Waltz with the Lady Page 22

  “Pardon me,” came a low, deadly voice.

  Chic’s gaze ricocheted past her face. India turned to see Ransom coming toward them.

  “Ty’s about to put away his fiddle. I’d like a Waltz with the Lady.” His voice was slow, soft and lazy. He looked directly at Chic and then at her.

  Chic had loosened his hold, but hadn’t completely relinquished her hand. His whole demeanor shifted in the face of Ransom. His brutish attentions softened to outward flirtation.

  “The lady and I were just sharing a kiss.” His voice swelled with challenge.

  Suddenly, India realized Chic had used her to inflame his vendetta against Ransom, and fear for Gat’s safety, as well as shame for her own part, flooded through her. She attempted to ease her jangling nerves by tidying loose strands of hair.

  Gat’s dark eyes watched her speculatively, awaiting her answer. Nausea crept up her throat, for she read in his cold gaze a heart-raking reproach. Again she’d confirmed she was woman not worth his respect. Don’t look at me like that, she wanted to plead, but instead she said, “Yes, Mr. Ransom, I would like to dance.”

  “Maybe she’ll give you a kiss like she did me,” said Bitterman with a smirk.

  India’s eyes darted to Gat. He stood motionless, his whole body relaxed into a deceptive hair-trigger readiness. A tremor of stark apprehension went through her and she was stunned to see the bold, dangerous riptide of pure hatred Gat’s eyes riveted on Bitterman. Kissing a woman wasn’t enough provocation to kill a man, but just now it might be.

  Thankfully their guns had been hung up before the evening’s dancing. She swallowed back her sickening dread and stepped toward Gat with a false smile quivering on her lips.

  In silence, she and Gat walked toward the yard while the air of controlled violence radiating from him became a tangible curtain between them.

  The sweet strains of a familiar waltz began and he wordlessly extended his hand to her. Humiliated and yearning to explain, she didn’t feel like dancing anymore as her own shaking hand reached out to him to maintain her balance. She took his hand, clasped it and held fast to his long fingers, strong and warm.

  Nothing in her life had prepared her for the jolt of senses when he pulled her into his arms. She felt his strength spread through her like a breath of immortality. He held her as close as Bitterman had, yet nothing at all was the same. Gat Ransom was a veritable mountain of dependability, courage, patience and determination, and in his arms a treacherous warmth was seeping through her. Her mind forgot Bitterman, forgot women’s rights and other high-minded resolutions, and focused on the feel of Ransom’s body next to hers and the dizzying scent of his masculinity.

  The waltz went on and on and she never wanted to leave his arms. She floated in an airy mist, flying free like a mountain bluebird, rising, swooping on a whim or breeze but soaring expertly, catching the sunlight between clouds and reflecting it off turquoise wing. Content in his embrace, she didn’t hear the music end and when he released her she wondered why.

  Their eyes met and neither of them spoke.

  Finally she said in a sweet, clear voice, “Mr. Ransom, thank you for the waltz.”

  The intensity in his eyes deepened as they held hers. He pursed his lips consideringly. “For someone who doesn’t intend to marry, you sure are a flirt. If you want my continued protection, you’d better keep your eyes lowered and your hips still.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Evenin’, ma’am.”

  India stared at him unbelievingly as he walked away. Her nostrils flared, pulling fresh air into her tight lungs. Tears stung her eyes. If she’d tripped and fallen flat on her face, it wouldn’t have smarted as much.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning began with a cuss and a snort, and Gat’s mood traveled downhill, making him as nettlesome as a cornered porcupine. With only a swallow of black coffee he went to work. A raw brush horse bucked him off and a cow kicked him in the thigh. Even a warm smile from Bess left him mute and surly, although with impeccable teamwork and timing they paired off cows and calves, cutting them out of the herd for branding. Without the usual camaraderie they worked together through the morning, and when the others broke to eat, Gat kept working.

  A glance over at the chow line brought a contemptuous curl to his lip. India had brought out her petition and had asked the hands lined up in front of the cabin to sign it. Then, with the help of the Hedemen children, she was dishing out beans, cornbread and rib eye steaks. Today Gat was content to go hungry. He’d had enough of what that lady could dish out.

