Waltz with the Lady Page 14

  “Woman is intended to be delicate,” Pastor Wright continued, warming to his subject. “She is intended to soften the asperities and roughness of the male. She is intended to comfort him in the days of his trials, and not to participate herself actively in the contest, either in the forum, in the council chambers, or in the battlefield!”

  The old man shouted “Amen” once more, and India wondered how much the pastor was paying him for his support. The pastor’s trick irritated her, but she could not deny the audience their right to hear both sides of the argument. She would sit in polite silence until her turn.

  The pastor wiped his brow with his handkerchief in a dramatized gesture and sputtered onward, “The great God created all the races and in every race gave to man, woman. He never intended that woman should take part in national government among any people. Men assume the direction of government and war; women the domestic and family affairs and the care and training of the child. To keep her in this condition of purity, it is necessary that she should be separated from the exercise of suffrage and from all those stern, contaminating and demoralizing duties that are commissioned upon the hardier sex, man.”

  The popinjay! India smoldered and nudged Esther with every sentence. How could he be so biased? So closed minded? How could liberty and the right to vote be contaminating? The clergyman, determined to prohibit something, had turned to the prohibition of woman suffrage.

  “Giving woman the vote would be a great step in the line of mischief and evil, and it would lead to other and equally fatal steps—in the same direction.”

  India inwardly questioned what those equally fatal steps were. Could enlightenment be a fatal step?

  “In the depths and silence of the night when I send up my secret orations to my maker, my most fervent prayer is that the women of my country should be saved and sheltered by man from this great contamination. The ballot is God-given to man, not woman. From Bluestocking, Bloomerism and strong-minded she-males,” he thundered, “God deliver us!”

  The old man rose to his feet with a precarious sway and shouted “Amen” once again, and a commotion of applause resounded.

  India could have wept. But at least she would have the last word! The pastor gave the signal to his wife who began to play. As the organ music rang out, India mentally inventoried her arguments and felt herself on solid ground. The final notes of the song came to a resounding halt.

  India made to stand, but just as she did, the pastor put a cautioning hand on her arm and signaled to his wife once more. This time the organ burst into the more popular refrain of “Annie Laurie.” Followed by “God Save the King” and “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow.”

  The evening wore on and India realized the pastor had no intention of allowing her to speak. Each time she started to rise, she was forced back to her seat as the organ burst into song. The audience was getting restless.

  At last there came a short lull as Emily, exhausting her memorized repertoire, paused to open up a page to the hymnal.

  Sudden inspiration seized India, and she arose, raised her hand, closed her eyes and said, in a loud but reverent voice, “Let us pray. O Father who art in Heaven, I ask that the spirit of harmony might abide among us, bringing us protection from the bigotry and tyranny of the pulpit. Father, absolve us from all vainglory, animosity and self-righteousness. In all things may our human judgment be tempered with mercy, that press, people and pulpit might alike be inspired and led to understand that absolute freedom for the mother-sex is the fundamental need of our slowly awakening country.

  “Let the hand of love, not violence, rule every home, enabling mothers everywhere to do better work than raising and releasing to the world a progeny addicted to drunkenness, vice and crime.

  “We pray the preachers of morality might be led by the Christian spirit of love into the ways of righteousness and peace, never prohibiting the spirit of liberty; and especially, as a means to this end, that the mothers of this race might be freed from the servitude without wages, and the slight of taxation without representation.

  “Father, let us each know within our hearts that the ballot belongs not to the white man, not to the black man, not to the woman, not to the pastor or merchant, but to the citizen. We pray for the ballot for woman, not for woman’s sake, but for man’s! Amen.”

  When India ceased her prayer and opened her eyes, she beheld a silent, astonished audience. The poor pastor sat, elbows on knees, his open hands clasping his jaws, his eyes staring vacantly. The crowd slowly rose and began surging forward to clasp India’s hands.

