Waltz with the Lady Read online

  “Have no fear, Mr. Ransom.” She gave him a warm smile.

  He didn’t smile back, wishing she’d never brought up the subject of soiled doves and lost virginity. Quiet nights by a campfire had a way of making a man’s mind wander.

  Later, settling back against his saddle, he took his penny whistle out of his vest pocket and began to pipe the mating call of the western willet into the prairie darkness. Though it wasn’t much solace, a nightbird cooed an answering refrain. His eyes strayed to the form sleeping by the fire and he regretted the rare attack of conscience he’d had at Contessa’s. Last night he’d bedded down with his horse, though he hadn’t easily forgotten the sheen of India’s lily white skin peeking through her silk robe, and the weight of her full breasts in his palms. It had been a damnable oversight to give a woman a body like that if she never intended to use it. And now, body and all, she was his responsibility. He had to protect her, not ravish her, and a man shouldn’t have to endure such a temptation. The thought of spending the next months with her struck him as mighty trying. It might be more than trying: it’d be downright hell!

  Chapter 8

  India jerked awake. She lay in her buffalo skin cocoon and considered remaining there until the sun was fully up. But she saw that Ransom had his horse saddled already and was leading her own little paint pony over.

  “Good morning,” he greeted pleasantly. “Coffee’s on the fire.”

  Feeling a little self-conscious about how she might look, she stroked back the loose strands of hair veiling her face and managed to sit upright. Stiffness riddled her body, and when she moved to stand up, her sudden intake of breath caused Ransom to turn his eyes in her direction.

  Each movement required her full concentration, and for the moment, she could only stand statuelike. To stoop for the coffee pot was out of the question.

  “Time to saddle up,” Gat prompted. He covered the pony’s back with an Indian blanket. “You want to do it yourself?”

  “Oh, yes, well…” She was fast tiring of the charade she had bluffed herself into. Saddling a horse was the last thing she felt able to do. Just walking to the horse would be a major accomplishment.

  “A little stiff this morning?” he asked.

  “A little,” she returned, attempting to take a step forward.

  “Come over here and I’ll show you how to saddle up.”

  From the solicitude in his voice she knew he’d be patient. Step by step, with gritted teeth, she walked over to the horse. Gat hefted the saddle onto the horse’s back. She watched closely, memorizing his every move. She vowed to saddle the horse on her own the next day, that is, if she were still alive.

  While she took time to drink a cup of coffee and eat a burned biscuit, Gat doused the fire and packed the supplies into the saddlebags.

  Afterwards, she brushed out her braided hair and used a piece of parcel twine to tie her hair back into a loose fall. She turned around to find Ransom had been watching her. Caught in his observation he averted his eyes and kicked dirt on the campfire. She had second thoughts—second thoughts about not wearing a corset and now, about letting her hair fall free. Perhaps he was goading her. Last night his touch on her hand had begun it all again, even though she thought he’d been mocking her.

  She hobbled to the pony, gathering up the wherewithal to mount. She felt as if she’d been stretched on a torture rack, and the thought of getting back up on the horse was daunting.

  “Ma’am,” Ransom said. Again she felt his strong hands about her waist, and miraculously she was hoisted up into her saddle. “The stiffness will work itself out after a few days,” he assured her with an understanding smile. His encouragement didn’t make her feel better.

  “I hope so. I would almost prefer to walk the remaining distance to South Pass,” she said with a forlorn sigh.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. We’ve got a long, dry ride ahead of us.” He swung up on his own horse and led off. She nudged her mount to follow, resolving to bear her suffering in silence.

  The morning sun slowly rose in the sky. They rode across a series of desolate plateaus of whitish, clay soil covered with sage brush. A chirping ground squirrel or a scudding rabbit here and there were the only living things to be seen. Towards noon the monotony was broken by a rise of rounded sandstone mounds like huge anthills. Around their base the ground was baked and polished into a hard, burnished clay. Northward, beyond the sandstone hills, sat a line of high, rocky cliffs, and farther on rose a high, blue, shadowy range of snow-capped mountains. It all seemed to India like a great lonely wasteland.

