Waltz with the Lady Read online

  Gat withdrew his hand, and India felt a brief emptiness, a yearning as the fiery rush subsided. But it began again as he replaced his hand, so slow, so unhesitating, between her thighs.

  She dared not breathe.

  His fingers circled, pressed, gently kneaded the satin softness of her flesh. Her lips found the hollow of his throat and her nails lightly laced a pattern on his smooth muscled back. By now, India’s mind had shed all anxieties, worries and cares. Her responsibilities no longer mattered because her whole being was melting. She felt like liquid—no bones, no muscle, no resistance.

  They clung to each other while their mouths tasted flesh, and explored, nipping, licking, sucking. Against his rising and lowering chest her breasts lost definition as did her very being. She was him and he was her, floating entwined in a boundless sphere of harmony.

  India’s legs caught around Gat’s cool thighs opening herself to him. His hands guiding her hips, he pressed forward against the white silk of her virginity, and between them the dark steady heat pulsed. Her breath caught ever so slightly, and she curved her body around Gat and rode amidst slow undulations as lithe and fluid as the prairie breeze. Farther…farther…

  Desire arched delicately, swirled, twisted and trembled, leaving India to soar and fall—fall so deeply into Gat’s heart and spirit that when she surfaced from the ecstasy she had grasped a perfect sense of him. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her body, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, and then she felt the answering shudder of his flanks.

  In the aftermath he was quivering, breathless and hot. He touched her hair, caught a strand and took it to his nostrils. “Sweet India,” he whispered. Looking deep into his beloved eyes, she cupped the back of his dark-curled head and his mouth found the cream soft flesh of her throat.

  Through the night their loving flew as if on the wings of a red-tailed hawk encircling them in ever-tightening jesses of passion. Before the dawn, in the wee hours when the moon flies golden sails across the lower sky, as he strained into her, need shuddered through them in unison.

  Her breath stopped. Something utterly exquisite had happened, more so even in its fleetness.

  As a great wind retreats, he withdrew and rested his dark head against her breast. Sighing, she buried her face into his curly hair and breathed deeply in its clean, handmade-soap smell, letting her tears of fulfillment trickle in single droplets into its sooty mass. At last he lifted his head, and for a long time they looked at each other without speaking. What needed to be said had been said without the utterance of a single word.

  When he left her side she wanted to call him back, and she knew the feeling of abandonment that swept through her would never be erased from her memory. All that she was, all that she knew and tried to hide from herself or kept secret, he had embraced. For a few blessed hours there had been no separation between them and her heart swelled with an infinite tenderness for him. Their loving had changed the world for her.

  There is no way to love without being changed, she thought. She understood now why men fear and subjugate women, and why, from the beginning, Eve became the temptress. It is not easy for men to be mastered by a need so intense it defies holy convention.

  By lamplight, in the snow-shrouded silence, she watched him as he dressed; she watched him feed wood to the smoldering embers of the small potbellied stove, and with new eyes she followed his every movement across the room. He went to the window and opened it, hung his head over the snow-swept sill, and took a deep, invigorating breath.

  She snuggled deeper into the quilts, rolled over on her stomach and closed her eyes. When she was seventy in her cottage filled with cats, if nothing more, she would have this memory to cherish.

  She heard his footsteps cross the room, silently, loving him. He bent over her, lifted her hair and pressed his lips against the nape of her neck. His kiss became spark to tinder and she was racked with a longing for him. Turning over, her full lips sought his and their farewell became bittersweet, laced with reluctance on her part and true resolve on his. In the end, his jaw set with bronco-riding stamina, he strode out the door with a polite, “Thanks for the keepsake.”

  He left her hovering between heaven and hell.

  Later that morning, the day of December tenth, India sat primly in the gallery inside the rented two-room Assembly hall with other women who’d vowed not to leave until the governor signed the suffrage bill.

  Her mind wasn’t on suffrage. It was on songbirds in December. That morning, outside her window, she’d hear Gat’s penny whistle serenade of the wistful mating call of the western willet, and she felt a softness inside her at the thought of the night past.

  Now, she started trembling—a sure sign Gat was in the vicinity. She scanned the many faces in the hall and watched the door. A minute passed and he strode through in the company of Ed Lee. As if she had called out to him across the hall, he turned his head and met her gaze. For one split second everything around her receded, the buzz of voices, the motion of movement and the thief of time. Her daytime mind was pulled back to the past night and the pure sensations of loving him.

