Waltz with the Lady Read online

  India sighed, “Of course you have, and more.”

  “And now, you must get dressed and come down to the dining room. The girls will all be together eating breakfast.” With that, she lifted her skirts and swished out the door.

  India untied the string of a hastily tied parcel, finding a hairbrush, a bar of soap, ink, ink pen and ledger. She took a moment to write out the declaration of petition: “We, the undersigned, residents of the Wyoming Territory, do hereby sign our names in support of enfranchisement for all women of the Wyoming Territory.”

  She sat back and admired her handiwork, anticipating that one day soon the ledger would be filled with signatures. Setting the ledger aside, she opened the larger package, which she thought would contain the traveling dress. Her brows crinkled with confusion when she shook out a fringed buckskin jacket, common attire for trappers and scouts. The packages must have been mixed up at the mercantile.

  But on second look inside, she found a doeskin dress with ornamented fringe. The row of colorful beadwork around the sleeves and hem told her it was Indian-made. What fast-talking trader managed to palm this off on Mr. Ransom? Her fingers untied another parcel and her discovery of a pair of knee-high buckskin moccasins added to the puzzle. She cast them aside and opened the last parcel, her disgust rising.

  It didn’t lessen when she discovered a broad-brimmed plainsman hat. She took it out and plopped it on top of her head. Utterly ridiculous! Could Ransom be serious in selecting such an outfit for her? He didn’t see her as a woman but rather as something in between. If she wore these clothes she would be a laughingstock. How would anyone take her seriously?

  As she snatched off the plainsman hat, she saw two dime novels inside the parcel wrapping. She picked them up and suddenly the mystery was solved. On the cover of one novel, entitled The Heroine of Whoop-Up, was a daring maiden dressed in much the same costume as what lay before India. Inside on the first page she read, “Nell could drink whiskey, shute, play keerds, or sw’ar, ef et comes ter et.”

  The cover of the second novel showed its heroine, Mountain Kate, taking on a grizzly bear single-handedly. Suddenly India burst into laughter. Well, Mr. Ransom had his joke, so she would have hers, too. She would show Mr. Ransom. She wondered how he would like escorting his own Heroine of Whoop-Up around the territory. Indeed, the costume might provoke much-needed publicity and she knew many suffragists favored dress reform. Years earlier, Amelia Bloomer had found the courage to wear the bloomer fashion for the first time. Perhaps now was the time for India Simms to follow in the Bloomer tradition. Certainly, the ungainly hoop and skirts of her gown had proven impractical.

  She slipped out of the silk shift and into her camisole and ankle-length pantalettes. Out of habit, she reached for her corset and then stopped. The corset looked like some contrivance of imprisonment; it shortened the waist and was cut high in the front and low at the back. As she’d embraced the notion of dress reform, it now occurred to her the daily lacing up of her stays was an arduous ritual of self-imprisonment and that someone who wore stays wouldn’t be going far, at least not very comfortably. Yes, but dare a woman give up the restraints of her corset? Too much freedom could be heady, and she wouldn’t always be in the West. Dare she?

  Before years of custom could sway her and before caution could overtake her first impulse, she ignored the corset and lifted the doeskin dress over her head, letting its softness fall loosely over her hips and to her ankles. She pulled the moccasin boots on, surprised at the snug fit and comfort of the soft fur lining. All the while she envied men. How foolish women were to bind themselves in the torture rack of fashion. She took a moment to brush her hair, to braid it into a figure eight atop her head, and to wash her face.

  Before Contessa’s full-length looking glass she put on the buckskin jacket, the plainsman hat and the Votes For Women sash. She held up the dime novel and made a brief comparison of herself to Hurricane Nell, and she decided she looked much better than wild-haired Nell. Taking a moment to put her soap, hairbrush, guidebook and purse into a traveling packet, she took one last wistful gaze at her Paris gown squatting in the corner like a lifeless puppet. She opened the door and strode down the hallway, feeling like a different woman. In fact, like one Miss India Simms, suffragette.

