Waltz with the Lady Page 10

  He meant to provoke her. But her horse stumbled at that precise moment and deterred her from straightening him out on that particular idea. All of her energy went to guiding her horse, for the trail roughened as it turned from the river and went into the hills.

  As the hot sun filled hours of the afternoon, she was grateful for the protection of the broadbrimmed plainsman hat. After the wearying toil of riding over the hills for hours on end she felt she had come to her limit of endurance, but pride kept her from speaking up. Her admiration for those who spent their lives in and out of the saddle was ever-increasing. She yearned to leap off and walk the distance to evening camp, but she would persevere, if for no other reason than to spite Ransom.

  More than ever she realized it was her misfortune that her parents had sheltered her. A child delicate of health, she’d been cossetted by her family for many years, yet she’d inherited a vital tenacity for life and an elasticity of nerve that finally triumphed over her mother’s desire to invalid her. Maids had done her bidding since infancy, and in retrospect her only applicable skill was her education, which her father had objected to. The less a woman knew the better for her and her future husband, was his philosophy. If he had said it once, he had said it to her a hundred times, “God intended for woman to marry and to educate a girl would be to undermine the institution of marriage.” Though she never dared tell her father, India concluded that men supposed marriage to hold so little attraction for women who, if wiser, would give it up altogether.

  Well, as it happened, he was right, but now she was giving up more than just marriage. How shocked her father and sweet mother would be to discover that their daughter was riding astride a horse, corsetless, over Indian-infested mountains in the sole company of a hired gunman. And that was the best of it! Perhaps she had more in common with the dime novel Heroine of Whoop-Up than clothing.

  After unsaddling the horses and rubbing them down, Gat hobbled the pair and left them to graze. He gathered an armload of greasewood and knelt down to start a fire.

  “Ma’am, if you’ll break out the supplies, you can start fixing supper.” Within seconds he had the campfire blazing, and giving India a quick look, he set off to find more wood. She hadn’t complained, he’d give her that. But it was only the first day out and he could tell she’d be stiff as a stick in the morning. Tomorrow he’d find out if she was the whiny sort. Roughing it had a way of bringing out the worst in some folks. But if he’d read her right, he figured she was just stubborn enough to come through it fine.

  When he returned to the campfire he saw she had the coffee pot on. He dropped the wood and bent down to add a few sticks to the fire. “We covered over thirty miles today. If we keep it up we’ll be in South Pass day after tomorrow.”

  He saw she’d unpacked the saddle bags containing supplies and that she’d made a row of little piles on the ground in front of her.

  “I wasn’t sure what was what,” she began. “I…I wondered if you had a particular menu in mind for each meal. I’ve found the flour and soda powder, but I must confess I’ve never cooked over an open campfire before. Most of my excursions into the country have consisted of afternoon picnics already packed.”

  “I guess you’re due for a lesson, then. My specialty is biscuits and bacon.” Gat’s voice probably sounded more cheerful than he felt. “How about making some dough and we’ll have biscuits and bacon. I’ll show you the fine art of baking on a stick.”

  He watched her pick up the tin bowl and pour in a cup of boiling water and then a sprinkle of soda. Her method was contrary to his own, but she being a woman, he supposed she was stirring up some special recipe. He began to wonder when she dumped in a cup of flour and the batter looked more like lumpy gravy than dough. She stirred it and then she gave him a slightly puzzled look.

  “Do you think I should add more flour? I’m not much of a cook. You see, we had servants do the cooking. Perhaps you might explain what I should do next,” she smiled demurely.

  It did beat all, a woman who couldn’t cook! He bit back a sarcastic reply and gave a rueful laugh at his misfortune to be hooked up with her. “Well, ma’am, since I had no mother, I did most of the cooking for my three brothers and twin sisters.”

  “It must have been difficult for you.”

