Wild Is the Night (39 page)

“Looks like there isn’t much water,” Chase commented as he held her hand and surveyed the area. The outer rim of the pond had become solid mud, but the interior spring still bubbled with clear liquid. Releasing her hand, the young foreman sat on the ground and tugged at his boots. He placed them aside and stepped into the crisp, clear spring, nearly sighing in pleasure as he splashed fresh water on his face and drank deeply.

“You coming in?”

His smile was as inviting as the water. Angel stripped off her shoes and stockings, wincing as she thought of the public censure this act would create, were it known. She lowered her legs into the water, sighing as the cool liquid caressed the hot soles of her feet.

It felt wonderful to be here with him, wonderful doing such daring things as wading with a man. He had taught her to dance beneath a star-studded sky the previous night; she’d never dreamed how much fun that would be with a man like Chase. Slowly, relentlessly, he was stripping away her outer defenses, finding the woman within.

She saw him watching her, the way she dipped her legs in and out of the water, the way the little droplets clung to her skin and trickled down her dress. Something in his face seemed to change, and he spoke hoarsely. “We’d best be getting back We’re still in Indian country, and it isn’t quite safe.”

Angel lay back on the bank propped up on her elbows, her feet still dangling in the water. She didn’t want to return to the hot, shadowy interior of the wagon. She didn’t want to leave him. Her body was humming, as restless as the bees scouring the clover flowers, and her blood seemed to flow hotter even as the water cooled her. Her eyes were partially closed, unwilling to reveal these strange new emotions to him He stepped closer and extended his hand.

“C’mon, sweetheart, your father will kill me if we’re not back before him.”

Angel rose reluctantly, pulled on her stockings, then searched for her shoes. Chase brought them to her, then stooped beside her and slid one over her slender ankle. He did the same with the other, forcing her to hold onto his shoulders for balance. His fingers lingered longer than necessary, and he rose slowly. When his eyes were level with hers, she drew in a deep breath, shocked at the hot passion she saw there.

“My God, Angel, you’re enough to make a man forget his good intentions.”

“Forget then,” she whispered recklessly. “I want you to forget.”

“…unfortunately, we didn’t get there in time.” Sheriff Mendez ignored Luke’s frown and shrugged apologetically. “We did all that we could. But this man Haskwell must have been expecting to be tracked. He left Dallas as quickly as he came.”

“Goddammit!” Luke swore, slamming his hand down on the sheriff’s desk. He held up two fingers with less than a quarter inch between. “We were this close to catching the bastard, and he slips away like some schoolgirl at a prom!”

“That isn’t fair, Luke,” Jake said calmly. “The sheriff’s done what he could. He sent the telegrams to Dallas as soon as we got word, and dispatched the deputy. Haskwell isn’t an easy man to nail. If he was, he’d be dead by now.”

Jake spoke pragmatically, but Luke was in no mood to listen to reason. “I don’t want excuses! It isn’t your damned wife he’s trying to kill!” he shouted.

“Maybe not, but I have feelings for Amanda, too,” Jake said, visibly hurt. “I don’t want to see anything happen to her. And I’m more than willing to help track him down.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.” Luke extended a hand, which the older ranchman readily took. After a moment, Luke turned back to the sheriff, forcing himself to remain calm and rational, for Amanda’s sake.

“Do you have any other news? Anything that would help us?” Luke asked.

Mendez hesitated for a moment, as if uncertain of how much to trust these two men. His eyes shifted from Luke’s passionate expression to Jake’s calm concern. Whatever he saw there apparently reassured him, for after lighting a thin cigar, he spoke much more freely.

“We think he has a woman with him. The reports all say he’s been dragging her from state to state. The girl tried to escape from him once, in a crowded saloon. Haskwell found out about her plan and put a stop to it. The man who was to help her was severely beaten.”

“Who is she?” Luke asked, impressed by the results of the investigation.

