Waltz with the Lady Page 3

  India still worried if she’d been right in offering to help Sarah, but who better than she could help someone in Sarah’s unfortunate situation? After all, this is eighteen hundred and sixty-nine and we women should avail ourselves of every advantage! she thought.

  India knocked on the bathroom door and listened for a response. “Anyone in there?” she asked as she touched the porcelain knob and found it to be unlocked. She opened the door and illuminated the small, windowless room. “Oh,” she gasped when she saw someone occupying the tub. She started to leave before the encounter became awkward, but peering closer, she thought something seemed a bit odd about the posture of the man in the tub. He wasn’t moving or…She stepped closer and recognized Gat Ransom. He didn’t appear normal and he hadn’t roused at her initial call.

  “Good heavens, he’s dead!” she muttered to herself, then with a cry of alarm she ran out the door. “Heddy, Heddy, come quick, a man has drowned in the bathing tub.” This news took only a second to register in the kitchen.

  “Lordy, what you sayin’, Miss Simms?” Heddy huffed, hurrying through the door. “Nobody ever did that before.” She shook the limp body. “Gat, you alive?”

  Gat sputtered and opened his eyes. “What…somethin’ wrong?” His face hazed in sleep looked up at the two women. “Uh, I must of dozed off.”

  “Dozed off, you been sleepin’ here all night! You look like a white prune. Missy here thought you drowned. What kind of reputation be settin’ for my boardin’ house havin’ someone drown in the bathtub?”

  India was slowly coming to the realization that she was staring at Mr. Ransom and he didn’t have a stitch on. Feeling the heat of embarrassment, she quickly turned away to follow Heddy out the door.

  Apparently insensible to the awkward situation, Gat sat up. “Excuse me, ma’am. Would you mind handin’ me a bath towel on your way out?” He gave a slight nod toward India, who was nearest the towel hook.

  Looking everywhere but at Ransom, India quickly reached for the towel, but as she did, her foot knocked over a bottle beside the tub. It was her own bath salts, which she must have left in the room the morning before. Stooping to retrieve it, her nose caught the familiar fragrance of violets mixed with some other peculiar stench. In truth, the air was overpowered by the smells.

  Usually, India was long-suffering, slow to anger, and agreeably forgiving, but this was early in the morning after a taxing night.

  “You’ve used my bath salts!” She turned to Ransom in fiery accusation. “How could you be so…so unthinking? Don’t you realize how dear a luxury this is? There probably isn’t another jar of this in all of Wyoming. I brought it from Boston and have conserved it with the closeness of a miser, and you, you lackwit goatherd, have used it up in a single bath.”

  “Ma’am, my apologies, but I just helped myself to what was here. And I herd cows, not goats.” His voice held more offense than apology.

  “Don’t you have any consideration for personal property? If it wasn’t yours, you should not have used it,” she yelled, castigating in schoolmarm fashion.

  “This water’s ice cold ma’am, and I have the queer feeling I’m dissolving” was his answer. He was fairly riled himself. “If you don’t plan to hand me a towel, I’ll just help myself.”

  India’s breath caught as he began to rise up out of the water. She found herself face-to-bare-chest. Dark wet hair curled around nipples on firm mounds of muscle, while a matte-black shadow of hair tapered down his stomach lower than her wide eyes dare explore. But explore they did, eyes to naked form.

  It was as if the heavens had opened and God said, “Miss India Simms, this is man!” In the charged silence the kitchen wall clock ticked rhythm with the slow igniting pulse deep within her body. As she drew in each fortifying breath of air, the dizzying fumes of violet bath salts, mingled with her simmering senses, fairly seared the nostrils of her refined nose.

  Gathering her wits, she couldn’t toss him the towel and leave the room fast enough. It was evident his chivalry had disappeared with his clothes.

  “So, Mrs. Bramshill, do you feel you have legitimate grounds for divorcing your husband?” Benjamin Sheeks looked up from a tidy pinewood desk, his eyes searching Sarah Bramshill’s face.

