Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (44 page)

      
Stella drew herself up even more ramrod straight and stuck out her pointed chin. “Any man who gambles and drinks spirits will fall under the spell of those Jezebels. My late husband fell into the clutches of a painted hussy.”

      
“Considerin' how yew treat th' men hereabouts, I reckon I kin see why he might jump headfirst inta her clutches,” Obedience shot back with an expressive gesture of her big ham like hands. Laughter bubbled up around the room, then subsided into nervous giggles.

      
Stella Wolcott's face suffused with wrath. “No decent man spends his money in saloons while his children go hungry.”

      
“Yew keep yammerin' ‘bout thet. Any woman worth her salt'd better settle with her man on whut's needed fer vitals ‘n sech afore he goes out fer a jug er a card game. All my husbands tuk care o' me ‘n our younguns jist fine. Now me ‘n Wash got us a good life. It's nobody's bizness whut we do with our money er whut we drink!” Obedience stood up as she finished her speech. It was obvious the zealot had ceased to amuse her.

      
Stella Wolcott was gauntly thin compared to Obedience's girth, but she matched the Tennessean's height. Brown and gray eyes glared levelly at each other.

      
“Not all women, Mrs. Oakley, have your formidable weight to throw behind the decision of how a family's money will be spent,” she spat with a vicious inspection of Obedience's hips.

      
“Yew ever hear of convincin' a man with a skillet twixt th' ears? Works wonders. Even a scrawny, dried-up old prune like yew cud handle it. ‘Specially if ‘n she's got brains 'nough ta wait till her man's asleep.” She paused for a beat as the laughter erupted in full force this time, then scratched her head speculatively. “‘Pears ta me it'd be even easier ta convince a feller if ‘n he wuz sleepin' with a leetle help from a jug. Might jist make this here scrap o' paper plumb unnecessary,” she said, yanking the sheet from Stella Wolcott's clenched fist and balling it up. Her shrewd brown eyes were benignly calm as she waited to see what Stella was going to do.

      
Melanie was torn, wanting to let out the laughter she had suppressed, yet feeling sorry for the hapless crusader who had picked on the wrong adversary. Having seen the Tennessean in action, she hoped Stella would curb any rash impulse toward physical violence. Obedience Oakley would shatter Stella Wolcott like a year-old buffalo chip!

      
The temperance lady seemed to sense that, for she balled up her hands in fists held impotently at her sides and spat her parting sally, “You and your husband are bound straight for hell.”

      
“ ‘Long as yew'll be headin' th' other direction, suits me jist fine!”

* * * *

      
“First a riot in the Gilded Cage, then a riot in a Methodist Church!” Melanie shook her head in consternation as she sat beside Obedience's big oak desk in the boardinghouse library.

      
“Thet woman's plumb dangerous, that's all. Crazy, unnatural ideas. Good Lord give us spirits. Even th' Good Book says Noah got drunk. Wouldn't surprise me none if ‘n St. Peter ‘n a few others didn't tetch a drop now ‘n then, too.”

      
“When did you become such a biblical authority?” Melanie asked, a smile curving her lips in spite of her chagrin over the riotous outcome of the meeting.

      
“I read th' Good Book ‘n I go ta church—leastways when I kin heer me a good hellfire ‘n brimstone Baptist preacher. Thet Bixly feller's a mewler ‘n pewler.”

      
“But Mrs. Wolcott isn't, though, is she? Obedience, honestly, you baited her something awful,” Melanie scolded. “Why did you come to that meeting anyway?”

      
The big woman walked carefully over to the cabinet across the room. She opened it and removed two delicate glasses and a bottle of clear white liquid. “This here stuff is th' best me ‘n Wash ever tasted. Them fancy leetle glasses belonged ta my sister-in-law, God rest her soul. Mebbee they'll make it taste better ta yew.” She poured two shots, full to the brim, and handed one to Melanie.

      
“Obedience! I've taken the pledge. You know I'm temperance.”

      
“Harrumph! Temperance means moderate—not goin' ta extremes, don't it?”