  Later, India came over and climbed up on the corral lodge pole fence. Still paired up with Gat, Bess made an overhand toss for a calf’s head and pulled the loop tight around its neck. Gat rode up behind, made a heel catch on the animal’s hind legs and together they toppled it. He dismounted, leaving his rope tied to the saddle horn while his horse leaned back to hold the rope taut.

  “How about a cup of coffee and some dinner, Mr. Ransom? The food is about to be cleared away,” India called, watching as he downed the calf and reached for a hot branding iron. “Doesn’t that hurt?” she asked, sounding like any greenhorn.

  “Yep!” he replied, without looking at her. “Sit your bare bottom on a hot stove and you’ve got a good idea how the calf feels about now.”

  Up on her horse, Bess giggled. India seemed to shift slightly at the impropriety of his allusion. He touched the branding iron to the calf. Hair and flesh smoldered, all the while the calf bellowed and bawled. Then, he pulled out his pocket knife and knelt down to castrate it.

  “Hasn’t it gone through enough? What are you doing?” India protested.

  Under his breath, Gat swore at her ignorance and deftly cut the calf’s scrotum, let loose the ropes holding its legs and sent it off bawling. He nudged the brim of his hat up and looked her straight in the eye. “Ma’am, I’ve just done what you and your lady fanatics would like to do to the whole male population of Wyoming!”

  She glared back at him. Suddenly her eyes widened as the meaning of his words dawned on her. He’d seen the same shock-eyed look on a stallion he’d lassoed in a box canyon once. A devilish pleasure touched him on knowing he’d hit right on target.

  Her jaw clenched and for a second he thought she’d fly off the handle, tossing all her good manners and fine breeding to the four winds. Then, she shifted like a summer storm and her anger melted into determination. Good Lord! A speech was comin’ on.

  “I don’t want to unman you, nor do I want to be a man myself. I like being a woman!” Her eyes flashed with fervency. “When I open my mouth I want to sing like a lark, not a bullfrog, and I don’t want to pound my chest with bravado or be tough as rawhide. I’ve no desire to possess, brand or subjugate you. Just like you, I want freedom, not subjection, equality not servitude. And if, because of my gentler nature, I’m to be ruled, at least allow me a vote in choosing my ruler!” Her silvery voice never wavered. “Tell me, how can you be unmanned if I walk beside you instead of behind?”

  The other cowhands standing around the branding fire had stopped working, for nobody with eyes and ears could miss the fire between Gat and India. They were all entertained by the exchange, as Gat shot back with, “Ma’am, I don’t give a damn where you walk! Just watch out for buffalo chips and keep out of my way!” A supporting volley of whistles and whoops sounded from the cowboys.

  India’s cheeks reddened with humiliation. She’d laid bare her noblest ideals and he’d made a joke of them. She’d expected more from him.

  The laughter, the smell of burnt hair, the dust and smoke, the endless bellowing of cattle became too much for her. She climbed down off the fence, removed her apron, and walked to the cabin where she resolutely hung it on a wooden peg. Then, without a parting explanation, she saddled up Bluestocking and rode off for the solace of open spaces.

  She spurred her horse into a gallop, heading in no particular direction. She just wanted to get far away from the noise of the cattle herd, the smell of burning flesh
and the branding iron of male oppression. She rode for some time, and then in a grassy meadow specked with wildflowers and salt sage, she climbed down off her horse and sat on a flat rock while Bluestocking shook her head with a snort, content to graze on the green shoots of prairie grass.

  Letting out a godforsaken sigh, India listened to the trilling of a lark as she stared off vacantly. For the first time during all her debates, lectures and travels she’d hit head-on the bastion of male prerogative in the flesh-and-blood embodiment of Gat Ransom. Suddenly, her efforts on behalf of woman suffrage seemed absurdly futile. What a fool she was to think she could hope to change centuries, even millennia, of reasoning that men held the divine right to command, rule, and reign, when she couldn’t even change the man she loved? She looked up into the snapping blue Wyoming sky and doubted God’s justice. Were the heavens womanless?

