Chapter 9

Originally, Millie intended to spend perhaps half an hour teaching Boots how to dance. What actually happened was much more complicated than that. Boots demonstrated what she knew of dancing, which consisted more of stomping and clapping and singing at the top of her lungs. Millie joined in and the natural production of endorphins began. Within a few minutes of starting, both women were laughing and panting. Boots, being energetic by nature, enjoyed the rhythms of dance though, as Millie moved into the waltz, she had to remind her partner several times to let the "man" lead as they switched roles. Music seemed to well up magically from Millie's mind, and she both sang and hummed tunes they danced to. At one point Boots said "I know one! I know one!" and belted out a bawdy, but lively tune that was easy to whirl to.

What neither woman was prepared for (or recognized on a conscious level) was that the hormones flowing through their bodies, combined with the close physical togetherness they experienced was almost as exciting as if it had been with a man. Both women were sensual, though neither would have thought about it that way.

And so, when both stood, sweating, and it was time to try on Boots' dress, when Millie suggested it was time for another bath, neither woman understood what they were feeling ... about themselves ... and each other.

And when the tub had been filled, and the women dropped their clothes, both were still on an emotional high as they shared the kind of friendship that is both rare and intense. Millie's emotions were tweaked even more as Boots' scars came into view again. She reached to touch one of them.

"I can't imagine what you went through," she moaned.

The care in her voice was both obvious and genuine, which ratcheted Boots' emotions up too. She had never had a friend like this ... someone who cared so much about her. She was struck by the fact that her body could be touched in a way that didn't hurt ... didn't bring shame ... didn't make her want to scream.

"That's gone now," she said, as she shivered.

It was Millie's sudden impulse to stroke those scars that led her to soaping Boots' back. And her hands sliding across that skin, which had felt only pain and agony from the other hands that had touched her there, were what released the emotion based on terror and fear, that Boots had buried inside herself for years. She burst into tears, feeling embarrassed, ashamed, and completely vulnerable for the first time since she had killed her tormentor.

Neither woman was prepared for it. Millie's natural instinct to comfort her friend caused her to embrace Boots. Slippery, soft, female bodies rubbed together as they tried to find a way, in the tub, to be comfortable. They ended up front to front, on their sides with knees bent and sandwiched together, Boots sobbing into Millie's neck as the teacher stroked her friend and murmured "Everything will be all right."

Women have an instinct that tells them a kiss is healing. So Millie's instinct to kiss Boots' shoulder and neck wasn't born of anything sexual. It was just her way of showing she loved her and wanted her to feel better. What she couldn't have known was that Boots had only felt one set of lips on her body, a hated set of lips, that brought only revulsion. And to have these softer lips touch her, in a way that was so obviously loving, opened up something in Boots that was so powerful that it buried all of the rough exterior Boots had so carefully cultivated over the years.

Suddenly the two women were kissing each other, their lips hungry, yet soft. It was completely outside either one's range of experience, and so foreign it couldn't seem wrong, or perverted. Had they had time to think about it before it happened, neither would have engaged in that kiss. But it took them like an ocean wave takes an unwary wader on the beach. By the time either of them had time to reflect on what was happening, it had resoved into being simply their way of loving each other unconditionally, in that moment.

And while some part of each woman's mind was tickled by doubt, both women's minds came down on the side of just accepting the kiss as something precious that had just been shared.

Eventually they calmed, and simply held each other. Passion began to wane, and thoughtfulness replaced it. It was Boots who approached things openly first.

"I know I ain't s'posed to feel this way, but I ain't sorry for a single minute of tonight. I feel like something that was broke inside me got put back together somehow."

Millie bestowed a very brief kiss on Boots' cheek. "I'm glad."

"I ain't never heared of two girls kissin' like that," said Boots.

"Me either," said Millie.

"Are you sad about that?"

"Sad that it happened? No," said Millie. "I don't understand it, but you're my friend, and how you feel matters to me. You've been through hell, Boots, and if I can help you through that in any way, then it's a good thing."

"You've taught me a lot," said Boots. "About bein' a lady and all. An' I know I'll prob'ly never use any of it, but I appreciate you givin' a damn."

"You're welcome," said Millie.

Fifteen minutes later Millie watched as Boots turned in a slow circle, displaying the fit of the first new dress she'd ever owned in her life.

Beaverton was located three miles from the North Platte River. It hadn't always been that far away, however. In fact, there was a time when the river flowed right by the spot where the town took shape. That people stopped there was an accident caused by a trapper who had cached his hides in a copse of trees along the river. He happened to be adding to the cache when a wagon train approached.

The trapper provided news and one family in the train decided that hauling the trapper's furs back to St. Joseph was a better bet than going forward into the unknown. But the wagon had to be unloaded in order to haul the furs, so a sod house was built for the family to live in while the man of the house went back east with the hides. It worked well for everyone, and Beaver Town was born.

Over the years other trappers found out about the transit site, and began bringing their furs there. The original fur trader had more work than he could handle, so another family was brought in. Soon two other families whose wagons broke down on the Oregon Trail joined the group and began to farm there on the prairie.