      
“Well, literally, I suppose that's true,” Melanie said, equivocating as Obedience forced the crystal glass into her hand.

      
“Then one sip ain't gonna kill ya!”

      
They drank. Melanie was surprised at the silky smooth taste of the drink—indeed, it had virtually no taste at all, just a slight warmth as it coiled downward into her stomach. “This is nice, Obedience. It doesn't smell or taste like the vile stuff they drink in the saloons at all,” she said with a grin. “Now, tell me why you came to that meeting.”

      
Taking another drink and making sure Melanie followed suit, Obedience began, “Jest look at thet dried-up, hatchet-faced ole woman, Melanie. Drove her man away, lives alone, ‘n travels from town ta town, stirrin' up grief. Yew wanna end up like thet?” Obedience asked.

      
Melanie jumped up angrily. “That's monstrously unfair! I left Lee because he doesn't want me. I'm not like Stella Wolcott!”

      
“No, yew shore ain't. And I aim ta see yew don't end up like her neither! Set yerself down ‘n finish yore drink. I got me a piece ta speak ‘n I'm gonna speak it.” Slowly, like a wilting flower, Melanie sank back in the chair and allowed her friend and mentor to refill her glass.

Chapter Twenty Two

      
Lee and Jeremy met Jim Slade at Bluebonnet and shared their new information about Walkman and Greer. Charlee insisted Lee stay for supper, although Jeremy Lawrence begged off the invitation and departed after their strategy meeting with Jim. When the meal was over, Jim excused himself and took the children out for a late evening ride, leaving Charlee and Lee alone. Lee wanted to unburden himself about his separation from Melanie. He and Charlee talked for several hours. He explained the series of confrontations and fiascoes that had led to Melanie's flight from Night Flower.

      
“When she accused me of only wanting her back because I was afraid of her father, I left her in town,” he finished bitterly.

      
“You, of course, never thought of telling her you wanted her back because you love her,” Charlee said gently. Her bright green eyes met his startled black ones.

      
Lee swallowed convulsively. “I never told her that because I don't love her!”

      
Charlee leaned her chair back and studied the scowling, angry man across from her. “You don't love her—don't care for her the least little bit; but you can't keep your hands off her when she's around, can't stop thinking about her when she's not around, and break your neck riding to town after her when she leaves you. Just what would you call it?”

      
He put his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the kitchen table. “Damned if I know,” he muttered, then said in a hoarse, pained whisper, “Whatever I feel for her, she's made it clear what she feels for me. Every time I touch her she responds—loses herself just like I do. But as soon as it's over she freezes up, as if she hated herself for giving in—and hated me for seeing her weakness. She doesn't want to be my wife. Hell, she doesn't want to be a woman!”

      
“Partly you're right—she is afraid of being a woman and a wife.”

      
Lee flashed her a look of surprise and dismay, but said nothing.

      
“Didn't you ever think about why?”

      
“She'd rather be out marching with Stella Wolcott or risking her neck for a newspaper story than tending to a home and family,” he replied angrily.

      
“Her causes are symptoms of her problem, Lee, not solutions to it. She wants to uplift the downtrodden because she's identified with them all her life. For the first twelve years of her childhood, she was shuttled back and forth between St. Louis and New Orleans. Rafe wasn't around to be a real father to her, and his mistress certainly wasn't a fit mother. She's afraid to show you how much she cares because you, my proud, mule-headed
crìollo
, have made her feel pretty damned unworthy. Or do I miss my guess?”

      
At his dawning look of guilt, she went on, “Throwing her mixed blood and her crusading career at you is her way of protecting herself from more hurt and rejection.”

      
Lee's dark brows rose sardonically. “And you think she loves me?” The way he asked the question spoke volumes.

      
“Yes, I do,” Charlee replied simply.

      
As he rode into town late that evening, Lee mulled over what Charlee had said. He admitted to himself that he'd hidden his real feelings from Melanie. Perhaps, she had done the same. The only way to find out was to confront her. Since Jeremy Lawrence had told him about her latest dangerous escapade, Lee had a legitimate excuse to stop at the boardinghouse and talk with her.

