Waltz with the Lady Read online

  Her breath was coming softly and he knew she’d fallen asleep. He held her as tight as he’d hold a royal flush in a final round of poker while he contemplated—battled with his desire to ravish her. But common sense and his own whipsaw code of honor won out. He stroked her curly mane of rain-soaked hair, cradled her against him and touched his mouth to her forehead, all the while aching to capture her whiskey-sweetened lips.

  He tried to keep his mind fixed on other thoughts, but somehow he could only feel her silky skin against his own. Coyote shifted. Gat shifted and she shifted, snuggling contentedly in his arms while he tried to ignore the fire of desire that went through him as her body moved against his. Feeling as frustrated as a boomerang stallion, he shifted again, leaning into the sandstone wall at his back.

  Hell! It was going to be a long night.

  When morning came India opened her eyes to a cloudless sky, a crackling fire and the smell of food. The jackrabbit was skewered on a stick, roasting over the fire. Last night she’d been so hungry she might have eaten it raw. But this morning the memory of seeing it swing lifelessly back and forth the day before turned her stomach.

  Then she sat up, and the world rolled along with her stomach over the edge of the overhang, and in her mouth the sour taste of whiskey puckered her lips. In daylight, her wits about her, she knew she’d been indiscreet. But the full slap of realization and remorse came when she looked down her naked body beneath the blanket. The shock brought her eyes wide open. But they winced closed with the recollection of Gat’s hands moving intimately over her body. How could she have allowed it? Becoming even more aware of her predicament, she saw Ransom stripped to the waist, his shirt, vest and her silk pantalettes draped over bushes by the fire. It was no dream, it happened! prompted her small voice of moral conscience. Oh, lord, it happened! Amidst this, she was suddenly beset with a series of head-jerking sneezes.

  Ransom looked over. He was whistling. She wasn’t sure how much he had to whistle about. She remembered his hands…the warmth. “Oh, lordy,” she muttered, borrowing Heddy’s favorite phrase.

  Meanwhile, Gat had gotten up off his haunches and come over with a cat-in-the-cream smile on his face. “Mornin’.”

  India was never her best in the morning and most days her first reaction was to throw the blanket over her head and go back to sleep. But this morning she couldn’t do that mainly because there wasn’t enough blanket to cover her head and naked body at the same time.

  His eyes glittering with amusement at her predicament, he said, “You’d better get dressed.”

  “And what do you propose I wear?” she said in a shrewish note. Hungover and miserable, she shrunk away from him and clutched the flimsy blanket to her like a shield of virtue. But she knew this was akin to closing the barn door after the cows had gotten out.

  Beside her, Gat began rummaging through his saddlebag. Her eyes held on his back, she remembered the texture of his vibrant skin beneath her hands, the rise and fall of muscle. He pulled something out and handed it to her.

  She paused a moment before taking it. Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, she shook the bundle out and discovered it was a blue calico dress. It was dry. The question was on the tip of her tongue, but he spoke before she could say anything.

  “I thought you might need a dress.” He stood with hands on hips, the muscles of his bare chest taut.

  She finally said, “But why didn’t you give it to me last night?” He was suddenly suspect.

  “It slipped my mind.”

  “It slipped your mind?” she challenged. “You have placed me in the most compromising position of my life! I have been willing to overlook things since our journey began, particularly our visit to Contessa’s boardinghouse. But this…this,” she shook the dress at him, “this is unforgivable!”

  “I’ve told you, I don’t intend to compromise you!”

  “Humph!” she sniffed, cutting him off with total disbelief. Yes, it was high time she stood toe to toe with him and had it out. “I should have parted company with you at the Laramie depot as I planned. You…you—”

  “Goatherd!” Ransom supplied. His jaw clamped in a hard line.

  Her head throbbed painfully but she refused to be outdone. “No! You sidewinding snake!”

  “Well, hell! If I’m such a snake then you can just get on your horse and ride out of here. You’re so all-fired damn self-sufficient. I should have let Bramshill shoot you and I should have let your horse throw you into some flooded ravine during the storm. And as for the boardinghouse—shit! I won’t say what I should have done there!”