  Suddenly the organ burst into an enthusiastic rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The pastor jumped to his feet and rushed to the organ and attempted, without success, to silence his wife who was now caught up in the moment.

  “Why, ma’am, ain’t you the best lady prayer this side of the Mississippi,” complimented one grizzly-bearded miner, as he pumped India’s hand in greeting. Esther came, and the quilting ladies, while men starved for the sight of a comely woman waited patiently to shake India’s hand.

  “The petition, Esther. Are they signing it?” India was suddenly anxious that no one leave without signing.

  “Don’t worry, it’s on the table by the door,” Esther called in return.

  When at last the crowd emptied from the church and the pastor had managed to restrain his wife, India collapsed in a pew and slowly perused the numerous signatures on her petition.

  “Well, ma’am,” she heard a deep voice from behind. “I believe you gave them their nickel’s worth.”

  India turned to face Mr. Ransom, anxious to be polite for once. “I hope I gave them more than that!”

  “I warrant you certainly did!” smiled Gat’s young companion.

  “Miss Simms, I’d like you to meet my brother, James.”

  India stretched out her hand to James and smiled. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ransom.”

  “My brother has told me about you. I am in sympathy with your cause and wish you success, though I am sure you’ll succeed if tonight’s prayer, ah, speech was an example.”

  “You are very kind, sir,” India returned with a modest smile.

  “Well, since you two are fast becoming friends,” Ransom gave India a chafing gaze, “I’ll leave you to escort Miss Simms home, James. Ma’am, be ready first thing in the morning, we’re moving on.”

  “So soon?” India didn’t relish the thought of climbing back up on a horse.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ransom turned away and strode out of the church.

  India’s eyes followed his departure, a bit disappointed that he did not stay and share the company.

  The kitchen of Esther Morris’s home seemed to be the favorite spot for conversation when Esther, India and James came in the door. Esther called to her husband, Hayward, who sat rocking back and forth in front of the woodstove reading. When he saw them, he gave a welcoming nod.

  “Good evening to you, Hayward,” greeted James. He took off his hat and pulled out a chair for India. His manners were beyond reproach, his speech educated, and his refinement obvious.

  Lamplight illuminated the spacious kitchen where the copper teapot on the stove hissed in readiness. Esther shook out a tablecloth and spread it over the pinewood trestle table. She retrieved cups and saucers from the cupboard.

  “How was the meeting?” Hayward asked.

  “A great success! Why I do believe Miss Simms beat the preacher at his own game.” Esther laughed. “Though I declare my side is black and blue from India’s nudges and pokes as she listened to his speech.”

  India flushed. “I apologize, Esther. I was riled to the extreme.”

  “But I thought it was Miss Simms who was invited to speak,” said Hayward.

  “It seems the pastor had his own idea about that,” said James. “I hope all Miss Simms’s lectures are not thwarted in a like manner.”

  India nodded an agreement. “I pray there is only one Pastor Wright in Wyomin
g, or my speaking tour will be a short one.”

  “Gat says he hopes to have you back in Cheyenne by the end of July,” began James. Esther poured him a cup of tea.

  “I think he’s in a hurry to be done with it,” India replied. “I can’t blame him for preferring the company of cattle to escorting me.” Nevertheless, it upset India to think Gat was counting the days till he was rid of her—a woman for whom he’d lost respect. She lowered her eyes self-consciously, dreading that Gat might have disclosed her indiscretions to his brother, who in turn might pass it on, until every man, woman and child in the territory knew of the suffrage lady’s wild ways.

  James laughed. “My brother does have his preferences, that’s for sure, but not even he would choose the company of cattle to that of a beautiful, genteel lady.”