  Pushing open the doors leading into the dining room, she entered with theatric flair. Conversation stopped immediately, utensils froze in mid-air. Every eye turned to India. Ransom, coffee cup in hand, straightened up from his lounging pose against the wall. Still smarting from the night before, India wouldn’t look at him, but in a sweeping gesture, she took off her hat and bowed gallantly. The girls whispered among themselves.

  “Well, well, ladies, let me have the honor of presenting Miss India Simms,” Contessa’s eyes beamed. “She has consented to speak to us this morning on woman suffrage.”

  A soft applause rippled through the room. India stepped to the head of the dining table and looked into the girls’ faces. In her breast an unexpected raw nerve of jealousy stirred like an awakening vixen. Had one of them been with Ransom last night? Her eyes passed from one rouged face to the next while her overactive imagination wallowed in the shabbiness of it all.

  “Go ahead,” Contessa prompted.

  India, wholly disconcerted, cleared her throat, telling herself, You must forget last night ever happened and you must cut off any romantic—the word fairly shriveled in her mind—inclinations for Ransom.

  “Ladies, I would request that each of you who favor the vote for women in Wyoming consider signing this petition I hold in my hands.” She raised the ledger up for all to see, and then offered it to Contessa, along with inkwell and pen.

  A timid hand lifted in question. “Miss Simms, do you wish us to sign our given name or professional name?”

  “I think your given names will do fine.” India looked to Contessa for affirmation.

  “Yes, of course,” Contessa agreed.

  Another hand raised and India recognized Lady Jane’s face. “Miss, should we write down our occupation?” She was greeted with a ripple of self-conscious laughter.

  “Now, Lady Jane, behave yourself,” Contessa scolded.

  “I’m sure Green River, Wyoming, is adequate,” returned India with an indulgent smile. “In beginning my words to you, I should like to explain my unusual mode of dress. To be truthful it isn’t the latest from Godey’s Lady’s Book.” Again laughter echoed through the room. “Like many suffragists, I favor dress reform for women, especially for those who must endure the rigorous life of the frontier.”

  Here India meticulously avoided looking at Mr. Ransom.

  “My costume is a practical necessity. We all should favor dress reform for women, because the current fashions of long skirts are a hindrance. They make women weak, helpless and passive. How can we settle the West if we must worry that our hems will catch fire when we pass too near the campfire? And what of doorways? Oft times they are so narrow we can hardly pass through and we are obliged to wait outside. I hope, ladies, you will sympathize with me in this reform, and more important, with women’s enfranchisement in Wyoming.”

  While the minutes passed, she outlined her arguments for suffrage simply, but vehemently. She did not miss the opportunity to point out that a mistress often held more sway over a man’s opinions than his wife. “Hopefully, ladies, you would keep this in mind and spread the message of suffrage to your clients.” With this conclusion, applause rang out.

  “Time to ride,” Ransom said as he strode by.

  “Gatlin,” interjected Contessa, “don’t be in such a hurry. I must thank her for the fine lecture. It isn’t often we have an opportunity to discuss such high pursuits.”

  “Thank you, Contessa,” returned India. “I’ve never had such a receptive audience.” She leaned near Contessa and whispered, “Since we are traveling on horseback it would be unwelcome baggage, especially by Mr. Ransom,” she added, with a narrow look in his direction. “I’d like Lady Jane to have the dress. Will
you see she gets it after I leave?”

  Contessa gave an understanding nod. “She will have it.”

  “Ma’am,” Ransom called to India as he paced impatiently in the hallway.

  “That man!” Contessa muttered to India. “He’d rush the dead. You best take your petition and be on your way. Good luck to you.” Contessa walked with her to the front door. “Good-bye, Gatlin.” She repeated the warm embrace of last evening.

  “Good-bye, Tess.” His eyes were warm upon her, and for a second time in twenty-four hours India felt the flush of jealousy.

  Chapter 7

  Ransom, his spurs ringing, crossed the veranda and stepped down to the two saddled horses tied to the hitching post. He checked the saddle cinch and put India’s parcel and ledger in one of the saddle bags of a dappled white-and-brown paint pony. He nodded to India.