      
When he reined in Sangre, it was quite late. The realization struck him that she might already be asleep. But if she were asleep and he awakened her, she just might be disoriented enough to tell him the truth. He headed for the side porch entry to the kitchen, thinking to slip up to her room undetected. Then, he saw the dim light from the study.

      
Peering through the lace-curtained window, he saw Obedience and Melanie seated on opposite sides of the desk. They were sipping something from fancy etched crystal glasses. Obedience poured another refill of clear liquid. No, it couldn't be! But it was. Wash's incredibly potent white lightning. How well he remembered his confessions when the Oakleys had plied him with the smooth brew last year. Grinning to himself, he walked to the side door and entered the long dark hall.

      
Hearing soft, murmuring voices emanating from the study, he opened the door and looked inside. Obedience sat behind the desk while Melanie leaned limply to one side in an overstuffed chair. His tiny wife looked like an arrestingly innocent waif swallowed up in the large cushions.

      
“Can an interloper join the party?” he asked with a smile, letting himself in.

      
Obedience's broad face split in a wide grin and she stood up, stretching her Amazonian frame and yawning. “Jist th' feller I wanted ta see. Me ‘n th' leetle gal here been drinkin'—temperately, now mind yew. But I'm plumb tuckered ‘n I'd admire if 'n yew'd see yore wife gits ta sleep all right.” With a wink, she scooted past him and out the door, moving with surprising speed and grace for one of such bulk.

      
Melanie sat with her head swimming, only half paying attention to Obedience's lecture about Lee, when the subject of their argument sauntered into the room as if conjured up.

      
“Obedience, did you plan thish—this?” Melanie tried to stand and reach out to her hastily departing drinking companion, but the big woman was too quick for her.

      
Lee towered over her, surveying her wrinkled blue linen suit and tousled hair. Self-consciously, she ran her fingers through the loose hair, remembering how she had taken it down because the pins had been uncomfortable. Melanie could feel Lee looking at her as he stood, hat pushed casually back on his head, fingers hooked arrogantly in his belt. She refused to meet his glowing eyes.

      
“Well, my little Night Flower, looks like you've been dipped in ninety-proof dew,” he whispered, sniffing from the delicate glass she had deposited on the table. “Your petals must be all curled up.”

      
She stood in affronted dignity. “I am not crilled—curled up,” she said carefully, angry because her mouth refused to obey her brain.

      
“Your tongue sure seems to be,” he said with a small laugh, reaching to steady her as she teetered precariously to the right.

      
“Don't touch me, Lee,” she said in a small, plaintive voice.

      
He held on to her despite her plea, for the first time not angered by her apparent rejection. “Why not, Night Flower? Don't you like it when I touch you?” he whispered.

      
“No—yes—I don't know. I do at first, but afterward it's always the same. You never—” She was babbling!

      
When he saw that she had forced herself to stop talking, he drew her closer into his arms and began to rain soft, light kisses across her forehead, temples, eyelids, and cheeks, nuzzling her neck and then gently tipping her chin up so she faced him with lips breathlessly parted. He could feel her body melting into his, her arms stealing around his waist, her mouth expectantly waiting for his kiss.

      
“Open those golden eyes, my beautiful little Night Flower. Look at me.” He held her chin, willing her to comply. When the thick dark lashes fluttered unwillingly open, what he saw in her eyes took his breath away. And he knew the same emotion was mirrored in his own.

      
Very slowly he lowered his mouth to hers, experimenting, savoring. She tasted sweet and he recognized the faint hot glow of the moonshine. It warmed his tongue as he twined it with hers in a delicate dance of desire.

      
“Mellie, oh Mellie, what fools we've both been,” he murmured against her silky hair. She pressed against him like a small soft kitten, purring deeply in her throat, the liquor loosening all her inhibitions. Lee reached down and scooped her up into his arms. “I think it's time Mrs. Velasquez went to bed.” Obediently, she slid her arms around his neck as he carried her from the office and up the long stairs at the end of the hall.