Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (14 page)

Annoyed, Lydia had half a mind to inform her husband that she’d had ample opportunity over the last two days to stare
to her heart’s content at his ‘manly parts.’ Instead, she held her tongue as she pondered Walks Tall’s cryptic remark when he’d delivered the supper tray.
‘Your husband is holding on to something that he must let go of.’

Recalling how he
’d cried the name ‘Ethan’ before he fell into his unconscious stupor, Lydia suspected that the ‘something’ Ben was holding on to had to do with his brother’s death.

“While
I may not be a soldier, I do understand your pain.”

Ben’s brow instantly furrowed
. “You could
never
understand my pain,” he hissed, the muscles in his chest and arms quivering with a barely suppressed emotion.

Lydi
a willed herself to remain calm, not wishing to alienate him. “After James was killed, as strange as it sounds, I kept hearing his voice. Inside my head,” she clarified as she nervously clutched her hands together. “At the time, I feared that . . . that I was losing my mind.”

“Is that what you think, Lydia
? That I’ve gone and lost my mind?”

At hearing the bleakness
in her husband’s voice, Lydia’s eyes instantly filled with tears. “Most certainly not,” she assured him. “What I’m trying to say is that grief is a powerful force that—”

“I need some fresh air.
”

“What you need is bed rest.”

“Hell, Lydia! I’ve been in bed for two whole days,” Ben irritably grumbled as he grabbed his socks off of the bureau. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you gave me some privacy. I want to get dressed.”

Her
movements as wooden as a marionette, Lydia picked up the supper tray and left the room, having been summarily dismissed.

Ben tossed a handful of silver coins onto the scarred countertop, unwilling to dicker the price down
– the cloying smell of the shopkeep’s hair tonic was more than he could handle and he didn’t want to stay longer than he had to.

In a hurry to escape the
mercantile, Ben grabbed his wrapped parcel, tucking it under his arm before taking his leave.

Fed up with having his wife treat him like a damned invalid, he’d saddled a horse and
made tracks for the nearest town. While he wasn’t completely recovered, he did feel somewhat improved after a stop at the barber’s followed by a hearty meal at the local eatery. And though he’d tried mightily to figure out what the hell had happened to him, he was still at a complete loss to explain his recent stupor.

The last time it happened, he’d been out cold for three days.

That particular incident occurred towards the end of the war, right after the Union Army took Richmond. All he could recall about that particular episode is that he’d been felled by a debilitating, near-blinding pain inside his head. A pain that had come upon him without warning. The army surgeon who’d treated him could give no viable explanation as to the cause of his sudden loss of consciousness. ‘A head injury of unknown origin’ was the best diagnosis that the doctor could come up with. Problem was, Ben had never suffered a head injury.

What in God’ name
is wrong with me, anyway?

Admittedly, it
was a hell of a thing for a man to wake up and learn that he’d been toted around by some big Indian while his wife, piss pot in hand, had seen to his baser needs. And though he’d been dead to the world, it hadn’t stopped the nightmares from playing in his mind, like a gruesome, continuously spun zoetrope.

Maybe he
was
crazy. Maybe he needed to be locked up in an asylum and given—

A drink
.

Yes, by God,
that’s exactly what he needed.

Pushing his way though a pair of swinging batwing doors, Ben stepped into
a dimly-lit saloon. The distinctly male scents of whiskey, sawdust, and cigar smoke put an expectant smile on his lips.

Now, this
is an aroma I can deal with,
Ben thought as he stepped over to the ornately carved bar. Slapping a hand on the polished counter, he ordered a glass of whiskey. When the barkeep slid a nearly full bottle his way, his mood took a turn for the better.

Libations and glass in hand, he made his way to an empty table, tossing his recently bought parcel into an empty
chair before seating himself. Then, with a sense of manly self-indulgence, he poured himself a healthy measure of the best curative known under the heavens.

“Mind if I join you?”

Ben glanced up. For several seconds, he eyed the buckskin-clad Indian before kicking an empty chair out from under the table. “Nah, I don’t mind. Have a seat.”

“Couldn’t help noticing them Yankee trousers
that you’re wearing,” the amiable half-breed remarked, quick to refuse a drink when offered one. “Although we fought the good fight, you boys in blue fought better, it pains me to say.”

The remark didn’t come as much of a surprise to Ben. While the Oklahoma territories were populated by resettled
eastern Indians, their loyalties had been fiercely southern.

“By any chance did you fight with Wade Stadie’s Cherokees?” Ben asked, having heard that they were the last group of Confederates to formally surrender.

“On and off. Mostly off,” the other man snorted good-naturedly as he pulled two cigars out of his pocket. “There was a lot more money to be made running cattle up the Missouri River than collecting a soldier’s pay.”

‘Running cattle?’

Ben’s ears instantly perked.

“By the way, the name’s Jesse Chisholm.”

“Ben Strong. And thanks, don’t mind if I do,” Ben replied when offered a fragrant, hand-wrapped cigar. Spitting the tip onto the sawdust-covered floor, he reached into his vest pocket and fished out a match, scraping it under the table to light his new acquaintance’s cigar before firing up his own.

Taking a leisurely moment, both men puffed their respective cigars to life before resuming the conversation.

