Gooseberry Jam
China, Dixie wrote Brisco, was beautiful in May. The royal family had been exceptionally kind to her, and she was living for a spell in the women's apartments within their palace.
His notes were brief, and they came to her from all over the southwest - Laredo one month, the next Las Cruxes. They were distillations of his personality, scribbled hastily on scraps of paper he'd succeeded in borrowing or buying (one particular piece, edged in gold and engraved with the legend From the Desk of Lord Bowler, caused her heart to leap into her throat before she recognized Brisco's familiar scrawl). By the end of her stay she had to admit her frustration with them - it was like sipping from a brook when you really wanted to drink down the entire ocean. She'd got in her share of social exploration - had even, in a crowning moment of glory, been allowed to perform for the royal court - but it felt oddly hollow without Brisco being there to glory in it with her.
There had been other men in her life - she was in fact currently charming a local expat, the Duke D'Ambourd - but none of them made her feel the way Brisco did. The larger-than usual amount of distance between them forced Dixie to come to terms with the fact that she really did miss him when they weren't together.
Because of that, when she eventually arrived home past midnight in October on a steamer ship overloaded with fashionable tourists, Dixie felt a shade discombobulated. Nevertheless she put on her game face when she emerged on deck dressed to kill - elegant petticoats and a wrap, all in green - in the unseasonably cold California evening.
It shouldn't have surprised her that he waited at the dock with Comet and her mare hitched at the ready. Dixie spotted him immediately and automatically smiled - not the coquettish smile she often uses when they're in the same room together, but one of genuine welcome.
His arms were around her, and when Brisco bent to kiss Dixie's lips she rose up on her toes to meet him halfway. After the embrace, she squeezed him about the neck, her fingers slipping habitually beneath his kerchief. "You look good," she informed him. He always looked good to her, even with a full day's growth of beard and covered in trail dust, never mind freshly shaved and bathed as he was now.
Brisco's eyes devoured her, and from the way his body reacted to hers she could tell she'd been missed. "You look terrific too, Dix. Ready to ride out?"
She nodded. "It's been a long time since I've been on a horse." She'd spent most of her time in China walking, or sedentary in the women’s apartments. "Socrates offered to have my carriage driven over, but I'd rather we were alone."
Her tone was unmistakable in its eroticism, and Brisco smiled. "What about your trunks?"
"The porter offered to have them carried to my room. You know what I always say - never look a gift man in the mouth," Brisco chuckled as he walked her to her horse, then watched as she mounted.
It was too late for them to ride to his place, so they drove to her room above the saloon. They hitched the horses and slipped in the place's back entrance, neither in the mood to deal with the crowds and noise of the main room. "Are you hungry?" he asked, as they crossed the threshold and walked up the short stairway to her room.
"Not for food," she teased, reaching up to kiss him. Abruptly, all joking fled as she wrapped her arms around his neck, forcing them to walk backwards to her room, which Brisco nudged open with his hip.
She turned her head to grope for her desk lamp, to turn up the wick so that she could better see him. That little distraction broke their kiss - as she took in her room a look of pleasure crossed her face.
At her dining table a simple meal had been prepared and laid out in welcome. Candles flickered in the center among a small arrangement of prairie roses, and glowed in spots around the room.
"You really know how to spoil a girl, Brisco," she murmured.
He shrugged. "It's just romance 101. Give credit to Bowler, though, the candles were his idea."
"Did you take that in Harvard?" she teased, she gave him an odd look as he escorted her to the table and seated her.
"You could say so. And Comet helped me find the flowers," he said, straight-faced.
"Remind me to give that hose an apple, next time I see him."
"You talk about spoiling!" he chortled, but added more sincerely, "we all missed you, Dix."
She smiled. "I wouldn't expect less from the world's first Dixie Cousins fanclub."
"You don't have another branch by now?" he teased.
She found herself reflecting about the difference between Chinese and American cultures as she bent to her repast - good bread, fresh butter, sausage and some gooseberry jam, incongruously served with fine wine. "They're wonderful people, but they like their artists...obedient."
Brisco shakes his head. "They don't know what they're missing out on in you," he smirked.
