Waltz with the Lady Page 13

  India laughed. “I’m afraid my recent experiences have convinced me beyond doubt that I don’t belong out here. I’m sure even Mr. Ransom is of the same opinion.”

  “And are you privy to Mr. Ransom’s opinions?” came his deep drawl from the doorway. He removed his hat and ducked through the doorway. He sauntered across the room with his customary loose-limbed stride. “Esther. Miss Simms,” he greeted politely. I just dropped by to see how our gal was doing.” His smile lifted in a quirk of amusement.

  India had a mind to roll over, put a pillow over her head and feign sleep, but instead she sunk under the bed covers, remembering with renewed anger their quarrel and…the kiss. How could she forget it? Even now her pulse quickened at the sight of him, but a civil greeting stuck like a piece of burned biscuit in her prideful throat.

  “Why, Gat,” said Esther, beaming and getting up from her chair and hastening to pull him up another. “I’ll get you some coffee and you can help yourself to bread, warm from the oven.” She scurried out of the bedroom.

  Gat pulled the chair closer to the bed than India thought courteous and sat down. He leaned forward elbows on knees, turning the brim of his hat in his hands. After two days away from him the impact of his presence was a shock, but despite her inward nervousness she tightened her lips to a snobbish pout, waiting for him to speak.

  The silent seconds were punctuated by the ticking pendulum of the shelf clock. He said nothing, aggravating her with his arrogance. The same male conceit which had caused him to declare he would “make her a woman.” India fought back the bitter sting of guilt. A fallen woman was more like it!

  If you give a man what he wants he won’t respect you. It was too late to follow her mother’s admonition now. She’d already lost Ransom’s respect twice over; once when she’d slept naked in his arms all night and once when she stripped to cross the river. Why else had he so boldly kissed her? A man would never kiss a lady he respected like he had kissed her. Losing his respect mattered a great deal to India, for a woman had nothing if she didn’t have male respect. It was all such a double bind, a woman just couldn’t win in a man’s world. The arousal she’d experienced from that single kiss had been so intense it had frightened her, and she feared if she allowed anything like it to happen again she might lose control. Respectable ladies didn’t have feelings like that and the torment lay in the realization that she wanted it to happen again; she wanted to be in his arms, kissing his lips.

  The pendulum marked the passing minutes, as India refused to meet his black eyes. She felt his gaze as tangible as wind and smoke upon her. Could he be aware of the turmoil going on inside of her? Thinking anything was better than the silent tension between them, she finally asked, “Did you come to gloat?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said directly.

  She wished Esther would hurry and bring his coffee. “I suppose you think my illness is proper retribution for my contrary conduct.”

  “No, ma’am,” he repeated, seeing her nose had started to drip. He pursed his lips so as not to grin. She looked like a pail-fed calf, a fragile, bewitching maverick. The china blue of her eyes glistened with misery and aloofness. He’d intended to apologize for his behavior on the trail, but doubted she was in the mood to accept it.

  She snatched up the hankie and blew. “Well, thank you just the same,” she sputtered between blows. “If you didn’t come to gloat, then why did you come?”

  He balanced his hat on his knee and cleared his throat. “I came to a—”

  Just then, Esther came in with a tray loaded with bread, cheese and preserves. “—For my homemade bread,” Esther set the coffee and bread down in front of him. “Help yourself.”

  Gat shifted, a little upset Esther had taken the slack out of his rope. He’d just have to speak to India another time when she wasn’t sulky, but the way things were going between them that moment might never come.

  “Eat up, cowboy,” Esther said, spreading his bread with butter and strawberry jam.

  Gat fixed his attention on eating, allowing that the two ladies had him beat; one by her goodwill and the other by her hostility. “You’re too good to me, Esther.”