  “How dare you!” she gasped, her cheeks flushing a deep rose. “If you don’t clean up your language, I’ll…I’ll have to plug my ears,” her eyes widened and her nostrils flared, knowing but at the same time hating that she was dependent on him.

  “Ma’am, I have cleaned up my language!” He gave her a challenging dark-eyed gaze.

  Before she could level him with a hazing retort, another fit of sneezing overtook her. With dress in hand and her blanket of virtue secured toga-fashion around her, she hobbled past him. She snatched her pantalettes and camisole from the bushes, picked up her parcel of personal belongings, and looked around for the seclusion of a rock or bush. Nothing, however, was suitably private.

  “Please be considerate enough to turn your back, sir.” Her tone was high-nosed.

  He glowered, but in the end, he turned his back.

  The rest of the morning went little better. They ate the jackrabbit in hostile silence. Inwardly, India was heaping all her miseries, including her case of adolescent infatuation, at his feet. Last night she’d been ripe for seduction. She marveled how she could have been attracted to him—could have let him touch her—yet this morning she could barely tolerate his company a second longer. By his own avowal he had no interest in her as a woman, and she, by her own declaration, should have no interest in him as a man.

  Later, after a pitifully drawn-out process, she did manage to saddle her own horse. She knew that, out of spite, Ransom would have let her ride bareback if she hadn’t.

  Around noon they rode up to a ravine-turned-river. She watched him get off his horse and walk up and down the bank to find the best place to cross. Actually she’d been watching him all morning, and no matter how detached she tried to be, she wasn’t immune to him physically. Since he’d never bothered to put on a shirt, she’d eyed the muscles of his broad back and shoulders when she rode behind him, unable to forget his strength.

  He remained a wall of surly silence, apparently just as aggravated with her as she was with him. When he began to remove his boots and his socks she watched, knowing he expected her to follow his lead. She had a fleeting wish that he would sweep her into his arms and carry her across, but then she was the one who’d asked for no special treatment. He left his pants on but everything else he tied up in the duck-cloth wrap of his bedroll and put it on his horse. He led the horse into the water and the pair swam across.

  Resignedly, India climbed down off her horse, took off her moccasin boots. Then she paused and studied the river of muddy water. She’d have to take off her clothes for she knew the river sand would never wash out of her silk pantalettes and dress. If she were a man she could wear mud-caked pants into town, but she was a woman caught in a double bind of modesty and cleanliness. But how could she in clear conscience strip with Ransom watching her? Never do anything that will lose a man’s respect for you. Her mother’s words were so loud in her mind she almost looked over her shoulder to see if her mother was standing there. Now she realized she had crossed the line of propriety the day she set out unchaperoned for the West. She was an adventuress, no matter how inexperienced, and she’d just have to bluff her way through it. She unfastened her own bedroll, and using her horse as a screen she stripped down. Hastily, she gathered everything into the duck cloth and efficiently secured it up on the saddle. She reined her horse toward the water’s edge all the while telling herself there wasn’t a
soul within fifty miles…except for Gat Ransom.

  Without a word of guidance, Gat watched her. It was an easy crossing and he wanted to give her all the lead she could handle. But he hadn’t figured she’d strip. There was no accounting for a woman’s vanity, but then again he was as fond of those silk pantalettes as she was. He’d hate to see them ruined. She’d been hell with the hide off all day, but now seeing the natural beauty of her, his breath caught and he forgave her temper.

  She tossed her head self-consciously and guided the horse up out of the water. Gat’s eyes went to her breasts, the shapely hips, the shadowed mound of her womanhood, then away, then back again, admiring. He resented the effect she had on him and her constant denial of her own passion—that core of fire deep within her that drove her to fanaticism in her cause. Why couldn’t she be like other women? But then if she were like other women, he wouldn’t be captivated by her. He tossed her his own dry shirt to wipe off with and turned to other business, because he owed her privacy while she dressed. He took the tin cup and jerky from the provisions and laid out lunch on a rock.

