Mud Creek (11 page)

He was so conflicted, and he felt awful that he was. He barely knew her, had no responsibility toward her, and couldn’t be her savior.

He’d suffered his own wild fantasies about taking her from Albert, about marrying her, himself. Yet that’s all they were: wild fantasies.

James wasn’t the type to cuckold another man, to steal a bride away, then brazenly live next door with her. He couldn’t imagine insulting Florence and Walt so horridly. If he absconded with Helen, every neighbor in a hundred mile radius would be aware of the scandal. She’d never be able to show her face in town again.

Was that the life she pictured for herself? Was that the sort of stigma she could tolerate?

He didn’t think so. She couldn’t have fully reflected on the ramifications of rash conduct.

As for himself, if he extended his hand and let her grab hold, he’d have to extend the same hand to her sister. Violet Pendleton would be part of any bargain, and he just couldn’t aid her.

Mary had warned him to be careful of Violet, but he hadn’t needed her words of caution. He had two eyes and perfect vision. Violet Pendleton was marching down a destructive road, and he had no intention of adding her to his obligations.

So where did that leave them?

He wasn’t ready to marry, and he certainly wouldn’t consider it when Violet was stirred into the mix.

Though it went contrary to his every gallant instinct, he couldn’t intervene. He felt dreadful. He felt like a traitor.

“If I had any other option,” she said, “I’d take it in an instant.”

She was on tenterhooks, her yearning so powerful that it nearly knocked him over.

With the sun shining down, and the breeze riffling her dress and hair, she was so pretty. And so very brave. Brave to have broached the difficult subject. To have risked all with so little probability of success.

“Helen…” someone called from off in the distance.

She heard it, too, but continued to peer up at him. Giving him a final chance. Then another and another, but he didn’t reach out and seize it. He couldn’t.

“Helen!” the voice came again, and they both realized it was Albert.

Her smile faltered, then vanished. Disappointment—then hurt—clouded her eyes. She spun away.

“Yes, Albert, I’m here. What is it?”

“I’ve found the preacher,” Albert explained, hurrying up. “He’s finishing a baptism. He’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

Helen’s gaze flitted to James, her desperation painful to witness, but James couldn’t intercede. He was frozen like a statue.

She gave up on him and turned to Albert.

“Fifteen minutes!” She beamed with false cheer. “How exciting. I’m about to be a bride.”

“Let’s round up the folks and find my brothers,” Albert eagerly gushed.

He was grinning like a fool, happier than James had ever seen him.

“I want Violet there, too,” Helen told him.

“Of course,” Albert replied, “but let’s get going. It’ll take awhile to locate everybody, and there’s a huge line with the preacher. He won’t wait on us.”

He clasped Helen’s arm, and they started off.

At the last moment, she glanced back at James.

“Will you come?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“We’ll be over in front of the hotel,” Albert graciously said, brimming with pride.

James nodded. “I’ll be along directly.”

They kept on, and Helen didn’t glance at him a second time.

*    *    *    *

“What’s your name, gal?”

“Violet. What’s yours?”

“Harry.”

“Harry what?”

“Harry Carstairs.”

“You don’t look like a fellow who would reside in a dump like Mud Creek.”

“I’m just passing through.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“This and that.”

Violet smiled, liking what she saw. There was an air of the devil about him, which meant he was exactly her type.

She hated dull, staid boors like Albert, like Walt. She enjoyed men who knew what they wanted, who reached out and grabbed for it.

He was much older than she was, maybe thirty or even older. But he was very handsome, and he had a slight burr in his speech, as if there was a touch of Scot or Irish in him. Words rolled off his tongue, adding to his attractiveness.

He wasn’t that tall, but he was well-built and muscled, with a broad chest and strong arms. He had wavy blond hair and green eyes that twinkled when he grinned. He could have been a singer or a card dealer or a flimflam man who cheated fools out of their wages.

She struck a flirtatious pose. “Are you married?”

“Six or seven times so far.”

She scoffed. “That can’t be true.”