  India lifted her eyes with relief at his compliment. Suddenly, she was confident that Gat had kept his own counsel and her reputation was still intact. But then she wanted to know why Gat hadn’t accompanied them back to Esther’s after the lecture. Of course, it should make no difference to her whether or not Ransom found her companionship enjoyable, but it did. When the choice was his, he always chose to go somewhere else. The saloon seemed to be his usual habitat. The thought piqued India’s curiosity about the brothers. She was sure James would never patronize an establishment like Contessa’s, would never chew tobacco, or hire out his gun, or for that matter even carry one.

  In their brief discussion on the walk from the church, James had quoted Plato and Aristotle and confessed that John Stuart Mill had swayed his own philosophies in favor of women’s rights. Imagine, she thought, a man acquainted with Mill in South Pass City!

  “You and your brother seem to have little in common,” India said, offering him a berry tart, another of her baking experiments.

  When he raised a querulous dark eye, so much like his brother’s, India almost retracted her words. “Why do you say that?” he said.

  “Oh, it’s just that…” she fumbled for the right word afraid of insulting the Ransoms, “he has little interest or education in philosophy. I gather he has no use for the cause of suffrage. He merely escorts me about for payment.”

  “Gat is not an easy man to get to know,” returned James. “He keeps his own counsel, but don’t underestimate him. He is better versed than I in most philosophies. After our mother died Gat, being the eldest, was the one who reared us until our father remarried. As our schoolmaster he taught us to read and write, a skill he learned from our late mother.”

  James paused thoughtfully. “You know, when he went off to the war, it nearly broke my heart. The day he came back alive was the happiest of my life. But he’d changed. He walked up to me and pulled out a roll of greenbacks and put it in my hand.”

  James’s voice was reflective. “He said, ‘Jamie, take this money and use it for the university. You won’t ever be a soldier if I can help it.’ I took the money and used it for an education in engineering. So, ma’am, don’t judge my brother too harshly. The war roughened him around the edges, but he is no different from me inside.”

  “Any mother would be proud of you boys,” said Esther, patting James’s arm affectionately. Snoring from the vicinity of Hayward Morris caused Esther to look over at her dozing husband and shake her head. “I believe that man could sleep through an earthquake.”

  “It’s late,” James said. He picked up his teacup and carried it over to the dry sink. It was a task India had never seen a man bother with before. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Simms. I hope we meet again.”

  It wouldn’t be likely, but India smiled and offered her hand to him as a parting gesture. “Thank you so much for escorting me home. It seems now I am indebted to both of the Ransom brothers.”

  “And might I speak for both of us in expressing that it is an honor to make your acquaintance. Good night, Esther.” He put on his hat and stepped out into the night, leaving India to ponder over the inaccessible Gat Ransom.

  Chapter 10

  “I think I’ve struck it!” hollered India. Gat saw her running along the river with a goldpan in hand. He set aside his fishing pole and squinted up into the late afternoon sun while she tilted her pan for him to inspect. “You see, it’s sparkling,” she ran her finger over the dregs.

  “I suppose you think you’ve found El Dorado,” he grinned. Picking up his pole, he cast the line back into the stream. He had thought it a good joke when James had given her that goldpan the day they left South Pass, but the novelty had worn thin after four days of standing by while she sifted half the banks of the Sweetwater every time they stopped for camp. “I think you’ve got gold fever.”

  “I have more sense than that!” she said defensively, following the line of his eyes to her exposed legs. With a self-conscious show of modesty she unhitched her skirts. He frowned but wasn’t thwarted in his observations.

  He likened her to a child let loose in a mud hole, running barefoot over the banks, hitching her skirts knee high as she waded along. The turn of a shapely ankle and flash of a bare leg had been entertaining, but for him, it wasn’t child’s play anymore. He’d realized it that night in South Pass after he’d introduced India to James. When a man becomes jealous of his own brother it’s time to face up to a few things. James was everything he wasn’t and more suited to a lady of refinement and education like India, maybe it was a little of the “dog in the manger” in Gat, but that’s why he’d made the decision to move on so soon.