Dixie could only laugh. "Speaking of missing out, how've things been at the OK Corral?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary. I put everything in my letters." She gave him a direct look, and so he told her about his near-execution. Her eyes widen in response, though she's not really surprised that he managed to escape by the skin of his teeth.
"I can't leave you alone for a minute," she scolded him playfully.
"Honey, I get into as much trouble when you're around," he reached over and brushed his hand against hers. "Maybe more. Want some dessert?"
She smiled. "I thought you'd never ask," she said, standing up and automatically moving toward the bed.
Brisco, who'd turned around to retrieve a pot of cream and a basket of strawberries from a bucket of ice by the table, raised a single brow of appreciation as she shimmied out of her dress and settled on the edge of the bed. Now her smile turned seductive. "Would you be so kind to remove that shirt and pass me the cream, Mister County?"
"You always have the best ideas," he admitted, placing the cream and strawberries on her bedside table and reaching for her. "I really did miss you, Dix. I have to ask you something..."
She missed him too, but she'd rather show him than talk about it. She reached for his gunbelt and unstrapped it. "It can wait. Why don't you show me how much?"
"With or without the cream?" he mumbled into her neck.
"That's...not..the...cream..I...want..." she mumbled back between kisses. And moments later - as they took each other against the bedpost - neither had the mind to speak at all.
***
Past four, she rose unsteadily for a drink. Groping along the floor in pursuit of her long-ago discarded bedroom slippers, she brushed against his pants. Something oddly firm and heavy rested in its right pocket.
She well knew that shape, well understood what it meant.
Dixie sat back against the soft mattress, suddenly wide-awake. Only her uncertainty kept her silent, even as he rose, dressed, and left her with a goodbye kiss.
She spent the entire day vacillating between uncertainty and excitement. Why are you flittering around like a girl with her first beaux? she scolded herself as she missed a note, then a step. He wasn't the first man who'd decided to propose marriage to her.
Because it's the first time Brisco ever proposed to you, Dixie told herself. She remembered the weeks she'd spent chewing in vain over the problems that lay between them, the issue of their separate independence. She loved him, he loved her, but were either of them ready to quit sewing their wild oats?
Fate, as always, pushed her hand. It was Bowler who knocked on her dressing room door. For him to come see her alone and in the middle of the day meant that it could only be an emergency.
Bowler, as always, didn't condescend or mix words. "He's been shot."
Getting up from her dressing table, she didn't bother to change out of her costume, simply topping it with a duster. "How is he?"
"Doc got the bullet out, but fever's setting in. Said the next four hours'll be important."
"You don't think he could..." Dixie cinched her belt, and Bowler - knowing she'd appreciate directness, looked her dead in the eye.
"They don't know."
**
The next day passed by in anxiety for Dixie. She watched the doctor tend to Brisco's rising fever, anxiously jumping up to offer him assistance, or bring coffee and tea from room service. She may not have any nursing skills to her name, but she could keep a cool head under pressure, and so her presence was helpful.
Brisco slipped in and out of delirium. At one point he mistook her for his mother, another his college sweetheart. She remembered that he wanted to marry the woman and felt a spike of ice spear her nerves.
The day passed into the night, and into the morning. His sweat stained the sheets as she helped change his dressing, smoothed his brow, held his burning-hot hand.
The depth of her patience stunned Dixie, or it would, should she have all of her faculties about her. What little brainpower she had she tried to expend on talking Brisco back from his fire-drenched prison.
Her constant talking and teasing seemed to have a little bit of an effect - his fever began to break, hand he took some tea and weak broth, and eventually gooseberry jam and dried toast. Relief filled Dixie, and she made herself a bed on a wingback chair.
She laughed, shaking her head as she rested it against the padded back.
"The things I put up with to be near you," she murmured, watching Brisco's chest rise and fall regularly. "If you'd've asked I would've said yes."
A dry, warm hand reached out to take hers.
"Can I hold you to that?"
***
Five years later
"You're sure?"
