Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (18 page)

B
ut that was all behind her. She’d discarded her mourning gowns. She’d made love to her husband. There now remained only one thing more to do, difficult though it might be.

Stepping over to her trunk, Lydia lifted the lid
and rummaged through her carefully folded gowns. When she found what she was looking for, she slipped it into her dress pocket and closed the lid, her heart suddenly beating an erratic tattoo.

“What are you rooting around for?” Ben
asked in a conversational tone of voice.

“You’ll see. Are you ready to leave?”
She smiled at him, deliberately changing the subject.

Ben, an unrepentant twinkle in his eyes, glanced at the bed. “
Are you sure that I can’t entice you into one last round?”

“Really, Mister Strong!”

“Hey, it never hurts to ask.”

“And for heaven’s sake, please
try to curtail your bawdy remarks at the dinner table,” she admonished as she made her way to the back of the wagon.

“You a
sk a lot of a man, don’t you?”

Chuckling, Ben vaulted off the edge of the tailgate. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he swung her over the side. As
Lydia peered toward the western horizon, she could see that it was much later in the day than she had realized; the sun already near the end of its daily trek.

“Would you mind if w
e strolled past the riverbank?”

Good-naturedly, Ben slung an arm around her shoulders. “Whatever the lady wants.”

Little did he know that what the lady wanted more than anything else was to ease her husband’s troubled mind. Though others might fault her for what she was about to do, Lydia could think of no other way to allay Ben’s suspicions.

When they reached the riverbank,
she slipped her hand into her dress pocket and removed her gold wedding band. With a shy smile, she offered it to Ben.

Recognition immediately flared in his
gray eyes. “What am I supposed to do with
that
?”

“You can throw it farther than I can.”

Long moments passed, both of them frozen in place – Lydia holding the ring aloft, Ben rigidly standing at attention.

“That
’s your ring,” Ben muttered, breaking the silence. “It’s not for me to toss aside. That’s something you have to do all by yourself.”

Lydia closed her eyes, clenching the ring in the palm of her hand. She’d
mistakenly thought that Ben would be only too happy to rid her of this last misbegotten link to her buried past.

Having pondered the matter at considerable length
over the last four weeks, Lydia had come to realize that the love she bore for James McCabe, true and pure though it was, had been born of girlish infatuation. She’d been only seventeen years of age when she’d met and fallen in love with her first husband. Dashing and charismatic, he’d swept her off her feet with his passionate declarations of love, and his adventurous dreams of immigrating to the Missouri frontier. No matter what the future brought, James would always have a place in her heart.

But
Lydia had recently become aware that there was room in her heart for another love. And though Ben would never admit to it, as long as she had the ring in her possession, he would always secretly wonder where her affections truly lay.

Bringing
her balled fist to her mouth, tears gathered in Lydia’s eyes as she pressed her lips to her hand. A few seconds later, turning away from her husband, she sighted a spot in the middle of the river. She then pulled her arm back and—

Without warning, Ben grab
bed hold of her clenched fist.

“Don’t do it,” he ordered
gruffly, a pained look on his face. “It’s just a piece of metal.”

“That’s precisely why I’m doing it. I can not,
I will not
, throw away my memories. But James does not reside in this ring. He resides in my heart. And in our daughter Dixie. Which is not to say that there isn’t room in my heart for—” Lydia choked on the words, unable to say them aloud. “I have been a very foolish woman these last four weeks. And in all truthfulness, I can no longer look at this ring without remembering how I . . . I shamed you. And myself.”

“But that’s all behind
us now,” Ben insisted. “I don’t care if you hold onto that ring. It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Raising her arm,
Lydia briefly slid her fingers across her husband’s stubbled cheek. “Dearest Ben, this is something that I have to do
for me
.”

Taking a deep, calming breath,
Lydia turned toward the clear running river, pleased that she’d selected such an idyllic a spot. As she drew her arm back, a feathered quartet sweetly warbled in the nearby treetops.

She smiled.

Then, in the span of a single heartbeat, it was done, the yellow metal catching the late-day sun, throwing it back to the heavens in a pin-prick burst of gleaming light. Silently the ring streaked through the air before hitting the water’s surface with a musical
ping!
Whereupon it was swept away in the fast-moving current.

To
Lydia’s surprise, she didn’t experience the old, familiar pang of grief. Instead, she felt . . . at peace with herself. At peace with her past.
At peace with James
.