  She stood outside the citadel of power while the knights lined up shoulder to shoulder on the battlements, intent on keeping her from the Peacock throne of mastery. Couldn’t they see usurping power was not her arena? Power could never be the highest good. Her aim was justice, equality, and fairness. A wheel of despair churned inside her. It might be better if she were ignorant, invisible and swaddled from head to toe in the veiling purdah of the women of Islam. Eve, the outsider, hopelessly gazing into the promised land.

  As time passed, curious little heads peeked from the nearby burrows of a prairie dog town. Soon, more daring, the golden-furred creatures sat up on hind legs and chattered like gossiping busybodies. A refreshing breeze rippled the grass as India’s mind wrestled with discouragement and the ever-intruding image of Gat Ransom.

  The man and the country weren’t for her. She’d made one mistake by traveling with Ransom, and now another by falling in love with him. Besides, she thought as she wallowed in self-pity, he preferred Bess Anderson. She was suited to the life Ransom intended to lead. Bess would bear him ten children in a mud-chinked log cabin, cook his food and rope his cattle.

  India licked the dust from her lips. It couldn’t be denied that the land had a wild, untamed beauty unyielding and ever-innocent. She could see what held Ransom here as her eyes swept the far-off mountains and the rolling prairie grass. Despite badlands, weather and Indians, he was part of this land. Ironically, even she had left the strictures of civilization to find justice here.

  But in ways, though everything was different, everything was the same. She bent to pick a wild buttercup and marveled at its sun color, thinking it no less lovely than the cultivated rose. A spring dooryard of buttercups outside a cabin could be somewhat redeeming, but she immediately pushed the vision from her mind.

  India caught a glimpse of movement and the slither of brown black scales through the grass, and her breathing stopped. Even the prairie dog matrons paused in their gossip, ears and heads cocked cannily at the rattlesnake’s passing. Behind her, India heard the crack of twig and the uneasy snort of Bluestocking. The setting sun hovered on the horizon and she knew it was time she should ride back.

  At dusk India finally resigned herself to being lost. She should have reached the ranch by now or even crossed the fringes of the cattle herd. But around her she heard only the call of night birds and coyotes. Bluestocking’s gait slowed. India climbed down off her and examined her foreleg. The swelling hadn’t returned, but to be on the safe side India unsaddled her and prepared to stop for the night. Anxiousness teased the edges of her mind, for she’d grown used to the security of Ransom’s company and she felt alone and vulnerable.

  India concluded the most sensible thing to do was to sit it out till morning, and turned her immediate attention to her horse. After hobbling Bluestocking, India laid out the saddle blanket and curled up against the shelter of a sagebrush. Looking up at the stars she thought of her family, and forgetting thirst and hunger, homesickness became her major malady. In her next letter to Sissy she would paint her night alone on the frontier as a great adventure. But it was an adventure she could have lived without. By counting stars, she attempted to push out of her mind the stories Ransom had told her of Indian spirit bands that rode the prairie darkness. Nevertheless, wild visions crept in and out of her thoughts while she awaited the night light of moonrise.

  Gat sat staring a hole through the bottom of his coffeecup. He was unaware when Ty, balancing a supper plate filled high sat down beside him. Nor did he answer Ty’s friendly comments on the fine quality of the food and the chances of finding more work after the roundup was over. It was Russ Hedemen that broke Gat’s reverie by asking if any of the hands had seen Miss Simms.

  “I saw her ridin’ out this afternoon,” Ty said. He took off his hat, pulled a red handkerchief from inside and wiped his mouth.

  Gat stopped staring at his cup and looked up. “She rode out?”

  With a disapproving tone, Ty said, “Yep, right after you showed her how to deball a calf.”

  Gat’s dark brows knitted together, his eyes narrowed and he cursed himself under his breath. He’d had no call to be so rude to her and now she’d gone off like a wounded pup to sulk.

  “Eugenie’s worried about her,” said Russ. “Seems nobody’s seen her since then.”

