To Tame A Texan (11 page)

Penelope turned and gestured. “Well, there's a croquet game going on the south lawn.”

“Croquet?” Lynnie shook her head. “A ladies' game for prissy females. What are all the men doing?”

“What are they always doing? Most of them are over by the beer keg, a few are tossing horseshoes, and the rest are out back by the tables, waiting for the food to be served.”

As if on cue, a big gong clanged on the edge of the courtyard, and the grizzled old cook yelled, “Come and get it, folks; we got a beef and a pig roasting!”

“Come on, Penelope; we'll be expected to help.”

Lynnie forgot about the annoying Ace Durango, women's rights, and everything else for the next hour as she helped serve the food. A number of people looked at her with questions in their eyes, but Lynnie ignored them. So she'd caused a riot and ended up in jail. Certainly it was not something girls of good family did every day in Texas, but it was all for a good cause. Although she was attempting to put up a good front, it was difficult to be brave with people staring with such curiosity at her bloomers. Perhaps she had gone too far.

She served up barbecue and gallons of iced tea and lemonade. Ace Durango pointedly ignored her while a dozen pretty girls from neighboring ranches gathered around him, giggling at everything he said. They all seemed to be arguing over who was going to bring him a plate of food. Well, she'd never be a giggling slave like that.

Emmalou Purdy appeared to have won the argument and sashayed over to Lynnie, grinning like a possum. “Fill me a plate, Lynnie; Ace is waiting for it.”

Lynnie smiled. “Certainly.” When Emmalou turned to look back at the drunken cowboy, Lynnie poured chili pepper sauce over everything on the plate—especially the rhubarb pie.

Emmalou took the plate and returned to Ace, her hips swaying outrageously.

“It's a wonder she doesn't throw her back out,” Lynnie muttered.

Penelope watched the buxom beauty handing the plate to the grinning Ace. “I don't think he's interested in her back.”

“Oh, hush up, Penny, and get yourself a plate of food before these male pigs eat it all.”

Ace gobbled the food down without even tasting it, Lynnie thought. She hoped it gave him a bellyache.

As the sun sank toward the horizon, Lynnie watched him and his harem with a growing annoyance. Why couldn't he be smart enough to see through those stupid girls' antics?

When he ambled to the serving table to get another helping of her rhubarb pie, she told him so. “Those girls don't really think you're that clever.”

“They don't?” He grinned at her and seemed to be having a difficult time focusing his eyes.

“Of course not, you big oaf; they're just trying to charm you. All of them would like to be Mrs. Ace Durango, although, for the life of me, I can't see why.” She cut a big hunk of pie and slapped it on his plate, but with him watching, she couldn't put chili peppers on it.

“You know, Lynnie, you're as annoyin' as a burr under a saddle, but at least you're always honest with me.” He grinned at her and took a bite. “Lordy, you can cook. But the piece I had while ago was a little better.”

She started to tell him about the chili peppers but decided she'd better not. “You're so drunk, how would you know the difference?”

Ace cocked his head, pie smeared on his mouth. “Do you have to turn everything into a fight?”

“This isn't a fight; it's a discussion,” she countered loftily.

“Uh-huh.”

She didn't mean to say it, but she couldn't help herself. “I see Emmalou was almost crawling all over you out by the fountain.”

He grinned. “She was, wasn't she? She can't cook, but she's got other things to interest a man.”

Lynnie felt herself blush to the roots of her hair. “Ace Durango, you are no gentleman.”

“I never claimed to be, Miss Priss. I'm a man, a hairy-chested, uncivilized man—the kind most women like.”

“A brute,” she snapped. “Helping to keep women downtrodden and powerless.”

“You, powerless and downtrodden?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Lady, you are the most stubborn, headstrong . . .”

“I beg your pardon! If your mother knew—”

“You gonna tell her and get me in trouble again?”

“You seem to be perfectly capable of getting in trouble all by yourself. Now, you'd better hurry; your harem is waiting.”