“Come here,” Ben said as he pulled her into his arms. Placing a hand on the back of her head, he gently rocked her to-and-fro
. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

Lydia burrowed her cheek against his chest, taking comfort in Ben’s slow, steady heartbeat.

“Yes, I did.” Angling her head, she stared into her husband’s eyes. “Now there’s nothing standing between us.”

Her softly spoken avowal caused
her husband to tighten his embrace, his chest heaving as he drew in a long, shuddering breath.

“Lydia, I
—”

“Mama! Mama!”

They both turned, Lydia dropping to her knees to catch her daughter as she charged across the farmyard in an animated burst of eight-year-old exuberance. Following at a more sedate pace, Walks Tall also made his way toward them.

“How’s my precious girl?” Lydia asked, her hands lovingly smoothing a flyaway curl.

“Walks Tall took me fishing,” Dixie exclaimed. “And I caught a big one, too!”

Dixie’s blithesome good cheer was infectious, Ben wearing a broad smile as he ruffled his stepdaughter’s windblown hair.

“Captain Ben, where have you and Mama been all day?”

To Lydia’s surprise,
Ben suddenly seemed at a loss for words. “Well, we, uh. . . .” Rather than answer Dixie’s question, he turned toward Walks Tall and made a big show of greeting their host. “Walks Tall, nice evening we’re having, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been holding supper for you,” the to
wering Cherokee informed them.

Grinning, Ben patted his stomach. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. Maybe even two horses.” His addendum caused Dixie to giggle uproariously.

“Guess you’re on the mend,” Walks Tall said dryly as he glanced at the Conestoga wagon in the distance.

Ben
grinned broadly. “If I was feeling any better, I’d have thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

With Dixie leading the pack, the four of them made their toward the white clapboard farmhouse.

Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, Ben leaned close to Lydia and said, “If we time this just right, it ought to be nightfall by the time we finish eating our supper. And you know what
that
means.”

“Shame on you,” Lydia hissed, her indignation count
ermanded with a flirtatious smile.

“You, sir, are a bawdy man!”

Leaning back in his camp chair, Ben appraised his wife’s attire. On the verge of making a prurient remark, he thought better of it, Lydia’s queenly air indicating that she was not in the mood for any of his rude ribaldry.

“And you, Mrs. Strong, are tossing out unsubstantiated accusations before I’ve had a chance to string two words together, bawdy or otherwise.”

Ever since her dress caught fire two weeks earlier, on windy days Lydia had taken to drawing her calico skirt between her legs and tucking it into her waistband while she stood over the cook flames. Although a necessary precaution, Ben would be the first to admit that Lydia’s improvised ‘bloomer’ outfit tested a man’s self-control, the sight of those ruffled white drawers and cotton stockings inciting a riot of indecent imaginings. However, given that they’d only briefly stopped to partake of their midday meal, it’d be a long while before he could act on his amorous inclinations.

“I know full well what
you’re thinking,” Lydia admonished, her chin held at a regally ladylike angle. Stepping toward the camp table, she poured Ben a final cup of coffee before tossing the dregs onto the noonday fire. No sooner had the flames been doused than she pulled her skirt hem free of her waistband.

Ben waved
the tin mug under his nose, inhaling the coffee’s rich aroma. “So, you know what I’m thinking, do you? Well, how about enlightening me?”

“You were contemplating yet another way that we might engage in intimate congress.”

“‘Yet another way,’ huh?” Admittedly, since leaving Walks Tall’s farm, he’d come up with quite a few gratifying positions for them to slake their passions. Some he’d tried before. Some he’d only heard about. And one or two, he’d conjured all on his own.

Affecting a disinterested expression,
Ben glanced at their Conestoga wagon. “I don’t know how to tell you this, dear wife, but I was ‘contemplating’ greasing down those wheel axels before we shove off.”

“Surely you jest?”

Ben shook his head, mining the subterfuge for all it was worth. “‘Fraid not.”

“
Do you mean to say that you don’t . . . don’t want me?”

Suddenly realizing that he’d unintentionally bruised his wife’s
ego, Ben said, “Of course, I want you. If I wanted you anymore, I’d have to start wearing bigger britches.”

The irreverent remark had its desired effect, Lydia’s gaze demurely dropping to his lap. Slow to look away from the bulge of fabric that rode along the crease of his
upper thigh, her blatant stare further inflamed Ben’s unruly passions.

