Waltz with the Lady Read online

  She refused to look at Ransom, but replied in Will’s direction. “Many women already take care of themselves. Unfortunately, most professions men enjoy are closed to women—”

  “For good reason!” Ransom interjected. “When push comes to shove, a woman’s no match for a man!”

  Before India could retort that all livelihoods weren’t necessarily a matter of push and shove, she was interrupted.

  “That isn’t so!” Amee Bouvette affirmed in her accented voice. “I went on the stage out of necessity. My girlhood dream was to become a sea captain, like my father. I could have succeeded, but there is no way for a woman to enter that profession.” She sighed.

  “Why haven’t you ever told me that?” Ed Lee turned to her with interest.

  “Because, my champion of woman suffrage, you never asked. I suspect you are like most men, thinking that what is inside a woman’s head is not half as interesting as what is outside.” She flipped her long nails against his lapel in gentle chastisement.

  Lee laughed self-consciously.

  “Well, I agree with Mr. Ransom, women are different from men,” Milicent announced firmly. “Holy Scripture establishes a different and higher sphere for women, apart from public life. Indeed, if we were given the right to vote, we might be expected to do things unsuited to our physical organizations.”

  “Certainly birthing fifteen children on a sod house floor is much less suited to our physical organizations than putting our opinion in a polling box,” India retorted, perhaps a little too fervently. Her scorn for the Milicent Templetons of the world was searing. She felt justly angered that while toiling, reasoning women stayed home, a parasite like Milicent flirted with politicians at the capital, not caring a straw if women had equal rights.

  “You broach the subject just at the right moment, Miss Simms,” Ed Lee said as he glanced at his timepiece. He rose to his feet, picked up a spoon and clinked it several times against a crystal glass to gain the attention of the rest of the hall. Smiling at Governor Campbell, he said loudly, “I promised the governor an interesting after-dinner speech. I’d say the subject of woman suffrage is interesting.” A ripple of laughter filtered through the hall. “Miss Simms, we await your address.” He bowed slightly. India stood and moved to the podium.

  The governor leaned to Ed Lee and Gat overheard him say, “You may be surprised, Ed, but I’m in sympathy with your cause.” Ed gave Gat a brief look of surprise across the table. “However, my fear is that the right for women to vote will tend to disrupt the harmony of society, bring discord to the family and thus cause much greater evil than good.”

  Applause cut off any further exchange between the Governor and Lee, as India took the podium.

  A female speaker was a genuine novelty and the hall, mostly male, waited with rapt attention. Along with the others, Gat pushed his chair back to see better, deciding Miss Simms in her fancy dress was easy on the eye, though he didn’t like the way she’d plaited her shining chestnut hair into an aloof coronet on top of her head. It gave her the “don’t touch me” look of a setting hen.

  She shifted nervously, preparing herself, and Gat smiled as he noticed that at least on one base she was not in complete control. Her voice began in a pleasant lilt, but as far as he was concerned, the subject would put most of the audience to sleep, himself included. He thought if things got too deadly he’d go home early by way of the Red Dog Saloon.

  “I have entitled my words, ‘The Question of the Hour,’” she began, as her shaky fingers smoothed out her papers against the podium surface. “The unhappy war has settled two questions. First, that we are a nation and not a mere confederation of states. Second, that all ‘persons’ born or naturalized in the United States are ‘citizens,’ and stand equal before the law. The chief public question of the hour is the woman’s claim to the ballot. The Federal Constitution, as it now stands, leaves this question an open one for the states to settle as they choose. Will the territory of Wyoming choose to give voting rights to those who have rights under the Constitution? I speak on behalf of the women of Wyoming—intelligent, virtuous, native-born American citizens, and yet they stand outside the pale of political recognition. The Constitution classes them as ‘free people,’ and counts them whole persons in the basis of representation. Yet they are governed without consent, compelled to pay taxes without representation, and punished for violations of law without benefit of judge or juror. In this new era, in this new age of progress, should not the fairer sex receive the right of suffrage?”

  Ransom listened attentively, surprised at her proficiency with words and graceful delivery, yet her sound arguments, eloquently drawn, would never persuade him to consider this cause. It was a man’s world, always had been, and if she thought she could change that she might as well dance on the moon. A hint of wry humor touched him as he allowed his unkind assessments of her run wild. He still thought she was a little too uppity, even self-important. To his mind nobody was ever important enough to feel important. A tap on Gat’s shoulder broke his undivided attention.

  “Mr. Gat, Mr. Gat,” came a distressed whisper. Yee Jim, huffing and perspiring, leaned toward Gat. “Heddy say tell you the man is loose.”

  Taken aback, Gat asked, “What man is loose?”

  “Gamblin’ B’amshill. He come, hot mad.”

  Gat didn’t make the connection. “Why, his wife is gone—”

  Two shots rang out, then a volley of shots. Around Gat, amid shrieks and gasps, people slid off their seats and dove to the floor. Everything came together when Gat saw Huntington Bramshill positioned in the doorway firing two Colt Lightnings at India Simms. Hell! She didn’t even have the sense enough to take cover. Gat leaped past the governor, who was fanning the swooning Milicent Templeton with his good arm, and bounded toward the podium. He swept India hoop skirts and all over his shoulder and made for the rear exit. She screamed and pounded on his shoulders. Kicking her petticoats over his eyes, she nearly sent him headlong into the wall.