  He took the bowl from her and dumped it out behind a rock. He smiled. “Not for me as much as my brothers and sisters. My mother died in childbirth. I was the eldest so I tended house and nursemaided the little ones, until my father remarried. Things weren’t too bad after that. Pay attention now,” he measured in the soda, picked up the tin cup and filled it with cold water from the canteen, and mixed it together in a smooth batter. “Hot water will make it lumpy, lukewarm is about right. Let it sit a few minutes. Work in more flour until it feels sticky, then put a gob on the end of a stick and roast it over the fire or cook it in a fry pan. Out here a man can’t survive unless he knows how to cook biscuits.”

  “A woman too,” India added.

  “Yes, ma’am, a woman too,” he echoed patiently. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, you sure are single-minded on the subject of women.”

  “I’ll not deny it. But to my mind it’s injustice I battle. You’re a man so you can’t see it.”

  “Try me,” Gat said, as he began whittling the end of a long stick to a point. He noted the way India’s eyes lit up at the opportunity. He figured he was bound to get preached at so he might as well get it over with.

  “You know, it might have been better if I’d never been taught to read. Even in my early childhood, reading the Bible became a dangerous thing. One day, while I was reading, I came upon the words, ‘Thy desire shall be to thy husband and he shall rule over thee.’ Well, since it was the Bible I knew it must be true, but if it were true, what kind of world had I been born into and born a girl under the curse of Eve? Do you believe that Eve placed a curse on every woman?” she asked him earnestly.

  Gat hesitated before he answered, thinking that if beauty had been Eve’s curse, India Simms had received more than her share of cursing. But he knew better than to say so. “I’m not one to argue with the preachers, but it does seem Adam found it easy to lay the blame of a certain affair, in which he played a large part, on Eve. I agree with you on that, it doesn’t seem fair Eve should get all the blame.”

  Upon hearing this, her eyes widened as if she was astonished he agreed with her. “Yes, my very own opinion exactly! Believe me, it’s not easy to be a woman when, over and over, the Bible affirms the lowliness of the female sex. When I hear from the pulpit, ‘Wives submit yourselves to your husbands, as it is fit in the Lord,’ why, I must grip the pew to keep myself from jumping up and choking the preacher.” She paused thoughtfully. “Mr. Ransom, do you believe that half the human race is born to rule and half to be ruled?”

  Gat hesitated, making sure he chose his words carefully. He didn’t relish a death by choking. “Well, ma’am, depending on which half I was on, it might be easy to believe.” She bristled and he knew he had discredited himself, but he intended to get back into her good graces. “Maybe, ma’am, it might just be a matter of interpretation.”

  Her mouth opened with surprise. “You’re a man of rare insight. I wouldn’t have thought…” She stopped herself from insulting him. “Of course, it is a matter of interpretation. Perhaps the biblical translators, who were after all men, had biased the text. And that’s why I set about getting an education. I made up my mind to learn Hebrew, Latin and Greek, so I might read the holy words in the original. My father refused to contribute a cent to such folly. So I sold my silk dresses to pay for my schooling at Oberlin College, one of the few schools that admits women.”

  “You have my admiration,” Gat said truthfully, thinking maybe she had a point, though he didn’t think she had a chance in hell of changing anything. “Now, watch closely. All you do is take a gob of dough and punch the stick through and turn it over the fire.” He demonstrated with practiced skill, then gave her the stick.

&
nbsp; “Thank you.” She turned the stick steadily and the biscuit began to brown.

  He sat back, impressed by her single-minded devotion to her cause. He watched her hands, small lady’s hands, and he became captivated. She wanted no special treatment because she was a woman. The devil! Even if she did, there was no way he could ignore the fact of her femininity. Nor could he ignore his own desire to press his lips against the softness of her palms; to cup her dainty hand within his own. To touch her. If a fetching woman like her realized the power she held over a man, she’d never concern herself with something as one-horse as the vote.

  He decided to egg her on. “Tell me, how did you come to think women should get the vote?”