  “I couldn’t find a lady’s sidesaddle. You’ll have to ride astride. I’ve cut a slit in this buffalo skin and fit it over the saddle horn. It should be comfortable. It’s about a three-day ride to South Pass City, maybe four. When you tire, speak up and we’ll stop for a leg stretch. Any questions?”

  For the first time that morning India looked him in the eye and what she saw there was an attitude of rugged sternness. It seemed as far as he was concerned last night never happened. But it happened and today she was all nerve endings because of it.

  “I haven’t any questions now, but it doesn’t mean I never will,” she answered, eyeing the buffalo skin draped over the saddle and then looking into the horse’s soft eyes, searching for assurance of gentleness. She watched Ransom mount his horse by grabbing hold of the reins and saddle horn, hefting himself up and swinging his long leg over the saddle. It looked simple enough.

  Well, here goes, she thought. She doubted she could swing herself up into the saddle without ending up head first in the dirt on the other side, but she would try. She put her right foot in the stirrup and in a mighty effort she attempted to climb on to the horse. But the horse had no mind to let her on. It pranced and danced nervously and during the scuffle India ended up bottom side down on the ground.

  “You’re trying to mount on the wrong side,” Ransom said, swinging down off his horse to quickly come to her aid. “I thought you said you could ride.”

  India put up a hand to halt his assistance and mustering as much poise as possible she regained her feet. “No, I only said we have horses in the East, not that I could ride one.” With her hat she whipped the dust off her clothes. “The truth is, my father only let my brothers learn to ride.”

  He was staring at her askance. Yesterday she wouldn’t have cared if he thought she was a fool, but today it mattered. She licked her lips for courage and moved around to the left side of the horse before taking the reins. He followed her and before she’d realized it he’d put his large hands around her small waist and hefted her up on the saddle. For a brief second his body was pressed against her back and she could feel his muscles straining as he lifted her into the saddle. Unfamiliar sensations leapt up in her, and where his hands touched her waist a warmth encircled her.

  She clutched the saddle horn nervously, her heart quickening even more when the horse shook its head with a nostril-clearing snort. Enviously she watched Ransom. He easily swung his lean body up into his saddle, gave his horse a nudge with his spurs and pulled the reins to the right.

  “I looked all over town for that little cayuse mare. She’s sugar-trained and lady-broke. All you have to do is lean forward an’ press your legs against her sides, an’ away she’ll go.”

  Astutely, India mimicked his actions. It was a queer feeling to have her legs straddling a horse’s back. Being a young lady she had always been taught to keep her knees together and her ankles crossed. With the rocking motion of the horse, the cushioning buffalo skin rubbed against the insides of her thighs, making her more aware of a particular part of her body she had never really contemplated until last night. Her doeskin skirt hitched up a bit and exposed the upper part of her moccasin boot. She tugged it down again in an attempt at modesty.

  In her outlandish dress, riding through town astride and without her corset, she felt like Lady Godiva riding through the streets of Coventry. Miners and soldiers gave her more than a casual glance as she rode along. Ransom appeared indifferent to their stares. Second thoughts crept into her mind about wearing such an outfit in public. She wondered if she had the courage to face the ridicule which would surely come along her way.

  India debated this question until the last shack and lean-to of Green River melted out of sight. Alongside Ransom, she rode into a wilderness of hills stretching northward. Their trail kept the river in view while making various detours around sloping hills and running by the face of tall white cliffs. Distant clouds tinted by sunrise sailed above rocky passes and jagged summits. Ahead, projecting up from the barren river bank, India saw a wooden cross grave marker. She knew they were common on the western trails and she wondered if it marked the grave of man, woman or child. She drew up her horse when she came abreast of the nameless marker.

  “That’s Bill Rose’s grave,” Ransom volunteered. “He was killed at the end of last summer.”

  India shook her head sadly and nudged her horse onward. “Were you acquainted with him?”

  “No, ma’am,” Ransom replied. The trail had widened and he moved to ride beside India. “But everybody in the territory knows what happened. He was killed by Indians.”