She glared up at him. "If I wasn't sure, I would've kept my mouth shut." Dixie rested her palm against her rounded midsection and glanced from Brisco's worried face to Bowler's grimace. They had just turned in a fugitive (Claude Dugan, world-renowned bank robber), and been rewarded a rather handsome award. They'd been ready to take their picture for the paper when the first contraction had announced itself. The photo had been taken, Dixie's expression immortalized for generations to come, and they had been headed back to Larkspur in their open buggy when she had announced to the boys that she thought she was in labor.
Now they were staring at her as if she'd sprouted horns. "Fellas, if you don't move this thing a little faster this birthing's gonna be a public event."
Bowler had already tucked his knees into his stallion's sides, urging the animal to move faster while Brisco stared at her with uncharacteristic concern. "More public than your wedding?"
Dixie winced her way through a contraction, replying, "no, nothing could be - ow - as public as that was." Everyone had shown up for that little affair, even Pete Hutter.
"You're really sure, Dix?" Brisco asked.
"Yes!" she gasped out, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing. It had been a long, productive five years for them. After their hasty wedding and a honeymoon trip to San Francisco, she had ridden the trail with he and Bowler, proving an adapt assistant to their apprehension of fugitives from justice. Eventually, they all settled in a little boom town named Larskspur, a six-hour ride from Santa Clara, where Brisco and Bowler set up a private agency and Dixie began giving voice lessons to the local matrons and their daughters...and the occasional lesson in how to intrigue an audience. She smiled to herself. Brisco's name may be legend in the heart of every child in the country, but her name was legendary in the bedroom of every happy matron in California.
She felt a jolt of surprise when they drove into the circular drive of the Brewster farm. Nanny Brewster, the family matriarch, rushed up to the carriage and inspected the occupants. In a single breath she took charge of the moment, climbing into the back of the buggy as Brisco urged the horses into a gallop.
"How far apart?" she asked.
"About twenty minutes," Dixie announced. The horses sped abruptly.
"Still got some time then," she smiled. "Mister County, don't you fret. Missus Cousins-County will be just fine."
Dixie sank backward in relief. She'd always liked Marie, who never, ever failed to use her full hyphenated name.
***
Before he knew what had happened, Brisco found himself cloistered down in the parlor with Bowler while Dixie and the town midwife, Nanny Brewster, took over their bedroom. Flinching at every sound that came from upstairs, Brisco forced himself to take a seat.
"Jumpier than a virgin in his first henhouse," Bowler grumbled, searching through the liquor cabinet and coming up with a couple of tumblers of brandy. Sitting in a chair opposite Brisco, he offered him one of the vessels.
Brisco slugged down the glass. "More," he said, holding it out.
"Don't think you ought to," Bowler remarked.
"I can handle it," he insisted. But his hands were slick when Bowler took the glass.
"I don't think Nanny Brewster'll enjoy having two cases on her hands." Bowler's words were punctuated by a deep groan from abovestairs, and in a second Brisco was on his feet and staring helplessly at the ceiling. Bowler's hand clamped down hard against his left shoulder. He made a sound of mild disgust and steered him back toward the fireplace.
"Let's play a couple of hands," he suggested, pulling a deck of cards out of the top drawer. He seemed vaguely disturbed by Brisco's uncharacteristic anxiety.
Brisco nodded, found himself dealing a hand, found himself winning until another deep groan came from above and he lost his grip on the cards, sending them flying onto the plush carpet before them.
Bowler snarled at the disruption, and Brisco managed a weak smile. "You'd think that they'd have come up with an easier way for women to get through birthing by now."
"Because the old ways have worked for hundreds of years," Bowler noted, attempting a comforting tone. "Dixie isn't the first woman to birth a baby and she isn't gonna be the last."
Brisco stared out into the yard. He could hear Comet nickering by the hitching post, where he'd been tied during their panicked rush from Santa Clara. "I'm not overreacting," he said to the animal, and to Bowler.
Bowler gathered up the cards and grumbled, "you're not gonna be of any use to anyone 'til that baby gets here, are you?" Bowler grumbled. Brisco's eyes had gone utterly blank with terror, and at that he dumped the cards onto his. He picked a slim volume of Shakespeare stowed in the bookcase. "Guess it's my job to keep us both calm," he declared, and then began to recite.
