Waltz with the Lady Page 18

  “Elizabeth, how old are you?” she asked the girl.

  “Fourteen, ma’am.” She took a moment to tuck a loose lock of sun-streaked hair beneath her faded yellow bonnet. “Pa said if Mama wasn’t expectin’, he would have let me ride roundup this spring, but now I’m needed here.”

  “Roundup? What’s roundup?” India questioned.

  “It’s when we round up and brand all the cattle on our range, ma’am.”

  India was surprised. “A young girl like you can do that?” She took off her horse’s saddle and led the horse into the corral.

  “Yes, ma’am. Everybody rides roundup. Even Mama when she can. The Anderson sisters, us and all the other ranchers runnin’ cattle on this range meet together for roundup. We’re always shorthanded, I guess that’s why Gat’s come.”

  India raised a contemplative brow. She had suspected they were making a diversion and now she knew why. Gat had intended to make the roundup. Well, he was not getting paid to chase cows but to escort her. She’d speak with him about this roundup business.

  She left Elizabeth and walked across the yard to the log cabin and went inside. Gat sat stiff in his chair beside a long wooden table while Eugenie meticulously picked off the tar, gob by gob.

  She stepped inside. Her eyes went around the room, taking in a fancy wood-burning cook stove, a great walker spinning wheel, a patchwork-quilt-draped bed in one corner, bright gingham curtains hung over twin glass windows, and the most eye catching off all, a pump organ.

  The cabin was tidy. Bottled preserves and various stores of legumes and spices lined makeshift shelves. The furniture was mostly handmade from saplings and pine. Buffalo skins lined the dirt floor and muslin the ceiling. She wouldn’t have to worry about snakes falling from the rafters. A ladder led to a half-loft above, where two blue-eyed girls—Emma and Cora she thought—peered over the edge.

  “I’m afraid I’m the one responsible for his condition,” India admitted.

  Eugenie gave her a sidelong glance. “Gat has told me about your adventure and your errand in this part of the territory. I’m sorry you met with some opposition, though it don’t surprise me much.” She stood up and nodded to a gray crock of lard on the table. “Since you’re the one responsible, Miss Simms, I’ll let you finish the job. I’m afraid there’ll be nary a hair left on your chest, Gat. You’ll be as smooth as a baby.” Eugenie hurried over to the cook stove to tend to a pot of boiling potatoes. “Rub that on his chest to work the last of the tar off,” she said over her shoulder to India, who stood immobile.

  India stared at Gat’s hairless bare chest. His exposure seemed to become a recurring event between them. Gat looked back as if to say, Well, lady, hurry up. Finally, drawing up her small frame and assuming an air of take-charge, she walked over to Ransom and sat down on the stool directly in front of him, which Eugenie had vacated. When she leaned forward his long legs seemed to surround her and her own knees fit snugly within the V of his thighs. She swallowed back the anxious feeling his nearness always provoked in her and dabbed her dainty fingers in the lard. Her hand was shaking.

  An odd tingle rippled through her as her fingertips touched his skin. “Tell me if it hurts,” she said, rubbing tentative circles on the mound of his broad chest.

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  She let her eyes travel only as high as his mouth to see the stoic curve of his lips. Knowing her discomfort, he most likely was taking a perverted pleasure out of all this, even though she could see by the redness of his skin he should be in pain. Gently, she worked the tar from the furred matte of his chest, ever aware of the soreness he might be experiencing whether he’d admit it or not.

  Once she relaxed, she enjoyed ministering to him. In a way it was like having a small taste of being the real Mrs. Ransom. Mrs. Ransom would like attending to her husband, feeling the softness of his skin and the hardness of his muscle. Sun freckles spread over his shoulders to fade in the hollow of his throat and with her eyes level on that spot, India could not help imagine brushing a light kiss against his skin. Another place Mrs. Ransom might touch a healing kiss would be the discolored taper of scar on the righthand side of his chest, just above the nipple. She clicked her tongue and her concerned eyes swept over his bare arms and chest, taking toll of past wounds. So many scars—too many she thought.

  “What are you cluckin’ your tongue about?” Gat asked.