  “Settle down, ma’am. Bramshill’s on the warpath. I suppose you know why.”

  She didn’t answer. But he felt her settle somewhat.

  Once outside, he tossed her into the nearest buggy, whipped the horses into a run and headed them down the street to the train depot. Coyote ran in front barking, and Bramshill, pursued by a half-dozen men, ran behind shooting. The bullets zinged past their heads.

  Well, Gat thought, Ed Lee had promised the governor an interesting after-dinner speech. But this was a little too interesting!

  At the depot, steam clouded around the cowcatcher as the Union Pacific westbound evening train built up momentum to pull out.

  “We’re coming aboard,” Gat called to the conductor who was waving a lantern signal of departure to the engineman.

  India gasped. “Mr. Ransom! What do you think you are doing?” She clutched the sides of the buggy and looked about desperately for escape.

  “Ma’am, I’m saving your life,” Gat said, ignoring her resistance. He lifted his protesting baggage over his shoulder and up the steps of the passenger car. Accustomed to last-minute boardings, the conductor waved the engineman the go-ahead, swinging himself up on the caboose railings. With a shrill farewell blast, the Union Pacific locomotive pulled away from the Cheyenne depot.

  Chapter 5

  When Gat plopped India down on the leather seat it wasn’t the curious stares of other passengers on the train that whipped India’s agitation into full froth. Neither was it embarrassment for being the only woman on the day-coach decked out in complete ball-gown regalia. It was Ransom’s blatant indifference as he tossed a coin to the train butch for a copy of the daily edition of the Argus that nearly unstrung India.

  With a polite “Pardon ma’am,” he pushed his long legs past her skirt, which filled the space between the seats and overflowed into the aisle, and took his seat and began reading the paper as if nothing out of ordinary had happened. That he could read was small comfort to India. His mangy dog jumped up on
the seat beside him and watched her from cunning canine eyes while his master ignored her. The seconds ticked by. The three sat, newspaper dividing them, as silent as congregants at Sunday meeting.

  India bit back her indignation while her mind ran in a hundred directions at once. How could he just pick her up and throw her on the train without notice? Whatever had possessed William Noble to think Ransom was a suitable escort?

  “Mr. Ransom, don’t you think you acted a bit hastily?” She might have taken a bite of lemon for the look upon her face, but since the paper blocked the view between them, Gat could not see.

  “You’re still breathing ain’t you?” His voice floated up from behind the newspaper.

  “Of course I’m still breathing. And had you not interfered, I would have found a peaceable means to settle the problem.”

  “Throwin’ you on the train was peaceable. I’d say you’re beholden to me. I’ve done you a favor.” He turned a page. “Next time, mind your own business.”

  “But it was my business!” defended India. “His wife asked for my help, I gave it!”

  “Out here a man values his possessions. Sometimes his woman is pretty high on the list.”

  “That medieval thinking is exactly the problem.”

  Gat put down the paper. He loosened his black string tie and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt, exposing the hollow of his throat. “What medieval thinking?”

  “That a woman is a possession!” spouted India, quickly raising her eyes from his throat to his face, then to his hat. “If you believe that, you think behind the times. It might be a revelation to you, but we women have souls…and spirit!” The conductor coming through collecting tickets precluded Gat’s answering her.

  “Just me and the lady,” he said to the conductor.

  “If the dog sits on a seat you pay for it, cowboy.” The conductor pushed back his cap and motioned to Coyote sitting next to Gat.

  “All right,” Gat said.

  “How far?”

  “Green River.”

  The conductor took Gat’s money and fumbled in his money belt for change. “Next time buy yer tickets at the depot,” he recommended.

  “I second that!” murmured India as if she already had the vote. “It would be nice to have advance notice.”

  “You knew we were leaving tomorrow. What’s a day earlier?”

  “Mr. Ransom, I have no clothing other than what I am wearing.” Luckily, she still had her handbag and a money reserve in the secret pocket in her pantalettes, or she would have been completely dependent upon Ransom.

  “Out here we travel with what we can carry. I’d say you’re wearing about all you can carry.” With that sarcastic remark he put his nose back into the paper.

  She glared at him for a moment, then despite her temper, India thought about his words and she began to consider her precarious position. To return to Cheyenne would put her speaking tour behind schedule. Yet she balked at the thought of staying with Ransom. There had to be a way out of her dilemma. While Ransom read the paper an idea popped into her mind as her eyes fell across the back page of the Argus. She bent nearer, her nose close to touching the page while she studied the Union Pacific train schedule in the lower left corner.

  “Hell! What does Will think he’s doing?” Ransom muttered from behind the paper. “He’ll have every relative of Bitterman’s in the territory after me, not to mention every hot drunk crony.” He yanked the paper to his lap discovering India’s face directly in front of him.