If he stood accused of being a bawdy man, then Lydia had certainly proven herself his equal
. Much to his unmitigated delight. These days, each sidelong glance, each brief touch, seemed laden with sexual intent. When Ben first made her acquaintance in Missouri, he could never have imagined that the staid Widow McCabe was capable of such free-spirited passion. Perhaps it was due to the fact that they were all alone on the Texas frontier where there was no need for polite rules and genteel civility. Or maybe it was because he’d stripped away enough ladylike layers, uncovering Lydia’s true womanly nature.

Whatever the reason
, married life had its rewards; and cavorting on their bed pallet in front of the evening fire was the best reward of all.

“Who says
that we have to wait until after supper,” he mused aloud. “With Dixie yonder picking wildflowers, there’s no reason why we can’t have ourselves a quick frolic.”

“I can think of a good many reasons
,” Lydia countered.

Ben stole a glance at his stepdaughter. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he reluctantly conceded. “And besides, we need to get a move on it. I don’t know about you, but I’m anxious to reach Uvalde.”

“As am I,” Lydia seconded. “How much longer until we reach our final destination?”

“I’d say about a week, assuming the
good weather holds out and—”
And we don’t meet up with any Comanche Indians.
Catching himself in mid-stream, Ben kept the thought to himself, some things better left unsaid.

Craning his neck, he glanced
at the stack of recently washed plates sitting on the wagon tailgate. “Hey, where are those two tin cans that you earlier emptied?”

When he turned back around, Lydia was holding a can in each hand.

“Are you referring to
these
empty peach cans?”

Ben nodded, having thought they’d make good targets to shoot at. In fact, he’d gotten the idea when he earlier watched Lydia use the canned peaches to con
coct a batch of bread pudding.

From the information he’d g
leaned a fortnight ago when he met Jesse Chisholm at the saloon, Ben knew that they were traversing the eastern fringe of what was known in the local parlance as
Comancheria
– the land of the Comanche. So far, they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any Indians. But he figured it might not be a bad idea to test his wife’s skill with a rifle.

Still holding the tin cans, Lydia stepped
toward the camp table. “And what, may I ask, am I supposed to do with these?”

“Shoot the hell out of ‘em.” At seeing
Lydia’s stupefied expression, Ben jutted his chin toward a large rock outcropping about fifty yards away. “I want you to set those cans on top of that flat rock over there. It’s about time that you learned how to fire a rifle.”

“But, Ben, I
—”

“And place them a good four feet apart from one another,” he said,
talking over top of Lydia’s objection.

Getting up from his chair, Ben sauntered toward the wagon
and retrieved a box of gun cartridges, along with the second rifle that he’d purchased before they left Kansas. While he never much cared for the idea of women handling firearms, he knew it was imperative that Lydia be able to properly acquit herself should the need ever arise.

Which meant
that she had to become familiar with the weight and feel of her own weapon.

As he approached,
Ben noticed the alarmed look on his wife’s face when she caught sight of the rifle nestled in the crook of his arm. Ignoring her worried expression, he handed Lydia the box of cartridges, quietly instructing her to open it. With a quick pull of the trigger guard, he started to load the magazine.

When he reached for a second handful of cartridges,
Lydia looked at him askance. “Just how many bullets can you put into this weapon?”

“Sixteen.”

“That many?”

“Yep.” Shoving the last cartridge into the magazine, he pulled on the trigger guard to chamber the first shot. “But even with sixteen rounds, you need to make every shot count.
That’s what we’re going to work on today.”

Setting the box of cartridges on the ground at their feet, Lydia nervously twisted her hands together, eyeing the rifle as if it’d just sprouted two horns and a tail. “I thought you said
that we were in a hurry to get to Uvalde?”

Stepping behind her, Ben reached for her right hand, calmly sliding her forefinger over the trigger. “We are
. But this won’t take long,” he said as he curved her other hand under the iron barrel.

“
I honestly don’t think that there’s a need for me to learn how to fire a rifle,” Lydia protested, craning her neck to glance at him. “Surely, no danger lurks in these lovely, grass-covered hills. Why, I can’t recall the last time that I set eyes upon such a bucolic, peaceful place.”

Placing a hand on each side of her head, Ben turned her toward the target. “And when I caught sight of peach blossoms gracefully floating over the rolling fields at Gettysburg, I, too, thought it a bucolic, peaceful place.”
As he spoke, his hands fell to Lydia’s shoulders. Gently, he massaged her tensed muscles. “I know that you don’t want to do this, Lydia. But I’ll rest easier knowing that you can protect yourself if I’m not around.”

