Waltz with the Lady Read online

  His nose was nobly straight, his lips were sensually formed, even hedonistic, and in her opinion his long blue-black hair gave him the look of a renegade Indian. Admittedly, what she knew about men couldn’t fill a thimble, but perhaps it was time she studied the habits of the Oppressor. In Ransom she saw it firsthand: muscled and bone-hard, broad-chested and all male arrogance. Undeniably, his masculine power fascinated her, but while this power was exciting, she could see how a man could use it to break a woman’s will. It made her afraid—not of him, but of her thoughts when she was around him.

  It would be disastrous for her to stay with him, better to follow her plan of slipping away from him at the Laramie depot, using a plea to attend the lady’s convenience or some such other ploy. Now that she had a guide book, she could travel on her own. She would wire William Noble. He would have to be told, for she had promised him installment articles for the paper detailing her speaking tour.

  The porter came through the car with a little stepladder in one hand and a match in the other and climbed up to light the lamps in their reflectors. “We are crossing Dale Creek bridge. Next stop, Laramie,” he said mechanically as he exited the car.

  Ransom still dozed. India felt the change of vibration as the train clipped over the matchstick-like trestle of the bridge. She was glad it wasn’t daylight, for she knew she would suffer an attack of vertigo if she dared to look down the hundred-thirty-foot drop. The description in her newly acquired guide book was view enough for her. A trifle anxious, she tapped her long nails on the book’s binding and kept glancing over at Ransom, wondering how much longer he would sleep. Across the aisle a golden-braided immigrant child clutched a leashed tabby cat tightly on her lap while her mother nursed a baby. The father, dressed in a black wool cap, embroidered shirt and sheepskin vest, sharpened his knife on a whetstone. He looked young to India, perhaps eighteen. His wife appeared even younger. India caught the eye of the little girl and smiled. In return she received a wide-eyed stare.

  Sometime later, the train’s whistle announced its approach to Laramie, nudging India to alertness. Ransom still dozed. Deciding to make her move quickly, India cautiously slipped the blanket from her shoulders, gathered up her skirts and moved past the sleeping Ransom down the aisle. She ducked inside the curtained convenience in the vestibule by the rear door. Nearly losing her balance when the train shifted to a lumbering halt, India grabbed the curtains to steady herself. With a furtive peek between the curtains, she slipped out and touched her hand to the door handle, hastily making her departure.

  Suddenly, when she went to move down the iron steps of the rear platform, a long arm reached out of the darkness and barred her way.

  “Ma’am, this ain’t our stop,” Ransom said, as courteous as the conductor himself.

  “Mr. Ransom, it is my stop,” she stated firmly. “If you’re through intimidating me with your show of manly strength, kindly step aside.”

  Their eyes held.

  Deep inside India’s body, tremors began shaking her resolve. It wasn’t easy to stare down a man more than a foot taller than yourself; a man with a Colt revolver slung on his hip and censure simmering in his black eyes. But the real threat came the instant his eyes shifted to her lips and his expression changed, slashing the bastion of her zeal. Her chest rose and fell in an uneasy rhythm and in an unruly act of betrayal her own eyes riveted to his lips. Twin scimitars curled the edges of his mouth in that slow insolent grin. He dropped his arm and stepped back.

  “I suppose you’re planning to take your little tour without my company?” His voice was casual, though he was fully aware of what he’d just done to her.

  “Yes, I am.” She swallowed, not encouraged by her small victory, for it was a case of winning the battle yet losing the war. Though it was a cool night, she felt like fanning herself. “I have no need of a guide.” She raised the guidebook in her hand to his view and began fanning. “I will rely on this for my information.”

  “Well, you seem to be a know-it-all. I won’t force you—not ever.”

  India ignored his impudent remark about being a know-it-all, but the “not ever” was another threat. Damn his arrogance! She took a confident step forward, though inside she was all mush and bluff.

  “The ticket agent here is a friend of mine,” began Gat. “Maybe he’d suggest a decent hotel for you to stay in tonight. I’ll walk inside with you and introduce you. I’m aimin’ to take the train on down the line, now I’ve lost my job.” Gat fell in beside her as she lifted her skirts and moved to the depot building.