  India shifted slightly, wishing they had gone to the other lawyer in town. This one seemed less than eager to aid them, though by the appearance of his desk he needed the business.

  As she focused on the nondescript features of Benjamin Sheeks, the morning’s unforgettable vision of Gat Ransom rising from the bathwater like Neptune from the sea engulfed her.

  In that moment her reaction to Ransom had not been voluntary; it had been instinctual. Experiencing Ransom in his natural state, she’d witnessed the explosive masculinity his powerful body emanated. Her own undeniably primitive response, bordering on the sinful, had momentarily caused India to doubt the very foundation of her ideologies—that man alone was not meant to rule.

  Refocusing on the pencil-thin torso of Mr. Sheeks, India reconsidered. Not all men were endowed with the superior strength, size, and intellect that supposedly entitled them to natural dominance. In truth, men weren’t dominant by nature or they would always be dominant in the way women always had babies. And, heretic that she was, she could never believe Eve was created from Adam’s rib, for, to her thinking, it was physically impossible and went against the order of nature.

  But try as she might, she could not intellectualize her attraction to Gat Ransom. Why did she still burn at the thought of him? Was her unexpected reaction to him a primal need to be ruled? A primal need to be loved? Whatever the answer, it was clear to India that you couldn’t have one without the other. If a woman wanted a man’s love, she must suffer his rule.

  Sarah’s words interrupted India’s introspection. “Yes, I feel I do, Mr. Sheeks.” As if intimidated by Mr. Sheeks’s authoritative manner, she had clasped India’s hand for support.

  “How long have you been married to Mr. Bramshill?”

  “Four years. We were married in Atlanta just after the war. We have no children.”

  “No children,” he echoed.

  “My husband did not want children,” explained Sarah.

  Sheeks lifted his eyebrows and then pursed his lips. “Well, your husband is your protector. His judgment must be submitted to in loving obedience.”

  India’s jaw tightened, her teeth clenched in restrained disagreement. Submission and obedience! Are there no other words to describe the woman’s role in the marital union?

  “Obviously you feel you have just cause for divorce. Can you elaborate?” continued Sheeks.

  Sarah did not speak at once and it wasn’t India’s place to speak for her, though India could not deny the impulse to do so.

  Then Sarah spoke, as though tallying up the long list of Huntington Bramshill’s shortcomings. “Would it be enough to say we are incompatible?”

  “Ah”—Sheeks cleared his throat with a cough—“you see, in Wyoming territory the ‘just’ cause for divorce is adultery. Unless you have evidence of infidelity…”

  Upon this revelation India’s eyes left the rosebud pattern on her dress and darted to the lawyer’s clean-shaven face. “Surely there are other avenues to dissolving this unhappy union,” she said out of turn and was immediately sorry for, since she had only meant to accompany Sarah and not interfere.

  Sheeks gave her a glance of dismissal, and India knew her reputation as a suffragette must have preceded her.

  “No,” began Sarah, “in truth he is fully against my leaving him.”

  India swallowed back the mounting dread that Sarah might not be able to obtain a divorce after all. And if Sarah could not divorce Bramshill, she would have to return to his abuse.

  “Well, I can do little for you then. Perhaps you could come back with Mr. Bramshill. Sometimes these matters can be solved in mutual agreement.”

  “Her husband is in jail,” India interjected, extremely distraught with the turn of events.


  “In jail?” Sheeks looked back and forth at the two women. “Whatever for?”

  “Drunkenness,” said Sarah softly.

  “Well, silly women, why didn’t one of you say so?”

  India glared at him. Her flashing blue eyes betrayed her resentment and anger. India almost shouted, We are not silly women!

  “Is he an habitual drunk?” Mr. Sheeks took out a paper and put his pen to the inkwell.

  “Yes,” replied Sarah.

  “Your eye,” he said. “Did your husband hit you?”

  “Yes,” returned Sarah. By now Sheeks was writing furiously.

  “We will make your application on the grounds of habitual drunkenness and extreme cruelty. You’ll have your divorce, Mrs. Bramshill. Of course, you have the five dollars for my fee?” He seemed to withhold his pen from the final signature as he awaited her answer.

