A Lady of the West (4 page)

Emma's hands stilled, and she bit her lip. “Not really. Didn't Aunt Margaret tell you before we left?”

“No, except to say that I must do my duty. That's all very well, if I only knew what my ‘duty' was. I feel so stupid! I should have asked. You were engaged; what did Aunt Helen tell you?”

“I suppose she thought she would wait until right
before the wedding, for she never told me anything. The things I heard in school—”

“Yes, I know. I imagine I heard the same things, but I can't believe they are true. The only thing I really know is that married people may sleep in the same bed.”
And have babies.
She barely contained a shudder at the thought. She didn't want to have the Major's children; she couldn't even bear for him to share her room.

Emma bit her lip again and thought of Jon, her fiancé. After they had become engaged, he had often kissed her in what she knew must be an improper manner, but it had been so wonderful she had gloried in it rather than rebuking him as she ought. He had held her tightly and touched her breasts. He had used his tongue while kissing her, though at first she'd been shocked. And when he'd held her so tightly against him, she had felt a hardness in his trousers, and she had instinctively known that it pertained to what happened between a man and his wife, that mysterious, fearsome unknown they'd whispered about so avidly in school.

Jon.
The long years since his death had eased the brutal grief, but not the yearning. She had loved him, but more than that he had begun awakening her physical senses in a way that left her feeling her aloneness even more keenly than she would have. Still, she knew that she would rather be alone than be the one who married Major McLain.

Victoria was truly the only family Emma had left, for she had never been close to her aunt and uncle, and Celia, though happy and lovable, would never be able to share the memories of growing up together as she and Victoria did, or the responsibilities of adulthood. She clenched her fist and looked at her cousin, who had agreed to marry Major McLain in order to protect her family. For all her air of fragility there was steel in Victoria, and fierce determination. Emma knew more than anyone that it was Victoria who had
somehow managed to keep them all fed these past two horrible years when no Southerner had had enough food, Victoria who had bartered and economized, who had spent hours laboriously tending a small vegetable garden in the backyard. Now her cousin needed information, and no matter how embarrassing the discussion was, Emma decided to give it to her.

She cleared her throat. “Jon—used to touch my breasts.”

Victoria was very still, her eyes wide and troubled. She tried to imagine the Major touching her there, and shrank from the idea.

“And he used to get hard. His—his privates would get hard.” Emma looked down at her clasped hands and couldn't look up again. “I think a husband does something between a woman's legs with his privates, and that's what makes a baby.”

Victoria felt as if she couldn't breathe. Dear God, did she have to let the Major rub his privates against hers? He would have to lift up her nightgown, and he would have to be unclothed…. Nausea made the back of her throat burn, and she swallowed. The horrible image of his thick, brutally strong hands on her breasts, pulling up her gown, made her whirl away and clench her fists.

Emma stared at her hands. “Of course, Jon never did anything to dishonor me,” she murmured. “But I wish he had. I liked it when he kissed me, and touched me. I wish he had done the rest of it, too, and perhaps I would have had his child.”

They had been so strictly raised that for Emma even to think such a thing was scandalous, but Victoria couldn't feel shocked. Emma and Jon had been in love, and for them to do that even unblessed by marriage seemed far less obscene than the proposal that she do the same thing with the Major inside the marital bonds. With that realization, she felt the truth of Emma's aloneness and moved to touch her cousin's shoulder.

“I won't feel as frightened now, knowing. Thank you.” She made her voice firm.

Emma gave her a little smile. “I don't know that much. Most of it is guessing. I suppose we should have asked.”

“Much good it would have done us. Can you imagine Mother saying even as much as you have?”

Emma hesitated. “Will you tell me?” She blushed. “I mean, when you know for certain.”

Respectable women never talked of such things, but Victoria nodded. She didn't feel daring, only desperate. She and Emma would have to bolster each other and work together to protect Celia, who saw good in everyone and therefore knew neither danger nor caution.

Victoria looked around the room. It was pleasing in its simple colors, larger and airier than she was accustomed to, as were all the rooms in the house. Tonight she would become a wife and would no longer be Victoria Waverly, but Mrs. Frank McLain. Someday she might be a mother. This, it seemed, was to be her role in life, and her duty was to fill it impeccably.

She had been raised to be first a perfect lady and then a perfect wife, an ornament on a man's arm and a capable mistress of his house. In her world women were gentle and graceful, charming and concerned only with a woman's activities. A wife always deferred to her husband. She would try to be the lady she had been raised to be, try to always be gracious and proper. She knew nothing else she could do; there was no backing out, so she might as well make the best of it. Many women had married men they didn't love and led fulfilled lives; Victoria was certain she could do the same.

But when she thought of the coming night, she couldn't stop shivering.

Will Garnet couldn't get the little blonde out of his mind. Her glowing face was perfect, and he bet her
breasts would be nice and round, instead of drooping like Angelina's. Hell, Angelina would lie down for any two-bit saddle tramp who had the price, so there wasn't anything special about her. Now, that little blonde … she was a virgin for sure, she had that look about her. Garnet wanted to be the first. He wanted to see that beautiful little face when she got it for the first time; he bet she'd like it, after she got used to it some. Not like her cold stick of a sister. The boss wouldn't be getting anything in his bed except a poker.

Garnet cast a sidelong glance at Roper, who was sitting at the table in the bunkhouse. He didn't have much use for the man, and he knew the feeling was likewise, but they would both be at the wedding. Boss's orders, just to make certain no trouble interrupted the ceremony. Garnet grunted and spoke to the gunhand. “The boss's woman ain't much, is she? But, damn, that little sister sure makes up for her.”

