Waltz with the Lady Page 16

  Later, India sat upright in the darkness and probed underneath her bedding for a stone that jabbed her back. The fire burned low and both Ransom and Skinner were sleeping soundly. The wind picked up, whipping the limbs of the trees and bushes along the riverbank. India tossed the stone over her shoulder and lay back, only to find another, more pointed than the last. She sat up once more.

  Skinner had begun to snore. She supposed she wouldn’t get much sleep that night. The wind pulled at her hair and suddenly an idea sneaked into her thoughts. Skinner seemed almost too peaceful, snoring away. Perhaps he deserved a turnabout. India smiled mischievously.

  Stealthily, she crept out of her bedding and picked up her horse blanket. Using the blanket, she carefully picked up one of the hot rocks circling the fire and carried it over to Skinner. His large stockingless feet protruded from under his blanket. She set down the rock, putting the warmest face near Skinner’s feet. After another noiseless trip to the fire circle she put a second rock next to his other foot. Then she secluded herself behind some scrubby bushes off to the side.

  “Skinnnnnn-ner,” she wailed. The blowing wind carried her voice. “Skinnnnnn-ner, Skinnnnnnnn-ner.” She called more loudly, raising her voice to a harpylike shriek. “Skinnnnnnnn-ner!”

  She noticed Ransom was stirring and so she cried out again. “Skinnnnnnnnnnnnnn-ner!” Tom sat up suddenly. She called out his name in a shrill eerie note.

  “Lordy! Deliver me!” yelled Tom, still half asleep. He grabbed at his feet and jumped up. India kept calling his name. “Ma feet’s afire. Lordy!” he shouted, as he danced around. “The Wendigo has got me!”

  By now Ransom was awake. Seeing India’s absence from her bed and watching Tom dance around, he figured out pretty quick what was going on. “Run to the river, Tom. Cool off your feet,” Gat shouted.

  Tom didn’t need any encouragement. Off he ran, through the brush and into the river. India kept calling until Gat routed her out of her hiding place.

  “Haven’t you got better things to do than scare the breeches off that poor soul?” he chastened her, but with a grin.

  “I couldn’t sleep, and besides, I don’t think he is so poor. He frightened me more than I could ever frighten him. Skinnnnnnnnn-ner!” she called out toward the river just for good measure.

  “Well,” Gat gave a half laugh, “come on, we better catch him before he drowns.”

  When they got down to the river they could hear Tom swearing.

  India tried not to laugh outright. It wouldn’t be polite to gloat.

  He was wringing out his pantlegs and shaking his head. “I have to admit that woman of yers bested me this time. Whar’d you find her? I declare she’s got more guts than you can hang on a fence. I’ve never been caught by ma own stories until now. Lordy!” He began to chuckle.

  So did India, at first softly, then she forgot courtesy and her lips broke into a gloating grin.

  In the morning they broke camp, and just before they went their separate ways, Skinner came over to India. “Missy, I reckon I’ll put my scratch on yer petition fer the vote.”

  India turned to him with surprise. “Why, Mr. Skinner, I’d be honored to have you sign.”

  “I got to thinkin’ ’bout what you said ’bout changin’ with the times. You know, that’s how I survived all these years, by movin’ with the weather of things. I ain’t never voted m’self, but I sure hope a gritty lady like yerself gets a chance ter, ef ’n she wants ter.”

  Happily India flipped open the petition ledger, dipped the pen into the inkwell and handed it to Skinner. He slowly scrawled his name across the line. “Excellent,” she said at its completion.

  He walked over and offered his hand to Gat in farewell, and then climbed up on his horse.

  “Keep that scalp of yours on your head,” cautioned Gat, with a final wave of good-bye.

  “I intend to!” he called back. Skinner let out his famous war whoop and rode off.

