A COWBOY'S FIRST VALENTINE

A Just for Fun Fiction

By Celia Jolley

"Val Tine who?" the cowboy asked.  "I ain't never heard of the fella myself.  Why are you jibbering about a box social?  Is he the fella that you hope bids on your lunch basket?"

Bessie felt like screaming.  She'd never met such an ignorant cowboy.  It was just too bad that such a fine man body housed such a small brain.  

"Valentine was a priest who was imprisoned for his faith..."

"You mean they put the poor man in jail for loving God?  What kind of town is this?"

"Please let me finish," she said through gritted teeth.  This happened hundreds of years ago and far away.  When a young girl wrote him letters to cheer him, it became an honored tradition to give valentines, used now more to show affection towards a  sweetheart.  Thus, we are holding our box social as a fun way to celebrate."

"Oh good.  I won't be expected to attend since I'm not sweet on some gal.  I won't have to throw my money away on some soggy, cold lunch."

"You are missing the point.  It's to help raise money for the church."

"Are you saying the good folk of the town don't pay their tithes faithfully.  What, are there more heathens 'round here than good Christians?"

"Urrgh, never mind."  Bessie stalked away while the ornery cowpoke winked at his friend.  

"You sure know how to stir up the pot, August.  It might just boil over and burn you sometime if you aren't careful.  I know I'm not stupid enough to rile my boss' daughter."

"If it keeps her from getting underfoot, it'll be worth it.  Just cause a gal ain't in pigtails anymore doesn't mean she's not still a pest.  Don't like mixing with skirts much.  Usually their kind are as prickly as a cactus.  A flower blooming on it don't mean it's less painful."

His buddy guffawed at his musings.  "That kind of thinking will leave you mighty lonely someday."  He walked away still chuckling.

August rubbed his week old beard on his chin, the one he'd been too busy to shave off before coming to town for the boss.  When a horse is out of oats, it's time to head for the feed store right quick.    While waiting for Miss Bessie to be done shopping, he even meandered behind the mercantile and looked in their garbage bin to pick out a few wilted carrots and a bruised apple that had seen better days.  What could he say?  His horse wasn't near as picky as most females he'd bumped into.  He stuck the carrots in his back pocket with the green tops sticking out, and tossed the apple in the air and caught it a few times before walking back to the wagon.

He stuck his head in the store and hollered loudly, "Miss Bessie, are you 'bout done lollygagging yet?"  He sure did like to see her pink up when he got the chance to embarrass her.

The little gal stalked out of the mercantile with her chin up in the air and marched over to the wagon waiting for him to lift her up.  Instead he pointed over his shoulder and asked, "Did you forget and leave your box of store goods back in there on the counter?  Oh, don't worry yourself none.  All of us are forgetful from time to time.  You must be dreaming about Mr. Val Tine again."  

He left her gaping and stomping her foot puffing tiny clouds of dirt up in the street where he'd left her by the wagon as he went into the store to lug out the box of groceries.  He carried it out over his shoulder before shoving the crate in next to the feed bags.  "Anything else?" He knew good and well that she was still standing there expecting him to help her up.  

Where he came from, a good woman would not only have been climbing aboard by herself, but also grabbing up the reigns to giddy up the horses after shouldering the heavy feed bags and loading up groceries all by her lonesome, not waiting for some man to do her chores for her.  He guessed they didn't make 'em like his ma anymore.  With a sigh, August finally leaned over from his side of the buckboard seat and offered his hand to drag the helpless thing up.  

"Are you feeling puny this morning, Miss Bessie?  I noticed you didn't hop up here very fast.  I'll tell your pa that you might need a dose of cod liver oil."

She just crossed her arms and turned her shoulder away from him with a huff.  Her lips were  pinched so tight that he doubted a dull butter knife could have parted them.  

He drove through town loudly whistling catchy bar tunes, which weren't bad unless you put the raunchy words to them.  It wasn't like he wasted his time or money in such places, but anybody walking within a block could hear the piano player pounding out the popular songs.  "How'd you like that ditty?" he asked her.  He loved hearing her pitiful huffs.  

