Waltz with the Lady Page 26

  “It did beat all, the way she honey-tongued me into enlisting during the war in place of her rich beau. I didn’t know he was her beau at the time and the two hundred dollars they paid me to enlist in the cavalry made it all a little easier to swallow. But the truth was I had just enough banty rooster in my veins to show off for my gal. Emmeline had foresight, I give her that much. But after all was said and done, she and her beau probably didn’t escape the war anyway. None of us did.”

  The disillusionment in his words touched India’s heart, and with a soft surge of empathy she wanted to reach out, to say something that would heal his wounds. Regarding him with eyes the color of a high mountain lake, she glimpsed his vulnerability and realized his strength was softness, his toughness, fragility. Her hands wanted to stroke his hair, his face, his mouth.

  A vagabond tear slipped down her cheek. Gat was looking at her and he reached over with a calloused thumb and tenderly brushed it aside.

  She stopped breathing.

  Even with the scar and an unshaven jaw he was dazzlingly handsome, with the magnetic vitality and sun-bronzed complexion of a man bound to the earth.

  Impulsively, she leaned across to him and put her hand to his own; his fingers closed warm and rough around hers. She drew his fingers to her lips. Then he leaned toward her, shadowing her face. His lips parted a little; she felt his breath and she sat so still she thought she must have turned to porcelain, and all the sound on earth had ceased. Kiss me. Her pent up longings became explosive. Kiss me. Her blue eyes blazed brightly while his smoldered.

  At last Gat knew his thoughts were her thoughts, her desire his. Brief moments stretched into a one-way ride and her simple kiss on his hand blazed the trail to mutual ardent clasping.

  The stubble of his beard prickled against her cheeks and he pulled back with a mumbled apology. India, trembling, swallowed back her own confusion, turned away and then turned back. Her arms opened to him and she drew him to her because she dared not let him go.

  His fingers raised her chin and their lips met. The kiss became smooth, moist and magnificent as they settled into the genuine pleasuring of it and then their lips parted, but only long enough for breath. Now, at last Gat was secure in the knowledge India would need no gentling, for the trembling of her body and her rising desire were unmistakable. By nature Gat was sensual and deeply passionate, but his touch was as refined and as delicate as any woman could ask. He would coax the uncertainty from India even though her red lips might become swollen from his kisses, but he could not and would not rein back completely the consuming passion he’d stifled for months.

  India willingly surrendered her mouth to Gat’s probing tongue, yet still feeling that only loose, wild women allowed men to kiss them so intimately, so deliciously. At first she felt uneasy, embarrassed, unsure, but never sinful. Hadn’t Eugenie assured her God had designed woman to delight, excite, and satisfy the man and in turn the woman was designed to be delighted, excited and satisfied as well? At this moment the coursing fire in her veins left no doubt that she was being delighted and excited as his thrusting tongue explored the soft folds of her mouth and his strong hands caressed the curves of her waist and hips.

  After a time, they broke for breath and she lay her head on his chest. Against her ear his heartbeat became as dependable as the thrumming of a summer cricket. “I never knew it could be like this.” She snuggled closer.

  “You didn’t, huh? And I took you for a know-it-all,” he returned lazily.

  She gave him a playful punch in the ribs. “I never claimed to be a know-it-all. It’s you who seemed so all-fired sure of yourself.”

  “Me? Now I could have sworn you kissed me first.”

  India bolted upright. “Why…you don’t think I’m as forward as all that, do you? How could you accuse me of taking advantage of you? I may want the vote, but I still have some notion of propriety.”

  Gat seemed to enjoy teasing her. “Well, ma’am, I haven’t any notion of propriety whatsoever.” And with that he drew her near and matched his lips to hers, his tongue finding hers, and she forgot propriety as well.

  Sometime later, his lips left hers and brushed her eyes and forehead. The moonlight, where it touched her hair, turned it a burnished copper, and he began to finger-comb the thick, silky curls. “India, will you give me a lock of your hair?”

  “What ever for?”