  Chapter 11

  After Tom Skinner, the miners in the goldfields seemed tame to India. Often when she rode into a camp the men stopped work and respectfully listened to her speak, and many signed her petition. When she stayed the night, someone was always ready to offer her their bachelor quarters to sleep in. This hospitality was sometimes double-edged, for India often couldn’t abide the filth of the shacks. Some nights, after the lights went out, vermin drove her to sleep in a chair or to curl up on a tabletop. Preferring mosquitoes or even snakes to the creeping critters of the miner’s huts, more often she chose to make her bed outside near Ransom, though in some ways this was even more discomforting.

  It again became the question of who would protect a woman from her protector. Ransom might not be overt in his desire for her, yet the potency of his masculine presence was a constant threat. He watched her. It seemed as if he never took his eyes off of her; he never left her alone except when she needed personal privacy. In mining camps he might attend to the horses, sit off to the side and play tunes on his penny whistle, but the spot he chose to situate himself always had clear view of the camp and India. His dark-eyed gaze became an unbidden but connective thread between them. Sometimes she had experienced a prickliness at the nape of her neck only to turn to meet his intense gaze.

  One particularly warm day she yearned to retreat from those watching eyes and succumbed to the luxury of a tub bath within the privacy of a miner’s tent. She’d asked a willing miner to fill a pine tub with hot water, and after he left she proceeded to lift the doeskin dress over her head, unfasten the camisole top, and slip out of her silk pantalettes. Unfortunately, there was no soap to be had, so India made do with sprinkling the water with wild mint leaves. She spent a leisurely hour of self-indulgence, soaking off the trail grime and imagining what it would be like to be really clean again. While humming a lilting refrain, her skin and hair fragrant with mint, she dressed and sauntered out of the tent to dry her hair in the sun. At the tent’s threshold her humming as well as her heart stopped. Gat stood, pistols drawn, holding every miner in the camp at bay. She was mortified.

  “Collect together your things, ma’am. It’s time we moved on,” Gat said quietly.

  India lost no time in getting on her horse. He never took his eyes or his guns off the miners as he climbed up on his own horse. They rode out of the mining camp in silence. India dared not look back.

  Later, when they were out of danger, Gat spoke. “Your first mistake was in asking that damn Swede to carry in the tub. Some of those men haven’t seen a woman in six months. He spread the word fast.”

  “I just never thought…” India began.

  “It’s time you did!” Irritation filled his voice. “Besides voting, there are other things a woman doesn’t do and one of them is flaunt herself in front of men.”

  India flushed with indignation. “I was not flaunting myself! Why is it I’m to be blamed?”

  “You don’t drag fresh meat past starving wolves.”

  “That is no comparison. Are you a man or animal?”

  “It’s hard to say. When the dinner bell rings I can get down on all fours and run with the best of them.” His black eyes locked to her own and she saw the smoldering heat of his lust; the core of his masculine power and its undeniable threat to her own independence. Goosebumps tingled across her skin and a cloying lump rose to her throat at the undisguised carnality of his nature which in a glance could unleash her own.

  Her retort was swift, sharp, penetrating. “By God I wish you were a woman! A woman escorted and chaperoned everywhere she went because the male population of the earth lacks willpower? Yes, I’d like to see you imprisoned from head to toe in skirts of calico and being ever reminded that beneath all that yardage you are the tempter’s tool!”

  Gat muttered under his breath, “Lord, deliver me from temptation.”

  Overhearing, India said hotly, “Have no fear, at least I have willpower!”

  “Ma’am, that might be your misfortune.”

  India’s eyes narrow
ed at his insolence. “You are my misfortune, Mr. Ransom, and every man like you!” Her red lips tightened stubbornly and she spurred her horse ahead.

  Gat swore and drew up short. His own anger snapped like a whipcord. Day and night had required all his control to keep himself on leash, let alone an entire mining camp. Just the thought of her naked, white, slender body soaking in the pine tub made him want to drink rot gut and start a barroom brawl out of pure frustration. He wanted her in every possible way a man could want a woman. Every time she moved or spoke, or even looked at him, he’d wanted her. Clenching and unclenching his fist he fought to regain reason, all the while regretting he’d lost his temper with her.

