard Ransom’s voice behind her saying, “I hope she doesn’t shoot her foot off,” followed by a chuckle from Marshal Bassett, but pride would not let her turn her head. Yes, she could just imagine Mr. Ransom’s grin.

  Chapter 2

  Gat watched the ladies, the uppity one in particular, disappear into the night. At first he watched her because he hadn’t seen a woman in a month and then because he’d never seen a woman like her. In a territory where there were six men to every woman, he wondered who would let loose such an innocent in Cheyenne. Don’t need protection! He grinned at her audacity. She sure was all arrogance and bravado, and green to the frontier—as green as prairie grass. He couldn’t help but savor a face worthy of a porcelain locket and the hourglass curves of her body silhouetted beneath her silk wrapper, a silk wrapper so fine that in the right lamplight it would be transparent. She looked as desirable as any woman could look.

  He whistled under his breath and reluctantly pulled his eyes away, and turning to Asa Bassett he said, “That gal’s a stunner.”

  “Looks ain’t everythin’. I never took you fer one to go after a sharp-tongued shrew.”

  “Shrew? That little thing? Ah, she’s just got a little spunk. There’s nothin’ wrong with spunk.” Gat pursed his lips and bit back a smile.

  “Listen, you ain’t been here. That little thing is stirrin’ up all the ladies in town fer votin’. Imagine lettin’ ladies vote. It’ll be degradin’ politics to let ’em in. I fer one will be glad to see the hind end of that filly leave Cheyenne. No wonder husbands is beatin’ their wives, the way she gets them all stirred up about wimmin’s rights. Bullshit! Why, ever since my Caroline went over to the town hall and heard her spoutoff, I’ve had no peace at home. Caroline informed me that during the first territorial legislature, I was to support enfranchisement fer wimmin, er else.”

  Gat continued to hold back a grin. His old friend could tame a boom town like Cheyenne, but was mush in the hands of his good wife, Caroline. “Or else what?” he prompted.

  “If you was married you wouldn’t ask.” Asa drew up the only stool in the room and sat down. “I ain’t aimin’ to sleep with my horse this winter. Them days is over fer me. Give me the soft flank of a woman to a saddle any day.”

  “Meanin’…” Gat prodded good-humoredly, though he knew exactly what Asa meant. Even so, for his money he’d take a saddle over the hobbles of matrimony, and if a man wanted more he could buy it on the edge of town Saturday nights.

  “Meanin’, I reckon I’ll
vote fer wimmin’s enfranchisement. Ain’t that a mouthful of words. Trust the ladies to complicate somethin’ as simple as the vote.”

  Gat yawned, exhausted from a long day’s ride. “If I’d known what I was missin’, I’d have encouraged the governor to come back sooner.”

  Asa took a pouch of chewing tobacco out of his pocket and bit off a chew. “What’s doin’ up at Fort Laramie these days?” He offered the pouch to Gat, but Gat declined.

  “Same as always—Indian trouble. Rumor has it there’s something besides Sioux in the Black Hills.”

  “Gold?”

  “Maybe.”

  From inside the cell the sound of retching interrupted the quiet conversation.

  Asa muttered. “That damn infernal pukeface!” He gave an exaggerated sniff, got up, and went out into the street for fresh air. “Howdy, boy,” he greeted Gat’s dog, Coyote, with an ear-scratching rub. The dog nuzzled for more attention. “Who’s this you’ve brought by?” He walked over to Gat’s horse and circled the corpse. “A little rank, ain’t he?”

  Gat stood in the open doorway. “I don’t know who. He pulled two Colt Lightnings on Governor Campbell at the Platte Waystation yesterday.”

  “You the one who shot him?” Asa spit aside into the street.

  “Had no choice. He opened fire when the governor refused to drink with him. One bullet ripped through Campbell’s coat, another hit his shoulder, and four others missed altogether.”

  “Fool. The poor, reckless fool,” remarked Asa as he lowered the cloth to examine the face. He eyed the lifeless features and made a hard-luck click with his tongue. “That’s all I do in this job, sort out gunfights between whiskey-fired heroes.”

  Gat nodded in agreement. It wasn’t the first time somebody had taken a shot at Governor Campbell. Appointed by the president, the non-smoking, non-drinking Republican Campbell was a little too puritanical for the frontier and Gat supposed that’s why he’d been hired as the governor’s temporary bodyguard. That, and to more or less guide him around Wyoming Territory.