  “For a keepsake, I might get lonesome sometime and want to bring back the memories.” He had taken out his pocket knife. His hand unloosened the silver clip that fastened her hair. Auburn tresses cascaded down, and lifting them he cut a swatch above the nape of her neck.

  “I wish I could have washed my hair first. It smells like trail dust, not violets.”

  “Don’t worry. My perfume bath at Heddy’s cured me of flowery smells.” He pulled the drawstring on his empty tobacco pouch, slipped the lock of hair inside and placed it in his shirt pocket. The pocket over his heart.

  India gave him an endearing gaze and sought his lips time after time until she wished they might stay together forever, holding this moment of love in suspension. The old prairie moon rose high in the sky, bathing them with pearlescent light. In the distance the coyotes called a lonesome refrain, and all the while India felt the urge to sing back the elation of love that swirled within her soul.

  India slept against Gat’s shoulder, all spirit and spunk dissolved. He’d like to think she’d always be so pliable, but with her changeable moods and wild enthusiasms he would never assume it. He’d take his time—if she didn’t push him beyond endurance with her airy notions. She flew free with the dare and swoop of a cliff swallow. Moving his head a little, he kissed the delicate curve on the outer corner of her eye.

  She moved in her sleep, her arm tightening around his rib cage as if she found reassurance in the touch. He was feeling a desperate tenderness toward her, for he wanted and needed her. And he’d show it in unmistakable ways if she’d just let him. A stir of wind brought him the peppery smell of sagebrush and shifted the smoke plume of the fire. Gat grinned across the fire at Coyote who seemed content to sit on the outer edge of the campfire light and watch the proceedings.

  Coyote yawned a head-shaking whine.

  “Don’t say nothin’, partner. You ain’t no smarter,” Gat muttered into the prairie night.

  Chapter 20

  Distances were long and populations small in the territory. During the next weeks they traveled cow trails or, more often, no trails at all to spread the word of suffrage. Suffrage, however, was not foremost in India’s mind as she spoke in saloons, fort canteens, log cabins and beside covered wagons. Her affection for Gat and baby Hope consumed her thoughts. They seemed like a family each night as they relaxed by the campfire where Gat entertained her by echoing night birds on his penny whistle, and sometimes even reciting poetry, which in turn provoked thoughtful and enlightening conversation. They debated philosophies and sometimes sang favorite wartime melodies which often set Gat to sharing his experiences in the cavalry. Beneath his frontier-calloused exterior she discovered a true man of culture and a child of nature.

  His sense of fairness and soft-heartedness became most apparent to India the day they rode into the growing settlement of travelers, traders, and soldiers around Fort Laramie. Outside a drinking establishment a group of layabout brutes were ill-treating a mangy, yellow dog. They vied with each other in concocting abuses for the poor beast. Someone had tied an old pot to its tail and had begun to pelt the pot with stones. Gat climbed down off his horse, and since the poor dog was too terrified to run, Gat was able to untie the pot.

  “Come on, boys,” Gat chided, “give the poor critter a square deal.”

  When she and Gat rode up to the Overland House, along with Coyote, the yellow dog followed faithfully.

  “I think you’ve made a new friend,” observed India.

  “Yep, I seem to attract all the mavericks,” he laughed, looking back at their entourage of goats and dogs.

  They
took rooms at the Overland House, stabling the animals out back. The rooms were clean, with white-curtained beds and carpets. India discovered that Will Noble had forwarded a letter to her from her sister, Cordelia. It was quite a treat, after the rough life, to indulge in the luxury of a bath, sit in a parlor chair and read a letter from home. Sissy’s letter was full of news about family and friends, but oddly, none of it brought on the slightest hint of homesickness. In fact, just the opposite occurred.

  …Mother’s feelings have not changed and she wishes you to return home by fall. She doesn’t feel women are groaning under half so heavy a yoke of bondage as you imagine. She feels dreadful about your lecturing in public places and hopes you will return to civilized society and carry your cause from house to house.

