Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (6 page)

“Now don’t you think it’s about time that you called me ‘Ben’? Mister Strong is
awfully formal.”

A
bewildered expression stole its way onto Dixie’s face. “But Mama calls you Mister Strong.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask her about that
,” Ben muttered, rubbing at his shoulder as he stared at the fire.

Ill-at-ease with the unforeseen twist in
the conversation, Lydia primly folded her hands together. “I call you ‘Mister Strong’ because it is proper to do so. If you must know, my mother never referred to my father by his Christian name.”

Ben lifted his gaze from the fire, one dark eyebrow raised in disbelief. “
Never
?”

“Well, perhaps she used his first name when they were . . . when they were alone together.”

“Alone together at night, you mean?”

On the verge of chastising Ben for
his unseemly intimations, Lydia instead walked over to where he sat and lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Did you injure yourself?” she inquired, having noticed the way in which he repeatedly rubbed at the ball of his shoulder.

Ben sheepishly glanced at her.
“I’m not injured. I’m just suffering from a case of old soldier’s disease.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what we always called it the army. My right shoulder gets a little stiff from time to time, that’s all.”

“But only your right
—” Lydia stopped, suddenly recalling how, earlier in the day, his powerful rifle had jerked against his right shoulder each time he pulled the trigger. “Ah, yes. The recoil from the rifle. And, undoubtedly, four years of sleeping outdoors has only compounded the problem. Is there anything that you can take to dull the pain?”

“I’ll be fine,”
Ben said gruffly, returning his attention to the fire.

“Very well, then. Suit yourself.” Lydia reached for the lantern, using it to motion Dixie toward the wagon. If the man wished to suffer in stoic silence, that was his prerogative. He was, after all, a grown adult of nearly two score
years.

Assisting Dixie into the back of the wagon,
Lydia was acutely aware of the fact that in a very short while she and Ben would be retiring for the evening. A thought that caused her heart to nervously flutter.

With more calm than she actually felt, Lydia hung the lantern from a hook imbedded in one of the wooden bows
that arched over top of the wagon bed. Nearly ten feet in length and four feet in width, their ‘home on wheels’ was commodious enough for her to stand upright without impediment. Loaded with trunks, boxes and barrels, it was properly outfitted with all of the accouterments they would need to begin their new life in Kansas. Including the large goose-down mattress upon which she and Ben would sleep.

Lydia
stared apprehensively at the quilt covered mattress. Wedged into the front of the wagon bed, it was rimmed with several oversized barrels to insure their privacy, Dixie’s pallet situated at the opposite end of the wagon. Although, given the fact that Dixie would be only a few feet away, she didn’t see how Ben could take too many liberties with her.

Oh, she supposed
that he’d try to kiss her. He might even touch her breasts or—

Unnerved by the wayward direction of her thoughts, Lydia finger
-brushed a tendril of loose hair behind her ear. While she didn’t necessarily relish the thought of Ben intimately touching her, he was her husband; and that gave him the right to touch her if he so desired. No doubt, he would be inclined to do just that.

Kneeling beside Dixie’s bed pallet,
Lydia helped her daughter recite her evening prayers. After tucking a summer quilt securely around her small body, she rose to her feet. She then stepped over to a trunk and rummaged through it before she rejoined her husband at the campfire.

Ben warily
eyed his new spouse as she climbed out of the wagon, her funerary attire making her skin appear as white as newly fallen snow.

Sweet Jesus.
After only one full day of marriage, he was ready to call it quits. Problem was, it was too late to harbor such regrets. The deed was done.

Approaching the fire, Lydia carefully maneuvered her billowing black skirts away from the crackling flames.

Still seated in a camp chair, Ben stared at her, baffled as to why the Good Lord had seen fit to pour so much ladylike frigidity into such a sinfully voluptuous body. The irreverent thought made him think that even the Great Almighty had an off-kilter day every now and again.

Pulling his thoughts back to the here and now
, Ben decided to get right to it. Apologies didn’t come easily to him, and this one was several hours overdue.

“I want you to know, Lydia, that I
made a wrong decision earlier today. When we were waylaid by those bandits, I had no business taking such a risk with your lives. If I’d been alone, it would’ve been one thing. But I had the two of you with me and, well . . . I just wanted to apologize.”

“And are you always so reckless with your own life?”

About to tell his new wife that a man first had to give a damn about his life before he put any thought into saving it, Ben thought better of it. Like the proverbial cat, he’d been endowed with nine lives, time and again cheating the grim reaper of his due. Although sooner or later his luck would run out. It was bound to happen.

“Let’s just say that I’m not a
s overprotective as some folks,” he hedged.

S
everal moments slipped past before Lydia deigned to speak. “Mister Strong, would you kindly remove your shirt?”

At hearing Lydia’s politely-worded request,
Ben straightened in his chair. Truth be told,
that
was the last thing he ever expected to hear from the Widow McCabe’s temptingly lush mouth. Maybe he had her pegged all wrong.

Lord,
I hope so
.

“Just what did you have in mind,
Mrs
. Strong?” Knowing what he had in mind, Ben’s cock instantly snapped to attention.

Lydia’s
eyes opened wide, clearly startled by the question. “I would think that’s obvious.”

It was all Ben could do not to lick h
is lips in anticipation. “Anything else you’d like me to remove? Boots? Trousers?”

“Your shirt will suffice, sir.
I have some ointment for your sore shoulder.”

Ointment!?