Heavy rains changed the course of the river by three miles in one week. That didn't really affect the fur trade, though it made getting water a lot more difficult. But the little town persisted, and soon a well was dug. Over the years the town's name morphed into a one word representation of its original identity.

None of the original inhabitants were still around, and the fur trade had eventually gone another route. Nobody alive had seen an actual beaver in Beaverton, though they could still find them in the North Platte. But all that didn't matter. Founder's Day wasn't really about the actual history of the town, though it was brought up and talked about each year. What Founder's Day was, was a reason to have a party, and there were far too few reasons for that around.

So everybody within fifty miles got excited about Founder's Day in Beaverton. There was a huge cookout all day Saturday. Each family brought what they could offer to load down the temporary tables made of saw horses bridged by planks. Children had pretty much free rein to run and play wherever they liked. Those in their teens sought to find out about those things all teenagers were curious about - the opposite sex. Business was done, though that was usually dealt with quickly and efficiently, so that people could take their ease and spend the day being lazy. That was the real value of Founder's Day - the relaxation from the normal grind of day to day survival.

And then there was the Founder's Day dance that Saturday night. No one ever knew what the "orchestra" would consist of from year to year, though there were a few stalwart musicians who could be depended upon to be there without fail. And the variety of instruments was always a source of extreme interest. Everything from spoons, to jugs, to the washboard, to Indian drums was brought and added to the mix. Just about anything would be pressed into service if it could make a tuneful noise, or sound out a rhythm. There were always some guitars and fiddles. Once in a while a bugle would appear, and Indian flutes were common. One year the accordian of a man heading west on the stage, had been a big hit.

It was also the only time of the year when decent women voluntarily entered the Silver Dollar Saloon. That's because it was the only building in town with a dance floor big enough to handle all the merrymakers. To that end, all the card tables were removed and the floor scrubbed. It also allowed for the piano to be added to the mix of less lofty instruments.

And, of course, the men didn't mind that the bar was open too.

In an odd kind of sisterhood, for that one night, Minerva Skelton and her ladies of the evening were on even terms with other women in the community. Minerva laid in a supply of locally made wines for the female revelers. There was apple, plum and elderberry wine. She even had a couple of bottles of champagne available if any big spenders wanted to go that route. The point was that the bar served something for everyone, and for that one night, it wasn't a saloon.

So there were some hundred and twenty people there when Bob ushered Millie and Boots in through the batwing doors. Boots was extremely nervous, in no small part because dressed as she was, there was no place to strap on her six gun. She felt naked without it, but both Bob and Millie had assured her there would be no call to use the gun anyway.

Both women were nervous. Millie was nervous because she was anxious to be in Bob's arms, and that worried her a little. She'd only been in town a little more than a month, and by some standard she wasn't aware of, but which permeated her psyche, she hadn't known the man long enough for it to be appropriate to be this interested in him. But she couldn't change how she felt. She thought much too frequently about what it might be like to be kissed by him.

Boots was as close to terrified as she was likely to ever admit being. To the average observer, she looked like any other attractive sixteen or seventeen year old girl in a frontier town. She was slim and healthy looking. Her dress was pale blue, with white lace trim around the neck and sleeves. When she had first shyly appeared in front of Millie, she'd been wearing the boots she'd taken from the man she'd killed. Mille gently talked her into wearing moccasins. Her hair shone, clean and bright. Without the hat to hold it down, the hair, in what would someday come to be called a Dutch boy style, flipped and fluttered with every movement of her head.

And her head moved constantly, swiveling on her neck to find that first person who pointed at her and laughed derisively.

Except that no one did.

She saw a number of people looking at her with plain interest or curiosity on their faces. They were people she knew, for the most part. But Boots generally had as little to do with folks as possible, speaking to them only when it was necessary, and staying around them only as long as whatever their business together required. She could not know that her appearance had been so changed by Millie that, for the first four or five minutes after her grand entrance, no one in the room, except Bob and Millie, knew who she was.

In fact, it was Frank Wilkinson, who owned the Bar-R ranch, about thirty miles southeast of town, who approached the trio first. He knew Bob, because Bob always stopped at the ranch on his circuit. He touched the brim of his ten gallon hat, looking at Millie.

"Ma'am," he said. "You must be the new schoolmarm I've heard so much about."

Millie smiled.

The rancher held out his hand to Bob and they shook perfunctorily. Then he turned to Boots.

"And who might this pretty little filly be?" he asked. "I don't reckon I've ever seen you around these parts."

Boots tensed and Bob put an arm around her, grasping her arm, which he suspected was moving backward in preparation for her punching the man.

"Frank lost his wife to a band of renegade Omaha Indians a few years back," he said. He intended to go on and suggest that the man was lonely, but Boots interrupted him.

"I know. I helped track them for him."

Frank blinked, and then bent forward to peer at the young woman.

"Boots?" he whispered, unbelieving.

"How the hell ya doin', Frank?" she asked, grinning.