  Now, dear India, you will hear what Father has to say about your public speaking. He says he would rather you marry and have twin babies every year. Luckily, he did not stipulate how many years! As for me, if you have brass enough, and can do more good by giving public lectures than in any other way, I say go to it! But, India, I miss you so. Your last letter, which I received safely, spoke of such adventures. I would join you and your old Mr. Ransom in a moment, but Father does keep me on a short leash for fear I will follow the eccentricities of my elder sister. However, twice in the past month I’ve sneaked out to rallies. I’ve been hosed with water and pelted with mud. It is a bitter struggle but one we shall someday win.

  A knock sounded at India’s door. She put down the letter and rose to open the door.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” said Gat, formally as a preacher. Beside him was a stout gray-haired woman. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Hewitt. She’s offered to tend little Hope while you lecture at the hurdy-gurdy.”

  India offered her hand. “I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Hewitt.”

  “Likewise, Miss Simms, as I am a supporter of women’s rights myself. Esther Morris has written to me about you,” she said pleasantly.

  “I suppose Mr. Ransom has explained to you about the baby.” India looked at the sleeping baby on the bed.

  “Yes, I’ll take good care of her. I’ve raised ten of my own. Now, you’d best be off. The soldiers get awfully rowdy if their entertainment doesn’t start on time.”

  India, dressed in the clean, cotton calico dress, felt more like her old self than she had for a long time. She followed Gat out of the room, down the stairs and onto the hotel veranda. Coyote and the yellow dog, which Gat had named Square Deal, tagged after them down the dusty street to the hurdy-gurdy house.

  The hurdy-gurdy turned out to be a large tent supported by framework scantlings. Stepping inside, they found the floor to be tamped earth, and India guessed it was the frontier version of a ballroom. Around the sides were rough benches for dancers and onlookers while two or three oil lamps dimly illuminated the scene. In a corner next to the bar stood a battered upright piano, which sounded tinny and badly out of tune when the pianist played some chords. Gat explained that the customers pay the musicians as well as buy drinks and dances. By eight o’clock the dance hall had filled with clumsily booted miners, cowboys, and soldiers whose money was out and ready to buy dances and drinks. The girls were waiting, sitting demurely on their chairs; the bar was ready and the glasses washed.

  The bartender called out. “Gents, tonight we’ve got a special attraction. A suffragette has come all the way from Boston to speak to us on wimmin’s rights.” Disgruntlement sounded through the tent, for most of the customers were ready to dance and drink. “Miss Simms, give me your hand.” He lifted her up onto the bar counter.

  “By gol! What’s a woman talking politics fer?” shouted a deep voice from the crowd.

  “Is she married?” hollered another.

  Suddenly, Gat was up beside her. “Now, since this little lady has come all the way from Boston, I reckon she deserves to say her piece. I don’t agree with all her opinions myself, but I’ll defend her right to speak them. And the first man who tries to interrupt her, I’ll see outside.” The room fell silent and Gat winked a go-ahead to India and jumped down off the bar.

  India gave a short but valiant oration. She assured the men that if given the vote, women would not necessarily vote away beer and whiskey and she offered a free dance to any man signing her petition.

  When the fiddler called out, “Gents, take your partners for a dance,” India was mobbed. But with Gat’s help she set up an orderly system in which she took a brief promenade with every petition signer. At the end of the allotted time, India, following the lead of the other girls, deftly steered her partner to the counter, where he could buy a drink. After the drinks had been speedily consumed, the bartender rapped the counter with his bung starter as a sign for the girls to sit down for a minute to get their steam back up. One full-figured girl lifted her skirts ankle high and displayed to India a heavy pair of miner’s boots, which she wore to protect her feet from the customers’ clumsiness. Fifty partners later, India yearned for a pair of boots just like them, for her own feet were battle bruised.

  Toward the evening’s end, when some of the men were so drunk they were discharging their six-guns at the tent ceiling to the beat of waltzes and polkas, India never let her partner lead her far from Gat. Finally, when the fiddler called out “One last dance, gentlemen,” followed by “Only this one more afore the gals go home,” India breathed a great sigh of relief.

