Linda Broday - Give Me A Texan

Hank smiled, remembering how he’d worked all day on it and Aggie had been so busy she’d never asked what he was making. “It’s for my wife. The one on the porch is too big for her.”

The sheriff looked at Aggie. “You’ll like that, Mrs. Harris.”

“I’ll need it,” she said calmly. “I’m going to have a baby.”

For a moment Hank thought he’d be embarrassed, but suddenly he couldn’t stop smiling. He shook the sheriff’s hand and limped to the door to say good-bye.

Aggie moved beneath his arm to steady him while they waved the lawman away.

When they were alone once more, Hank whispered, “I think I’m falling in love with my partner.”

“I’m afraid I am too.” She smiled up at him.

“But, Aggie, you’re not pregnant.”

She frowned. “We’d better work on that, dear, before the sheriff finds out I lied.”

Hank looked up at the bright morning sun. “Lucky for us it’s almost sundown.”

They turned toward the house and stepped inside. For the first time since he’d built the place, Hank locked the door and they made love beneath each season of quilts.

To

Debbie Hunt:

Lover of literature,

friend, and slot-machine enthusiast extraordinaire.

You fixed me when I was broken.

Thank you.

February 19, 1916

Wind rattled the pane, warning that winter might stage a final battle before giving in to spring. Briar Duncan stared out the window at the variety of humanity that had arrived in Amarillo daily since the new year. Strangers strode along the depot’s platform, tipping their straw boaters and Stetsons to the ladies disembarking. Lingering wisps of frontier gun-smoke made Amarillo a meeting place for past and present these days. The city sprawling golden across the Texas Panhandle had suddenly become host to an influx of men posed to fight-a back-porch base to El Paso where other fortune hunters, adventurers, and doughboys positioned themselves for Pancho Villa’s next move.

Seeing no sign of his coworker among the new arrivals, Briar decided Nathaniel must have chosen to stay in St. Louis longer than expected. If he didn’t get back soon, the telegrapher would miss his opportunity to be part of the excitement. William Randolph Hearst had used every telegraph and teletype machine west of the Mississippi to keep him informed of the security of his cattle herds and silver mines. Briar had been so busy with taking care of Nathaniel’s job that he’d had little time to do his own as station master. That left even less time to waylay his daughter’s latest shenanigans.

“If you don’t hurry home,” Briar admonished the train as if it were his longtime friend, Nathaniel, “Violet will outgrow those dresses you’re bringing back.”

Thoughts of his seven-year-old daughter’s latest growing spurt made Briar focus his attention on the hobbled skirts and new ankle-length war crinoline worn by some of the women. Wind whipped at the crinoline, making the fuller skirts billow. Parasols dipped to block dust and soot from blasting the feminine faces.

A dull throb started a rhythmic beat across Briar’s brow and threatened to become a full-throttled brain buster. Blazes. Choosing clothes for Violet was worse than shoveling coal to feed the firebox. He had as much fashion sense as a cow had wool. Still, it was his duty to see that his daughter was accepted into genteel society one day. If that meant reading ladies’s catalogues and taking heed of the latest feminine finery, then he’d do so until he could tell bustle from bonnet.

Briar watched as a tall, slender figure suddenly stepped off the train, set down a valise, and faced the wind. “Well, who the high plains are you?” he asked aloud. The stranger wore a lampshade tunic with baggy trousers gathered at the ankle and a matching yellow turban that offered an exotic halo to a mixture of doe-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. A woman?

She bent to retrieve something laying on the platform, studied it, and turned the item over in her hands. With a quick flick of the wrist, she deposited the article in a pocket.

It was then he noticed her watching him. His first impulse was to back away from the window and pretend that he hadn’t been staring at her. Instead, something made Briar stand his ground. Meet her gaze.

He longed for something different in his life lately, something other than his repetition of duties and responsibilities. He loved Violet and didn’t resent a moment of his time with her. She was all he had left. But when the world seemed active and he felt trapped in monotonous duties, he longed for a change…for anything that would bring some sort of adventure to his days. Something in the gaze that stared back at him now whispered that this strange-looking woman might have brought it with her. A muscle in his jaw tightened as his spirits threatened to dampen. He knew with certainty that it would bother him if she looked away as if he’d been mistaken in her interest.