"So what are ya putting in your lunch basket?  Fried frog legs?  Now that would be something that would start a bidding war, fer sure.  I would even be tempted to throw my hat in the ring for something like that.  Makes a fella drool just thinking about it.  But if you were thinking of putting in pickled pigs feet, I'd pass faster than you could kiss their snout."

The cowboy grinned figuring he might set a new record for how many times he could make the little gal huff, more than a horse with colic probably.  If she complained to her daddy, he might think twice before sending him back into town with her next time instead of one of the other hands on the ranch.  Give him a bucking bronco any day than sitting on the buckboard seat next to the smelly sweet stink gals dabbed on their necks.  It'd sooner draw flies than any self-respecting man's attention that he knew of.  Then there were her skirts and petticoat that kept getting in the way when he tried to move his boot over.  He must have stepped on it five or six times already and they weren't hardly out of town yet.  She was huffing more than a train engine.  

He liked to quote Scripture out loud when he was riding, so he figured he might as well do it here in the wagon.  He began...

"Likewise, ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands;

that, if any obey not the word, they may without the word 

be won by the conversation of the wives;

While they behold your chaste conversation coupled with fear.

Whose adorning let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair,"

(Out of the corner of his eye he  saw her hand go up 

to the swooping braids in her fancy hair style.)--

"and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel."

(He then noticed her hand going to her gold broach and to the lace of her collar.)

But let it be the hidden man"--or woman, I'd say--"of the heart, in that

which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,

which is in the sight of God of great price."

(He noticed that she had pulled out her fan and was waving it a mile a minute. 

He figured she might be hot under the collar or something.)

"For after this manner in the old times the holy women also,

who trusted in God, adorned themselves,

being in subjection unto their own husbands."

It was all August could do to keep from snickering as she swallowed back more huffs, which she wouldn't dare do aloud at the offering up of God's holy word.  

"Would you like me to quote some more Scripture for you, Miss Bessie?"  He thought he heard her choke a bit on another huff, before she gritted out, "No thank you.  You've done quite enough."

Instead he began belting out,"O For A Thousand Tongues to Sing."  When he got done, August rubbed his chin and mused aloud, "Now that would be a sight to see, alright, a man with a thousand tongues!  You have to hand it to ol' Charles Wesley who wrote that song 'cause I heard a preacher once say that the man liked to put words to bar tunes himself.  It was easier for the workers to catch on to them, you see.  They could go on their merry way home, just like we're doing, singing to beat the band."

The poor gal looked like she had a bad case of lock jaw.  Her lips must be getting sore the way she pressed them down so hard.  It made it harder to huff too, so she had resorted to snorting her displeasure.  Not very good manners, if you asked him.  A lady snorting?  Even his hard-working mama would have taken a switch if any of his sisters had ever done that in front of company, especially a man.  Pitiful girl had been left motherless a bit too early before she could be raised up right it seemed, not that he'd ever say anything of that sort.  Even he was smarter than that.

As soon as he pulled up in front of the ranch house, she jumped down faster than fleas off a dog having a bath.  Well, hog tie him to a rail road track, if that don't beat all.  Miss Bessie could do a thang or two all by herself.  He shouldered the crate of groceries and delivered them to the cook at the back door.

"Why thank you, August.  You are always such a gentleman," the lady smushed up her wrinkles in a grin at him, but he could swear he heard somebody huffing in the hall, and he could make a safe bet who that might be.  Then he could faintly hear her calling, "Daddy?" 

"It's no trouble, Miss Jackson.  Glad to oblige you."

He hopped back on the buckboard to take it to the barn so he could unload the feed.  He unhitched the horses, gave them a good brushing before high tailing it out of there on his own horse.  This running off to town fit him as well as a too tight preacher's collar, not well at all.

The day of the box social dawned surprisingly warm for February.  It was his turn to stay home to take care of the chores, much to his relief.  The other cowboys were pert near giddy as school girls about the box social.   They lit out there faster than a bats out of jail.  

