Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (10 page)

She set the bowl and skillet on top of a barrel, astounded. “You bought something for
me
?”

A sheepish look crept into Ben’s eyes. “Can’t a man buy a gift for his wife?”

“I . . . you . . . of course,” Lydia sputtered, flustered by his impetuous show of generosity. “I simply didn’t expect you to buy me a gift, that’s all.”

“Actually, this is a gift that someone should have bought for you a long time ago.” Stepping to the back of the wagon, Ben retrieved a wrapped
parcel that had gone unnoticed in all the unpacking and restocking. Holding the large package in his upturned palms, he offered it to her. “I hope you like it, Lydia.”

“Thank you . . . Benjamin.
”

Package in hand, Lydia
seated herself on the bed. Unable to recall the last time that someone had given her a gift, she pulled at the strings that bound the brown wrapping. Peeling back the paper, she was delighted to find a new sun bonnet lying atop a neatly folded stack of fabric. Touched by her husband’s thoughtfulness, she immediately tried it on, tying an elaborately stylish bow beneath her chin.

“How do I look?”

Ben gave her a warm smile; the first time that he’d ever done so. “Like a woman about to embark on one heck of a long journey.” Still smiling, he gestured to the other items in the package. “There’s plenty more to try on.”

Encouraged by his spirited tone, Lydia examined the next item in the pile, a starched white cotton apron. “No doubt, you expect me to wear this while I’m cooking your flapjacks,” she
teased.

“I confess that the thought did cross my mind.”

Setting the apron aside, Lydia reached for the next article, the smile quickly fading from her lips as she lifted a ready-made dress from the pile.

Ben grabbed the sleeves of the green calico frock and held them aloft, as though imagining how she would look in the garment.

“I know it’s not very stylish, but the lady at the mercantile assured me that—”

“I can’t wear it.”

Ben dropped the dress sleeves, the garment falling onto her lap. “What did you just say?”

Lydia gestured
feebly to the stack of calico dresses that comprised the bulk of her ‘gift.’ “Take them back. I can’t wear any of these.”

“You
can
wear them. And you
will
wear them,” Ben hissed, a look of pure thunder in his gray eyes.

Shoving the dresses off her lap, Lydia rose to her feet. Realizing that she still wore the sunbonnet, she hurriedly untied it and tossed it onto the bed. Wordlessly, she pushed her way past Ben and reached for the earthenware bowl.

“Just what in the blue blazes do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.

“
What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going to make you some flapjacks.”

“The hell you are!” Snatching the bowl out of her hand, Ben unceremoniously hurled it through the open tailgate. Then, grabbing the discarded green dress, he plastered it to her chest. “I’m giving you two minutes to put
on this dress or I’m going to—”

Lydia flung the dress to the floor, her own ire having reached the boiling point. “Don’t you understand? My husband was
murdered
.”

“Eight years ago, Lydia.
Eight
years ago.”

“And not a day passes that I don’t mourn his death.”

Grabbing her by the shoulders, Ben shoved her against the side of the wagon. When she tried to push her way free of him, he leaned into her, effectively holding her prisoner.

“So, you think
that you’ve got the market on grief, huh?” As he spoke, Ben’s warm breath hit Lydia full in the face. “Well, let me tell you something: twelve years ago I buried my wife and our stillborn child. But you don’t hear me blubbering about it, do you?”

“Perhaps if you did, it would improve your disposition!”

No sooner did the spiteful retort spew from her lips than Lydia gasped in horror, the words having escaped from her without censor.

“Forgive me,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

Ben’s hands tightened around her waist. “Oh, I think you did mean to say it,” he snarled, his muscles tensing as he lifted her several inches into the air.

Nimbly turning toward the bed,
Ben tossed her onto the mattress. As he stepped toward her, he reached for the knife scabbard hanging from his waist, unsheathing a dangerously long blade.

A scream lodged in her throat.
Floundering on the bed, Lydia’s hand protectively flew to her throat, a meager defense, at best. A moment later, as Ben knelt beside her on the mattress, she was too terrified to even put up a struggle.

Starting at the hem of her skirt,
Ben sliced his way up the middle of her gown, the fabric easily giving way under the well-honed blade. Within seconds, Lydia was completely divested of her day dress, the ruined black fabric barely draping her scantily clad body. In a hurry to dress herself, she’d not bothered with donning a petticoat. To her acute embarrassment, she now wished that she had.

Extending an arm to the floor, Ben grabbed the green calico dress
that she’d angrily tossed aside. Not bothering to ask her permission, he cloaked her trembling body with it, pressing a muscular forearm over her waist to hold her in place.

“The way I see it, you have two choices
: you can either go to Texas dressed in your skivvies; or you can wear these dresses that I bought for you. Now which is it going to be?”

Unable to speak, Lydia clutched the calico fabric, silently
conveying her decision.

“You made a wise choice,” Ben said gruffly as he removed his arm from her waist. Getting to his feet, he resheathed
the knife, a steely-eyed expression on his face. “I want to leave within the hour. Don’t tarry.”

With that said, he stomped to the back of the wagon, vaulting over the side of the tailgate with long-legged ease.