When she smiled and retrieved the treasure, holding it out toward him in silent question, blood surged hot within him. “No.” He shook his head as if she could hear him from the distance that separated them. “Not mine.”

She shrugged and put it away, grabbing her valise while letting her gaze linger on him once again. Just as suddenly as she had exited the train, she turned and joined the stream of passengers heading toward town. He watched until the yellow of her clothing blended with the myriad of newcomers rushing to find transportation to their next destinations. The other women and their fashions now suddenly seemed plain or even frivolous.

“No wonder you didn’t want to wear the blamed thing this morning,” he mumbled as he eyed the crowd for sight of his daughter among the stifling skirts that made the wearers’s steps more difficult. The little minx had argued that no “suffer-gette” would let herself be hobbled like a horse. When he asked where she had heard such nonsense, she told him that one of the doughboys who’d gotten off the train told another soldier that a “suffer-gette” was a woman who had a mind of her own and the gumption to walk in a man’s shoes.

As odd as the woman in the turban had looked in her harem pants, he’d bet she had no problem moving in any manner she chose. Was she a suffragette? The idea of getting to know her well enough to discover her capabilities appealed to Briar just long enough to quickly dash it from his thoughts.

If Violet caught sight of the stranger, he’d never hear the end of letting her wear pants!

Tumbleweeds, buggies, and touring cars fought for supremacy over the roadway that transferred visitors from the train station to places of lodging elsewhere in the city. It was almost impossible to get a hotel or boarding room lately. Doughboys heading south to El Paso were even pitching their Sibley tents if lodging proved unavailable.

Sand flicked the thick glass, sounding like angry insects committing suicide against the depot. The sun would be setting in a couple of hours and he hadn’t seen Violet since she had gone off to fly her kite. Frowning, Briar reprimanded himself for allowing the strangely dressed woman to distract him. His gaze wandered to a group of boys wrestling farther down the platform. The militant atmosphere that pervaded Amarillo the past few weeks had roused most of the citizens in some form or fashion. He’d bet today’s wages his daughter would be somewhere nearby. She tended to herd with the steeds and leave the mares to their grazing. If only Katie Rose were here. She’d know how to work through this little revolution Violet seemed so insistent upon.

“I’ll black your eye and knock you two days into next Tuesday,” a tiny, familiar voice shrilled sharply through Briar’s thoughts.

Behind him Briar heard a tick-tick-tickety-tick begin in earnest, signaling an incoming message. Yet, he was forced to ignore it. “Stop that,” he demanded, throwing open the door to the telegraph office and rushing down the platform to stop the group of boys. A tangle of hobbled skirt flipped end over end with a melee of trousers. Heads turned as others noticed the fight and stopped to see what had caused the ruckus.

Exasperation filled him. Wasn’t someone else going to do something about the situation instead of just standing there? Was everyone so ready to fight that they’d stand by and gawk as the children went at it? Well, the wire could just sing for the moment. Preserving his rowdy daughter’s dignity was of more importance.

“You boys stop fighting.” He peeled one lad off another. “Violet, get up from there before you lose a tooth or…Now look at you…you’re going to have a black eye.”

All the children stood as if someone had aimed a rifle at them; everyone but his daughter, who avoided a direct gaze at Briar. Black brows arched like check marks over eyes that had inspired her name. One gloved fist came to rest on her hip, the other shaking vehemently at the red-haired, freckled-face boy standing opposite her. Just wonderful, Briar thought. One of the Corbetts’ grandchildren. The newspaper moguls weren’t over Violet’s last jumble.

“He said you’re a desk dandy, Daddy, so I went and hit him.” The eye that was not swelling and showing signs of bruising narrowed. “I told him I would, but he said it again. You said we should give one warning, and I gave it. It’s his fault he got the licking, not mine.”

“Well, I’m gonna tell my daddy.” The boy started crying. “I didn’t tell no lie. You are a desk dandy.”

“Don’t tell your daddy, Jim,” one of the other boys advised. “He’ll take a switch to ya for letting a girl whip ya.”