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Bessie carefully putting her basket in the back of the buggy.  She was all trussed up like a daffodil all in yellow with a bow here and a bit of lace there, not that he noticed much.  When she glanced over, her highness glared at him.  He just grinned broadly and tipped his hat to her.

He was fixing to ride off to the back forty when his boss stumbled out leaning heavily on the porch post.  "August, I need you to take my Bessie to church today.  I'm not feeling so good..."

"Oh, daddy!  I didn't know you were feeling poorly.  I could..." she swallowed hard before saying, "I could stay home and take care of you today."  She bit her lip.

Even from where he sat stunned on his horse, he could see her chin quivering with disappointment and eyes glazing over looking a little too watery.

"No, darling.  Miss Jackson has volunteered to stay with me, but thank you anyway, sugar.  I know you have your heart set on this social."

"But aren't there any other cowboys who could take me?"

Her pa looked around before landing his gaze on August and saying, "Looks like they all took off already.   August will be more than willing to take you and stay with you at the box social, won't you, August."  The boss steeled his eyes to dare him to challenge him.

"Yes sir.  I just need to take the saddle back off my horse and change into a clean shirt," he added before looking down and sighing. "This is my cleanest shirt.  I had planned to catch up on my laundry this afternoon."

This time he did go around to help her up into the buggy.  He lifted her by the waist and almost chucked her clear across the seat and out the other side, she was so light.  He tipped his hat to his boss as Miss Bessie composed herself and pulling her skirt far away from his mucked up boots.

This time it was a silent ride all the way into town.  He kept huffing just thinking about how this nice day would be ruined.  It wasn't that he didn't like church.  He did.  But he detested the socials where ladies pranced around in their finery twirling their parasols and twittering worse than a flock of sparrows looking down their beaks at him, down at all the cowboys.  His ma had worn the same brown skirt and starched sensible blouse as long as he could remember.  She was always beautiful in his mind just as she was.  

He dutifully helped Miss Bessie down from the buggy, and she had the good graces to thank him.  He lifted his hat and finger combed his hair since he'd not gotten that far in his morning ablutions hoping to spend the day with a bunch of bawling cows.  They didn't care if his hair was spit polished slick or not.   August sighed and strode into the church like he was going to a funeral.  

Since they were late, the back pews were full.  You had to get there early to get those good seats.  He swallowed hard when he realized that the only seat left was beside Miss Bessie.  Oh, she wasn't going to like this, not one bit, and him even less.

This time she sang like a bird instead of pressing her lips together.  He toned down his voice so as to not drown her out, 'cause she did sound kind of purty.  When they sat, he found they were squeezed in tighter than two hens on one nest.  His arm had no where to go, so he put it on the pew behind her.  She huffed just a tad, but it couldn't be helped.  Unfortunately the loose curling hairs on her neck that had gotten loose from her fancy fixings hairdo, tickled his arm.  Fortunately, the preacher kept it short due to the excitement building over the box social.

When they were dismissed, he hoofed it out to the buggy to get her lunch basket.  Anybody with an eye could tell it was hers because he was holding it.  Besides, it was a yellow ribbon just like her dress.  It would earn a pretty penny if the fellas knew for sure and certain that Miss Jackson had done the cooking rather than poor pitiful Miss Bessie.  She was known far and wide that there wasn't a biscuit she couldn't burn or a half-raw piece of fried chicken she couldn't serve, not to mention her tart tarts, tartier than a tart should ever be.  Her tarts could pucker up a fella worse than sucking on a persimmon, which would be alright he guessed if she planned to kiss a guy that a way.  No thank you, he would pass on this basket.

He strode up to where the baskets were arranged like he was proud as a peacock laying an egg when in fact, he was suffering from the exposure of all those dandified offerings.  All together, those dinners smelled like bushels of overripe apples and ham and mustard, and he couldn't stand mustard.

His stomach had nevertheless been tricked into growling so loudly that the preacher quipped, "Hold on to your stomach, cowboy.  The bidding's about to begin!" The raucous cowboys in the back were  elbowing each other in the ribs and guffawing loudly excited to sit by some purty little thing with her basket and hoping to goodness it wasn't the spinster Edwards that they unknowingly bid on.