  Though they didn’t share conversation, they did share the cup and she made an exaggerated point of turning the cup each time, so as not to allow her lips to drink from the same side of the rim as his. Her primness amused him as well as perturbed him. He’d seen her naked beauty, he’d held her in his arms all night, and now she was attempting to cut back into the crowding pen, but he didn’t aim to let her. While he ate he thought about her and himself, and then he took an opportunity to nap in the warm afternoon sun.

  When Gat closed his eyes India knew she could look at him without his knowing, so she did. He had looked at her boldly enough when she crossed the river, so now she would repay the favor. She wanted to touch his back, the way she wanted to touch his thigh when she’d reached for the tin cup of water. Last night she had touched him, running her fingers through the hair on his chest, drawing her nails across his shoulders and tracing the lines of his face. Last night. India’s eyes stopped at the top button of his pants.

  When she lifted her eyes she met his smoldering gaze head on. She straightened to her feet and put her hands on her hips as if daring him to accuse her of immoral thoughts. But inside she felt as knotted as a china shawl. She wished she hadn’t lain in his arms last night—even worse, she wished she hadn’t enjoyed it so much.

  Without breaking their gaze he came to his feet, his face inches from hers. He was done playing games, holding back. It was time to put all the cards on the table.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he said bluntly.

  India didn’t move; her eyes narrowed imperceptibly as if to dare him to try.

  “I’ve been kissed before,” she taunted, ever bluffing. Never mind that it was only by uncles and aunts, grateful old ladies and doting parents. Survival was her forte, even if it involved stretching the truth.

  “Not by me,” he muttered, not losing the moment.

  Her hands were still on her hips, still daring him. His hands slipped through the loop of her own, encircled her and drew her near. His lips touched hers with fierce tenderness while his hands pressed gently on the hollow of her back. Lost in a river of pure sensation his lips molded to hers, his mouth moving persuasively, yet unbidden. He wouldn’t take advantage when she was confused with whiskey, but now…

  She intended to be as distant as a happenstance onlooker, but sensation seared through her. She fitted her mouth to his as his hands moved slowly down her spine, again igniting a glowing warmth within her. Slowly, her hands moved from the absurd defiant pose on her hips to circle his neck. She’d been wanting to touch him all day, that’s what had triggered her temper. Their legs, thighs, and hips pressed together, moving instinctively in the age-old rhythm of love. Desire exploded between them and the kiss deepened.

  Her lips parted for breath and his tongue circled hers in an erotic tracery, coaxing them to part wider for him, then slipping between them, tasting the silky, moist hollow of her mouth, then gently, with a teasing challenge his tongue retreated, daring hers to follow. Accepting the dare hers threaded after. She kissed him endearingly, endlessly, a long wildly exciting kiss that sent deep tremors to the very core of his being. He thought she said her experiences with men had been limited. If this was limited…His arms tightened around her demanding more.

  “I want to make you a woman,” he cajoled, forgetting his promise not to compromise her.

  Suddenly, she pulled away.

  Her eyes widened with apprehension and his first thought was that she was in over her head and was spooked. He loosened his hold.

  She stepped back, her auburn hair a wild halo in the sunlight. Her nostrils flared and the temper lines touched her kiss-swollen lips and he suddenly realized he’d misjudged her mood.

  She gave him a haughty look to end all haughty looks. “I’m already a woman, thank you!”

  She turned away and began throwing the tin cup, food and all, into the saddlebag. Gat watched, the jaw muscles on his cheek ticking.

  Still stuffing the saddlebag, she turned back. He saw the glint of tears push at the corners of her eyes. Her voice was barely controlled. “Make me a woman! What you want is to make me a swooning Nelly. You want to break me like you break those wild-eyed mustangs, but I won’t fall for it. I won’t be detoured.”

  She picked up the saddlebag and flung it on her horse with such force that the animal danced. Her breast was heaving as she attempted to settle down the horse as well as herself. Gat caught the horse’s bridle and gave her the reins.

  Subdued, India ran her fingers through her hair and raised her blue eyes to his. Her voice was resolute. “Because I am a woman I won’t deny I’m attracted to you. My heart beats faster, my face gets red, I feel a rush of weakness in my thighs when you come close, but I also know when I want to be touched and when I want to be left alone.” She grasped the reins with finality. “Leave me alone, Mr. Ransom.”