  India lifted a winged brow and said, “How is it you’re alive? You’ve more scars than a tattooed man has tattoos.”

  “The war, ma’am,” he said curtly. Perhaps it was rude, but her eyes were drawn to the long scar running down his face. He turned his head then, putting that side of his face to the shadow. Something chafed against her heart and she lowered her eyes. He had done that often enough before, turned his good side to view, but until now she hadn’t realized why. No man liked wearing his past on his face.

  “Well, I think I’ve done all I can for now.” She wiped her hands on a rag.

  Eugenie had been mixing up another remedy and came with a small milk glass jar of ointment in her hands. “Rub this on a couple of times a day. It works good for inflamed udders, so it ought to work for you.”

  “Eugenie, my udders ain’t inflamed,” Gat said, pushing the ointment aside with a sniff. “And skunk grease smells better. I’ll manage fine, thanks the same.” He came to his feet.

  “Cowboy, I swear, you’re numb to pain. Your hide must be as tough as a fifty-year-old buffalo. And since when did you start worrying about how you smelled?” Her eyes rested on India with speculation. “Well, suit yourself, I’ll try and get the tar off your shirt.”

  India opened her mouth to add her support to Eugenie, but the clink of spurs outside announced an arrival. The door opened and Russ Hedemen ducked inside, accompanied by his daughter Elizabeth. He was tall and lean like his counterpart, Ransom. The hours on horseback in harsh weather told on his face.

  “Why, howdy, Gat.” He stepped across the floor and reached out a welcoming hand. The men were two of a breed, rough cut for a rough life. “I’ve been down on the river with a two-year-old heifer who was debatin’ motherhood. She finally gave in and pushed out a healthy, bawlin’ calf.”

  “She accept it?” asked Gat.

  “Sure did. After I cleaned it up for ’er and showed ’er what to do with it. You know there ain’t nothin’ dumber than a two-year-old heifer—exceptin’ two of ’em.” The men laughed.

  Behind Russ, India stood unobtrusively in the corner. When Gat moved across the room to fetch another shirt from the saddlebag she’d brought in, Russ turned and noticed her for the first time. “Why Gat, you bounder! I saw two horses in the corral but I never thought…”

  “Well, no use to start thinkin’ now,” interjected Eugenie, who had moved to the stove and, with hot pad in hand, pulled a pan of biscuits from the oven. “This is Miss Simms. Gat’s escorting her through the territory. She’s a suffragette.”

  “A suffragette? Why, I thought you ladies usually rallied in the East.” His eyes traveled over her measuringly. “But it’s still my pleasure, ma’am.”

  India liked his manner and extended her hand. “Glad to know you, Mr. Hedemen.”

  He shook her hand hardily. “All my friends call me Russ,” he said in a voice touched with a down-South drawl.

  “Yes, well…” India looked at Ransom. She could hardly call him Russ when she couldn’t call Ransom Gat.

  “Let’s eat, darlin’,” announced Russ. He called out the door to the children. “Come on, everybody, supper time.”

  He went over to the wash bowl and splashed water over his hands and face. Soon after, India followed his example. Eugenie and the girls busied themselves setting the table with biscuits, beef stew and turnips.

  After her experience of the night before, India hesitated to seat herself and made an offer to help serve the table, an offer quickly rejected by Eugenie. Russ motioned her to take a seat on his left, opposite Gat, and he stood a moment waiting f
or Eugenie to take a seat opposite him at the far end of the table. India noted that none of the children took their places until their mother sat down. Grace was brief, and then the next moments were filled with clanking utensils and “pass-me-pleases.”

  “Gat, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up for roundup. We’re mighty shorthanded,” Russ said. He poured himself a cup of coffee and, as a courtesy, topped off India’s cup. The gesture provoked images from the previous evening at the Beadles’, and she stared at Russ oddly. “You did want more coffee, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “Oh yes,” she stumbled. “Thank you.”

  Across the table a mocking smile touched the corners of Gat’s lips and humor lit his eyes, as if to say, “Not all men were like Beadle.” India shifted in her place, accidentally nudging Gat’s long leg with her knee beneath the table. He nudged her back, a playful tease in his black eyes. After a few moments, he nudged her again. She attempted to ignore his impertinence, though she liked the feel of his knee against hers.