The boss had said to watch over his daughter, so he did.  He stood apart from the other cowboys in the back with his arms crossed.  From the corner of his eye he saw burly Hurly, somebody you wouldn't want to meet in a back alley fresh from a saloon.  The guy was leering at all the purty girls sitting primly with their hands clasped to their hearts waiting to find out who bid on their baskets.  Now, he was keeping a closer eye on him than Miss Bessie.  At least the fella didn't seem to be in the bidding mood.  His relief was short lived.

It was down to two baskets, Miss Bessie's and what seemed by all accounts, Miss Edwards.'  The boss's daughter looked more scared than a filly with its first taste of a bridle.  The bidding had already seemed to bankrupt the cowboys and the few single merchants in town.   When the preacher held up her basket, he said, "Now who'll bid on this basket all tied up with a lovely ribbon?  We'll start with a nickel.  It was dead quiet.  Deader than a cemetery.  

Finally, as seconds were heading towards a whole minute, August raised his hand thinking it might do to put a little axle grease to get the bidding rolling.   Miss Bessie turned around to see who had bid and then scowled at him.

"Okay, we have a nickel.  Who'll bid a dime.  Everybody was swiveling their necks looking around to who was left to bid.  Finally, Miss Bessie's father's best friend, Mr. McDougal waved his hand with the red creeping up his neck as his wife looked at him in shock.  Everybody could hear him whisper to her, "It's for the church, darling.  Of course you can sit with Miss Bessie and me."

"Hello, people.  It's Valentine's Day.  He bid a dime.  Who'll bid fifteen bits?  Remember it goes for a good cause."  

It was so quiet you could hear Mrs. Smith's baby nursing like a suckling pig in the blanket.  August blew out his breath and raised his hand at the same time he hung his head.  

"Now, we're going somewhere.  Do I hear twenty, twenty cents?"  The preacher looked around the gathering as everybody was squirming now looking down at their feet."  This was more painful than going to the dentist  to have your tooth pulled.

The preacher's gavel hovered over the pulpit someone had moved outside for him.   "Going once, going twice..."

Just then burly Hurley raised his hand and puffed out his chest as all the ladies gasped.  "I'll bid," the vile man said proudly.

Now that was worse than having to share lunch with Miss Bessie.  He may not want to eat her tart tarts, but there was no way on God's green earth that he would let that beast get anywhere near his boss's daughter.  

He quickly raised his hand calling out, "I'll bid a quarter."

Faster than a snake could stick its forked tongue in and out, Hurley bellowed, "I bid thirty cents."  If he puffed out his chest any more, he'd pop his buttons right off his dirty shirt.

"Thirty-five cents."  August took a step forward.  

"Forty-cents," the filthy cowpoke hollered.

The preacher was swinging his head back and forth no longer needing to needle anyone into bidding.

"Fifty cents."  August crossed his arms and stood with his boots wide spread.

With a sneer, Hurley called, "I'll raise it to sixty cents."  He took a step forward like he was going to approach Miss Bessie.

"A dollar," August said, moving forward further than the man who smelled worse than a stringer of dead fish left out for days.  There was a collective gasp.  Little kids were holding their noses and their mothers were wishing they could as well but could only raise their hankies demurely up to their noses pretending to have the sniffles.

"One dollar and a quarter," Hurley hissed.

Now, August was standing directly behind his boss's daughter.  This no longer had nothing to do with what was in the basket, but who he would never allow to get near her.  "One dollar and a half," he said calmly as if Hurley was no threat.

"Hurley threw him a wicked look and bellowed, "Two dollars."  His grin showed his missing teeth which looked better than his yellow ones.

"Three dollars," August nodded to the preacher.

"Going, going, gone!"  The preacher banged his gavel so hard that the head of it flew off and knocked Miss Edwards' hat clear off, barely missing giving her a black eye."  The woman huffed louder than all of Miss Bessie's huffs put together and jumped up and grabbed her basket right out from under the preacher's nose.  "It'll be a cold day in...in Helena before I'd let that brute bid on my basket!"  She marched out hugging her basket close to her as if it was her baby.  