  “Was he scalped like Tommy Cahoon?” India could not hold back her curiosity.

  “No,” Ransom gave a humorless laugh. “He was bald, so for a trophy the Indians cut off one ear. Then they cut the sinews out of his arms. They like to use sinew for tying the steel heads onto their arrows. They cut out the sinews of his back for bowstrings. In fact, not much of poor Bill was wasted.”

  India’s eyes narrowed and a wave of nausea rolled over her. “Is that anything to tell a lady?” she chastened.

  He gave her a surly glance. “If the lady didn’t want to be told, she shouldn’t have asked. Ma’am.” He touched his hat brim and spurred his horse ahead of her.

  She prodded her own horse forward not wanting to be left too far behind. Her eyes moved furtively left and right to the surrounding bluffs. All this time she’d been worrying about her clothes when she should have been worried about her skin.

  A hot, dusty wind blew through the morning hours. India’s empty stomach began to gnaw upon itself when the sun stood mid-sky. Ransom had not allowed her time for breakfast, and she wondered if she should ask him for something to eat or at least when they would stop for noon meal. But before India dared speak up, the trail descended toward the river and Ransom had pulled up his horse in a grassy spot and slipped off.

  “You might like to stretch your legs,” he said, as he dismounted and came over to help her off her horse. His hands encircled her waist and India, though slightly disquieted again, accepted his help. This time she was glad for his support, for when her feet touched ground her knees buckled. She shifted her weight against the horse’s flank, not wanting to lean on Ransom.

  “Walk around,” he directed. “If you need some privacy,” he began, his dark eyes scanned a nearby hill, “take the opportunity now.” With this he strode off, leaving India fully aware of his errand. Putting one shaky leg in front of the other, she set off in the opposite direction on the same errand.

  Without the encumbrance of petticoats and skirts she found her stroll into the shrubbery simplified. She disturbed a brown-speckled bird sitting upon its nest in the brush. Despite her intrusion, the hen sat stone still. India took a moment to study and admire it before she returned to Ransom. Hurrying back to the horses, she found him sitting on a flat rock slicing strips of jerky with his knife. She was thirsty and spied a tin cup of water balanced between the V of his legs. He caught her looking.

  “We’ll have to share the cup.” His surliness was now replaced with a hint of tease. “But then you’re all for equality.”
r />   Running her tongue over dry lips she hesitated reaching for it.

  “You first,” he said, parting his legs a little wider.

  She reached for the cup, careful not to touch him. The warmth of his thighs lingered on the cup as she put it to her mouth.

  He offered her a piece of jerky, which she eyed disappointedly, before she took it and began eating with ladylike nibbles.

  “We’ll eat something more filling when we camp tonight.” India just hoped she’d survive that long.

  He helped her back into the saddle and they started on their way once more. As they rode along, she noticed that his fingers went inside his saddlebag to a paper sack. “Ma’am?” He leaned over the side of his horse and offered the open sack to her. “I’m all out of tobacco but try a horehound candy. It helps wash the dust out of your mouth.”

  Cheered by the news he was out of tobacco, she said, “Thank you,” and took a piece of candy. He put the sack back inside the saddlebag.

  “I brought it along in case we meet Indians. Sometimes a bite of sweets is enough to keep them peaceful.”

  “Really,” she said doubtfully. “I think you enjoy teasing me with your exaggerated Indian stories. But I’m not like Milicent Templeton who swoons at the very thought.” She pursed her lips, sucking the sweetness of the candy. Perhaps showing a confident air would abate her own apprehensions and keep Ransom from dwelling on the more dangerous aspects of their trip.

  “Let’s hope not,” he returned, “though I thought an enlightened woman like yourself would like to know the risks involved. But if it’s more than your gentle sensibilities can handle, I’ll keep quiet.”

  India cast him an injured glance. “Of course I can handle it. I would despise being left in ignorance because of the accident of being born a woman.”

  Ransom stared straight ahead. “Accident or not, I’d say you’d better accept it.”