  When they stopped to eat the noon meal, Gat pointed out the Wind River Range. “Beyond them is the Yellowstone. On God’s earth there is no greater country than the Yellowstone.”

  But India had her doubts, especially when they forded the first crossing of the Big Sandy and she saw the charred ruins of an old stage station which Ransom said had been burnt by the Indians.

  In the afternoon, he shot a jackrabbit right before India’s eyes. He gutted it and then hung the limp thing on his saddlebag, remarking on how tender it would be and what a good stew they would have for supper. Her stomach rolled while she watched the lifeless thing bounce against the horse’s flank as they rode along.

  Soon after, Ransom quickened their pace when clouds swirled in threatening gray masses on the horizon. Before sunset it was as if a lid had shut down over the heavens, leaving not a gleam of light. Suddenly, rain began to fall, thunder growled and lightning flashed above the black silhouetted mountaintops.

  India quickly realized they could not stop for shelter because there was none—scrub brush and ravine was all nature offered. Lashing them with cold rain, the storm broke full force and their path became indiscernible. India’s horse suddenly took fright, rearing as if ten thousand furies were after it. Desperately, she clung to the saddle horn. The horse jumped into a frantic gallop and she lost the reins. She hung on to its flying mane and prayed its next jump wouldn’t be a leap to its death down a cutbank or coulee as torrents of rain and flashing lightning blurred her vision. Her terrified horse bounded past Ransom and into a water-streaming ravine and plunged forward through the murky blackness.

  Suddenly, a streak of lightning wrapped the landscape in a fiery glow. “Oh, lord!” she muttered, and she shut her eyes in dread and when she opened them again the hard-following crack of thunder shook her.

  Hearing Ransom shouting her name her eyes searched all directions. Then, she saw him riding up and he lassoed her horse around the neck and pulled it up. After tying the lead to his own saddle horn he lifted her across and solicitously positioned her in front of him. Holding the reins in his right hand, he cradled her in the bend of his left arm. India felt as safe as a babe wrapped in bunting. Her hand clutched his lapel and she looked up at him feeling assured that she was out of harm’s way for the moment.

  His face was a shadow beneath the rain-soaked brim of his hat. His lips were a narrow line, his black hair was plastered in thick locks down his neck and shoulders. He peered down at her and the tilting of his head brought a stream of water into her face. She sputtered. He smiled. His hand tucked her head against his chest, a proper shelter from the deluge. Her ear against his chest she listened to the steady beat of his heart and felt his muscles hard and warm through his sodden shirt. She was shivering and his embrace closed protectively around her, his fingers caressing her shoulders. His touch became the one stable thing she could cling to in the tempest around them. Chills shuddered through her body. He slowed the horse, put the reins between his teeth and rummaged with his free hand in the saddlebag.

  He thrust a silver flask into her hand. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Wild mare’s milk. It’ll warm you.”

  She was wary, but at that moment anything that would warm her, she’d drink. Lifting the flask to her lips, she sipped. Her throat constricted and she choked as liquid fire seared her insides. After a few deep breaths she forced herself
to take another drink, and as promised the warmth began to pervade her chest and spread out to her cold-numbed limbs. She sipped more as they rode on.

  “I’ll have a swig.” Gat reached for the flask and put it to his mouth. “It’s empty. You weren’t supposed to drink it all!” He swore one of those picturesque phrases only cowboys have the ability to conjure and shoved the empty flask back into his saddlebag.

  Well, she thought, now they were even, he’d used all her bath salts and she’d drunk all his wild mare’s milk.

  The rain cascaded down, the lightning flashed, and the thunder rumbled through the hills. Despite all this, India was feeling better all the time. In fact she felt quite conversational.

  “Your wild mare’s milk appears to be the remedy. I hardly feel a chill now.”

  “That so, ma’am.”

  “I’m surprised I haven’t heard of the remedy before. It must be difficult to catch a wild mare and milk her.” She snuggled her cheek against the warmth of his chest.

  “Yep.” He smiled to himself. The whiskey was taking the starch out of her.

