Waltz with the Lady Page 21

  “For what?” Her eyes danced with puzzlement.

  “For putting your speaking tour on the back burner till roundup was over. And for helping Eugenie like you have.” She let loose a slow breath and the pink tip of her tongue slid across her lower lip with relief. He dropped his hands and stepped back, aware he smelled like dirt, cow and sweat. He touched his hat. “Ma’am.” And strode off.

  Back in the cabin India was humming as she poured hot water into the tin washbowl and began washing her hands. Afterwards she helped Clarett spread out a linen sheet on the bed, and then they sponged Eugenie’s body with cool water.

  “It won’t be long now,” remarked Eugenie, who was certainly the expert of the three. She became less talkative, intent on pacing her breathing and reserving her strength. India clasped her hands and kept looking out the door.

  The children had been told to stay outside.

  When the chink of spurs sounded on the porch, India rushed out to meet Russ. “She says it won’t be long,” India said anxiously as he hurried inside. He made a brief inquiry to Eugenie who only moaned an answer, and then he quickly took off his dusty shirt and washed his upper arms and body.

  “Clarett, you’ll need to put some of those linen sheets on the stove shelf to warm them. The baby needs to be kept warm at first,” he directed. Leaning over Eugenie, he felt her pelvic area. Then he stuffed pillows and blankets behind her back to bring her into a comfortable sitting position. “You’ve got to start pushing, darlin’. Don’t tucker out on me. The head is down and a-comin’.”

  India could not help but stare in fascination and admiration at the amazing event unfolding before her eyes. The closest she had ever come to witnessing a birth was the mother cat back home, and for some reason that sly old tabby always had the kittens at night or in some secret place that India never found till afterwards.

  The shelf clock ticked away the minutes. Eugenie’s dark hair now hung in wet strands about her flushed face, and sweat beaded across her forehead and moistened the hollows of her eyes. She groaned, gasped and panted until India could hardly bear to watch.

  “Push, now. You know how,” Russ coaxed, the lines of his face reflecting the intensity of his concern. “I see it. I love you, darlin’. You can do it. Just once more and we’ll have it in our arms.” Eugenie gave a body-shaking push, and with the effort of it her cathartic yell cut the air. Seconds after, the wriggling baby slipped into Russ’s waiting hands and he let out a loud whoop.

  “It must be a boy! He only whoops like that when it’s a boy,” breathed Eugenie, whose face held the radiance of the Madonna.

  “Now darlin’,” Russ said, lifting the baby for Eugenie to see, “I always whoop no matter what. But he’s a fine little buckaroo. He’s got all his fingers and toes, and listen, he’s a-fussin’ already.”

  Russ wrapped the infant in the warmed linen swaddling and with a triumphant smile he laid it in the crook of Eugenie’s arm. The look of love exchanged between Russ and his wife left India amazed, envious and feeling like a lonely outsider. They radiated with the vibrancy of love, hope and new life. Until now, India had never really understood what she would be giving up by never marrying.

  The little thing let loose a loud wail. “Well, now we know that works,” giggled Eugenie, and from the doorway her humor was echoed by her children. “Come on in, then,” she beckoned to them. “See your new little brother.” From Elizabeth on down, they crowded around the bed with oohs and aahs, some reaching timidly to touch a tiny, fisted hand.

  Russ crossed the room and yelled out the doorway. “I’ve got me a little buckaroo!” Rejoining whoops and cheers rang from outside. “Come on in, Gat. Don’t stand out there. You bachelors need to see what you’re missin’.”

  Gat stepped inside the cabin with hat in hand. India felt the need to turn her back and make herself busy at the woodstove.

  Gat walked over to the bed. “Eugenie, mind if I hold him?” Gat asked.

  At this request India stole a glance over her shoulder.

  “You go right ahead, Gat,” invited Eugenie.

  He put down his hat and readily picked up the baby, as readily as if he were a wet nurse. He cradled it in his arms and then gently laid it against his shoulder. “I’d say he’s a 9, at least. How about you, Miss Simms?” he asked, catching her eyeing him.