  Ed Lee had followed Gat’s eyes and together the men began moving through the crowd toward India. She watched Ed’s hand search in the breast pocket of his coat, retrieving a folded parchment paper. A shadow of dread sent last night’s memories scurrying. India excused herself from the other ladies and stepped to Gat’s side.

  “Ma’am,” Gat touched the brim of his hat. “Ed has a paper for us to sign.”

  “I’ll need both your signatures.” Lee smoothed out the paper on a nearby table and reached to dip his pen in an adjacent inkwell. Someone came up to him on legislative business and drew his attention away for the moment.

  India looked over at Gat but his eyes were scanning the hall with cool indifference. I love you, she wanted to say.

  Ed turned back and held out the pen. Neither one of them reached for it. “Who’s signing first?”

  “A…a…Mr. Ransom,” deferred India, not wanting to sign at all.

  Gat shook his head. “Not me. Ladies first.”

  He looked at her with I dare you insolence and immediately turned the affair into a Mexican standoff. A very real anger began brewing inside India as temper lines touched her lips. It was too late to swallow her pride, for it had stuck like one of Gat’s burned biscuits at the back of her throat. She drew up stiffly and snatched the pen from Ed Lee, scribbled her name on the paper and without another word she stalked off.

  Gat didn’t miss her hesitancy to sign, and a slow, shrewd smile spread across his lips and touched his dark eyes. Just throw a big loop and keep hold of the jerk line, he thought, in time she’ll come callin’.

  “Well, I’ve other business to attend to,” Ed announced impatiently. “Are you going to sign or not?”

  “Nope!” Gat said.

  Ed face shifted to puzzlement. “No? If you don’t sign, the annulment isn’t binding.”

  “I aim to Waltz with the Lady,” Gat replied.

  “If there’s one lady in the territory who won’t be waltzing, it’s her.”

  “Then let ’er buck.” Gat turned and strode off, leaving Ed Lee shaking his head.

  The hall began to quiet down when the governor entered and took his seat at the governor’s table. Ed Lee, officiating as territorial secretary, held a pile of bills to be signed. Lee announced each bill in turn, handing them to the governor to read, approve and sign.

  The time dragged and India’s eyes and mind kept wandering to Gat Ransom across the hall. Her emotions were at such a pitch, she felt as if she were sitting on tacks.

  At last Ed Lee presented the suffrage bill. Colonel Bright leaned to whisper in Governor Campbell’s ear and comment rippled through the hall.

  Betty, who sat next to India, reached over and clasped her hand tightly. “He must sign, he must! If he doesn’t, I’ll never invite him over for supper again.”

  “Did you tell him so beforehand? It just mig
ht make the difference,” India said, her eyes still on Ransom. So much hung in the balance that when the governor picked up the pen, the room became as still as a church. Then, without hesitation or public discussion, and to the amazement of most in attendance, with a flourish he signed the act granting the women of Wyoming the right to vote, to own property, and to hold office.

  He stood, gave a polite bow to the women all sitting in the gallery, and said, “Ladies, prepare your ballots.”

  India’s eyes riveted to Gat across the hall. He touched the brim of his hat and gave her a nod of salute. Then Betty Bright was hugging her and she was hugging someone else and such a commotion followed that the Assembly had to be called to order. Ed Lee had left his seat to escort Amelia Post, the spearhead of Cheyenne’s suffrage group, to the front of the hall. Amelia awaited patiently for the Assembly to settle down, all the while a bright light of triumph filled her eyes.

  “Today,” she began, “Wyoming is the first place on God’s green earth which can claim to be the land of the free. Thank you, gentlemen of Wyoming, for a patient hearing, and for securing the ballot in our hands. May you have no cause for regret; but may this measure make us more helpful wives, more womanly women, more patriotic mothers.”

  Applause resounded through the hall and everyone left their seats to congratulate one another and extoll the history-making occasion. Colonel Bright came over to his wife and gave her a heartfelt embrace.

  Gat walked over with Will Noble to shake Bill’s hand.

  As Gat approached, India wanted to throw her arms around him from pure elation at the bill’s passage. The victory had catapulted her into a quicksilver state of mind. But Gat remained reserved, polite, and distant.

  “Well,” he said to Bill, never looking India’s way, “what do you think changed his mind?”

  “I have a suspicion it was India’s petition ledger,” offered Bright. “We presented it to him this morning. When he came across Red Cloud’s signature, he fairly shook with laughter.

  “He said, ‘When the women of Wyoming can procure a signature that the United States Army has sought for years on a peace treaty, I think it’s time we pay attention.’”