  “Well, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stay too long. Miss Simms here has her own business to attend to, and I don’t think roundup was on her list,” replied Gat.

  “Miss Simms, why don’t you consider staying over? You’re welcome, and Eugenie is so near her time I’d feel better if another woman were around to help her out. The closest midwife is in South Pass,” said Russ.

  “Now why not be honest with her, Russ,” Eugenie said. “You know you’ve delivered most of our babies yourself and that you’re as experienced as any midwife in birthing, whether it be a beast or a woman. Tell her the truth, Russ. You need her and Gat on the roundup.”

  “Now, Eugenie,” began Russ.

  “Don’t ‘Eugenie’ me, Russ Hedemen!” The two rows of bright faces between turned in unison each time one of their parents spoke.

  “To be honest, my wife is partly right. But,” he looked down the table in her direction, “I am concerned about you. I’m not so self-serving.”

  India felt a nudge under the table as if to say, “Now here’s a man who loves his wife.”

  She nudged back, and instead of Gat reacting, Russ Hedemen suddenly looked at her. She stammered an embarrassed, “Excuse me,” shooting a sharp-eyed glare in Gat’s direction, suspecting he had lured her into nudging Russ all the while.

  “Ma’am, I wish you’d stay and lend a hand. I’ll give you a good horse,” coaxed Russ.

  Feeling all eyes on her, India began doubtfully, “You want me to ride roundup? I don’t know anything—”

  “Anyone who wants to vote like a man should learn to muster cattle like one,” challenged Gat, his eyes holding hers.

  India met his gaze, his eyes daring her to rise to the challenge. Well, she thought, if Eugenie and young Elizabeth had ridden roundup, so could she. Gat would find she was as good as the next man, or woman. “I must warn you, I know nothing about cattle.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Russ said.

  With that decided, the dinner went on in a light-minded chatter. Later, Gat and Russ exchanged news and chewing tobacco, while Eugenie enlightened India as much as possible on frontier life. When the children were sent to bed, the discussion on sleeping arrangements broke out.

  Russ slapped Gat’s knee and said, “It’s out in the barn for you and me.”

  India looked to the only bed in the cabin and spoke up, “I have no intention of putting Mr. Hedemen out of his bed,” and then added too hastily, “I’m used to sleeping with Ransom.”

  Russ coughed and his hand covered his mouth in disguised thoughtfulness. Eugenie gave an uneasy look up to the children peeking over the edge of the loft.

  Gat’s eyes twinkled with amusement, but his words became a stern reproof. “You better say that one over, Miss Simms. I think Russ and Eugenie might get the wrong idea.”

  India’s cheeks blossomed a deep red and she stuttered, “I…no…we…I’m sorry. It’s the out of doors I’m used to sleeping in…not Mr.—”

  “No need to be sorry.” Eugenie cut in and she nudged Russ to his feet while she collected a blanket and pillow. “During roundup the women always take the cabin. The Anderson sisters will take the loft and you and I will share the feather bed.” She patted India’s arm reassuringly.

  Gat had picked up his bedroll and along with Russ he walked out the door. When the door shut India heard the two men’s deep laughter from the porch. She was ready to crawl under the bed, not in it.

  The next day, India began settling in at the Hedemens’. She learned firsthand how to cook on a woodstove and how to churn butter. In fact, in the afternoon, Eugenie suggested India lie down for a while.

  “You are the one who should lie down,” responded India.

  “Me lie down?” Eugenie replied with amusement. “Why, you know I couldn’t do that.” She stood in the doorway a moment and looked out. “The milk cow and the mare get turned out to pasture a month before they birth, but me, I keep workin’ right up to the last.”

  India laughed, but inwardly she vowed to make these last days of Eugenie’s a bit more leisurely by taking on more work herself. The following days India became adept at laundering and scrubbing. When Eugenie told her it was the right phase of the moon to make soap, she gathered up all the grease and fat trimmings and under Eugenie’s direction made a batch of lye soap.