  She gave a self-satisfied smile. “At Oberlin I learned more than Latin and Greek. My blinders were lifted, and the truth did make me free, perhaps a little too free in many people’s minds.” She smiled to herself reflectively. “It began in the Congregational Church on the day I raised a hand to vote on a member’s excommunication. My vote was ignored. The young man counting the votes protested to the minister, and the minister—I will never forget him—stood at the pulpit with all the powers of heaven resting on his dark, cloaked shoulders and said, ‘A daughter of Eve is not a voting member!’ It was the first time I had ever looked straight into the face of discrimination, and it wasn’t the last.”

  “You’ve chosen a rough road.” Gat nodded his head sympathetically, yet cursing the unwitting minister for planting the seed of women’s suffrage in Miss Simms’s breast.

  “I know,” she sighed. “But I am no different than you. We all choose our paths. You’ve chosen the rough life of the frontier.”

  “Yep, I suppose. I came out after the war, liked it and stayed.” Gat remembered how he’d wanted a clear view and a deep breath of air that hadn’t already been breathed by somebody else.

  “But what could you possibly like? It is such a godforsaken place.”

  “That might be just the reason I like it,” he said with a laugh. “But I guess it depends on what you’re lookin’ for.”

  “And what are you looking for?”

  His dark eyes reflected the campfire’s light. “Not much. Peace and quiet. I suppose what most folks look for.”

  “Well, it’s certainly quiet out here.” She looked around with a shiver and rubbed her hands over her shoulders. “All this peace and quiet gives me the fidgets, especially when I think of the poor, dismembered Bill Rose back by the river. I could never live out here. In fact, as soon as I can, I’m returning to New England. I’m afraid I haven’t the pioneer spirit. When Horace Greeley said, ‘Go west young man,’ I took special notice that he said young man, not young woman.”

  “Yep, but here you are.” Ransom found himself enjoying their conversation.

  “Well, I’ve always been one to do the opposite of what I’m told. But I’m not here permanently. That is, not permanently unless a visit from Indians determines otherwise.” She gave a bleak smile.

  “Well, don’t fret. I’ll keep your scalp intact. That’s what I’m paid for.”

  “Let’s hope so.” She looked at her biscuit on the stick. “Do you think it’s ready?”

  “Appears to be.” He took his own out of the fire. “I’ll cook up the bacon.” He gave her an occasional glance as she roasted more biscuits. His eyes seemed to wander in her direction more often than not. Maybe it was the way the doeskin dress hugged her body, outlining shapely hips usually hidden in bustled skirts, or maybe he’d just seen a side of her he liked. If he were a woman, maybe he’d be crusading for the same cause. As the minutes passed, she’d roasted up a small pile of burned-brown biscuits.

  “How’s that?” She’d put them in the tin bowl, offering it to him. “I think I could be a real cook if I just set my mind to it.”

  “Well, set your mind to it. I don’t plan to be a ladies’ maid on this trip.” He reached for a biscuit, pulled it open and stuffed a burned bacon strip inside.

  “No one asked you to,” she replied defensively, misunderstanding his jest. “I’ll learn to cook as well as learn anything else I need to know. I’m not too dainty to lend a hand when I need to, sir.”

  Gat shook his head despairingly and began to eat. She was so damned touchy. He wanted to tell her to get down off her high horse and quit being so uppity. “I’m glad to hear it. And another thing, I wish you’d call me Gat.” Nobody had ever called him “Mr.” but her. “‘Mr. Ransom’ and ‘sir’ both sound a little stilted for these parts. I understand your reasoning for keeping a polite distance between us, but I don’t intend to repeat my performance of last night. It was a case of mistaken identity. I had no intention of taking advantage of you, and I apologize if it appeared so.”

  He saw her tense and knew again he’d stepped on touchy ground.

  “Do you always apologize to your ‘soiled doves’?” The depths of her blue eyes sparkled again with that crusading light. He felt a tirade coming and was sorry he had brought it up.

  “I wouldn’t consider you a ‘soiled dove.’” He continued to eat, noticing she was now more interested in making another moral point than in eating.

  “Why not? I’m no different from those women at Contessa’s boardinghouse. Only circumstance divides us. My experience with men has been limited”—he could second that—“which makes me morally acceptable in society. Yet those women are outcasts. Don’t you ever ask yourself why they are outcasts, while men like you who visit them regularly are not?”