“I aim to get into the cattle business myself,” Ben remarked. Lifting his glass, he tipped back a swallow of whiskey, not realizing until that moment how much he’d missed the strictly male diversions of drinking and smoking.

“Yeah? Whereabouts?”

“Uvalde, Texas.”

The other man winced, an uneasy look on his face. “Be forewarned, friend
. You’ve got a rough ride ahead of you. The Comanche don’t take kindly to white settlers crossing their hunting grounds. You best make sure that you’re well-armed and you sleep with one eye open.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Ben said with a nod
.

“Of course, once you
get to Uvalde, there’s money to be made if you’re willing to run your cattle north to Kansas.”

Ben nearly choked on his own cigar smoke
. Kansas!
Hell, that’s where I just came from.

“That’s
a long haul to sell a few cows,” Ben muttered.

“Maybe so
. But if you can get your stock to a railroad, it’ll mean the difference between selling ‘em at $4.00 a head and reaping $40.00 a head for ‘em. Well worth the drive, if you ask me.”

Forty dollars a head
.
Ben had always heard that cattle ranching was a lucrative business; he just hadn’t realized how lucrative.

Of course, he wasn’t going to make a red cent unless he could get his hands on some venture capital. He needed a lot more
cash than what he currently had; and selling Lydia’s ruby earbobs wasn’t going to make up the difference.

“Can I interest you in a friendly game of poker?”
Jesse motioned to one of the gaming tables in the back corner.

Ben shook his head. While it was one way to earn money, he knew from experience that gambling was an uncertain income, at best. Many an hour, and many more a dollar, had he wiled away during his f
our years of military service.

“Well, then, good luck to you,” Jesse said, extending a hand in
Ben’s direction.

“Thanks. I’m going need it.”

The other man’s mouth quirked upward. “I don’t know about that. Looks to me like there’s an armful of luck heading your way.”

Ben turned his head, his eyes speculatively narrowing as he watched a blond-headed sporting lady sashay toward the table. From the come
-hither look stamped on her painted face, he figured that she was looking to ply her trade. And damn if he wasn’t of a mind to get himself some. Since tying the knot, he’d spent most of his waking hours in a state of frustrated arousal.

A roll between the sheets with a bawdy woman
might just help to take the edge off.

“Hey there, Jess. Haven’t seen you in a good long while,” the whore crooned, the tip of her tongue stealing across her lips as she boldly looked the half-breed up and down. “You gonna introduce me to your friend?”

A knowing grin spread across Jesse Chisholm’s face. “Ruby, you go easy on Ben now, you hear,” he said by way of introduction before making his way to the poker table.

Fixing her gaze on Ben’s crotch, Ruby seductively batted her eyes as she fingered a long, blo
nd curl. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Be my guest,” Ben invited with a broad smile, his luck
improving when she situated herself on his lap rather than an empty chair.

Pretending to arrange the flounces on her abbreviated dress, Ruby laughingly wiggled her wide-hipped bottom against his groin.

Holy hell, but that sure felt good
.

Al
though he’d been out cold for two days, Ben was pleased to discover that his vital organs were still in working order.

Dispensing with the small talk, Ben nuzzled his nose
in the trollop’s powdered cleavage, wondering why it was that whores always went so heavy-handed with the cheap perfume. Unwillingly, it made him think about Lydia, and how the enticing scent of lemon verbena and lilac water always seemed to cling to her.
Now, there was one sweet smelling woman.

As she
ran her beringed fingers through his hair, Ruby’s tongue teasingly darted in and out of Ben’s ear. “It doesn’t suit every man, but you look real handsome with all that gray hair.”

Hearing that,
Ben instantly froze, his heart slamming against his chest.

Christ
. That was the same thing Lydia said to him the last morning they’d shared a campfire.

However
hearing those words uttered by a whore was a far cry from hearing them spoken by his wife, Lydia’s compliment having filled him with a burst of manly pride.

As
his mind swarmed with recollections from his and Lydia’s last campfire together, the breath left Ben’s body in a long, defeated sigh. A few seconds later, his arms fell away from Ruby’s backside. When she squirmed against his erection, he unceremoniously shoved her off of his lap. Then, reaching for his glass, Ben downed the contents in one long swallow, the liquor hitting his gut in a fiery blast.

“What’s the matter, handsome? Why so glum all of a sudden?” When he didn’t answer,
Ruby ran her fingers along his recently shaved jaw. “How about we go upstairs and you let me brighten your spirits? Hmm?”

“I’m not interested.”
Ben reached for the whiskey bottle, splashing another drink into his glass.

“The heck you’re not.”
The trollop brazenly pressed her hand against the unruly bulge in his trousers.

A little too roughly, Ben
manacled a hand around her wrist. “I said, I’m not interested,” he hissed before releasing his hold on her. Reaching into his coat pocket he came up with four bits, tossing the coins onto the table to pay for his two drinks.

Grabbing his paper-wrapped parcel,
Ben rose to his feet. He then snatched the whiskey bottle in his free hand. “How much for the bottle?” he asked the barkeep.

“Two dollars.”

Ben removed a gold quarter eagle from his pocket and dropped it beside his empty glass before taking his leave.