  “Which direction did she ride off in?” Gat asked, rising to his feet.

  “Not sure. Maybe west,” Ty said.

  Gat put down his cup. Without another word, he walked over to the corral, saddled up a horse and rode west into the rose light of sunset.

  India’s thirst was dizzying. She’d been moving since sunrise, now leading Bluestocking rather than riding. Everything looked the same—salt sage, jackrabbits, flies, alkaline dust and dry wash. She couldn’t tell where she was going or where she’d been as she watched storm clouds gather in gray masses on the horizon. Things always seemed to happen fast in this country. One minute you’d be sweltering and parched to the bone, the next you’d be drowning in a cloudburst. By now she had sense enough to keep to high ground and hopefully dodge the lightning.

  By late afternoon she came across a baldface bull marked by the Hedemen shooting star brand. She followed him until he joined up with a harem of heifers and calves, and not long after the rising wind carried the faint lowing of the main herd.

  Silhouetted in the distance, she spied a horse and rider. A vivid flash followed by a peal of thunder prompted her to climb up on Bluestocking and ride toward the far-off figure. Soon the rider spotted her and loped his horse towards her.

  A shiver ran down her spine the moment she recognized the features of Chic Bitterman. She’d rather meet with a passing rattlesnake than him, but she was dying for water.

  “Well, ma’am, ain’t it a pleasure. Everybody’s been wonderin’ about ya.” He leaned over his saddle horn and pushed back his hat with a sinister smile.

  “I’m fine. But I could do with some water.” She didn’t smile back.

  “So happens yer in luck.” He climbed down off his horse and unhooked his canteen from the saddle horn. “Come and get it.”

  Thunder rumbled through the hills and Bluestocking fidgeted while India paused nervously. Her thirst finally won out and she climbed down and walked over to Bitterman. He stepped around to face her, his hand dangled the canteen of water. Her hand moved toward it. He jerked it out of reach.

  “You’ll have to come a little closer.” The coldness in his eyes ruined his face more than a deformity.

  India’s gut instinct was to leap back on Bluestocking and ride off, but instead she swallowed back her nervousness and backed away to put distance between them. He plunged forward and caught her in a relentless grip.

  “Let me go!” India tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his hold and leered in her face.

  “If you want water, you’ve got to feel this.” He gripped her hands in his and forced them to his swelling erection.

  “Forget your notions of women’s rights. This here’s all you got a right to.”

  Horrified, she broke away from his hold, ran for her horse and leaped on. Off she rod
e, bounding across the prairie, but within seconds Bitterman, a more experienced rider, closed in. Hair and skirt flying in the wind, India leaned into Bluestocking while her eyes frantically scanned the horizon, looking for a familiar landmark, anything to set her direction to the Hedemen ranch.

  Bitterman closed the gap, and suddenly she heard the whizz of his lasso above her head, and then with a head-wrenching snap she was yanked to the ground where she lay stunned. Bitterman, with a bull-dogger’s expertise, was upon her, tying her feet, arms and hands.

  “Let me go!” she moaned in a soft voice. Her heart pounded wildly.

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere. You and your notions about women. You need to be kept in your place!” He stood above her, unbuckled his holster, dropped it aside and then unfastened his pants, exposing himself.

  She clamped her eyes shut, turned her head away hoping to block out this nightmare. Like most women, she’d never been free of the fear of ravishment. For every woman it was something to be feared and prayed against like fire and lightning. Now, by attempting to cross traditional roles and boundaries, had she invited it?

  Standing above her, Bitterman became the embodiment of male power and its misuse. Behind him shadows lined up in more subtle disguises as lawmakers, clergy and patriarchs, all offering him a hand to subjugate womankind.

  Anger and the instinct of self-preservation seized India. Heaven help her but she wouldn’t lay and accept his violence as her just punishment! When he snatched at her skirts and his weight came down on her she screamed and kept screaming, until the point of his knife pressed her throat.

  “Girlie, Ransom ain’t gonna want ya when I’m done!” He swore abhorrent things, things that twisted in her stomach as sharp as the knife he held at her throat.