  The storm had been gathering all afternoon, and once it broke, the heavens burst like a hundred rivers. India and Gat spurred their horses into a dashing gallop, across a ridge and down into a valley toward a homestead cabin. Ransom pounded on the door of the cabin, leaving India to face the occupants, while he returned to retrieve their gear and supplies from the horses.

  A black-bearded patriarch of a man opened the door to India and he immediately grasped their situation. He motioned India inside, and then ran out to assist Ransom. Inside, a fire blazed in a rock hearth and a row of golden heads lined the benches of a long table. They eyed India curiously but said nothing. Water dripped in pools around her feet. A woman, sitting in the corner nursing a baby beneath the screen of a shawl, gave India a faint smile. She was fair-skinned, her hair the color of tallow and her eyes pale gray. She seemed but a wisp, as delicate and fragile as the child she nursed.

  “We were caught in the storm,” India explained. Her eyes rested on two older boys whose hair and eyes were marked by the light coloring of their mother. The door opened behind her and in came Ransom and their father. India took a step toward the fireplace, conscious of trailing water with each step.

  “My wife and I are grateful for your hospitality,” Gat said, as he put down an armload of saddlebags and gear. India looked at him aghast. She opened her mouth to make a denial, but Gat quickly put his arm around her, his fingers squeezing her shoulder in a signal of caution. Her lesson at the mining camp caused her to hold her tongue temporarily, but she was completely unable to halt the tingling sensation his touch sent through her shoulder and down her spine. “We’re on our way to Hedemen Ranch.”

  “Hedemen’s?” quizzed the man, apparently unfamiliar with the name. “I expect you’ll have to stay the night here. I’m Silas Beadle. My sons,” he motioned to the three older boys still seated at the table, “Matthew, Mark and Luke.” A pause followed as they waited for him to introduce the woman and other children, but Silas Beadle appeared to be done with introductions.

  “I’m Gat Ransom, and this is my wife, India.” Gat’s hand roamed over the curve of her shoulder possessively. India lowered her eyes and swallowed back the havoc his touch was creating with her senses. Most likely he was right to be cautious: a man and woman traveling together could be suspected by some in circumstances like these unless they were married. But he was playing his part too well.

  Beadle offered Gat his hand, “Sit down, Ransom, and have a bite to eat. We were just finishing. Children…” All the little girls scuttled off the bench and left the table to their older brothers, the guests, and their father. “Mary, fetch a plate for Mr. Ransom.”

  India looked around in confusion, for it appeared that the invitation to eat at the table had not been extended to her. She stepped awkwardly nearer the fire, feeling her doeskin dress stiffening as it began to dry against her body. She looked toward a muslin-curtained alcove at the far side of the room and thought to ask permission to change into her dry calico dress.

  The woman put down the baby, which began to cry almost immediately, went to a cupboard and got out a cup and plate.

  “Shut up that baby!” commanded Silas. One of the little girls ran over and picked it up, but had little success. The infant’s supper had been interrupted and it was none too pleased.

  “Let me. You finish feeding your baby.” India moved beside the woman and took the plate and cup from her. Without a word Mary went back to the baby, unfastened her bodice, and sat down to finish nursing.

  “Mary can do that, Mrs. Ransom,” said Beadle. “Mary.”

  “I don’t mind, Mr. Beadle.” India began ladling some turnip stew from a pot simmering over the fire onto the plate.

  “Mary!” Beadle said sharply.

  Still mute as a doll, Mary put down the infant, refastened her bodice and moved to her husband’s direction. This time India picked up the child and rocked it into temporary silence while Mary poured a round of coffee in the men’s cups. That accomplished, she stood at her husband’s elbow, awaiting his beck and call. The little girls had already begun to clear their plates from the table, and one who looked about three sat at a bucket washing the utensils.

  “Have you been in Wyoming long?” Gat asked, taking a bite of his stew.

  “We came in last fall. We’ve lived on buffalo meat and wild game all winter. Mary planted the turnips you’re eating in early spring. They’ve been a nice change from game. I expect we’ll do all right. How about you?”

  “I’ve been wrangling for Hedemen’s outfit off and on. My wife and I are just married.”