  “I quite agree,” India said. “Esther, I do believe Mr. Ransom is capable of buttering his own bread.” What was it about Ransom that made very woman so anxious to please him? He had passable manners, but then so did most men. He was handsome, but not dashing, and besides, Esther wouldn’t be interested in him romantically, she being twice his age and already married. Maybe he needed mothering, but then again, he was one of the most independent souls she’d ever met. No, he didn’t need a mother. Whatever his charm, India was exhausted from making the effort to withstand it.

  “How’s your brother James doing up at the digs?” Esther asked.

  “They keep him busy surveying new sites. I sometimes think he’s the only one making any money up there,” Gat replied.

  “You must meet James, India. He’s about your age, and if I had a daughter, he’s just the one I’d match her up with. He sang at the Friday recital a month ago and I’ve never heard a man sing like he did. Not even on the stage in New York. I really think James should join the opera. Such a talent is wasted here in the gold fields.”

  India couldn’t hide her surprise.

  “You never mentioned you had a brother here in South Pass,” she said to Gat. “I’d like to meet him.”

  “I can arrange that,” Esther said enthusiastically. “He always comes into town for the recitals.”

  “Do you sing, too?” India questioned Gat.

  “No, ma’am,” he said between mouthfuls.

  “Don’t be modest, Gat. He can stir up a pretty good evening’s entertainment,” Esther told India.

  “I’m certain he can!” India remarked, remembering the brothel.

  He lifted his eyes to hers, not missing the sarcasm. The air in the room sparked between them. But Esther, oblivious, chatted on. “Perhaps you could spread the word up at the mines that Saturday night’s recital will include a speech on suffrage.”

  “I think the word will spread itself, Esther. But I’ll do my best to let everyone know.” He wiped his lips on a linen napkin and came to his feet. His towering presence made the room confining. “I’ll be up at Miner’s Delight till the end of the week. I’ll bring James back down with me Saturday.” He put on his hat and turned to India. “I hope you recover, ma’am.” The intensity gone, a hidden half smile played at his lips.

  She lifted her chin imperiously, eyes shining. “I am sure I will. I hope you don’t count it as your misfortune if I do.”

  “No, ma’am.” His face was serious again. “I’d be out of a job, then, wouldn’t I?”

  Esther followed him out and India heard the ring of his spurs as he stepped onto the porch. Why was it so difficult to speak a civil word to him, she wondered? She stared out the small glass window and attempted to analyze her feelings rationally. She didn’t like depending on him, but there was more to it. He threatened her, he intimidated her, but worse, he changed her.

  Her eyes fell to an incomplete letter on the bed stand. It would not be amiss to write her family. But how could she ever tell her family the truth of her travels? Her father would either disown her or catch the next train West and demand she return with him. Nevertheless, she owed the truth to her sister, the one person she trusted. Picking up the pen and paper, India mentally plotted the method of sending a letter to Sissy in care of their Aunt Elinor, who at her great age was unable to see well enough to read. Sissy spent one afternoon a week reading and writing Aunt Elinor’s correspondence. Surely the letter would fall safely into Sissy’s hands.

  Dearest Sissy,

  Since I wrote last much has happened to me. Indeed, were I to detail out my adventures in this letter you would be reminded of that old satanic tempter of our youth, novel reading. Though I have not suffered the horrid fate of seduction and consequent madness of the hapless heroine Charlotte Temple, my experiences are worth retelling,
but not repeating, especially to our dear parents.

  Firstly, I have learned to ride a horse! Imagine me on a horse, Sissy. It was you who always slipped behind father’s back and begged a ride with our brothers. In truth, it is not so easy or as comfortable as it looks. But I intend to master the equestrian art as well as the specialty of campfire biscuit making. My trail guide, whom I will write more of later, is adept at frontier cookery. Along with biscuit making I have tried my hand at gambling. Yes, don’t be too shocked, but it was only out of moral obligation to right a wrong that I became involved in a game of cards on the train. Truthfully, Sissy, I found it extremely occupying. The West affords many experiences to ladies which are taboo elsewhere.