He winked, turned, and sauntered back to the bevy of eager girls gathered under the giant oleander bushes.

Damn him. Damn, damn, damn him
. Oleanders were poisonous. It was too bad she hadn't sprinkled some leaves or blossoms on his pie instead of just chili peppers.

 

 

Now that most of the crowd had been served, Lynnie got herself a plate and retreated to the kitchen to enjoy the delicious picnic. The barbecue was juicy and smoky, the fresh bread crusty and thickly spread with home-churned butter. She went back for some of her rhubarb pie, but Cookie informed her that Ace had taken the very last piece. She hoped he choked on it.

Darkness had fallen over the Texas hill country as Lynnie went back outside. The little Mexican band was setting up on the edge of the courtyard, preparing for the dance. Lynnie tried to look busy, bravely walking about the courtyard and nodding first to one and then another, but some avoided her gaze and others paused as she passed, and then the conversation picked up again after she left—she suspected the people were gossiping about her exploits. For the one-hundredth time, Lynnie wished she had stayed home, but her big sister had insisted she attend.

Penelope joined her by the fountain. “I wonder if Hank is comin'?” She said for the umpteenth time.

“We can have a perfectly lovely time without men,” Lynnie assured her.

“I so wanted to dance with him,” Penelope moaned.

“Speaking of men, where are they all?”

Penelope gestured. “Some of them are over by the band, some are still hanging around the beer keg, and I think some of the others have gone to the library to smoke cigars and talk business and politics. I think I saw Ace drifting that way.”

“Politics?” Lynnie's ears perked up. “That sounds more interesting than standing here hoping to get asked to dance.”

“Oh, Hank Dale just rode up!” Penelope went running to meet the young rancher. Hank Dale was lanky with brown curly hair. His face lit up when he spotted Penelope, and they laughed together.

Lynnie felt completely alone. She wasn't going to be asked to dance—she knew that—and she really didn't know how, anyway. That short lesson from Ace had only made her aware of her shortcomings in that department. Besides, she didn't want to argue with some dolt over whether it was his right to lead.

Politics. She headed toward the library. The door was open, the air heavy with tobacco smoke, which made her choke, but she suppressed a cough.

“... and the price of beef will of course depend on if we get enough rain for a good stand of grass,” the older Durango said.

Some of the other men standing around him nodded and murmured agreement.

Her brother-in-law, Maverick, said, “Trace, are you really planning an old-fashioned cattle drive?”

“Thinking about it,” Trace said. “It'll be like old times.”

She watched Ace sip his whiskey and groan aloud. “Lordy, Dad, it sounds miserable.”

A couple of the older ranchers made noises of disagreement. “Them was the days,” one of them said wistfully.

She reminded herself that she must not correct the older man's grammar as she slipped closer to the sideboard and grabbed a whiskey off a tray. She'd never drunk anything except a little sherry before, but she was feeling brave and reckless.

One of the other men said, “I hear Willis Forrester has heard what you plan and is going to do a cattle drive himself.”

Trace Durango snorted. “Sounds like the Forresters. I hear he's been cozyin' up to the governor.”

“The governor has some pretty good ideas,” one rancher said.

Lynnie couldn't stand any more. “The governor is an idiot,” she said loudly.

The men all turned as if noticing her for the first time, and the room grew quiet.

“Ah, ma'am,” the older Durango said, “ladies don't usually—”

“Don't usually what, Uncle Trace? Join the men for interesting conversation? I'll have another whiskey, please.” She gulped her drink and handed the glass to the Mexican boy behind the bar, who paused, then filled it for her. She saw Trace look toward his son, and Ace pushed through the silent crowd to her.

“That's pretty strong drink for a lady.”

“Everyone else is drinking it.” With all the men staring, there was nothing to do but grab the glass and gulp it. “Now, as you were saying about the governor, what I'd really like to talk about is his stand on women's rights.”

