Caress of Fire (10 page)

The chuck wagon's canvas top clipped a tree branch as it careened into the woods. Lisette tried to curb the horses, but their momentum proved too great for her meager skill. A barrel fell from its mooring, crashing and breaking.

Hazily, she spied Gil and his mount charging toward her. Thank God! He had come back for her.

Big Red, his mane flying, his hooves eating up the ground, hove with his rider to the team. Gil swung his lariat and caught the lead gray's neck. He jumped from the saddle, grabbing the gray by rope and by the neck. As the riderless Big Red slowed and circled back, Gil dug his heels in the ground. Dust and his hat flying, he held on tightly. The draught horses whickered and whinnied, then skidded to a stop, the metal of traces and harnesses clanging. Gil righted himself.

Lisette set the brake, and he hobbled the leaders.

He yanked the bandana from his neck and jerked it across his dust-covered face as he stomped toward Lisette. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Sweeping her hair out of her face and leaning toward her husband, she asked, “Are you all right?”

“No thanks to you.” He brushed his sleeves. “You could have killed my horses and wrecked my wagon.”

And gotten both of us killed in the process,
she thought. Evidently he wasn't concerned about her fate. Should she explain that fear had compelled her into driving the team out of control and off the path? No. . . she must not show frailty . . .

“I didn't mean to hurt them. I was pushing ahead to–”

“For all I know, you were trying to steal my team and wagon.”

Unable to restrain herself, she flinched as if struck. “I ... I was not. I wouldn't have.”

“Tell that to your brother.” Gil tied Big Red to the chuck wagon, then backtracked to glare at his wife. Hatless under the Texas sun, he stood below her. “You didn't think twice about stealing his stuff.”

She did feel guilty over purloining Adolf's property, yet he'd had years of her free labor and he'd taken her dowry money. Neither had anything to do with the here-and-now. Her husband considered her an abuser of animals, a thief, a speaker of damnable tongues, a liar, and a deceiver.

So much had happened this afternoon. Earlier, he'd revered her, had wanted her body, and now . . .

Warily she met his rank disgust. Yearning to plead his understanding and acceptance, too prideful to do it, she straightened her shoulders. “If I were intent on taking what isn't mine, why would I have been traveling north?”

“Looks like you were headed to Austin.”

His charge, she realized, was just too ridiculous to address.
“Ich–”
Don't let me start that again,
she prayed. Climbing down from the seat, she pulled up to her full height. “I'll rub down the horses.”

“Your concern touches me. But it's not necessary.” He kicked a rock, sending it flying. “As soon as we catch up with Preacher Wilson, I'm ordering him to take you to Lampasas.”

“You can't mean that.”

One hand flattened on the floorboard. “Why wouldn't I?”

When he'd proposed to her, she'd accused him of having a less-than-sublime view of marriage, but her opinion had since changed. She replied, “You're too honorable to quit on me.”

“Don't make me into something I'm not.”

“Don't make yourself into something you're not.” She looked him in the eye. “I may not be what you expected, but you're too good a man to turn your back on your marriage vows.”

“You'd like to think so.”

“I know so.”

“Give it up, Lisette. You and I weren't meant to be. Other men's leavings don't interest me.”

If she'd held a smidgen of doubt over his hurtful remark regarding her ability to please him, it vanished. Her heart broke all over again, and despite the warm afternoon, she felt cold and exposed. She wasn't woman enough for him.

Again she peered at the man she had trusted above anyone else. His arms crossed over his chest, he perused her with a holier-than-thou countenance.

“You expected me to be pure,” she said, “yet
you
weren't.”

“I'm a man.”

There was no doubt about his masculine attributes, and she damned herself for gazing upon the male who had brought her such satisfaction . . . yet had received but a trifle in return. “So?”

“So a man sows his wild oats.”

She laughed bitterly. Why was it right for men to take what they wanted, when women had to pay and pay for even one mistake in trust? Here she had spent four agonizing years paying for her lack in judgment with Thom Childress, while she was to him as the “wild oats” were to her husband: nothing.

What did it matter, though, how Thom had perceived her? The only feeling she had about it was regret–regret that he had swindled her out of her chastity.

She had lived through Thorn's rejection. She could live through Gil's. But why did it hurt so deeply this time?

Past her closed throat, she asked, “Where do we go from here?”

“I don't know about you, but I'm going to Kansas.”

“Why does that sound as if I won't be going with you?”

“Why don't you cease with the wounded-innocent performance? You didn't lose anything from our tumble in the leaves. But I feel like I owe you something. You are my legally wedded and bedded wife.”

How could he think she'd lost nothing? Didn't hope count for anything? When she'd left Fredericksburg, it had been to follow an ambiguous dream of Chicago and hatmaking. Gil McLoughlin had changed all that . . . she had begun to dream the impossible.

“You're right. I lost nothing. But I believe I have earned something.” She paused. “I've earned the right to the truth. Were you coming back for me?”

He shook his head slowly.

The headache that had precipitated all this hell returned. “Is impurity sufficient cause to forsake a wife?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Maybe I'm not making myself clear,” she cut in. “I often don't make myself clear. Being a Hun, I have difficulty at times with the language of this country, so please bear with me. As you pointed out, we are legally wedded and bedded. Is my lack of virginity enough to turn your back on our marriage?”

Dead quiet. A muscle ticked in his jaw. At last he admitted, “I got shut of one wife. I suppose I'm capable of doing it again.”

She staggered, then stood petrified with dread. All along she'd assumed the first Mrs. McLoughlin had been the one to do the leaving. Wrong. Moreover, he'd said he was capable of abandoning a second wife.

Her greatest fear was coming true.