Biting down on her lower lip to keep herself from crying, Lydia shoved herself into a seated position. After pulling the ruined gown off her shoulders, she reached for the plainly-fashioned green calico dress, her fingers working the row of buttons on the bodice. She then lifted the dress over her head and slid her arms into the sleeves. Angling herself off the bed, she rose to her feet and smoothed the colorful fabric over her hips.

Although the dress fit as though it had been tailored to her body, Lydia felt
naked
. Moreover, she felt extremely vulnerable. Whether he knew it or not, Ben had drawn a line in the sand, forcing her to choose between being a widow and being a woman.

It was the one change
that she’d not been prepared to make.

“I’ve been meaning to tell
you, Lydia, that you look real pretty in that color.”

Lydia nervously fingered her green calico skirt. “Th-thank you,” she sputtered
. It’d been years since anyone had paid her that particular compliment. Certainly, she’d not expected to hear such flattery from her husband’s lips.

Encamped for the evening, long hours had passed since she and Ben
had verbally sparred over his ‘gift.’ If not for Dixie and her animated chatter, she feared her husband would have made the entire day’s journey in stone-faced silence.

“
Is Dixie all tucked in for the night?” Ben asked as he closed the book that he’d been reading.

“Yes, she is.” Holding a small pitcher aloft, Lydia smiled
hesitantly. “I thought you might like some milk with your coffee.”

Ben lifted his tin mug in her direction. “Thank you. Care to sit with me for a while?”
He jutted his chin at the vacant camp chair on the other side of the table.

Setting the pitcher down, Lydia seated herself, self-consciously aware that her husband was making an attempt at reconciliation.

As was she.

After a moment of awkward silence, Ben gestured toward her new dress. “I, um, had to guess on the size.”

Lydia smoothed a hand over a non-existent wrinkle. “It fits me well, don’t you think?”

“It does at that.” Ben’s heavy-lidded gaze traveled to her bosom before quickly retreating back to her face. “Yes,
indeed, Lydia. Green is most definitely your color.”

Flustered by her husband’s appraisal, brief though it was,
Lydia reached for the book that he’d been reading.

“
The Leaves of Grass
,” she read aloud as she examined the cover. Opening the book, she flipped through several pages. “I’ve not had an opportunity to read Mister Whitman’s poetry. Would you mind if I borrowed it?”

One side of Ben’s mouth quirked upward
. “It’s not exactly proper reading for a lady.”

“Oh? And why is that, pray tell?”

“It’s a bit on the bawdy side. If you know what I mean.”

Goodness
! Did no one read the Bible anymore?

Lydia immediately replaced the book on the table.
“Perhaps I won’t borrow it, after all,” she murmured, trying her utmost best not to appear offended.

“If you like to read, I have plenty of other books that you could choose from.”

“I, too, packed a number of books.”

“Yeah?
What did you bring?” Ben asked, an interested glimmer in his eyes.

“I
have
Nicholas Nickleby
, Shakespeare’s’
Sonnets
,
Les Miserable
and
Ivanhoe.
” As she spoke, Lydia ticked off the titles on her fingers.

“Have you ever read the
The Deerslayer
?” When she shook her head, Ben said, “How about I swap my Cooper for your
Ivanhoe
?”

“I would be only too happy to make the trade,” Lydia enthused, heartened
by the pleasant discourse. “I’ve always found that reading helps to wile the night away, don’t you agree?” When the question met with an awkward silence, Lydia quickly tried to back-pedal
.
“That is to say—”

“It’s all right,
Mrs. Strong. I already figured that I’d be doing a lot of reading on this trip,” Ben interjected.

Lydia remained silent,
his proper form of address reminding her that there had been
another
Mrs. Strong, long years ago. Truth be told, thoughts of Ben’s first marriage had been plaguing her for most of the day. Aside from a few paltry facts, she knew virtually nothing about her husband. Naturally, she was curious.

“
Earlier today, you . . . you made mention of your first wife. I did not know that you had been previously married and I . . . I must confess that I am interested to know more,” she stammered, unsure how the overture would be greeted.

Ben shrugged
. “If you want to hear about my first wife, there’s not much to tell. We married young. She died. End of story.”

Having buried a spouse herself, Lydia knew
that it couldn’t possibly be as cut and dry as Ben made it out to be. He’d buried a wife
and
a stillborn child. Those were not easy memories to put to rest.

“
What was your wife’s name?”

“Sarah . . . Sarah Jane,”
Ben said without inflection. Turning his head, he fixed his gaze on the rising moon.

“Were you married very long?”
Lydia asked in a conversational tone of voice, hoping to continue the dialogue.

“Eight years
.”

That’s long a time
, she thought. Seven years longer than she and James had been married. “Eight happy years, I take it?”

Ben
wordlessly nodded. From his lack of verbal response, Lydia surmised that those eight years had been happier than he cared to admit. Not the least bit jealous, she wondered what Ben would have been like as a young eighteen-year-old husband. Admittedly, it was a difficult picture to conjure in her mind’s eye given his thatch of silvered hair and gruff, plain-spoken ways.