  “Ma’am, may I have the last waltz?”

  India, dry-mouthed with exhaustion, turned and looked up into Gat’s grinning face. “Did you sign the petition ledger, sir?” After all these weeks his was the one signature that had been denied her.

  He kept grinning. “No, ma’am.”

  “Oh, you can agitate like the devil himself.” But she’d had enough of politics for one night, and so she let herself fall into his arms, placing her small hand in his warm palm, reveling in the reassurance of the warmth of his grip and the heat of his gaze. When the music began it was enough to stay in one spot in his embrace and sway to the rhythm of the last waltz, and even as tired as she was, his lithe hardness made her tremble like no other man could.

  For a moment Gat closed his eyes, savoring the sweet smell of wild mint that he’d come to associate with her, and his long fingers caressed hers as his other hand pressed gently against the small of her back. It had been like sitting on spurs to have to stand by and watch her dance with nearly every hyena in the territory. But she was all his now, and where her cheek rested on his chest a heat seeped through his shirt and he felt a thickening in his loins.

  Within his encircling arms, pressed against his hard-muscled length, India felt the swell of his desire and her own unrestrained response. When the waltz ended he drew back and considered her a long moment. She smiled a little and drew a deep breath, trying to steady herself beneath the deep canyons of his gaze. He had never seemed so tall, so male, so much a part of her, yet so much a stranger.

  “Let’s go.” His words came out queerly level and quiet.

  Her mouth felt dry, her lips as if they belonged to someone else. “I have to get the petition ledger.”

  With wordless assent he caught her elbow and guided her through the crush of dancers where she picked up the ledger.

  Outside, their walk back to the Overland House was slow and wordless. The night wind tugged at India’s loose strands of hair, and when she and Gat finally arrived at the steps of the hotel she wet her lips and hesitated for a long moment, wishing they didn’t have to part to separate rooms at all. It was an immoral notion and she lowered her eyes wretchedly to the scuffed toes of her shoes.

  Suddenly, Gat sought her hand and pulled her into the shadows. He was not so wretched, nor was he as shy, though he was aware it was neither the time nor place to kiss her. But he would risk it anyway. His lips captured hers. And for some minutes he smothered any breath of protest with his mouth until he was obliged to let her breathe.

  “Do you wish to have a corpse on your hands?” she gasped, pressing her graceful fin
gers against his chest for support. “Every—” he kissed her “—gossip—” he kissed once again “—in town—” once more his mouth swallowed her words. “Stop!” she giggled. “I’ll be the first suffragette ever to be kissed to death.” Trembling from the force of her own desire, she broke away from him and ran toward the hotel steps. But a last glance at him over her shoulder sent her back to his side where on tiptoe she took pity on him and pressed a sweet goodnight kiss to his grinning lips.

  Gat watched her disappear into the hotel doorway, pushed his hat back on his head, and thought to himself with a wild uneasiness, You’ve been lady-broke, Gat Ransom!

  They stayed three more days at Fort Laramie. India had soaked her feet in epsom salts most of those days and had lectured in the afternoons to ladies’ auxiliaries. The morning of their departure India walked out on the hotel veranda with baby Hope in her arms and found Gat sitting on the steps reading the Fort Laramie Flyer.

  “Anything interesting?” she asked, seeing he’d already saddled the horses and had the menagerie of goats and dogs assembled.

  “There’s a comment by the editor about you.”

  “Will you read it?” she asked.

  He gave her a doubtful eye. “You sure?”

  “Yes! If all the world is to know it, I should too.”

  “You asked for it.” Gat began reading. “‘A mild affliction has visited the Fort in the form of one Miss India Simms. She supports women’s equality and representation for all. She encourages single women to refuse to marry and married women to refuse to assume their marital duties until women are given the vote. Indeed, a spinster with a pair of bosoms that look like two gingersnaps pinned onto a cottonwood shingle must be an excellent authority on such subjects.’”