Under normal circumstances, this would have drawn a laugh from Brisco; Bowler read the poems aloud in a harsh and threatening manner, as if he were interrogating a fugitive. There was something oddly comforting about that; it was as if through the power of language he could save them all, and Brisco could finally let go and relax...
***
He woke to a parlor flooded with sunlight and the regular, harsh cries of his wife. Springing out of his chair, Brisco's path to the stairs was intercepted by Bowler.
"That can't be normal," Brisco muttered, staring up at the staircase.
"Nannie Brewster popped her head out a coupla hours ago," Bowler informed Brisco. "Said it'll be any minute."
"Any minute? It's just under a whole day since she started..." He cleared his throat to rid himself of the hysteria welling in his voice.
"...She said to tell you 'some babies take their time coming into the world, and Mister County's child was exceptionally stubborn last night'." He glanced upward - Dixie's grunts had taken on a regular, rhythmic cadence. "You'd best go see to Comet. Staying still won't help..."
"...Now, Bowler..."
"...Now, Brisco," He handed his friend his hat and shoved him toward the door. "I'll try to scare us up some breakfast."
Bowler shoved Brisco toward the door without further argument. Shunted out into the cold morning, Brisco forced himself to take care of the small pile of chores that awaited; he watered and fed Comet, then drove the buggy to the barn and rode to the Brewster far, where he watered and fed Mrs. Brewster's borrowed oxen. These small favors returned, Brisco decided to do the only useful thing he could conjure to mind; he took Comet on a short ride by the coastal road in Larkspur, all the while feeling scared enough to ride the full length of the trail right to Santa Rosa without looking back.
Comet whinnied. "Of course I'm not turning chicken," Brisco scolded the horse. He wheels Comet around, and they headed back toward Larkspur proper. A soft neigh. "I know. I'm scared for her, too." A snort. "Well, you don't have to say it. I can tell." He reached into his pack and withdrew a small green apple, which the horse began to munch appreciatively. "Do you think I'll be a good dad?" Comet snorted. "This is no time for sarcasm," his owner mumbled.
Brisco decided he was ready for anything as he cantered into the yard of the Brewster farmhouse and returned Comet to his borrowed stall. He gave his trusty horse a firm pet and the last green apple he had on him before heading back into the house.
Upstairs, the noise seemed to be reaching a crescendo. Brisco stood in the doorway, his hat in his hands, aware of Bowler coming out of the kitchen (wearing one of Missus Brewster's aprons, he was too stunned to remark on that) but unable to muster up a greeting. At last, the woman's cry petered off into the weak call of a baby, which grew stronger and stronger.
Brisco felt a tide of blood rush against his eardrums, making his knees buckle for a second as Bowler vigorously slapped him on the back. He saw Missus Brewster come down the stairs, beaming up at him, her tiny snowy-haired head barely clearing his ribcage as she shook both of his hands between her soft ones. She was saying something to him, but he'd be damned if he understood it.
They were both shoving him toward the staircase - put into motion, Brisco rushed up the flight two at a time, until he reached the bedroom, with its door slightly ajar.
He carefully opened the door and peered through. Dixie lay on the bed, her eyes bagged and ringed with purple, but her skin shining pink and healthy against the quilts. Her blonde hair lay tousled against the pillow, and her eyes carried a mixture exhaustion and delight. A small bundle shifted in her arms as she lifted her eyes to meet his.
He approached without another word and carefully sat down at the edge of the bed. Very gingerly, he brushed her forehead with his lips. Dixie leaned into his touch, the most she could do in her weakened state.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
A grimace. "Like I've been flattened by the five thirty to Yuma, but I'll bounce back." The bundle cradled between their bodies released an emphatic yawn and wriggled. Dixie chuckled softly. "Mind your manners, Miss County."
"Miss County," Brisco remarked, realizing he hadn't heard Missus Brewster announce the baby's sex. He grinned. "Miss County. Well..."
Without asking his permission, Dixie shifted to offer the baby to him. Brisco took the bundle of soft quilts and sweet-smelling skin and stared downward. His daughter was medium-boned, had ruddy skin and a skein of blonde hair plastered flat to the top of her head.