  All India could do was drop her mouth open in surprise. The truth was, she’d never, ever held a baby. How was she to know? “Why, I haven’t held him, I’d be no judge,” was her flustered reply.

  As if Gat read her mind, he said with penetrating sagacity, “Take a turn. Considering your philosophies and all, it might be your only chance. There’s nothin’ like it.”

  Chin out, she stepped forward. “To clarify the issue, sir, I have nothing against babies. It’s their fathers who concern me.” She gladly took the proffered bundle into her arms. Her agitation melted instantly as she gazed upon the beautiful child. A lump swelled in her throat and tears glistened in her eyes, partly from the wonder of it all and partly because she would never experience such a joy with children of her own.

  Little Sarah turned to her father and pulled on his shirt sleeve, “But Pa, you haven’t named him yet. What are we going to call him?”

  “Well, it’s your mother’s turn to name, and she hasn’t even told me. What’s it going to be, Eugenie?”

  A sparkle lit Eugenie’s eyes and a smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Well, we named Jacob after your father and Samuel after mine. I think that since you were here to catch him—just barely, mind you—I think I’m naming this one Russell.”

  “Are you sure, darlin’?” He turned his head with exaggerated caution. “You won’t be gettin’ mad at me later on and want to change his name, will you?”

  “Oh, go on. I’m not ever going to get that mad at you.”

  “Russell Hedemen the second it is!” confirmed Russ, and with that he took the child, slapped Gat on the back and together they strode out the door to show off the baby to those waiting outside.

  “Do you think it’s all right for them to take him outside?” India asked Clarett.

  Clarett shook her head with a laugh. “Of course I don’t, but what are we to do?”

  For the rest of the afternoon, while Eugenie slept and India and Clarett fixed the supper, Russ sat in the pine rocker and tended the new baby. India never expected to see such a demonstration. A man, in whose occupation the wonder of birth was common, sitting and doting over a baby! She guessed Russ was an unusual man, a man with his heart where it should be. Yes, he might be gruff and rough of manner on the outside, but he was gentleness at the core.

  Chapter 15

  Gat leaned against the corral fence and stared at the glorious tamarisk-gold and purple Wyoming sunset. It was the time of day he found most peaceful, and after a long day’s roping and riding, it was time to relax. Coyote attested to that by curling up at Gat’s feet with his nose resting on his boot toe. Gat listened to the lowing of the cattle roll over the hills and watched night hawks dive into dusk. He’d been searching for something all of his life and at moments like this he was sure he’d found it.

  But deep within he felt incomplete, and no amount of beautiful scenery could still a longing he couldn’t put into words. Maybe what he’d found here in the West wasn’t what he was looking for. He’d always worked for somebody else, not taking much for himself, and he’d liked not being tied down. Since the war he’d wandered around, mostly just drifting, trying somehow to remake the past and resolve old conflicts. Now maybe it was time to take a new direction. Some direction was better than none.

  Take Russ for instance. He’d nearly doubled his herd since last spring, and Gat thought if the winters didn’t get too mean, Russ could do all right running cattle along the Sweetwater. With three government forts nearby to buy the beef and the railway completed, he foresaw real opportunity in ranching for Russ and maybe himself, too. He had in mind the place to start, just over the territorial l
ine in northern Colorado. Not as much Indian trouble down that way. Maybe it was time to be done with drifting, time to carve out a niche for himself.

  “Evening, Gat.” Bess Anderson brushed up against him with an inviting smile. “They’re going to bring out the organ and have a little dancin’. Eugenie says she’s up to playin’, and I’m up to dancin’ if you’ll take me as partner.”

  “I’ll be happy to, Bess, but I don’t think I can keep you to myself every dance. All the boys like to have a turn,” he answered with a touch of standoffishness.

  “So…” she smiled coquettishly, “I can choose who I want and I choose you.”

  Gat smiled back. Bess was young but she knew what she wanted, and he knew she wanted him. There had been some talk and speculation concerning them, and each time he came to the Hedemens’, he and Bess had been thrown together as a matter of matchmaking. If he were the marrying kind, she’d be the woman he’d need, because her temperament was right and she’d been bred on the frontier. She could ride and rope as well as any man, and she had slim ankles to boot.