  “No, I haven’t asked myself that particular question,” Gat hedged between bites. She’d picked up a biscuit stick and was pointing it at him.

  “Well, it’s time you did! A woman turns to prostitution out of economic necessity, not because she is depraved. If you ask me it’s her clientele who are depraved.”

  Gat shifted defensively, thinking she didn’t know much about men’s needs.

  “It bears out the significant double standards of our society. To further extend my argument, let us pretend for a moment that we are courting.”

  Gat swallowed back a laugh of disbelief. “If you say so, though I don’t intend to get into double harness.”

  “Again we seem to share more than one idea. I, too, have vowed never to marry.” Gat had heard women say that before, but this was the first time he believed it. “For a woman, marriage is a form of slavery, but then that is a topic we can discuss another time.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Gat said, deadpan.

  “Now,” she began to warm up, “suppose we’ve not known each other long, but you are assured of my spotless reputation and moral character. The moment is ripe for you to ask my hand in marriage. Go ahead, ask,” she prodded.

  He put down his tin coffee cup, leaned forward on bent knee and reached for her hand, biscuit and all. He schooled his chiseled features with smoldering intensity and looked her in the eye. A jolt of desire streaked through him and what had started as a jest became more. And he saw the power of attraction was no less for her as her eyes went as flighty as a cliff swallow.

  “What are you doing?” she yanked back her hand.

  “Askin’ you to marry me.” His gaze was like hot ash.

  “Well, I didn’t mean for you to be so theatrical about it. Just ask me.”

  “No, ma’am, I won’t ask unless you give me your hand.” Now he gave her that slow grin, the one he knew infuriated her.

  Her blue eyes narrowed warily, then grudgingly she let him take her hand. “Now ask.”

  Rotating his thumb slowly over the nest of her palm he made the most of holding her hand while giving the first and last proposal of his life. “Don’t yew want to throw in with me? I think I kin scrap up ’nough grub to eat on fer a while.”

  “What?”

  Gat laughed. “That’s a frontier proposal. But I reckon you want all the frills.” Lifting his free hand, he swept off his hat gallantly, “With your permission, dear lady, I ask you to be my adoring, faithful, obedient, always cheerful, ever beautifu
l wife.” The imp inside him rose and he lowered his head and kissed her hand. She jerked her hand away as if it had been burned, and Gat found himself holding empty air while his lips tingled from the taste of her palm.

  “Aren’t you overdoing it a bit? Only a simpleton would agree to such a proposal.”

  He sat back on his heels and picked up his cup again, wondering if she knew the kind of fire she was playing with. “Maybe, but I’m inclined to think this whole discussion is a bit simple. Now, get on with your point.”

  “Well, suppose I then asked you if you were chaste. What would you answer?”

  “You already know. I don’t need to answer.”

  “Correct. But then what if I replied. ‘I cannot marry you, sir, for I had hoped to wed a virtuous man.’”

  Gat was sullen. “Then prepare to be an old maid, because it isn’t too likely you’ll find one.”

  “But don’t you see?” India concluded. “Men expect to marry a virgin, and yet women aren’t availed that same consideration.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, you’ve made your point.” Gat yawned and reached for another biscuit. “But it’s too late for me. My seed is already sown in the true biblical sense. All I can offer a woman now is my regard and protection.”

  “I do not mean to discredit you, Mr. Ransom—”

  “Now we are back where we began,” his eyes held hers, not without an unsettling effect. “I’d like you to call me Gat. After all, I’ve proposed to you, that should put us on friendlier terms.”

  “I am sorry, but I would feel very uncomfortable. I fear it might be misleading and improper to do so.”

  Gat wondered how a woman who had enough gumption not to wear a corset—he’d spotted it right off—and who traveled around the territory preaching something as radical as woman suffrage could quibble over the etiquette of calling him by his given name.

  He stood up and swallowed the last of his coffee. “I’ll check on the horses and get the bed rolls laid out. I suppose now you can cook, you know how to clean up after yourself.”