  “The only gold you’ll find around here is the speckles on the trout. Now why don’t you take the fish I’ve caught and fix some grub?”

  “I don’t know how to cook fish,” she said, brushing the sand from her legs.

  “Well, look it up in your fancy cookbook.” He’d been glad to find the week at Esther’s had broadened her cooking skills. Since then, the times she’d decided to cook over the campfire had resulted in food that was more than passable.

  “I did.”

  “And?” She could be stubborn. Willful and stubborn, he decided. She was always looking for an argument.

  “It said to rub the innards with garlic and juice of lemon; pepper and salt to flavor and braise in fresh-churned butter.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  “We don’t have any of those ingredients.”

  “We got salt, ain’t we?”

  “Yes…but…”

  “Maybe you’d rather stand here and catch the fish and gut them?”

  “No thank you. You win, I’ll cook. But when supper’s over I’m going to pan for gold. And if I strike it rich, won’t you be surprised.”

  He gave a scoffing laugh. “There’s only one thing that would surprise me more.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Women gettin’ the vote!”

  “You might be a born pessimist, Mr. Ransom, but I’m your match, because I’m a born optimist!” She flashed him a parting smile, drew the string of trout out of the water and with her arm stretched to an exaggerated length carried them up to camp.

  Gat cast his line into the river and settled back to wait for a bite, he watched the light little figure with the defiant tilt of head disappear up the riverbank. He had to admit she could do about anything she put her mind to. The only problem was getting her to put her mind to it. There was something of the she-fox in her nature.

  He’d known what was happening to them both and he was pretty certain she knew too, but he’d be the last to let her know he’d fallen for her. What would she say if she knew? Would she be shocked? Or would she laugh in his face and spout something about matrimony being slavery? To hold her a man would have to be twice as strong, and twice as determined. Willful, altruistic and wholly female: no, she wasn’t for him.

  Even so he liked her—her hard, bright intelligence, her lack of affectation. She was a woman who used her brain and was proud of it—even though most of the time her philosophies bordered on the eccentric, but he attributed that to her naivete, or what he supp
osed was her naivete. She hadn’t seemed so inexperienced that day he’d kissed her on the trail. He still thought of that kiss. He thought about other things too.

  His dark eyes rested on the shimmering river and he recalled a forest in the Colorado Rockies he’d wandered into a few summers before. It was a place a man didn’t forget; a rare spot on earth within the depth of wood and canyon. Because of the hot spring the Indians called it “the place of good medicine.” Overhead tips of pine and aspen nodded in the breeze, shafts of sunlight, flecked with dust motes, dappled the soft forest floor while wisps of steam rose from the clear pool partly formed by lichen etched rock. The dream haze lifted slowly and India was there beside the pool waiting for him. She walked toward him skyclad, an earth goddess, unconcealed, with the undulating motion of wind on water. Like the aspen leaves in the trees surrounding him Gat trembled with anticipation. All this time she’d excited him with expectation and yet denied him satisfaction. Now, she took his hand and they walked barefoot over the moss to the pool and he waded into his longings.

  The water was warm compared to the mountain air and warmer still was the taste of her lips against his own. Like the sun breaking through the mist she kissed him deeply and a rapid pulse burst to his extremities as she unfurled herself to him like leaves to spring. Her hair, the auburn of willow catkins, swirled in the crystalline water and her earth musk fragrance was pungent in the heavy air. He drew her close, running his hands through her hair’s silkiness and sliding his fingers down over hips that held the innocence of earth. The mist, a seductive breath, enveloped them and their lovemaking became a dream of wildness, wild and strange and inexhaustible. He could never have enough of her…

  Suddenly, Gat heard screams, India’s screams! His daydream vanished as quickly as the rustle of the breeze. Coyote growled and ran up the bank. Gat dropped the fishing pole, pulled his gun and scrambled up after the dog. Her cries were overridden by a blood curdling Sioux war cry. By damn! thought Gat, Indians!