  Beadle studied India appraisingly. His pimple-faced sons exchanged equally lascivious glances, and she decided she was content to be Ransom’s wife for the night. The baby had dropped into a doze, so she carefully put it in the cradle and took the opening in conversation. “I wondered if I could change into my dry clothes, Mrs. Beadle?”

  The woman looked immediately to her husband and waited for his response.

  “Go ahead behind the curtain. Mary, help the lady.” At his command, Mary quickly left his side and India bent to rummage through her saddlebag for her dress and hairbrush. Dress in hand, she followed Mary behind the curtain, where she saw a rope bed with straw mattress and quilt. Mary put the lamp on a wooden crate, showed her a cracked pitcher of cold water, and slipped mouse-like back through the muslin curtain.

  “This is mighty tasty turnip stew, ma’am,” Gat complimented when Mary returned. “I’d appreciate it if you would give the recipe to my own wife.” He said this loud enough for India to hear and made to reach for the coffeepot.

  Beadle stopped his hand. “Mary, pour a cup of coffee for Mr. Ransom.” Mary dropped the task at hand and hurried across the room, picked up the coffeepot and poured Gat a cupful. She set it down, then looked to her husband like a faithful dog looks to its master. “Fetch the Bible and I’ll read a few verses to our guests.” She moved to the fireplace like a shadow and lifted the leather-bound Bible from the hearth’s ledge.

  Gat noticed the boys shift uncomfortably on the bench. The corners of their mouths turned downward in disappointed frowns. It looked to Gat like scripture reading didn’t seem to be too popular with them.

  “Put your whittlin’ away, Luke,” his father said, opening the Bible. Begrudgingly, the boy did as he was told. “One of the reasons I brought my family West, Mr. Ransom, was to counteract the evil influences of society. My sons and daughters were being corrupted by the ungodly ways of our neighbors. Drink, tobacco and gambling ran rampant, not to speak of the unmentionable temptations of scarlet women. The school in our town took to teachin’ unholy philosophies of men. They came to my door and demanded I send my daughters to school. It’s my belief that writin’ and readin’ ain’t for women.”

  While their father ranted, Gat noticed the bored gaze had left the boys’ faces and they seemed to be staring at something behind him. They nudged one another with elbows. Gat turned his head slightly, hoping to discover what was so interesting, and quickly saw the spectacle they were devoting their full attention to.

  The lamplight behind the muslin curtain silhouetted India’s dressing form against the curtain. He was tempted himself to enjoy the show, but knew where his duty lay.

  Clearing his throat, he came to his feet. “I think I’ll stretch
my legs a bit, Beadle, while you read aloud.” With that he stood up, and much to the dismay of the onlookers, his large frame soon blocked their view. Soon after, India came out from behind the curtain, though modestly dressed, apparently a pleasurable sight not only to Gat, but to the greedy eyes of the boys as well. Now that the men had eaten, she dared to take a seat at the far end of the table and, on the order of Silas, was served some turnip stew by faithful Mary.

  Silas thumbed through his Bible selectively. “With you being newly married, I think I should read to you from Paul concerning your duties as head of your family.” He cleared his throat and began. “‘For the man is not of the woman; but the woman of the man. Neither was man created for the woman; but the woman for the man.’”

  He flipped the pages and continued speaking, particularly in India’s direction. “‘Let your women keep silence: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if they will learn any thing, let them ask their husbands.’”

  Gat heard what he knew to be a rebellious cough from India’s end of the table. He hoped she could manage to contain herself. Beadle seemed to be adept at dropping a word here, and adding a word there, to substantiate his interpretations.

  Beadle droned on. “‘Wives submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife…’” Gat looked uneasily at India. She’d quit eating and he could see her lips twitch. He knew instinctively Beadle wasn’t a man to abide what she might have to say.

  “I like the one two verses down, in particular,” Gat interjected quickly. “‘Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church and gave himself for it.’ Or the one in Corinthians: ‘Let the husbands render unto the wife due benevolence.’” Both India and Beadle looked over at him, one in outright surprise and the other in admiration.