  I have had one close call, perhaps two. The most significant was while traveling from the railroad town of Green River to South Pass City. Without warning a storm broke. Oh, what a storm it was! The lightning jumped across the mountains and seemed at times to fall in forks everywhere. The thunder crashed and roared, and down came a deluge of rain. My pony became skittish and bolted off the trail. It was so dark I could not distinguish the surroundings. It was truly harrowing. After a wild ride I was able to rein in my exhausted pony and take shelter. Now, as a result, I lay in bed with a cold. But I do not despair, for it is a bed with clean white sheets and not some rocky spot in the wilderness.

  I am recuperating in the home of a suffrage supporter named Esther Morris. She has arranged for me to speak in the town church on Saturday night. A lady speaking in public might be considered a trifle vulgar in the East, but I am finding that here in Wyoming such an occasion is very popular, so popular that the locals willingly pay an attendance fee. Wouldn’t father be surprised to know that people are actually paying to hear me speak!

  I cannot say where I will speak next for I am dependent upon my guide, a Mr. Ransom. He is an aging gentleman and I believe at one point in his life he had the inclination to take up the ministry. But various circumstances, the war included, led him along another path. Well, Sissy, that is all for now. I must begin preparing my Saturday night speech. God bless you all at Rosemount House.

  Love,

  India

  India felt a slight prick of conscience as she folded and addressed the letter to Sissy. She had wanted to confess her feelings for Ransom to her sister, yet though she hadn’t exactly lied, the less she said about him the better. She would lose all credibility with her eastern supporters if they knew she was traveling unchaperoned with a man the likes of Gat Ransom—the likes of whom she was falling in love.

  Little heads bobbed underneath the pieced quilt stretched on frames in the center of Esther’s parlor, while mothers busily stitched above. The soft giggles of the little girls floated up while they and their rag dolls played out magical fantasies beneath the seclusion of the quilt tent.

  India, thimble on finger, leaned over the quilt frames and neatly stitched along the chalk-marked lines.

  “I think we should rename the pattern the ‘Wyoming Star,’ in respect for our new territory,” suggested Hanner White. With an approving nod, India looked across the bursting star design to the old, white-haired grandmother.

  “And when women achieve the vote in Wyoming, each of us should embroider our name on the star points to mark the celebration,” added Esther with a covert wink to India.

  “Do you really think such an ideal will ever be achieved, Miss Simms?” one woman asked doubtfully.

  “Of course,” assured India. “But women must want it first. Each of us must see the merit of equality for ourselves, and then men will join us hand in hand to bring it about. There’s not so much opposition as you think, especially here in the West where women are allowed more initiative.”

  “Oh, my Rob is against such notions. He refused to allow me to attend the Saturday recital once he heard a suffragette was speakin’,” chimed in one young mother. “He said, she’d be a ‘poisonin’ my mind.”

  “I’ll not poison your mind,” laughed India. “But encourage your husband to come and listen without you, and perhaps I can soften his views. It would be to his benefit in the long run. Point out to him that your vote along with his own would give him a stronger voice in government.”

  “I’ll try, but my Rob listens to his own counsel in most things.”

  India’s own father was such a man, and she knew too well the young mother’s plight. “Be patient with him,” she encouraged, although she doubted the outcome.

  “Well, I think it’s time to roll the quilt,” Esther said. She rose to her feet. “Another afternoon’s work and it will be ready for binding.”

  “One moment,” piped up old Hanner. She picked up a pair of brass scissors, adjusted her spectacles and proceeded to circle the quilt, scrutinizing the stitching for flaws. She took particular pause beside India.

  For a moment, India feared she would ask her to unpick and restitch. Esther had warned her that it wasn’t unheard of for a quilter’s unsatisfactory stitches to be unpicked and restitched after everyone had gone home. India saw that Hanner was a perfectionist, and decided not to be offended if she chose to pick out her stitches.