  Watching her climb up on her horse Gat simmered with the pent-up potency of his manhood. She might demand the vote, she might throw off her corset and swim naked as Eve across the river, but she was one of the few women he’d ever known who knew what she wanted. Fire and ice. Spur and spirit. Who in hell’s half acre would want a woman like her? He did.

  At sundown Gat finally spoke, after riding all day in silence, “South Pass is over the next rise.”

  In reply, she blew her nose for the hundredth time into a red bandanna handkerchief he’d given her. She spurred her horse forward. “I hope they’re ready for me.”

  “I hope so too,” said Ransom, deadpan. He contemplated the straight-backed form of the woman in front of him, then looked to the setting sun for a dose of fortitude before he urged his horse down the steep incline to South Pass City.

  Chapter 9

  Morning sun speckled the brightly colored fans of the patchwork quilt spread across India’s bed. She reached to the bedside table for a lace-edged hanky, blew her nose, and snuggled deeper beneath the warmth of the feather tick.

  “Good morning,” Esther Morris greeted cheerfully. She came into the bedroom with tray in hand. “I’ve made you some tea, and there’s hot bread fresh from the oven, with strawberry preserves.”

  India sat up. Esther set the tray, including china teapot and cups, onto the bedside table. The sight of the graying-haired, nearly six-foot-tall woman in her neat white apron and calico dress, radiating a smile as bright as sunflowers, seemed to take the edge off India’s misery.

  “I’ll never be able to repay your kindness. I’ve been in bed for two days with this miserable cold and you’ve waited on me as if I were royalty. I’m determined to get up and about this very afternoon and quit making a nuisance of myself.”

  “You aren’t a nuisance,” Esther protested, pouring a cup of tea for India. “It’s a pleasure to have your company. I seldom have the opportunity to visit with a bona fide suffragette. Of course the church ladies meet weekly to quilt, or hold discussion on household aff
airs, but nothing as truly invigorating as women’s enfranchisement. I’ve attempted to spur them on to this matter, but until recently few were interested, and of course the pastor is dead set against women having the vote. I’ve been hard put to arrange a time when he would allow you to speak in the church. Yesterday, he finally agreed when I suggested we could collect an attendance fee.”

  “I’m grateful to you.” India sneezed, and prayed she’d be recovered in time. “Have you settled upon a day?”

  “Yes, Saturday night. Every Saturday the pastor’s wife, Emily, plays an organ recital. You see, the pastor made quite a sacrifice to bring the organ all the way from St. Louis, and Emily is a very talented organist. It’s our good fortune he finally consented. The recitals are very popular and I foresee a full meeting house.”

  India bit into the warm bread oozing with sweet strawberry preserves. “This is delicious. It’s going to be difficult to leave South Pass and your cooking. I’m envious.”

  “No need to be, a child could do as well. Not to boast but my true skill is sewing. Before I married Mr. Morris, I’m proud to say, I carried on a thriving millinery business in New York state. It was hard for me to give it up and come West with my husband, but a woman must do these things, you know, whether she is inclined to or not. I’m settled now and accustomed to Wyoming, but how I pined during those first months.”

  India sighed with empathy. “I think I know exactly how you must have felt. I intend to return to my home in Boston after my speaking tour. Unlike you, I doubt I could ever become accustomed to the West. Although I admire women who come out here, it is an uncommonly hard life.”

  “We frontier women take the bad with the good. Because the West doesn’t have the restricted conventions of the East there are rewards, and hopefully women’s enfranchisement will be one of them.” She paused to sip her tea. “I’ve written the candidates to the territorial legislature and asked them that if they’re elected, to work for the passage of the right of suffrage. I received a note back from Colonel Bright and he’s given his pledge to do so. I feel his young wife must be sympathetic to the cause and has influenced him in our favor.” Esther put down her cup and gave India a penetrating look. “You should stay in Wyoming. We need women like yourself to make this a model territory.”