  “I hope so, sir.” She looked to India, who opened her beaded handbag and put a five-dollar gold piece on the edge of the pinewood desk.

  “Excellent!” said Sheeks as he reached for the coin and deftly slipped it into his own vest pocket. “Now, a brief note of caution. If you reunite with your husband within three months, the divorce is null. Neither are you permitted to remarry for one year after the divorce is granted.”

  “Yes, I am in agreement with those terms.” Sarah came to her feet seeming anxious to be done with it.

  Sheeks came around the desk with an overt show of courtesy, giving them a judicious smile. “If I can be of assistance, please call again.”

  “You’ll serve the papers soon?” Sarah asked, more as a request than a question.

  “As soon as everything is in order.” Sheeks moved to open the door for her.

  “I think it would be wise. While my husband is still in jail, you understand.” She quickly stepped past him, examining the muddy street to locate the driest footpath. “Good day, Mr. Sheeks.”

  Passing Sheeks, India saw a sudden uneasiness rest upon his face as his eyes moved down the street toward the jail. India knew that Bramshill wasn’t without reputation in Cheyenne. The lawyer’s hand went to his vest pocket containing the gold piece. Perhaps he wished he’d charged more for his services, India thought, as she leaped from one makeshift board bridge to the next.

  “My stomach is filled with butterflies. One moment I am overwhelmed at my good fortune and the next I am terrified of the consequences. But the actual transaction was so easy,” confessed Sarah, taking India’s hand tightly as they stood at the Cheyenne train depot waiting for the conductor’s boarding call.

  “Yes,” agreed India. Thinking it did seem too easy, but then that was the way things were evidently handled in the West where Judge Lynch was the order of the day. “I still think returning to your family in Atlanta might be best,” suggested India.

  “No, I would only bring shame upon them. They would think me better dead than divorced. Don’t worry, my cousin in San Francisco will assist me until I become settled.”

  The conductor sang out his boarding call and Sarah stooped to pick up her carpet bag, but then dropped the handle and turned to India. “I intend to repay you as soon as I can, but until then I will ever be in your debt.” She put her arms around India.

  Tears clouded India’s eyes. “Never mind paying me back. I’m happy I could help you. We must be united in these things. Good luck to you.”

  “Thank you. Thank you!” Sarah, wiping her eyes, turned, picked up her belongings and boarded the train.

  “Write me!” called India. “I want to know how you’re getting along. Send the letter in care of the Argus. Goodbye!” She waved a gloved hand and turned toward the street. The train eased away from the depot with a departing whistle.

  Feeling as if she had won a skirmish, India quickened her steps. She veered past a wagon filled with cages of squawking chickens, and daring to lift her skirts knee-high she made an unladylike but successful leap to the boardwalk.

  A sudden pain stung her neck. She stopped short and looked behind her, seeing two rapscallions dart around the corner of the mercantile. Oh, it wasn’t the first time she had fallen victim to their peashooters. Since her arrival the pair seemed to take great delight in stalking the town suffragette and tormenting her. She continued down the street and then felt the thump of a mud ball on her skirt.

  “Those little demons!” She whirled around and caught sight of them ducking behind a wagon. In a false start she pretended to chase them, and they scattered like scared jackrabbits.

  Brushing off her skirt and muttering to herself she stepped inside the Argus office.

  “Good morning, William!”

  “India,” greeted William Noble. “I was just editing the article on suffrage.” He put down his pencil and looked at her. His face turned to concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” she said, examining the mud spots on her skirt.

  “Not the local renegades again?”

  “What else have they to do?”

  “Become proper citizens so they can vote for suffrage for women.” His jest lightened her agitation and a smile tugged the corners of her soft mouth. “Perhaps this will cheer you up,” he began to read aloud. “What man of intellect, after understanding the many wrongs women have been obliged to endure in all this great and otherwise freedom-loving land, would not but wholeheartedly support a law which gave both sexes the same right to vote in Wyoming Territory?”