Roper was cleaning and oiling his big.44s, and never looked up.

Familiar anger rose in Garnet. If Roper wasn't so damned fast with those guns, he'd have kicked his ass a long time ago. But nobody pushed Roper, not even the Major. If it had just been that, a bullet in the back would have taken care of him. The thing was, any back-shooter would have to make
damn
certain Roper was dead, and most of the men thought Roper wouldn't go down that easy. He'd only been on the ranch a few months, and they still didn't know much about him, other than he was damn good with horses, snake-quick with a gun, and as cold-blooded and deadly as a rattler. It was in his eyes, those cold, clear, emotionless eyes.

Roper never let his guard down. Even now, while he was cleaning his .44s, he only unloaded one at the time. Nor were they his only weapons; a big Bowie knife, all fourteen inches of it, rode in a scabbard at his left kidney, and another knife, this one thin and balanced for throwing, was in his right boot. Those
were the only ones Garnet knew about; he figured the gunslick had at least one more hidden somewhere on his body.

But what really made the men wary of Roper was the way he'd killed Charlie Guest a couple of months back. Guest had always had more mouth than sense and was a bad-tempered bully on his good days, so Garnet really didn't give a damn that Roper had killed him. It was the way he'd done it. Guest had taken a dislike to Roper and started mouthing off at him, and got even madder when the gunhand had ignored him the way he was doing Garnet now. Then Guest had made the mistake of going for his gun. He'd never made it. Before he could even clear leather, Roper had been on him, moving so lightning fast that Garnet still wasn't quite sure what had happened.

Roper had dropped Guest to the bunkhouse floor and planted a knee in his back. He'd hooked his left arm around Guest's neck and pushed on the man's head with his right hand. They'd all heard Guest's neck pop like a chicken's. Without even breaking a sweat, Roper had left the dead man lying on the floor and gone back to what he'd been doing like he'd never been interrupted.

The dead silence in the bunkhouse had been broken when one of the cowpunchers blurted, “Why didn't you shoot him?”

Roper hadn't looked up. “He wasn't worth a bullet.”

The Major liked having a man like Roper in his employ; he felt it gave him a certain stature. Garnet didn't like the way the Major was depending more and more on the gunslick, but was helpless to do anything about it. Nobody on the ranch was going to take him on after what he'd done to Guest.

Goaded by his silence, Garnet snapped, “That little blonde's mine.”

Roper flicked a glance at him. “Fine.”

Somehow, the indifference stung Garnet. Nothing
touched Roper. The man wasn't human; he didn't even use Angelina's services. Garnet had begun to think something was wrong with Roper in that way until they'd gone into Santa Fe and Roper had holed up with a woman the entire three days they'd been there. The fool woman had watched him leave with a dreamy look in her eyes.

Just under his breath Garnet said, “One of these days, gunslick, I'll get you under my sights.”

Roper lifted-his head and smiled in a way that didn't change the expression in his eyes at all. “Any time.”

V
ictoria's dress was white, long-sleeved and high-necked, and had one of the new slim skirts she had seen the Yankee ladies in Augusta wearing. Celia oohed and ahhed over it, when she wasn't whirling around in her own new blue dress.

Emma brushed out Victoria's waist-length hair, skillfully wound and secured it up on her head, and pulled several strands loose at the temple to soften the look. Emma's calm face helped. Victoria's hands were steady as she affixed a tiny spray of seed pearls in her hair. “How does this look?” she asked.

“It looks wonderful!” Celia was full of admiration. She adored Victoria and was happy that she looked so pretty in her new dress. Celia didn't begin to understand what this wedding meant to her sister. Victoria tried to pretend the occasion was as happy as her sister believed it to be.

“It does look wonderful,” Emma said more quietly. Her dress was also blue, a shade that went extremely well with her pale skin. Her mass of dark hair had been wound into a smooth coil on the back of her
head. Her eyes met her cousin's in the mirror, and Victoria managed a small, reassuring smile.

Carmita knocked and put her head in the door, smiling broadly as she took in the three young women. “The Major is ready, señorita. You look very pretty!”

Victoria rose to her feet. “Thank you.” She managed a smile for Carmita, also. Just before they left the room, she took one more look around it. She would not be a Waverly the next time she stepped through this door. A white silk and lace nightgown lay across the bed, and she quickly looked past it.

The men were gathered in what she assumed was a parlor. She saw McLain, the priest, Father Sebastian, and the two men she had met that afternoon, Garnet and Roper. Victoria quickly walked to the Major's side, not letting her gaze touch either of the two hands as she gave them a polite nod. Roper stood a little in her way, but he didn't move, and she had to go around him to keep her skirts from brushing his legs. She could almost feel the scorn in his eyes as he watched her.

The Major was beaming as he took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his elbow. “You look beautiful,” he said heartily. “I sure am getting my money's worth.” She controlled a flinch.

To the priest McLain said, “Get on with it.”

The wedding ceremony was brief, too brief for Victoria's peace of mind. In only a couple of minutes they were man and wife. McLain turned her to face him and pressed his wet mouth on hers. Victoria kept her lips firmly together and her mind blank as she willed herself not to shudder. She drew back as quickly as possible and turned away, meeting Roper's eyes as she did so. For the first time she noticed he wasn't wearing his hat, and she could clearly see his face. His eyes were clear and cold, his expression so contemptuous she almost stepped back. Why did he hate her so much?

The thought made her lift her chin as imperiously
as any Creighton or Waverly had ever done; this man was a common thug, a hired gun. She gave him back stare for stare.