“All right, make it eight times. Who’s counting?”

“You expect me to believe you’ve been married eight times?”

He removed his hat and held it over his heart. “Would I lie to you, my darlin’ girl?”

“Yes.”

“Yes!” he huffed with indignation. “You cut me to the quick.”

“How could I? You’re a cad and a bounder.”

He raised a brow. “I never promised any of them more than I could deliver, and they all begged for every single thing they received.”

“I’ll just bet they did,” she snorted. “All eight of them. Dare I inquire how many times you’ve been divorced?”

“Divorce is a sin—and illegal. How could I be divorced?”

She studied him, wondering as to his veracity. Had he really been wed eight times? Had he snuck off and left eight wives behind? He was such a smooth talker that it was difficult to tell if he was being serious.

Over the years in Maywood, she’d met plenty of men like him. Men at the summer carnival, at the harvest fair, on the riverboats. They weren’t much for settling down, for working in some stupid store or on some boring ranch.

They had bigger dreams, bigger lives.

“How about you?” he asked. “You married?”

“No.”

“Praise be! I’ve never been in a town where there were so many beleaguered wives in my life.”

“You got any money to spend?”

“Maybe, why? Would you like me to spend some of it on you?”

“I have some whiskey,” she boasted, and for once, she wasn’t lying.

She still had Walt’s flask, and he hadn’t made her give it back.

She’d found where Albert stored the boxes of liquor he’d brought from Prairie City, and she pilfered small amounts. She’d pour some into the flask, then refill the bottle with water to hide how much was missing.

She was aware that she shouldn’t be stealing, that she should feel bad or at least guilty, but she didn’t. Her mood was shifting again, and a rowdy surge was coming on. At the ranch, she had no means to shuck off any extra energy. Alcohol was one of the few ways she could temper an outburst.

“You have whiskey?” he repeated, looking skeptical.

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

They were behind the blacksmith’s barn, the crowd milling as people squeezed nearer to watch the boxers. She clasped his wrist and pulled him around the corner and into the barn. For the moment, it was empty.

She retrieved the flask from her pocket and took a long swig, peeking over at him as he observed her every move.

When she finished, he snatched the flask from her and enjoyed his own swallow.

“Hey,” she complained, “don’t drink it all. There’s no more until I get home.”

“You a ranching gal? I wouldn’t peg you for a paltry farmer.”

“I’m not. I’m staying with my sister—for now.” She shot him a hard, shrewd glare, informing him that she’d be perfectly happy to walk a different road if a new route was offered.

“What would you do,” he inquired, “if you could run away?”

“With a girl like me, there’s no predicting what could happen.”

He laughed. “I like your style, Violet.”

“I like yours.”

“We understand one another pretty well.”

He stepped in and pushed her to the wall. Without asking, without hesitating, he kissed her right on the mouth.

She’d been kissed—and more—on many occasions in her life. He was skilled at it, but she was skilled at a few things, too.

She let him proceed, just enough to tease him into craving more. She knew how to entice a man, how to make him squirm and beg so he’d give her what she wanted. She didn’t always relent. There had to be a valid reason for surrender. There had to be a significant benefit.

Then again, she might participate simply because she felt wild and crazy and out of control. When she was suffering from a tempest, any bizarre conduct was possible. She’d jump into the storm without thinking, without remorse or regret.

But their intimate encounter was ruined before it had started.

Someone was calling for her from outside the barn, and she recognized it as Albert’s brother, Robert.

She slipped out of Harry’s grasp and went to the door.

He feigned a pout. “Leaving so soon?”

“My sister is getting married this afternoon. It must be time.”

“To hell with your sister.”

“Don’t say that about her. She’s good; she’s not like me.”

He chuckled, the sound low and sultry. “You’re not
good,
Violet?”

“Never.” She winked. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t go anywhere.”

She sauntered off, and as she joined Robert and Carl, she was already planning how quickly she could be with Harry again.

“Will you be all right?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Helen sat on the edge of the bed in Albert’s small, dilapidated house. Her house now, too.