  Suddenly finding herself nose to nose with Ransom, India jerked back. “Something bothering you about the journalistic quality of the Argus, Mr. Ransom?”

  “Sure as hell is!” He shook the crease out of the paper and began to read aloud. “‘It was a close call for Governor Campbell but for the steady gun-hand of notorious bodyguard and crack shot Gatlin Ransom in a recent showdown at Platte Waystation. Cut-Off Bitterman met his match when he dared to pull out his guns and point them at the governor. Ransom coolly stepped in, aimed for the heart and shot the black-hearted Bitterman dead.’”

  “Isn’t that what happened?”

  “It sounds like a dime novel. It ain’t like Will to lay it on thick at someone else’s expense,” said Ransom thoughtfully.

  India cleared her throat uncomfortably. “William didn’t write that piece. I did.”

  “You!” Ransom cast her a disgusted glance, tossed the paper aside and rose to his feet. India’s cheeks colored from the obvious error she had committed.

  When Ransom stepped into the aisle his spur caught on her dress. He bent down to untangle it, muttering under his breath all the while. “Listen, ma’am. There’s plenty of space in Wyoming for foofaraw like this but it sure as hell ain’t inside this train.”

  “Did I ask to be thrown on this train?” she retorted. Around them people turned to gawk. “Did I?” she said again in a tightly whispered challenge. He gave her dress a separating yank and ignored her question. He strode down the aisle. The dog looked at her a moment as if he had something insightful to add, but thinking better of it, he too jumped off the seat to follow Gat out of the car. Through the glass window of the door she could see Gat speaking with the conductor.

  Humph! she thought. Well, whatever his business is had nothing to do with her. She had her own worries to attend to, starting with how to extricate herself from his company. She picked up the discarded paper and looked again at the train schedules. Her mind churned.

  Suppose she got off the train at Laramie and just followed the engagements on the list William had given her? She toyed with the notion. Reaching her hand into her black-beaded silk handbag, which hung about her wrist, she took out the list. Green River, South Pass…well, she could ask for directions. She looked out the window into darkening twilight, tracing her lower lip thoughtfully with her forefinger.

  “Lady, you want to buy a guidebook of Wyoming, only ten cents?” The blue-eyed, red-haired train butch, his pockets and person laden with sundry objects of sale, paused beside her seat. She reproachfully eyed his scuffed and muddied boots resting on the edge of her skirts. He stepped back and in anticipation of her refusal he launched into a passage recitation from the slim volume he held in his hand. “You are approaching Sherman Summit, the most elevated station on the Union Pacific and the highest in the world. ‘Now, Sherman on the Rocky Mountain range, Eight thousand feet is raised toward the sky, Indian, Chinese, and many people strange, Are met or passed as o’er the earth you fly.’”

  He gave her a disarming, wide, boyish grin. “Now, if you had this guide book you would know all the highlights of your railroad journey. Why, you could show all your folks at home where you’d been.”

  Convinced for reasons other than impressing the folks at home, India reached into her silk handbag and gave the boy ten cents.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, and moved down the aisle hawking his wares to other travelers.

  The train lugged and clanked as it came to a halt to take on water at the Sherman water tank. The conductor invited the passengers to stretch their legs, inhale the rarefied air, and enjoy the view before crossing Dale Creek bridge and heading down the mountains into Laramie.

  India felt the draught of icy air when some of the passengers accepted his invitation to leave the railway car. She stayed put, wishing she still had her shawl to cover her bare shoulders. The end of her nose was numb with cold and she looked at the tiny black stove at the far end of the aisle, wondering when someone had last fueled its waning fire. Out the window, the last rays of sunset glistened over snowcapped peaks and granite-faced mountains. A shiver—from cold or the thought of being marooned in such a wilderness—swept over India’s body. Where were the trees and the cultivated fields? She didn’t like the openness of the West. It made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

  A commotion broke out in the vestibule by the door when a suited man rushed inside holding a white handkerchief to his bleeding nose. His affliction, caused by the altitude, was taken
calmly as the porter and other considerate passengers helped him to his seat. At their heels came Gatlin Ransom. India quickly turned her head with an abrupt dismissal.

  He sat down and dropped a woolen blanket in her lap.

  “Why…” she faltered for polite words, but they seemed to stick in her throat. His gesture momentarily broke her resolution to be as indifferent to him as possible. She forced a tight smile, and he answered with that insolent gaze, the one that intimidated her and capsized her peace of mind. “Thank you.” Begrudging his unexpected show of courtesy, she draped the warming blanket around her.

  Nothing else was said between them. He tipped his hat over his eyes, settled back and made to take a nap. Coyote curled up on the seat beside him and did the same.

  For want of any other pastime she watched him sway gently back and forth with the motion of the train as it clambered down the mountainside. His long legs in tight-fitting trousers looked strong and tireless—though his height was another thing she found intimidating about him. Nevertheless, she was determined to meet him on equal terms, even though the scar running down the left side of his face marked him as a man who would be taken on his own terms or no terms at all. The strong lines of his face seemed to be a signature attesting that he had discovered how to live with himself. His hot liquid eyes held a peculiar intensity of experience which with a single glance seemed to expose her completely.