The argument had merit, which
undoubtedly was the reason why she acquiesced with a reluctant nod of the head. What he’d failed to mention was that he’d been nursing a bad feeling these last few days – the same kind of prickly unease he used to get in the days leading up to a major battle. While the niggling feeling didn’t necessarily portend future doom and disaster, it never hurt to play it safe.

Bracketing
Lydia’s torso between his arms, Ben hefted the rifle to her shoulder. “Now I want you to look down the barrel toward your gunsight and target the can on the left.”

Her upper body quivered against him. “I see it.”

“Since your weapon is cocked, you’re free to fire at will.”

The moment he issued the command, Lydia pulled the trigger, her back slamming against his chest under the force of the rifle blast. Placing his hands on her waist,
Ben peered over her shoulder. Not surprisingly, a stream of tears coursed down Lydia’s cheeks. As he knew full well, the first time that someone pulled the trigger on a weapon, it became abundantly clear that they were invested with the unalterable power of life and death. For anyone with a conscience, that knowledge was hard to handle.

Lydia wiped at
the tears with her dress sleeve. “I missed the can.”

“I know,” he
said quietly, making no mention of her emotional reaction. Easing her right hand away from the rifle, Ben yanked on the trigger guard, the spent case spewing from the rifle. He then replaced her finger on the trigger.

“Wind and leverage are the keys to good marksmanship,” he instructed, remembering his own father’s words when he’d first taught him how to fire a flintlock musket. “The rifle is going to re
coil when you pull the trigger so you need to keep that in mind. Now give it another try.”

Again, Lydia
pulled the trigger. And again she missed the target. Although this time, she managed to maintain her composure. Which, he supposed, was progress of a sort.

“Mama, is Captain Ben teaching you how to fire a rifle?”

The two of them turned in unison, both their bodies tensing as they caught sight of Dixie standing several feet from them, her red curls adorned with a wreath of colorful wildflowers.

“Yes, he is,” Lydia answered, her
calm tone of voice belying her unease. “But it’s not safe for you to be here while he’s giving me my lesson. Why don’t you sit at the table and work on your multiplication tables.”

At
hearing that, Dixie’s cherubim smile quickly faded from her face.

“Your mother’s right, Corporal Dixie. And to help you with your multiplication tables, how about finishing off the last serving of
that peach bread pudding?”

“Yippee!” her daughter enthusiastically exclaimed as she ran toward the wagon at breakneck speed.

“Really, Ben! You’ll spoil the child.”

“Children
are meant to be spoiled.”

“Is that how you were raised?”

Well, she had me there, didn’t she?

“Just because my father didn’t spare the rod, it doesn’t mean that I can’t do different
ly.” Placing a hand on her waist, Ben turned his wife toward the two tin cans. “Now let’s see if you can hit one of these cans.”

With a defeated sigh, Lydia pulled the trigger guard, the rifle spitting out the spent case. Raising the weapon to her shoulder, she took aim and fired.

“I think you got a lot closer this time,” Ben whispered, not altogether certain that it was true, but figuring it wouldn’t do any harm to say so.

“Do you really think so?”

He squeezed Lydia’s waist, hoping to buoy her confidence. “Give it another try, why don’t you?”

Releasing the trigger guard,
Lydia took a deep breath, her body stock still as she stared down the barrel of the rifle at the empty peach can. From where he stood directly behind her, Ben could sense her agitation, her uncertainty. Like many people, she was intimidated by her weapon. He knew that if she could just rid herself of her inner fear and concentrate on hitting the peach can, she could easily—

Yes!

To his surprise, Lydia actually whooped aloud upon successfully hitting the target.

“I did it! I did it!” she happily clamored, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her breasts heaving with exertion.

God help me, but she is a glorious sight to behold
. Clothed. Unclothed. In his bed or out of it.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, Ben pulled
Lydia snug against his chest, filling his nostrils with her clean, flowery scent. “Looks like I’ve got a crack shot for a wife,” he whispered in her ear, unable to stop himself from playfully nibbling on her lower lobe. “Now, how about pulling on that trigger guard and showing me some more of that fancy marksmanship.” He punctuated the suggestion by teasingly thrusting his groin against her buttocks.

“Sir, you are having a detrimental effect on my concentration,”
Lydia sternly chastised as she tried, unsuccessfully, to wiggle free of him.