  As India realized she had taken his job away, she felt a little guilty. “I hope you understand, sir.”

  “No ma’am, I don’t understand. It just ain’t good horse sense to take off on your own in country like this. Sure, ladies do it, but not often. Male protection might sound a bit medieval”—he rolled the word a bit mockingly across his lips—“to a modern female like yourself, but a stroll out here is a sight more dangerous than in the genteel park of Boston Common.”

  “I agree,” she parried, “and especially as long as you cowboys use ‘horse sense’ to make your judgments, I expect it will remain dangerous.”

  Sassy! He’d never met a woman so smart and sassy, Gat thought with aggravation. He opened the door for her and they walked inside the depot.

  “Tommy,” he called out to a black-capped and vested man behind the ticket desk. The man looked up from his paper work and gave a nod of recognition.

  “Gat Ransom. You old bull-thrower,” Tommy said, smiling as he stamped a ticket and pushed it into a waiting man’s hand. “What brings you through Laramie?”

  Gat pushed back his hat and looked over at India. “I’m not staying, but let me introduce you to—”

  “India Simms,” interjected India. She offered Tommy her hand. Tommy grinned like a half moon and instead of shaking her hand, he kissed it.

  Gat cleared his throat. “Miss Simms, meet Tommy Cahoon. Tommy here is quite the legend in these parts.”

  “Whatever for?” India had pulled her hand back. To her thinking, hand-kissing was a form of condescension. But she couldn’t condemn Tommy for his sorry attempt at gallantry, since she knew her own inappropriate dress had provoked it.

  “I’ve got the durndest haircut in the territory, that’s why, ma’am. A few months back I was fishing up on Cheyenne Creek, only three miles from here. Some Injuns pounced on me and took a scalp lock from my head. Shot me full of arrows. I crawled back to town.”

  India gave Tommy an amazed look.

  He laughed, “If you ain’t believin’ me, just take a gander at this, purdy lady, and let it be a lesson to ya.” He doffed his hat, showing India an oval depression seven inches long in the back part of his skull.

  India swallowed hard and turned her eyes back to Ransom nervously. “That happened within three miles of town?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Tommy returned from behind the counter.

  The tale had a marked effect on India. Outside, the train was building up steam. She heard the conductor’s “all aboard” call.

  “I’ve got to catch the train, Tommy. Would you see that Miss Simms finds a good hotel for the night?” To India, he almost sounded eager to unload her on Tommy.

  “I sure will. You take care, Gat. Next time stay for a drink.”

  Gat turned away and took long strides to the door, then he hesitated as if he’d forgotten something. “Ah, Miss Simms, you still have that derringer I lent you a few nights ago?”

  India shook her head slowly. “Why no, I don’t. I’m sorry if you wanted it back but—”

  “Oh I didn’t want it back for me. I just thought, since you were going to be on your own now, you might need it.” He put his hand on the door. “Good evening and good luck ma’am.”

  India tugged on her earring and watched him disappear through the doorway. She looked over at Tommy Cahoon, then back to the door. In her mind a small voice cautioned, Aren’t you being hasty? What if something did happen to
you? Your voice on behalf of suffrage might never be heard.

  Yes, she thought, what good could she accomplish if she were dead in some ravine, shot by Indians or outlaws? Her attraction for Ransom shouldn’t impede an important thing like women’s suffrage. She should have suspected something when Ransom backed off and brought her inside the depot. But he made his point. As for the other consideration, she was determined to handle Ransom.

  She lifted up her skirts. “Mr. Cahoon, I think I’ll continue with Mr. Ransom on the train, after all.” She fled out the door, barely making the jump to the iron steps of the slow-moving rear platform of the car.

  Gat merely touched the tip of his hat when India returned to her seat. She arranged her flounces around her the best she could and wrapped the blanket about her shoulders. Settled in, she felt obliged to explain her return to Ransom. However, the smug look on his face caused her explanations to die before they crossed her lips. Why state the obvious to someone who apparently knew all the answers, she thought with irritation. Nothing in the arrangement warranted congeniality. And by his manner, Ransom didn’t relish his escort job any more than she liked being escorted. In cool dismissal her eyes went to the window to gaze out on the moonlit endless sweep of sagebrush and greasewood of the Wyoming desert landscape.