Where was her faith in him? He wouldn't leave her . . . he
wouldn't.
She couldn't be
that
wrong about him. Maybe she'd mistaken his meaning. Hoping and praying this was the case, she asked, “What . . . what do you mean?”

“It means I've married my second piece of goods. I divorced the first one after she bore another man's child.”

Lisette sucked in her breath. Now she understood his unyielding resistance. What a horrible, horrible disservice she'd done by not being courageous enough for total honesty
–before
the wedding.

“Oh, Gil, how awful,” she murmured sincerely, her self-pity gone. She yearned to give comfort; his face was dark with hurt past and present. “I will never be unfaithful.”

She reached to touch his shoulder; he deflected her fingers, and his eyes like ice-coated tin, he said, “I've heard enough. I've wasted enough time for an afternoon.”

God, help us both.
But the Lord helped those who helped themselves. Yes, she was in the wrong, but Gil had been the one to demand marriage as well as her body. She would not abide veiled threats, nor would she live in fear of being deserted.

Advancing on her husband, Lisette said, “I may have been less than you expected, but you're less than I expected, too.”

Brushing the Stetson that had fallen from his head when he'd stopped the horses, he imparted yet another glare. “In what way?”

“I never took you for a maker of empty promises.”

He shoved the crumpled hat atop his head of black hair. “If you've concocted something to manipulate me, forget it. It won't work.”

“I've concocted nothing. You promised to escort me to Kansas, and you promised to protect me all the way there. Likewise, you promised not to leave me. Furthermore, we made vows before God, and I don't intend to let you forsake them.”

Obviously taken aback, he swallowed and stared at the ground. His thumbs tucked behind his gunbelt, he half turned to squint at the sun, then back to the chuck wagon.

“I did make promises.” His voice was slow and measured. “I won't renege.”

“Good,” she said with the courage that had failed her so many times. “I expect as much.”

He removed his thumbs from his gunbelt and stepped forward to grab a hank of her hair. “Don't think you've pulled some sort of coup, Lisette. As I said, I got shut of one piece of baggage, and I'll do it again, if you don't toe the mark. You will honor the deal you made. You're going to cook your way to Kansas.” He freed his fingers as if he'd been scalded. “Do whatever it takes–and women know a few methods–to keep your lusts to yourself.”

Flabbergasted and offended, she mocked his crushing words of earlier that afternoon. “Don't flatter yourself.”

“With you, I don't.”

“Believe me, I will never, ever grab your ankle again.”

“I mean, keep your lusts away from my
men.”

“I've given you
no call
for a remark such as that. And if this venture is to be successful, you must never say such things again.”

He blinked. “I suppose we do need to save face in front of my men. Be warned, Lisette. I expect you to act as if you're a happy,
faithful
wife.”

“Faithful will be no problem. As for happy, I'll do it. Somehow And you might want to work on your own expression. You look like you've just eaten a sour pickle.”

 

 

That night, Lisette tried to ease the tension between herself and Gil by making amends in her own way She did her best to repair his crumpled Stetson.

He tossed it in the campfire and told her, “When I want extra from you, I'll tell you. For now, I want nothing but your cooking.”

“Fair enough,” she replied, watching the hat draw up and disintegrate like the shreds of her hopes.

In the days following the calamity of the meadow, Lisette gave everything to Gil's demand: she did her job and left him alone.

From way before sunrise to way after sundown, she toiled at each and every duty ascribed to a trail cook–and more. She allowed no one to assist her. At night she made certain she didn't touch his ankle, but she was well aware of each moment he carried his bedroll outdoors. Every night she cried into the floorboard.

For a week this went on.

And the same seven days began again.

Fifteen days passed from that awful day in the meadow She began to accept that she'd never win her husband's understanding, yet her spirit could not be crushed. That evening she went about her chores, and tried once more for his attention.

Following him as he left the campsite, she said, “If you've got a minute . . .”

“What do you want?”

“I've noticed, well, your hair could use a trim. And I believe you told me barbering is part of my duties.”

“I'll get a haircut in Lampasas.”

He stomped away, leaving her frustrated anew.

 

 

Damn her, using a haircut as a ploy to get on a man's good side.
Gil stomped into the woods, relieved himself, and crammed the part of him that wanted attention back into his britches. Buttoning up was no mean feat, since he stayed half-hard despite his anger and disgust. All he had to do was look at Lisette and the old passions roused. But it would be a cold day in hell before he'd act on them.

Taking his time, he made his way back to camp. A quartet of cowhands circled the fire. Johns Clark played the French harp; Fritz Fischer finished off an apple turnover, licked his fingers, and left. Stretched out, Blade Sharp rested his head on his saddle, his hands laced across his stomach. And Wink Tannington was talking to Lisette.

“I hate to trouble you, ma'am,” Gil heard Tannington say, “but I've got a smarting shoulder. Wrenched it this afternoon. Do you reckon you could rub some liniment on it?”

“Certainly, Wink.” She pointed to an empty, upturned barrel. “Have a seat over there, and I'll be right with you.”

Gil didn't cotton to her rubbing anything into anyone, but a cookie was expected to be an amateur doctor, so he simply frowned and scissored to the ground. He retrieved his whittling knife, picked up a piece of oak. His line of sight was aimed at Tannington.

The one-armed cowpoke doffed his shirt. Lisette, a bottle in hand, poured from it. Tannington sighed as the liniment touched his right shoulder. The fingers that had touched Gil McLoughlin in passion now stroked the arm and shoulder of his employee. Tannington's eyes rolled back. His legs spread, and Gil saw that the Mississippian was getting aroused.

Christ. Tannington wasn't the only one. Gil wanted her hands touching the flesh a wife ought to be caressing.

The piece of oak dropped from his grip; he started to put a halt to Tannington's lusts, but the cowpoke brought his legs together and blushed.