  Luckily, he’d always had the good sense to ride out and leave the petticoats and “I do’s” to the other fools. His eyes wandered past Bess to the uppity pack of goods standing in the cabin doorway directing four cowhands out the door with Eugenie’s pump organ. Now, Lady Liberty was a filly of another color. A woman like India Simms could cause a man’s resolve to disappear as fast as water in the badlands. Why did he take to a woman like her, all flare and explosion? He wasn’t some goosey kid who tossed his rope before building a loop. He knew women, and this one was a maverick. She had something against men, and even if he had a mind to, she’d never take to brandin’.

  “Come on then,” urged Bess, as she looped her arm through his. “Ty’s brought out his fiddle and Eugenie’s set herself down at the organ.”

  Gat and Bess strolled over, arm in arm, and joined the group gathering around the organ. Eugenie pulled out a few stops and gave a push on the foot pedal, but was rewarded with a dull thump.

  “What’s wrong?” India asked.

  “I can’t get the foot pedal going. Russ, do you want to look and see if you can figure it out? I haven’t played it for a month. Maybe…”

  Russ bent down and took off the front panel. A moment passed before he gave a chuckle of discovery. “Well, I’d say here’s the problem: a music lovin’ blow snake. Look at the size of this critter.” The ladies gasped as he drew out, tail first, a four-foot snake. He stepped back and twirled it around his head and let it fly into the brush. “Now, we can get started. Ty, you ready?”

  “Let’s get movin’.” He began tapping his foot and bowing his fiddle. Eugenie followed his lead on the pump organ.

  “Everyone join hands in a circle,” instructed Russ.

  All the cowhands, including the Hedemens’ four oldest daughters, India, and the Anderson sisters, clasped hands to form a circle. Of course there was a woman shortage, but that was remedied by Jacob, Samuel and some other young cowhands, who much to the amusement of the others, had donned aprons.

  “Ladies in the center, gents ’round ’em run:

  Swing your rope, cowboy, and get you one!”

  When Chic Bitterman partnered India, a sour taste rose in Gat’s mouth. Bitterman was as sly as a hungry coyote, and Gat knew he had only one use for a woman. Two nights before, around the campfire, Bitterman began to tell stories of whoring down on the border, which Gat hadn’t found entertaining. He said as much, and added to the bad blood between them by walking off.

  Gat kept an eye on India and Bitterman as they danced around the circle. Bitterman was adept at putting his hands a little too low or a little too high on her. When everyone changed partners again, Gat lost Bess and ended up with young Samuel.

  Russ sang out:

  “Swing the other gal, swing her sweet!

  Paw dirt, doggies, stomp your feet.

  Swing an’ march, first couple lead,

  Clear ’round the circle an’ then stampede!”

  There was an outbreak of whoops and hollers and the music picked up pace as everybody kicked up the dust.

  The dancing progressed. Gat and India circled toward each other in different directions while Gat’s dark eyes raked over the sway of India’s hips and the flip of her head as she sashayed around the circle. Then, just when his reaching hand went to clasp hers, the music stopped. The set broke up. Bess was back at Gat’s side and India turned to the attentions of an adoring young cowhand.

  Clarett Anderson sat down at the organ to spell off Eugenie, and Ty called Gat over to accompany a song or two on his penny whistle. Bess reluctantly let Gat go, but made it clear she expected to dance with him again. From beneath hooded lids Gat watched the cowhands line up to dance with India, and he felt as territorial as a high-desert wolf. His jaw tightened in a slow burn and he had a mind not to play at all, but Ty looked over at him with a go-ahead nod and Gat picked up the tune.

  He’d never seen India so friendly. And the more he watched, the more it rankled him. From where he stood, she looked like she was “countin’ coup.” He was a man whose slow, smoldering anger was neither easily nor quickly aroused, but as he watched India’s genial ways his possessiveness simmered and gathered strength, shaking him to his granite-firm foundations. She had penetrated the secret place no one else had ever quite reached—his heart.

  Finding no end to partners as the music played, India enjoyed round after round of polkas and waltzes. But it was Gat Ransom she danced for and deep inside she knew it was only him she wanted to dance with. On every waltzing turn she looked toward him, where he leaned against the pump organ piping away.