“Her name is Honey Bee,” Mendez reported. “She’s a showgirl, once considered very beautiful. She last performed in a saloon just fifty miles north of here. They say she was so bad the bartender threw her out, yet she once won praise for her voice. I fear it is Haskwell’s influence, and like the other girl you spoke of, Jake, she isn’t long for this world.”

“Unless we stop him,” Luke said thoughtfully. He looked at the sheriff with new respect. “What plans have you made?”

“My deputy is on his way back now. I’m putting together a group of men to try and follow Haskwell’s trail. The fact that he is not traveling alone is good for us. He will need to stop, and will be more easily seen with the woman.”

“Do you need volunteers?” Jake asked, and Mendez shook his head.

“I would prefer if you both stay in town, just in case Haskwell slips through our net. If you need to be gone for any length of time, I would appreciate it if you let me know. And Mrs. Parker should notify you of her whereabouts at all times. It’s important now that we can find both of you easily, should we hear that Haskwell is in Waco.”

“I agree,” Luke said evenly. “My wife and I have already discussed this. She understands the danger, and will keep me informed of where she goes and what she does. Amanda will not make a move that I am not aware of.”

“Are you certain of this, dear?” Grace Brockelman stared at the mound of corsets that lay in the center of the street like the webbed bones of a slaughtered dragon. Laces lay everywhere, some of satin, some of cotton, all of them tossed gaily by the giggling and blushing women as the pile mounted higher. Steel hooped underskirts joined the mountain, collapsing under pressure like medieval torture garments. Next came bustles and tufts of cotton padding, that sank down amid the corsets and hoops like stones dropped into a pond.

“I am not at all sure this is right,” Elvira Brannigan whispered, appalled at the sight of the feminine undergarments fluttering in the breeze.

“Oh, bosh Elvira. And if you’re going to have another one of your fainting spells, do it inside. This is important.” Mrs. Meade puffed up like an adder, her round face puckered and threatening, and her sharp eyes narrow beneath her bonnet.

“We have to make a statement,” Amanda said, tossing her own corset onto the pile, then standing nearby on a platform with a box of matches. “As women, we no longer wish to be bound to the past, either by our undergarments or by tradition. It is time we were free! These clothes were designed to change our bodies, to hide our normal curves and womanly figures, to conform to an unnatural ideal that is physically unhealthy and emotionally appalling! No wonder we’ve suffered for years with vapors and the blues! Our underwear is a direct physical cause for distress!”

The women applauded, the sound filling the air in the town center, competing with the piano at the Pecos Saloon. Men began to drift into the square, out of curiosity at first, then horror as they saw the indecent display of bloomers, leggings, corsets, and petticoats.

Amanda stood above it all, brandishing her matches like Joan of Arc and her sword. Her hair gleamed a brilliant chestnut, worn disgustingly loose and falling around her shoulders. Her face, burned by the sun, had an attractive stain of pink across the bridge of her nose where indentations remained from her glasses. Her dress, a simple cotton affair that looked well-worn from her trail days, was loose and moved softly as she lifted a match. Although her pregnancy was not far advanced, her body had become rounder and her corset tighter, giving her the idea to banish the garment. One thing was apparent to every man there:

She wasn’t wearing a damned thing beneath her dress.

The women cheered, and Amanda continued her speech. “Not only are these garments physically destructive, but think of the mental and emotional complexities they create. We are told every time we put these on that we are nothing more than chattel, toys to be dressed and displayed for a man’s benefit. What is the purpose of a corset, if not to enhance the breasts and reduce the waist! Surely, it is not for our stimulation, since the very donning of these garments is uncomfortable, even painful. We wear them to please men, to make our breasts more noticeable, our waists smaller, and bustles to make our backsides more apparent! No longer shall we be slaves to fashion! From now on, we shall use our minds to think, wear what is practical and comfortable, and let corsets be damned!”

The cheers were deafening. Even little Elvira, who was normally the color of snow and as fragile as Italian crystal, clapped her hands and cried out,
Amanda!
The other women joined suit, until the streets were filled with the name
Amanda! Amanda Edison!