  They all laughed at this, and then Bright turned to Gat. “I owe you for a job well done.” And he took out his wallet.

  Gat put up a halting hand. “No, I won’t take it. You keep the money. When Campbell signed the bill that was payment enough for me.”

  India stared at Gat. Wasn’t that why he’d come back, for the money?

  “Are you sure?” asked Bright.

  “Yep, I’m sure.” He touched the brim of his hat and turned back to the ladies. “I guess I’ll be ridin’ out. There’s still enough daylight to cover a few miles. Mrs. Bright.” He turned to India, “Miss Simms.” He turned and walked away.

  Dying inside, India watched him leave. In all her stratagems and philosophizing for women’s rights she’d never taken into account the power of love. Who or what in heaven could take his place? He might not have always agreed with her opinions, but he had defended her right to speak them, and she’d experienced the worst and best of his nature.

  “I hear he’s settled down and taken up ranching,” remarked Betty.

  India looked at Betty with surprise. “Who’s taken up ranching?”

  “Why, Gat. Didn’t you know?” Betty looked at India curiously.

  India stared blankly.

  Then, excusing herself from the Brights, she hurried out of the building only to stumble over Coyote and Square Deal lounging by the doorway. Nearby Gat attended to saddle cinches.

  Sun-reflected snow dazzled her eyes and she raised a hand to shadow her face. “You’re leaving now?”

  “Yep,” said Gat, acting uninterested.

  “You should have taken the money. You earned it.” She managed a weak smile.

  “Yep!” This “yep” was said with more emphasis.

  Bluestocking stretched her neck and nosed India’s hand for sugar. “You still have my horse.”

  “Yep,” Gat replied, seemingly more interested in the position of Bluestocking’s bit than in India’s words.

  “So, you think you can just take my horse?” Argument seemed to be the best way to stall for time.

  “Yep.” Gat climbed up on the horse.

  He didn’t take the bait and his “yeps” were getting on her nerves. Couldn’t the man say anything else to her after all they’d gone through—after last night?

  “Well, I guess it’s good-bye, Mr. Ransom,” she blurted out as coldly as she could. If he wasn’t going to be sentimental, neither was she, no matter how much she loved him.

  He took hold of Bluestocking’s reins and turned her head toward the street. Then almost as an afterthought he said over his shoulder, “Too bad you ain’t the marrying kind.”

  He touched the brim of his hat in a farewell salute. Bluestocking carried him down the snow-sloshed street. The two dogs followed faithfully. Well, India thought wretchedly, if he wants unswerving devotion he certainly has it in that pair of dogs!

  Her lower lip slipped beneath her upper one and tears blurred Gat into a wavy vision. Feeling the needle’s stitch and the prick of heartbreak, she turned away.

  Oh, women might have the vote, but it still was a man’s world. Now she understood her folly. Never say never, she thought miserably. If only she could call him back and admit that since certain circumstances had changed, she might be the marrying kind. She couldn’t bear playing the reticent lady, too demure to demand or even to desire.

  Then suddenly she reversed, seeing in the end the choice was hers! All this time she’d been the one crusading for free choice and now she must exercise those freedoms. Lifting up her skirt, she ran down the street after Gat, who by now was far ahead. She stopped, scooped some snow into an icy ball and threw it, hitting smack on the target of his broad back.

  He turned, then pulled up his horse.

  “Why is it too bad?” she called out to him.

  “I wanted you to go with me.” He was riding back to her.

  By now India could hardly contain herself. “As your partner or your slave?” Her wide smile was irresistible, for she clearly knew the answer.

  He muttered an oath under his breath. “You’re the damnedest woman to use a soft rope! But if you want your horse back you’ll have to marry me.”

  “Marry you…again?” she raised an eyebrow, her lips puckered in deliberation. “Will you agree to my keeping my own name and omitting the word “obey” from the wedding ceremony?”

  He nodded. “I reckon we did that already. But while we’re swappin’ conditions let me ask, will you promise to step down off your soapbox at bedtime?”

  She deliberated a moment and said, “I think I want that horse, Gat Ransom. My answer is yes. But where are you going?”

  “Back to Colorado Territory.”

  Then an impish smile touched her lips. “Do women have the vote in Colorado?”

  Knowing what he was in for, Gat rested his arm on the saddle horn and pushed back his hat in mock defeat. Then grinning into her dancing blue eyes he swore, but only mildly and under his breath.

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