  After a time Ransom pulled out a tobacco pouch from his pocket, bit off a piece and began chewing. India counted tobacco chewing the height of crudity and felt inwardly revolted. To further dampen the fire of ardor flaming within her breast, she decided to pass the time by taking a mental inventory of Ransom’s vices. Tobacco chewing, insolence, arrogance, guile—yes, that little episode back at the Laramie depot was certainly conjured up by someone with guile.

  He turned his head to spit into a nearby cuspidor.

  India frowned in censure. “Would your mother approve of such a habit?”

  “I couldn’t say. She died when I was ten.”

  “Oh,” said India softly. Well, she thought, perhaps misfortune could explain his ill-bred characteristics—but not all of them.

  “Let me take a look at that book that almost cost me my job.” Gat reached out his hand. India fetched it from the folds of her skirt. Ransom’s fingers brushed hers as he took it, purposely she thought.

  The moments passed. Ransom read through the slim volume. Every so often, he chuckled and shook his head. Finally he turned his eyes on India. “I don’t think the fellow who wrote this guidebook has ever been in Wyoming.” He snapped it shut and returned it with a laugh.

  Talk about know-it-alls! India mentally put another black check beside arrogance in her mental inventory of his shortcomings and snatched back the book.

  The peaceful atmosphere of the railway car had changed with the boarding of passengers in Laramie. Clouds of tobacco smoke rose to the ceiling of the coach as a group of grisly looking men, revolvers stuck in their belts, huddled together in a game of three-card monte. In their midst sat a fat, red-nosed gambler resplendent in his knee-length, black broadcloth coat and ruffled white shirt. His card-shuffling fingers sported sparkling gold and diamond rings. His style, or lack of it, was fascinating to India. Her eyes went from the seasoned face of a long-booted miner to the unshaven innocence of the immigrant father who had joined their midst.

  The slick-voiced gambler spoke loudly to the group of spectators congregated around him. “Here you are, gentlemen; this ace of hearts is the winning card. Watch it closely. Follow it with your eyes as I shuffle.” His agile fingers deftly manipulated three cards in and around on the shiny wood lapboard until one could go cross-eyed watching. “Here it is, and now here, now here, and now—where? It is my trade, gentlemen, to move my hands quicker than your eyes. I have two chances to your one.” He pointed to the card in the middle of the trio. “The ace of hearts. If your sight is quick enough, you beat me and I pay; if not, I take your money. Who will bet?”

  “I’ll go ’er,” said a shaggy-haired slouch dressed in buckskin.

  The gambler shuffled and laid out the three cards. “Choose the baby, friend.”

  The man pointed and a rumble of surprise filtered through the group for he had chosen right.

  The gambler seemed angry. “Luck only, my friend. Fifty says you can’t do it again.”

  “Yer on, mister.”

  The gambler shuffled and with sleight of hand reshuffled the cards.

  The miner’s hand hovered over the three cards and then pointed to the one on his right.

  “Right again,” the gambler said, frowning and reshuffling his cards.

  India stretched her neck to see better.

  “If you’re thinkin’ of joinin’ in, there’s a one-eyed man in the game. He and the gambler are in cahoots,” said Ransom.

  India pulled back as if embarrassed to be caught watching. “I’m quite aware of the evils of gambling, sir.”

  “The only ones who’ll win tonight are the gambler and his partner,” said Ransom.

  For some time they watched and listened to the gamblers. The young immigrant consistently bet and lost. India couldn’t help but see an anxious look on the face of his wife. Apparently out of money, he finally came back and sat beside her. Between them passed a flow of unintelligible words. India averted her eyes when she saw tears begin to fall over the wife’s cheeks. She wondered how much he had lost. Perhaps all the money they had. Not much by the gambler’s standards, but the money could mean the difference between survival and destitution for the young family. India looked at the little girl and the baby sleeping in its mother’s arms, then back to the hard-eyed gambler.