  “You know, Hanner, I must confess that when I was a girl I hated sewing. My sister and I traded tasks. She would finish my samplers if I would figure her sums,” India said, awaiting Hanner’s judgement. The giggles of the other ladies told India that they, too, thought Hanner a bit extreme in her quest for the perfect stitch.

  Hanner clicked her false teeth and looked over her spectacles. “Humph!” she muttered and then smiled slyly. “I hope you figure sums as well as you stitch.” She moved on around the quilt, and India put her hand over her heart in exaggerated relief.

  “India, why don’t you bring the tea and cake while we roll the quilt,” Esther directed. She unclamped the quilt frames and shooed the children out from underneath.

  India hurried into the kitchen, picked up the tray of tin cups, sugar water and cake, and called the children to the outside sun porch for their own small party. Returning to the kitchen she poured the boiling water into Esther’s flowered china teapot, and began to carry trays of cake and cups into the parlor. While the tea steeped, the ladies rolled and put aside the quilt.

  They helped themselves to the pound cake and India went about pouring the tea.

  “Delicious cake as usual, Esther,” complimented one woman. “I’ll have to have the recipe.”

  Esther looked over at India and smiled. “You’ll have to ask Miss Simms for it, Elizabeth. She used that old recipe book of Mrs. Clawson’s. You know the one we found in her cabin after she died last fall.”

  “Why, wasn’t that the one written in some foreign language? I’m surprised you kept it,” replied Elizabeth, sipping from her teacup.

  “I’m glad I did. It was written in French and Miss Simms reads French. I’ve given the book to her. She says she has need of a recipe book.”

  “I am not a cook,” India added, as she refilled Elizabeth’s cup, “but French cuisine is known to be excellent. Especially the cakes. Unfortunately for the cake, some ingredients must be substituted. I’ll gladly copy down the recipe for whomever would like it.”

  When the last lady left with pound cake recipe in hand, India was beaming. The recipe book must have been heaven-sent, because now, with a minimum of experimentation and a little advice from someone who could cook, she would be able to “stir up the grub,” as Mr. Ransom put it. Clearing away the teacups, she thought about Mrs. Bow, the family cook back home whose recipes were all memorized, for she had never learned to read. Well, thought India, I can read, and certainly nothing could remain a mystery for long if you could read!

  The small church was crowded to suffocation. Mostly men streamed in, but an occasional bonneted head bobbed in the audience. Butterflies swarmed in India’s stomach as she sat on the stand and gazed out at the strange faces. She looked anxiously at Mr. Wright, the pastor, who was at the organ giving his wife, Emily, last minute program instructions. India turned her e
yes back to the audience, wondering if Ransom and his brother would show up as promised.

  “Miss Simms, I think everything is in order,” assured Pastor Wright when he came and sat down beside India. “I’ll give a few introductory words and then Emily will play the organ, after which you may address the audience. I do believe this is the largest crowd ever to fill the church, and to think they are paying to do it!” The pastor situated his middle-aged girth comfortably in his chair and began thumbing through his notes. India wondered how he would introduce her, for he had asked nothing about her personally.

  He came to his feet and moved to the wooden podium. “Friends, it is time to begin our meeting. In opening, I will give a word of prayer.”

  Just as India bowed her head she caught a glimpse of Gat standing against the wall toward the back of the hall. During the prayer, she peeked through one eye, deciding the younger man beside him must be his brother, James. Their coloring was the same, though James appeared to have a more civilized demeanor. His hair was neatly cut and he wore a Prince Edward suit-coat.

  At the prayer’s conclusion, the pastor settled his notes on the podium and looked penetratingly into faces of his audience.

  “If one greater evil or curse could befall American people than any other, in my judgment it would be to confer upon the women of America the right of suffrage.” India sat up in her seat and nudged Esther, wondering if she heard correctly.

  In punctuation to the pastor’s words, a stick-thin old man stood up in the front row and shouted with amazing vigor an enthusiastic “Amen.” A rumble of joining amens filled the room.