  He looked to India for approval. “I think ending it with a question will set the reader pondering. Yes, any man of intelligence cannot but be in favor of women getting the vote.”

  India had taken off her cloak and was hanging it on the brass wall hooks. She removed her gloves slowly. “It’s wonderful, but I’m afraid that only a handful of men in the entire world understand the need for women’s rights. To most men, women are dolls, vassals, or hopeless drudges without the ability to make intelligent choices of their own.”

  William smiled. “Certainly you do not accuse me of such an opinion? I consider myself a man of enlightenment.”

  “Of course not!” India returned softly. “I didn’t mean to insult you.” India studied William momentarily, noting the integrity of his gray eyes and the concern etched on his fine features. He was a handsome man. His face and physique held all the attractive qualities one might wish to find in a beau. This was the kind of man she had hoped to marry in the dreamy days of adolescence. Yes, it had been easy to grow up with such notions. Every girl did. But she no longer listened for the hoof beats of Prince Charming’s steed, even though she had recently found the ring of spurs distracting.

  “Forgive me, I’m not at my best this morning. How are the arrangements for my speaking tour coming?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Splendidly! We’ve found supporters in the territory. Certain individuals have discovered they would benefit politically if Wyoming women had the vote. Of course the governor is against the notion, but the governor has many opponents who might like the opportunity for a showdown on an issue such as women’s vote. We intend to make arrangements for a guide.”

  “A guide?” India questioned. “I see no need for a guide. I’ve come this far alone.”

  “Until now you have journeyed on the train. Wyoming is the frontier. There are no trains or coaches to many of the settlements.”

  “Well, perhaps you’re right. A traveling companion might be pleasant.”

  “I’m sure the tour will be a success. A pretty face will fill the halls faster and be more persuasive than a stuffed-shirt politician,” Will assured her.

  “But that’s the problem. At times I wish I were a stuffed-shirt politician. I’d be taken much more seriously. Now, I’m just a genuine Wyoming Bluestocking. Soon Professor McDaniels will be signing me up to be in his museum of wonders.”

  Will laughed. “Be patient. Tomorrow night when you speak at the governor’s welcome home banquet you’ll have your opportunity to be more than a sideshow attraction.” Will smiled.
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  “I hope so! I welcome the opportunity. Heaven knows we need the vote to right wrongs of laws made solely to benefit men.” India flashed William a smile of camaraderie, took pencil in hand, and sat down at the copy desk with renewed enthusiasm.

  Chapter 4

  Weaving in and around the tables of the crowded saloon, the thick-waisted, bearded barkeep carried five crockery mugs of Professor McDaniels’s famous Scotch ale in his large hands. A red-jacketed pet monkey jiggled on his shoulder. The barkeep plopped his load down before Gat Ransom, leaving him to slide the foaming mugs to each of his five companions seated around the table. Gat took a long refreshing gulp before speaking.

  “You boys know the governor will never sign a bill to give women the vote. You’re wastin’ your time,” Gat said.

  Colonel Bill Bright took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the foam from his mustache. “Look at it this way. Such a measure would advertise the territory, attract women and bring commerce. If I’m elected to the legislature, I’ll support the bill just because the governor is against it.”

  Ed Lee, the territorial secretary, sat directly across from Gat. He seconded Bright’s argument enthusiastically. “A few of us are just itchin’ to embarrass Campbell. He’d lose face if he went against the general sentiments of the legislature and vetoed a bill for women’s enfranchisement.”

  “Sure he’d lose face, but he wouldn’t sign it. I rode beside the man through the territory for months. He has his views and women votin’ isn’t one of them.” Gat leaned back in his chair and turned toward Will Noble. “I like Campbell fine, but don’t expect me to carry your cause to him. I’m out of his employ, and now that winter’s over, I plan to go back to the Sweetwater for spring brandin’. Politickin’ ain’t in my plans.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to see women get the vote?” urged Will.

  Gat gave a cynical half-laugh. “I’ve never given it much thought, and I ain’t likely to persuade the governor to be sympathetic to the cause.”