  After a time he took a break from playing, but instead of asking her to dance, as she hoped he would, he asked Bess. India was jealous. Whether she wanted him or not, she didn’t want anyone else to have him.

  The moon rose to mid-sky and the wild things in the hills began to call to each other, and he still hadn’t asked her to dance. Sparring glances crossed between them and his taunting began to grate on her. When he wasn’t dancing with Bess, he pulled his hat over his eyes and leaned against the fence. India should have retired for the evening, but she couldn’t make herself leave. Though she dreaded his scrutiny, perversely she wanted him to look at her and so she smiled broader and laughed louder as if she was having the time of her life, which she wasn’t.

  After sullenly watching Gat and Bess dance again, she made up her mind to turn him down if he did ask her to dance. Why I was just planning to sit this one out, Mister Ransom, she would say. Unfortunately, the opportunity to refuse him never came, and after a while she was so smitten with jealousy she excused herself from the dancing and slipped off into the shadows to sort things out.

  She leaned against the cabin and stared at the prairie moon, realizing there had been no moment when she’d thought, I will love this man. It had just happened. She had not wanted to love him—or had she? A great swelling ache washed through her and she knew that even in the beginning it had been an orbiting attraction between them, like moon to earth or earth to sun. She had not intended for it to go this far.

  No answers came.

  She took a few deep breaths, striving for some semblance of emotional calm. But that calm was short-lived when Chic Bitterman came out of the shadows and thrust his unshaven face inches from hers.

  “I’d like a dance! You’ve been avoidin’ me,” he sneered. “That ain’t good manners, ma’am.”

  India’s heart quickened. Bitterman’s presence made her uneasy. She knew firsthand that he was brutal and cowardly, besides being devoid of manners and good feelings.

  “You’re wrong. We’ll have more opportunities to dance before the evening’s over.” Lifting her skirt she stepped forward to leave but he positioned himself directly in front of her.

  “Well, now’s yer opportunity.” He put his arms around her and held her like a rabbit in a steel trap and began to sway to the music. His touch was repugnant,
but she was afraid to speak up.

  When the song ended he pressed her up against the cabin wall and with a grotesque smile said, “Give me a kiss.”

  Revulsion filled India. Turning her face away she said, “Let’s go back with the others.”

  A burst of rotten breath hit her nostrils. “I don’t want to dance anymore. I just want a kiss.”

  She would sooner kiss Coyote and was on the verge of saying so. “I won’t kiss you.”

  “If you won’t kiss me, I’ll just do it my way.” He pressed a wet tongue inside the hollow of her ear. Shivers of disgust rippled down her neck. His action seemed to be the vilest of insult and disrespect.

  “Please, I…” Mustering her courage, India pulled away, but he caught her back. His hands cradled her hips and pressured them to his own.

  “What’s wrong, ain’t Ransom ever done that to ya?” A growling chuckle rose from his throat.

  “No! Nor would any gentleman behave so toward a lady.” She faced him again and met his eyes with indignation.

  He guffawed in her face. “You don’t know nothin’ ’bout how gentlemen behave toward ladies. Why, I bet yer Mr. Ransom has kissed more tit than you could count. I oughta slide between yer legs, girlie, and let you sample a real man.”

  Bitterman’s obscene suggestions disgusted her. “Let me go, or I’ll call out,” she threatened between clenched teeth.

  “Go ahead, call out. Maybe Mr. Ransom will save ya,” he mocked. Not easily put off, his mouth came down on hers and he forced her lips apart with his teeth. Pinning her body against the wall he held her face in his hands and thrust his hips against hers.

  “Let go!” she gasped.

  “Not until you kiss back. Come on, kiss me back. I ain’t sure you’re a woman.” He was a strong man and India knew that no amount of good manners would waylay his intentions. Something snapped. Her eyes widened with fury and she bit him. It cost her more than she’d anticipated. Bitterman’s arms clamped her in a painful hold and he rammed his mouth onto hers, thrusting his tongue between her teeth so violently that it could never be misconstrued as a kiss. “You’ll be sorry, woman!” he muttered.