Violet stood in the main room, staring at her. With the wedding ceremony completed, Violet had ceased her frantic whispering that they should flee. There was an air of dismal acceptance hanging over them both.

Helen had proceeded so Violet would have a roof over her head. Would her sister ever understand? Helen couldn’t have provided for Violet, and Violet was incapable of garnering security for herself. Albert was their savior, their benefactor.

Would Violet ever be grateful?

Helen knew the sad answer to that question, but she wouldn’t examine it too closely. It she did, she might wonder why she’d struggled to save a person who would never appreciate the sacrifice Helen had made.

They’d been away from the ranch for one night, and Walt had refused to stay in Mud Creek for a second night. The animals had needed tending, and he’d been anxious to get home, so they’d missed the fireworks. It was very late, and they were exhausted.

Albert had gone to unhitch the wagon and see to the horses. Before driving off, he’d squeezed her hand and told her he’d return soon.

She’d had to fight off a shudder of dread.

He’d been hugging her all day, possessively preening, dipping in to steal a kiss when no one was watching. She’d been kissed a few times, so she’d had some practice at it, but with Albert, it seemed so wrong.

Yet she couldn’t ask him to stop. She belonged to Albert, her status no different than that of the cattle in the pasture. He could treat her however he wanted, and she had no grounds to complain.

Violet had accompanied Helen to the cottage, but she’d be leaving momentarily. Albert had insisted they have the place to themselves, so Violet would sleep at Walt’s. At least for the one night.

Helen intended to demand that Violet be allowed back the following evening.

“You look so miserable,” Violet murmured.

“I’m not miserable. I’m just tired.”

Violet came over and sat next to Helen.

“Do you know what’s about to transpire?” Violet inquired.

“No. Do you?”

“Yes, actually,” Violet surprised her by admitting. “Ah…a friend explained it.”

“Tell me.”

Helen linked their fingers, and they peered at the wall.

“He will…touch you,” Violet haltingly said. “In your private parts.”

Helen tamped down another shudder. “All right.”

“And he’ll poke into you—between your legs.”

Helen had no idea what that meant, but she was too embarrassed to request clarification.

“All right,” she repeated.

“You lay on your back, and he’ll lay on top of you. He’ll show you what has to happen.” Violet paused, carefully choosing her words. “It will hurt a little the first time. But only the first time.”

“How long will it last?”

“It can be quick, or it can drag on forever. Depending on the man.” Violet grumbled low in her throat. “Some of them really enjoy it, so they stretch it out, but I’m betting that with Albert, it will be over very fast.”

“That’s a blessing, I guess.”

“Some men are better at it than others.” Violet was expounding like an expert. “Some can make the woman like it, too, but I wouldn’t expect Albert to be in that group. He won’t have much experience, so it will be a nightly chore for you.”

“Nightly?” Helen wanly gasped.

“Yes. Men…like it, and when you’re a wife, you can’t refuse.” Violet snorted with disgust. “Even if you’re worn out, even if you don’t want to, you’ll have to do what he says.”

“I suppose that will be the hardest part. Doing what he
says
. You and I were never much for obeying orders.”

“No, we never were.”

They chuckled, then were quiet again, still staring straight ahead, studying the weathered wood on the wall.

Helen was awhirl with questions, but she couldn’t voice any of them. For weeks, she’d been anxious to discuss her wedding night with someone, but it had never occurred to her that Violet might have the information she sought. So she hadn’t approached her sister, but even if she’d had the courage to press for details, she was too unschooled to recognize the areas where she needed to be enlightened.

“Albert will be back any minute,” Violet said. “I should probably get going.”

“I’m not sure what to do after you leave.”

“Put on your nightgown and climb under the covers.”

“Should I turn out the lamp?”

“I would—but he might light it again. He might have it burning the whole time so he can see everything. He might remove your nightgown.”

“I’d be naked!”

“Men like that, too. They like it very much.”

Helen was aghast, and she peeked over at Violet. Their gazes locked, and Helen’s assessment flustered Violet.