“Luke, I think you’d better come out here.” The deputy stepped into the shaded interior of the office, and gestured to the street. “There seems to be a ruckus going on.”

Puzzled, Luke donned his Stetson, then strode outside while Jake and the sheriff exchanged a worried glance. They followed, and all three men stood on the outside of the feminine crowd, as the women shouted:

“Amanda!”

Luke stared in disbelief as his wife struck a flaming match, then dropped it into a pile of feminine undergarments. The flimsy cotton and batiste slowly caught fire, the flames encouraged by the wind and the structure of the bustles and hoops. Lace burned. Cotton ignited. Rosettes smoldered. Whalebone collapsed. A sudden gust of wind from the north set the whole pile to blazing, and the women laughed and cheered like bare-breasted natives around a campfire.

The men looked soberly on, then one by one turned to Luke, their expressions anything but friendly. Simon Ledden, the postman, clucked his tongue. Mr. Meade shook his head and glared. Jake looked embarrassed but not surprised. Jed Brannigan, Elvira’s husband and the mayor, had turned an interesting shade of red. Clearing his throat, he turned to Luke and spoke for all the men.

“I believe Amanda Edison is your wife, is she not? I think you’d best straighten her out now.”

Luke grimaced, then crossed the crowd of women to the podium, where Amanda was removing her hosiery. One slender cotton stocking was rolled down, revealing a shapely white calf, then the delicate structure of her foot. Gaily, she tossed the stocking onto the bonfire, watching it ignite then disappear into the hot flames. Amanda reached for the second stocking as the women clapped. The cheers suddenly died, and a strange hush fell upon the crowd. Puzzled, Amanda glanced up, her dress pulled up high, her fingers slipping beneath the pink satin garter. Her eyes widened and her mouth formed an open O as she saw Luke towering over her.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The wrath of God was in his blue eyes. Amanda had never seen him so angry, not even the time she sent his clothing downriver. He looked immeasurably tall and overwhelmingly masculine as he dwarfed her slight figure, his hands resting on his hips as if to keep himself from strangling her.

Amanda gulped, and the dress hem slipped from her fingers. She hadn’t thought of this in her eagerness to pursue the rally. The emotional encouragement of the women had seduced her, and the once in a lifetime feeling of power had been heady. But now she was faced with the consequences of this act of public defiance, and from the look in Luke’s eyes, he wasn’t about to be very understanding.

“I was leading the rally,” Amanda squeaked. “You see, I had trouble breathing in my corset, and it occurred to me that feminine clothes were simply the reflection of male dominance. We should be using our minds, and not our bodies, simply to please the male species—”

“Goddammit, Amanda! I told you explicitly that I wanted to know your whereabouts. The first time I turn my back, you’re out here, burning your underwear!” He glanced at the flaming corsets, as if unable to believe his own eyes, then turned back to her, his anger barely under control. “Do you realize the danger you were in? Suppose I needed to find you, quickly?”

She gave him a disparaging look. “I believe you found me quickly enough,” she pointed out logically, though her mind dimly registered the thought that he seemed more concerned for her safety than angry at her public defiance. She still couldn’t totally believe that, so she continued coldly. “I think what you’re really upset about is that the male species is always threatened by a feminine show of power. We women have been treated as chattel for far too long! I mean to make a change, and if our corsets represent—”

That was as far as she got. Cursing under his breath, Luke lost the last vestige of control he possessed and hiked her over his shoulder, her bottom in the air, one bare leg kicking up, one stockinged leg down. The men cheered as Luke strode past the fire, past the awestruck women, past Elvira Brannigan and Mrs. Meade, to the wagon where Juan waited. Luke plopped Amanda into the back amid the hay, ignoring her protests, then joined Juan at the front.

“Take us home. Now!”

Juan didn’t hesitate, but whipped up the horses. The wagon sped away from the town hall, leaving the smoldering corsets and the slender grey column of smoke far behind them. Amanda slid upright, plucking hay from her hair and gazing at the back of the furious man in front of her.