"She has dark eyes," Dixie informed him, but Brisco sat quietly, stricken dumb by the sight of her. He hadn't wanted children for a long time - neither had Dixie. It had been a point of thought and worry between them for quite awhile. The sight of her with other children had brought up an undefined yearning in him as time went on, and finally they'd decided to sample parenthood. Her voice broke through the haze. "I thought we might name her for your mother," Dixie suggested.
Brisco stared down at bundle and nodded absently. It hurt to think of his mother, but it felt right to give her that name. "Ruth's a fine name. Would you like to name her after your mother?"
"I can't remember my mother's name," Dixie admitted. "There was a nun at the convent who I thought of as a mother. Sister Jane."
Brisco nodded approvingly. "Ruth Jane County."
"Ruth Jane Cousins-County," Dixie declared, quite satisfied.
"Cousins-County. You want to hyphenate her name, too?"
"I thought we might."
"Now, Dixie..."
"Don't you 'now' me. She's as much my child as she is yours."
He smiled at the bundle. "That remains to be seen," he declared, carefully handing the bundle back to her.
"She is," Dixie's eyes sparkled as she took the girl and pecked her husband on the chin. "Just wait and see. She'll be a modern woman, just like her momma."
Brisco silently sat in the chair beside her, taking off his boots and shedding his jacket. He felt better lying beside her. He always did.
Dixie fed Ruth while he tried not to watch. "Is there anything to eat?" she asked.
"I might ask Missus Brewster to make up something. Bowler's been cooking but I can't testify to the quality. What would you like?"
"Anything edible," Dixie retorted.
"Sounds reasonable," Brisco replied, moving toward the bed.
She chuckled. "If you want specifics - some good bread with some of Missus Brewster's gooseberry jam. There should be some left in the larder, and the bread I bought from Miss Carpenter. There should be some bacon in the cold cellar, too." He moved to follow the request, but Dixie's hand stayed his movement. "Now, don't get up."
"But you said..."
"Not yet," she encouraged him to lie down, placing the baby between them on the bed. They lay together, a family for the first time.
Together, Brisco and Dixie watched their daughter for an untold amount of time. Brisco spoke finally in a whisper, afraid to disrupt their peace. "She's wonderful, Dix," he said.
"I think so." She buried her face against his forearm. "I love you," she mumbled.
"Love you too," Brisco murmured back.
Ruth gave her first contribution to the family discussion by blowing a spit bubble before falling quietly back to sleep.
***
Five Years After
Dixie watched her daughter's actions with mild dismay as she entered the yard. "Ruth Jane!" she exclaimed, her hands upon her hips, "what did I tell you about playing cavalry and bandit with Lord Bowler?"
Ruth Jane, her dark blond hair flying about her face as she turned around, gave her mother a sheepish smile, and recited. "Always let him win."
The older man glowered at Dixie, and she bit back a laugh - Ruth had hitched him to the redwood tree that shaded their drive with several surprisingly strong knots. "Are you gonna stand there and laugh or are you gonna cut me down?"
She chuckled, heading toward the back of the tree and successfully unhitched each knot. "I don't need a knife to get my man," she retorted playfully, tossing the rope aside. She's always been the only person on the planet who could untie Ruth's knots.
He eyed her midriff. "Shouldn't you be worried about..."
"The baby'll be staying put for another few months," Dixie responded, patting her stomach. Their conversation was cut off when Brisco rode into the yard.
"Daddy!" Ruth screeched, and Dixie watched their reunion from a distance. Soon he turned and trotted over, their daughter riding before him, the sun adding a golden glow to the beautiful picture.
She smiled up, Bowler temporarily forgotten beside her, still tied to the tree with one knot. For a moment, the world melted away and it was just the two of them, Brisco and Dixie, alone together in a crowd. He tipped his hat, and said quite loudly, "if you'd oblige Bowler by untying him, your mom and I'll fix a snack."
"What kind?" she asked, his own eyes looking back at her, round and dark and suspicious.
"Some good bread and gooseberry jam." He gave his wife a long, knowing look as he clicked his tongue, sending Comet into a trot.
Dixie watched after him as he drove the horse to their barn, standing for just a moment in his dust while Bowler complained about being forgotten. She’d always be the chief officer of the Brisco County Junior fanclub. For she loved him, even when he wasn't rescuing her.