“My shoulder doesn’t need any ointment,” Ben snarled, his passions having been effectively doused.

“I beg to differ with you, sir.
”

“Oh, you would, would you?”

Ignoring his angry retort, Lydia calmly clasped her hands together, her back ramrod straight. Even though they’d only been married a day, it was a pose that Ben was fast learning to hate.

“I happen to know that you’re suffering from an aggravated case of rheumatism. I know this because my maternal grandfather, Milford Rutledge, was a chronic sufferer and he always
—”

“Your grandfather!”
Ben interjected.

“Yes, my grandfather.”

Whether she knew it or not, Lydia had just successfully blown a very large hole in Ben’s manly pride. Despite the fact that he was only thirty-eight years of age, at that moment he felt more decrepit than he rightly should.
Hell, maybe I have passed my prime
.

S
till, did she have to compare me to her grandfather, of all people?

Ben f
olded his arms across his chest and stared moodily into the fire. “Just leave me be, all right.”

“Why? So that you can suffer in stoic silence?” Lydia dismissively
clucked her tongue. “That may have been laudable behavior in the Federal army, but given the present circumstance, it amounts to little more than foolish pride. Particularly since I have a remedy that will ease your suffering.”

Too tired to argue, Ben pushed himself out of his chair
and yanked his shirt tails free of his trousers. He figured the sooner that he got it over with, the sooner he could get his harridan of a wife out of his hair. Not wanting to give Lydia a chance to harp further, he removed his woolen undershirt, as well.

“There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
Lydia remarked breezily as she uncorked a glass bottle, the contents of which had a distinctly medicinal smell. “Now, if you would be so kind as to reseat yourself, my task will be made easier.”

“Whatever you
want, Mrs. Strong.” Ben eased himself into the rickety camp chair, hooking his garments over his knee.

With an air of cool detachment, Lydia poured a dob of the noxious-smelling ointment into the palm of her hand.
Wearing a steadfast expression, she began to rub it into his right shoulder.

To Ben’s surprise, the ‘remedy’ packed one helluva wallop, his shoulder burning with the aftershock.

“What’s in that stuff, anyway?”

“Cayenne pepper,”
Lydia matter-of-factly replied as she continued with her ministrations, her hands moving in slow, smooth circles.

“I just hope the cure doesn’t prove worse than the disease.”

At hearing that, Lydia’s mouth curved upward; a comely smile in the making. “That’s what Grandfather Rutledge used to say. In fact, he always referred to his rheumatism as having ‘twinges in his hinges.’”

Laughing softly, Lydia seemed unaware that her breasts gently bounced beneath her bodice with each breath.
Of course, with her standing directly over top of him, Ben was acutely aware of her bouncing bosom.

Wonder if he should
mention to his wife that his lower hinge was working just fine. Too fine given the noticeable bulge in his trousers.
Hell fire and damnation.
He looked like he’d just stuffed an artillery shell down the front of his pants.

Suddenly self-conscious
, Ben pulled his discarded shirt over his lap.

“I realize
that this is somewhat late in coming, Mister Strong, but I would like to apologize for my behavior last evening.”

Ben straightened in his chair, Lydia’s unexpected apology catching him off guard.

“And what part of the evening are you sorry about, Mrs. Strong? The part where you wouldn’t favor me with even a kiss? Or the part where you were clutching your dead husband’s ring like it was a medium’s link to the afterlife?”

“I . . . I am sorry about the ring, naturally. And lest you forget, I did permit you to kiss me.”

“An honor for which I am ever so grateful,” Ben said mockingly. “Particularly since I’m your legally wed husband.”

“There is no call for sarcasm. I know full well that we are legally wed.”

At hearing Lydia’s starched reply, Ben clamped his mouth shut.
What was the point of arguing?
Clearly, the two of them weren’t going to see eye-to-eye any time soon.

Several moments passed in silence, Lydia continuing to rub his shoulder. Despite his anger, the slow, steady movement of her hand caused
Ben to have one lewd thought right after the other. Much to his growing discomfort.

“Sir, you have yet to say whether you accept my apology.
I am very keen to make amends for our wedding night.”

Lord, but the woman ha
s some gall.

Though
he was mighty tempted to bed Queen Lydia, Ben wasn’t the least bit inclined to make love to a woman who’d spend the entire time pretending that he was another man. Not to mention, Lydia considered the marriage act a duty to be discharged with an air of ladylike submission, as though she was a nightgown-clad sacrificial lamb.

Well, guess what, Mrs. Strong? Your
new husband isn’t interested in sharing his bed with a martyr.

And if he hadn’t been so randy
on their wedding night, he would’ve realized that sooner. Hell, if he’d been thinking with his head all along, instead of his pecker, he’d have never married her in the first place.

“I am waiting for an answer, Mister Strong.”

“All right, goddammit. I accept your apology.”

“Really, sir!
Your language leaves something to be desired,” Lydia chastised. Finished rubbing the ointment onto his shoulder, she reached for his shirt, pulling it off his lap with a slight tug. “I noticed earlier that you are missing a button. I shall sew—” Lydia stopped in mid-sentence, having evidently just seen what it was that the shirt had been hiding.

Christ. Y
ou’d think this was the first time that she’d ever set eyes on a sexually aroused male.

“Don’t start with me, Lydia. Since your first husband got you with child, I know it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Ben said, first annoyed, then surprised when she continued to stare at his swollen groin.

“Yes, but you . . . it. . . .”

“Just ignore
it
. That’s what I’m trying to do.”