However, no one talked. In the silence, the men all looked at each other helplessly, which annoyed her. She knew more about politics in this state than most men, but they were waiting for her to go join the women and talk about babies and crocheting doilies. “I—I'll have another whiskey, please.”

Her stomach was already roiling over the liquor she'd just put in it. How in the name of God did men drink that stuff? Maybe the bartender wouldn't give her another. She could only hope.

The Mexican boy looked toward Ace, who nodded. “If Miss McBride wants to behave like a man, by all means, pour her another.” He grinned at her. “Would you like a cigar, too?”

“A cigar?” All the men were staring at her. Her brother-in-law, Maverick, looked annoyed. “I—I—of course. I smoke them all the time.”

“Is that a fact?” Ace took one from his pocket and handed it to her. She wasn't quite sure what to do next. Every pair of eyes in the room was on her. There was no backing out now. Ace's father looked as if he was about to object.

“It's all right,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “I just remembered I don't have a match.”

“Allow me.” Ace made an exaggerated, courtly bow and pulled out a little silver match safe from his vest.

She sniffed it as she had seen men do, and remembered then that she was supposed to bite the tip off, but she had trouble with it. All that time, Ace was standing there in the silence with his damned match safe.

In the silence, he struck the match. What else could she do? With a shaking hand, she put the cigar in her mouth. Ace lit it, looking much amused. She took a deep puff, trying not to cough.

“Miss McBride, would you like another whiskey?”

“N-no thank you,” she managed to gasp as the black smoke fogged around her. Why on earth did men like these things? It tasted like burning hay. No, worse. Maybe burning manure. She felt all gazes upon her, most of them dark with disapproval, but she wasn't sure how to exit gracefully now, so she took another puff and tried to look nonchalant. “Gentlemen, you may continue with your conversation. I—I think I hear someone calling me.”

She was feeling sick—very sick. Almost tottering, she headed out the French doors, past the dancers, and around to the back of the house, where she tossed away the cigar and leaned against the wall.

Ace came around the house, looking a little more sober in the moonlight. “Lynnie, are you all right? Your face looks greener than your dress.”

“Thunderation, why wouldn't I be all right? I can do anything a man can do.”

“All right, then.” He started to walk away, and at that point, Lynnie's stomach couldn't stand any more. She began to throw up all over his boots.

“Oh, hell,” Ace said, “my best boots. Little gals shouldn't try hard liquor and cigars.” He came to her side and put his arm around her to keep her from falling.

“Go away!” she wailed. “Go away and just let me die! Haven't you humiliated me enough?”

Ace disappeared and was back in a moment with a bucket of cold well water. He began to splash her face. “Here, you little priss, you'll feel better.”

“I don't need your help,” she gasped, and leaned against the wall.

“Yes, you do.” He sounded almost gentle as he caught her arm, handing her a dipper of water. “Here, wash your mouth out while I tend to my boots.”

She gulped the cold water, and it seemed to calm her belly.

Then he dipped his handkerchief in the water and gently washed her face. “I'm sorry, Lynnie; I shouldn't have put you on the spot. Here, let me carry you inside.” Before she could object, he had swung her up in his arms.

She had forgotten how strong and powerful he was. “I hate you!” she sobbed, laying her face against his chest. “You are the most despicable brute of a man. . . .”

“Why don't you try behavin' like a lady and you wouldn't get yourself into these scrapes?”

“Go away!” she yelled at him, fighting the urge to sob.

“Oh, hush, Lynnie.” Ignoring her pleas and threats, he strode with big, easy strides toward the house. “I was trying to help. . . .”

“I don't need your help,” she wailed.

“Reckon you do,” he said as he carried her into the house, with everyone turning to stare.

“You're embarrassing me.” She laid her face against his wide chest.

“Gal, you embarrassed yourself, but I'll probably get in trouble for givin' you the cigar.”

“I just wanted to talk politics,” she murmured, still queasy as he carried her.

“I know, but men ain't used to women with opinions.” He carried her upstairs and kicked a bedroom door open.