The preacher said in a wobbly voice, "All right folks, it's time to grab the lady who made your basket and fling out your picnic cloths.  Remember, I already prayed to bless the food at the end of church."  He wiped the sweat off his head with his handkerchief and ran off.  

August gave off a huge sigh of relief as all the cowboys in the county came up to slap his back or to shake his hand.   Finally, the crowd had dispersed enough for him to look around for Miss Bessie and her basket.   He couldn't see her anywhere.  He looked around for a yellow dress.  The little finch was no where to be found.  He asked Mr. McDougal, but neither he nor his wife had seen her.  Now he was getting worried.  He looked in the church and around the cemetery.  He was sweating bullets.  He began to run.  But out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a glimpse of yellow.  She was in their buggy.

He came up panting trying to tap down his ire, "Young lady, do you know how scared I was?  I thought that burly Hurley had stolen you away."  It was then he saw her tears.  He freed the horses from the hitching post and climbed in making the buggy groan and dip his way.  "Haw," he clicked, and turned them on the way back to the ranch."  He said not a word, but handed her his handkerchief while she kept sniffing.

"Thank you," she said so quietly he wasn't sure if he had imagined it.  But she had turned pink, a dead give away that she had indeed spoken.  

"There was no way, no how that I would ever allow that brute near you.  I won't go to town without my pistols next time.  I'll even wear them in church if I have to.  If not, I can beat him in a fistfight.  He may be thick, but he's not quick."

"I'm so humiliated," she sobbed.  "Nobody wanted my basket."

He put his arm around her for a few seconds to comfort her enough to stop crying.  "It's just because I accidently put it in the back so all the bucks had already run out of money before your basket was brought up for bidding."

"You're sweet, but you and I both know that nobody wants to eat anything I make, especially as sick as Joe got last year."

"Ahh, I heard there was a bad case of the run-to-the-outhouse going through his bunkhouse."

She shook her head and looked away.  "The funny thing is that I convinced Miss Jackson to make the lunch in my basket this year."

"Whoa," he pulled the horses to a stop on the little bridge.  "You didn't make it?"

She shook her head.  "Well, that puts a little sunshine back in the day."  

"What are you doing?" she asked as August turned the horses off the road.

"We're going on a picnic," he grinned.  "Wait, and I'll help you down."

She sat primly blushing as he rushed around.  August swung her down making her dress blow out like a bell.  He grabbed her basket and offered his elbow out to take her to the creek bank.
He shook out the picnic cloth and laid it down without a wrinkle.  Miss Bessie started getting the food out, the fried chicken, the potato salad, the rolls...uh oh, the tarts.

He gulped.  "I see you made the tarts." 

She giggled, "Don't worry.  I let our cook make those too.  I did not make a single thing in that basket.

He shook his head and laid down on his side propping his head up with his arm.  "What more could I ask for, a burbling brook, good food, and a pretty lady."

She gasped, then shook her head.  "Don't be telling tales, August.  It's the Sabbath."

"Okay then, the creek isn't burbling, but gurgling and the food is tasty, but the truth of the matter is I'm getting to eat with the pretties gal in the county."

She gaped and then giggled.  "Oh, August, you're being silly."  Just then she tried to lean over to hand him his plate, but her dress got caught from where she knelt on it which threw her forward right on top of August.  Her mouth made a perfect "O."

August lost his breath as if she'd knocked it right out of him falling on him, which she couldn't do of course her being so tiny and all.  But her breath was warm on his breath as he tried to hold her up off himself.  But whether he could or couldn't, the truth of the matter was there was going to be a Mr. Val Tine kiss coming right up as she collapsed on top of him.

After a few delicious seconds, he helped her sit up blushing while he grinned saying, "I do believe this is the best Valentines Day I've ever celebrated!"

She giggled adding, "This is the only Valentines Day you've ever celebrated."

"Well then, may we have many more."  And they did.