  “But anything is possible for a man like yourself.”

  “Pardon ma’am?” Gat decided the last clap of thunder had afflicted his hearing. She’d never given him a compliment before.

  “I’ll admit it.”

  “Admit what?” he returned.

  “Admit I admire you. Why I’d even go so far as to acknowledge you saved my life back there.”

  “You’d go that far?” The whiskey had her.

  “Even farther…but I might embarrass you.”

  “No need to worry on that account.” Humored, he looked down at her. Water soaked her clothes, dripped over the brim of her hat and off her nose and chin in miniature torrents, but she seemed content enough. The pressure of her head against his chest, the weight of her body in his arms was more warming to him than a whole pint of wild mare’s milk. With her loosened up, he was seeing another woman, one that wasn’t as chilly as he had supposed.

  At last he drew up their horses, helped her down and led her into the shelter of a wind-hollowed sandstone overhang. He went back to the horses and was gone for some time. She huddled inside, peering out at the rainstorm. When Ransom returned, his arms were filled with bedrolls.

  “We won’t be able to build a fire until morning. You’re soaked. You better get out of those wet clothes.” He shook out the woolen blanket bedrolls, which were protected by duck cloth wrap, and gave her one.

  “But I don’t have anything dry to change into,” India complained.

  “Who said you had to change into anything? Wrap up in the blanket,” he said flatly.

  The thought of taking all her clothes off in front of him seemed shocking, but not so shocking as it might have before she drank the wild mare’s milk. Upon analysis her thoughts were muddled and her nose dripped while she deliberated. Finally she concluded she was soaked thoroughly from her doeskin dress to the draw string of her silk pantalettes.

  “But I need some privacy,” she announced to Gat.

  “Listen, it’s dark as hell out and the sun isn’t likely to come out until morning. I don’t plan to stand out in that cloudburst while you take off your wet clothes.” He sounded out of patience.

  India began to giggle. He did have a point, but oddly it struck her as immensely funny—him gallantly standing out in the rain while she undressed. She didn’t like his being cross, so she attempted to smooth things out. Her voice took on an absurdly moralistic tone and her head tilted a high-nosed turn. “Mr. Ransom, we hold the mutual responsibility of keeping our travels on the highest plane of propriety. We owe it to the…sss”—she couldn’t quite get through the word—“ssupporters of the…ssuffrage cause to ward off any hint of sscandal while we are traveling together.”

  He gave a half-laugh. “I’ve apologized for the other night. I don’t intend to compromise you again.”

  Now, India laughed outright, for he seemed such a stuffed shirt all of a sudden. But good breeding was a habit with her, and she replied in a slightly slurred but ladylike voice, “I only require your respect sssir.”

  “Ma’am, you have it.”

  “Thank you.” She hiccuped, and keeping both eyes on Ransom’s silhouette, she proceeded to disrobe, only to find it difficult to hold the blanket as a shield of modesty and manipulate her clothes at the same time. Reasoning that if she couldn’t see him in the darkness, he couldn’t see her, she let the blanket drop from her teeth and squirreled out of every last stitch of clothing, even the silk pantalettes.

  Naked as Botticelli’s Venus, India hadn’t counted on the sudden flash of lightning which illuminated the sky from horizon to horizon. She gasped with embarrassment and scrambled to wrap the blanket around her, then she began to giggle like a girl in grammar school mainly because the sensation of having nothing on beneath the blanket was so new to her. On the one hand it felt liberating, but on the other confusing.

  Huddled under the blanket her concern turned to Ransom. “Mr. Ransom, aren’t your clothes wet?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why haven’t you taken them off?”

  “Huh?” Gat sounded equally confused.

  “Because I’m a woman do you think I’m more susceptible to chill than yourself?” Droplets of water from the ends of her wet hair trickled between her breasts.

  “Ma’am, you’re the weaker vessel.”

  “So you seem intent on reminding me, but I would debate that. I think if I take cold it will be because I followed your advice and foolishly took off my clothes, not because I’m the weaker vessel. All things being equal, Mr. Ransom, you should take off your clothes, too.”