  In the evenings the children carded wool and Eugenie spun it on the great walker. India attempted to learn, but being a beginner she never could get the spider-web-fine thread that Eugenie could spin. Instead, India read nightly installments of her dime novels while others carded and spun.

  During more relaxed moments the children showed her how to braid strands of straw and then sew them together into a sun hat. In return, she lent them her prospector’s pan, and they all spent an unprofitable but nevertheless happy afternoon down by the river’s edge panning for gold.

  In the way friends sometimes do, Eugenie and India became thick as molasses, spending all their time together with heads bent in talk. Beside Eugenie, India worked untiringly preparing stews and biscuits, plucking chickens and baking pies and cakes for the traditional roundup supper. The next days, beginning with Ty Pierre, Heddy’s son, cowhands began by twos and threes to ride into the Hedemen ranch, sometimes carrying a sack of flour or cornmeal, a side of beef or antelope, setting it by the cabin door as their contribution to the food reserves for the weeks ahead. As the pile grew, India could only sigh, knowing she and Eugenie would be the ones fixing all of it for the work-honed appetites.

  One afternoon India took a rest from cooking and climbed up on the corral fence to watch the cowhands break in the rough string. She watched Gat ease himself onto the back of an apron-faced mare while Ty held her.

  “Let ’er loose!” he called, gripping the buckstrap to keep his balance. The boys pulled the blindfold off the horse’s eyes and she walked as sedately as an old woman crossing the street, then suddenly her eyes rolled white and wild and she lowered her head and lunged with her back arched. She bucked like she had a bellyful of bedsprings, but Gat held on, his chaps flapping against her sides like bird wings. India chewed her lip and tugged her ear anxiously, sure he was going to end up in the dust with his neck broke.

  The hands hollered and heckled. “Chin the moon, cowboy!” “Hop for mamma.”

  A straightaway bucker, the mare jumped high and then, started down, kicking with her hindquarters. The cantle of the saddle hit the seat of Gat’s pants and he flew high and hard, kicking free from the stirrups and going limp, he hit the ground rolling. India gasped and nearly leaped into the corral to his side, but he stood up, picked up his hat and dusted himself off. He looked up at her grinning. “Keep your seat Miss Simms. It’s only the first go-round.”

  In no time, the mare was lunging around the corral again with Gat on her back and this time she was high-tuned to dance, jackknifing and pitching from the outset. Every so often India clamped her eyes shut just sure Gat was being thrown, but when she opened them
again he was still in the saddle.

  “Don’t spoil her! Waltz with the Lady!” hollered the hands in encouragement.

  Suddenly, the mare, with an unexpected tactic, gave a throw back pitch toward the fence. “Fall back!” shouted a cowhand sitting over from India. But the warning came too late. As the mare careened into the corral fence, Gat jumped free pulling India with him over the rail. Together they tumbled head over heels onto the ground, and India found herself on top of Gat, his arms protectively around her and his body cushioning her fall.

  “You all right, ma’am?” Gat asked. India pushed her hands against his broad chest, her cheeks flamed from shock and embarrassment, for he seemed reluctant to let her go. The cowhands had already begun calling out good-natured jibes.

  “Once you release me, Mr. Ransom, I’ll be just fine!”

  He let her go and she scrambled to her feet and strode off toward the cabin. He came to his feet, taking his time to make sure his bones were still in the right place, but allowing his eye to follow the sashay of her hips. She’s one gal who’s never been curried above her knees, he thought, and she’ll need more gentling than the whole rough string put together.

  Later in the afternoon, a buckboard with rider alongside rattled into the ranch, setting up a commotion of whoops and hollers from the cowboys milling around by the corral. “That must be the Anderson sisters,” Eugenie said. She waddled out the door. India followed with a pan of creamed hominy to set on the long wooden table that had been moved out of doors to accommodate everyone. She watched as the wagon pulled up beside the cabin. Down jumped two brown-eyed, brown-haired women dressed in ankle-length wool skirts and muslin blouses. They wore plainsman hats, too, like India’s own.

  Eugenie embraced each woman in turn and acknowledged their hired cowhand, Boots Hansen, with a friendly “Howdy, Boots.” His homely-handsome face smiled back a wordless greeting.