  Suddenly she swept up her skirts and came to her feet. With a reserved curiosity she moved the few steps up the aisle, a ready smile upon her lips as she excused herself past the outer spectators and moved into the center of the action.

  “May I play?” she asked shyly. Gat sat forward on his seat’s edge and rolled his eyes heavenward in disbelief.

  “Why ma’am,” warned a voice from the group. “You’re no match for these card sharks.”

  India flashed a brilliant smile. “The saying goes that you can’t tell how far a frog can jump by looking at him.” Everyone, except Ransom, laughed. “Gentlemen?” she tilted her head slightly and fluttered her lashes over her sparkling sapphire eyes, waiting for one to offer her his seat. Three jumped up at once, bumping into one another for the opportunity. “I have but two requests of all of you,” her smiling eyes roved over their gawking faces as she seated herself across from the gambler. “For the moment be so kind as to refrain from swearing and spitting.” Here she raised a fine winged brow and shot Ransom a pointed sidelong glance. He met her hint with an insolent turn of the head and a sideways spit into the nearby spittoon. He seemed intent on annoying her.

  “Ready to try your luck, ma’am?” The gambler’s invitation took her attention. He smiled avariciously, revealing a row of gold front teeth. He might just let her win once. It would be good for business.

  “Oh, yes. But I haven’t much money. Might I begin with a five-dollar stake instead of twenty?” She reached into her black silk handbag and drew out her money as if it were a widow’s mite.

  “Well, just for you, ma’am.” He lowered his gaze to three cards, two sixes and an ace of hearts. “Just follow the baby with your eyes and when I’m finished shuffling, you point to it.” He began shuffling so slowly that even a child could pick out the ace of hearts in the end.

  A few snickers from the background told India she was being indulged, a fact of which she was already aware.

  “Make your choice, ma’am.” The gambler put a hand on each side of the three-card fan in front of him.

  “You mean, pick my poison,” India replied glibly, much to the amusement of the surrounding spectators. She knew which card was the ace, as did every other person watching who sported at least one eye. When she pointed to the card on her left, groans sounded even before the gambler turned up the card to prove the error of her choice.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” co
nsoled the gambler, probably wondering how she could be so dumb not to see the obvious. “Another round?” he asked, having no twinge of conscience whatsoever.

  “Why, I…” she looked hesitantly at the last five dollars in her purse. “I…” she lingered on the word, keeping the men in suspense. “Yes, I will!” She put her money on the table with enthusiasm.

  The gambler shuffled his cards, this time not so slowly, but slow enough for the experienced eye to keep track of the ace. “Ma’am, you pick.”

  India nibbled her red lips thoughtfully, pointing to one, then the other.

  A man leaned over her shoulder. “That ain’t the one,” he advised, and pointed to a different card.

  India turned her head to him. “Sir, I make the bets with my money. You make them with yours.” Everyone broke out in whoops of laughter at the little lady’s spunk.

  Finally she made her choice. The right choice. The group, naturally on her side, gave a disorganized cheer. “I think I’ll try again,” she announced, putting down the ten dollars she had won.

  “Ma’am, you bet,” agreed the gambler, shuffling his cards once again with practiced sleight of hand. India’s eyes followed. She hesitated, then she made her winning choice.

  “Twice in a row,” she beamed. “It must be beginner’s luck.”

  As the moments passed she won each game and doubled her bets each time until she had won nearly two hundred dollars from the gambler. It appeared to India that his earlier cordiality had vanished when he realized she was no novice at three-card monte. He caught the eye of his partner and gave a narrowing wink of his own. India did not miss the signal between the men. She knew that this time the man would use a holdout card from up his sleeve or some such trick.

  “I think this time I’ll bet it all. How do you say it? Double or nothing?” The reddish nose of the gambler seemed to brighten at this announcement. India stacked all her bills neatly before her. As the gambler began his shuffle, her eyes took in every detail of his swiftly shuffling fingers.

  A breathless silence pervaded the railway car. India pondered over her choice. Over her shoulder men watched intently as her delicate fingers moved first to one card then to another. At last in a swift movement she turned over the two cards on either side exposing two sixes. “You, sir, cannot deny I have won again for the turned down card in the middle must be the ace of hearts.”