  Ransom was tired, he was hungry, he was as strung out as a team of desert canaries after a hundred-mile haul, but he wasn’t a fool and he wasn’t one to argue with a lady. “Ma’am, on the slim point of all things being equal, this one time I’ll throw in with you.” He began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Indeed, equality for all, that’s my platform!” She hiccuped again.

  About that time she smelled wet dog and Coyote nosed next to her. Without intending to she fell against Ransom, now stripped down to his pants. His arm went around her in support and goose bumps spread over her skin. “Forgive me, I…I didn’t intend…”

  “You’re cold,” he said. She might be whiskey-warm inside but she was corpse-cold outside. He hefted her onto his lap and held her close, half-expecting her to cry out in moral outrage. But she didn’t resist; rather, she nuzzled her cheek against the pillow of his chest. He pulled her closer and encircled her in the warmth of his arms and body. Again all she did was sigh deeply and snuggle against his chest. “You will be discreet about this, won’t you?”

  “Discreet?” he echoed, grinning so wide his flash of white teeth momentarily lit the darkness. “Yep, I can be discreet.”

  “Thank you. I will hold you to your word.” She relaxed further with this assurance.

  It began innocently with Gat’s hands rubbing warmth back into her small feet, and he was circumspect enough to keep the blanket buffer between his hands and her bare skin. He kept telling himself he wasn’t about seduction but his hands in an unbidden way moved upward to her slim ankles. He knew had she been sober she’d be too ticklish for his ministerings, but her guard was down and she became receptive, pliant and slumberous. Forcing himself to go slower, he deliberately moved to the silken hills of her calves to the velvet hollows behind her knees, smoothing back and forth. A huge constricting knot of tenderness and desire tightened Gat’s throat and his heart began to pound like a bridle-wise bronco.

  India’s mind drifted lazily. She was feeling wholly content now that she was warmer, and the fact that she was wearing nothing under the blanket didn’t seem to matter. Her bare thighs felt warm and smooth against each other. She felt languorous and supple and feminine through and through. Gat’s touch was a glowing cordial to her body and his nearness flowed into her, lapped her and enfolded her.

&
nbsp; “What a beautiful, beautiful night,” she purred, her breath hot on his bare chest.

  A faint smile touched Gat’s mouth but was dissolved by the intensity of his desire. Switching from warming massage to sensual stroking he traced the long line of her thighs, molding his hands over her hips and curving his fingers to the soft hollow of her womanhood. The blanket was no barrier to his imagination and daringly he followed a path over her ribs to the firm mound of her breasts, feeling their unfathomable softness through the blanket. He yearned to nuzzle her neck, kiss her eyes, her lips.

  She turned. Her hands pushed out from under the blanket and tangled in the hair that dusted his shoulders. She drew him close to her breast and he felt her softness against his chest. He swallowed hard, then swore softly. She was drunk and he wouldn’t take advantage of her. But he couldn’t let go of her, not yet while she buried her face against him and feathered her long nails across the muscles of his shoulders. Tremors rumbled through him making him as explosive as a chute-crazy cayuse.

  For India, all was right with the world and in her hazy state of mind she sought to decipher the man holding her. Heavy-lidded, her eyes were useless in the pitch darkness. So reaching out she found and traced with her hand every rise and hollow of his face, the ridge of cheekbone and the rise of nose; the skin-grain of beard, the furrow of thick lash and mound of lip. She sensed every ripple of movement in the hands and arms that enclosed her. She could more than imagine the man whose chest and shoulders sheltered her, whose heart she could feel throbbing against her breast.

  Was he too feeling the thrill down the spine and the melting of will, or was she the only one this moment who had these feelings? Regardless, he was so experienced she suspected every woman had felt so in his arms. And what splendid arms were his. What fingers, strong, long, with such a touch of strength and yet tenderness. And she would tell him, but her tongue felt like lead between her lips and how deliciously sleepy she felt. In a way she felt guilty using his strength to pursue her own ends…She was slipping…slipping into the sweet oblivion of sleep. She lay in his protective embrace, her head rested beneath his chin…