Excerpt from
The Bride Who Step Dances
The Bride Who series
by Zina Abbott
In the center-back of the stage stood a young woman. Not even the bright floral pattern that made up the majority of her gown over a matching solid pink underskirt or the small sleeves that barely covered her upper arms and shoulders detracted from her wide smile and her overall pixie-like cuteness. Based on her honey-blonde hair, light eyes, and fine features, Cecil guessed she might be related to the fiddler—maybe a sibling or a cousin?
The foot-tapping stopped, and the fiddler broke into an unfamiliar tune—one that caused Cecil to involuntarily flinch. Do not like being startled like that! However, as the catchy music stirred his heart to beat faster and his breaths to grow more shallow, Cecil found he could not muster enough energy to grow annoyed. He immediately found himself mesmerized as the young woman lifted her skirts a couple of inches and began a dance step like nothing he had ever before seen. As she moved into stage center with combinations of shuffles, flat-footed stamping, and tapping the toe end of her boot soles against the wooden floor, the percussion she created, paired with the violin music, spoke to something deep inside.
It took several seconds of listening and feeling before Cecil recognized what it was about her dance steps that resonated. They reminded him of when he served in the Union Army. As much as he hated the fighting, the living in camp, and the disgusting food, there had been something about learning to march and follow commands in battle that appealed to his sense of order. He had felt like he was part of a greater whole—part of something powerful because everyone moved in a synchronized manner to achieve a common goal. The drumbeats that either kept everyone in step—or issued commands when no bugler was present—spoke a language he understood.
So, what language did this woman’s stepping motion combined with sound—all in time to the tempo created by the fiddle’s music—say to him? All he knew was, his gaze shifted from her eyes squeezed with laughter to match her wide grin down to her booted feet that moved without hesitation as they beat their own music against the planks that formed the stage.
“She’s something, ain’t she? Been a quite a spell since I seen anyone can dance that good.”
Scowling, Cecil turned to see one of his new hands standing by his side.
Furlin, his gaze locked on the performance, clapped his hands and rocked his entire body to the beat.
It was only then that Cecil became aware that most of the other men inside the saloon now clapped, beat their hands against the bar or a tabletop, or stomped their feet. Several called out—not all of their comments appropriate for polite company. As he looked around, Cecil realized more men other than Furlin had entered Rupert’s Roundup since the dance routine started.
A call—a hoot, perhaps?—from the fiddler brought Cecil’s attention back to the stage.
The woman reached for something in her pocket, which she then placed between her teeth. As she began to step back, she blew on the instrument to make it hum and used a forefinger to pluck something at one end to create a beat to match that of the fiddle.
Cecil narrowed his eyes. A jaw harp? Some called it a Jew’s harp or a juice harp. All he knew was, he had not seen one since his days in the military—and even then, they had been played by men.
Almost immediately, the young man dropped the fiddle from his chin and transferred the neck to the same hand that held his bow. He turned to face the audience, holding both parts of his violin to his side. After dropping his free hand to his side, he danced to the beat of the woman’s jaw harp.
Cecil noticed that, although the teen stayed in step to match the music, the fiddler did not move as smoothly as the woman. Part of it might be due to him still being a gangly youth who had not finished growing. However, it also could be that he did not have the same natural talent as the young woman.
Several derisive calls issued—demands that the fiddler let the woman dance—filled the room.
The young man appeared to ignore the hecklers. However, after a much shorter dance routine than that performed by the young woman, he issued a barely audible call before he strode to the side of the stage and again resumed fiddling.
Without missing a beat, the woman dropped her jaw harp inside a pocket before she lifted her skirts a couple of inches and began moving her feet. Again, she positioned herself in the center of the stage where she drew out the best resonance from the boards.
As he noticed the audience inch its way closer to the stage, a sense of unease began to swell inside Cecil. As he glanced at the men around him, he realized several had already consumed enough beer or liquor to no longer be thinking clearly. Several were not just enjoying the performance but were getting wound up, like a rope wrapped around a saddle horn.
“You letting others dance a spell?”
Furlin’s voice pulled Cecil from his musings. When did he leave my side and approach the stage? Cecil gritted his teeth. If he had been paying attention, he would have clapped a hand on Furlin’s shoulder to keep him in place—if necessary, threatening him with losing his job before he even started. Too late.
“You can step dance, can you?” the woman called to Furlin.
“Used to clog with the best of them. Reckon I recollect how.” Furlin’s upper body bounced as he moved his feet against the building’s floor.
“Come take a turn, then.” The woman began to step away toward the rear of the stage and started clapping her hands.
“No tips, now. They’re for my sister,” the fiddler called out.
“Got me a job. Don’t need no tips.” Grinning, Furlin leapt onto the stage.
Cecil pursed his lips and nodded. Brother and sister. Knowing of their relationship set him at ease. Although he had no reason to care about the welfare of the spunky dancer, he knew of too many women performers who found themselves in the clutches of designing men who only used women for what they could get out of them before abandoning them for something better. Surely a brother, unless he was the worst of scoundrels, would look out for his sister.
After a tentative pair of bounces at the knees, Furlin began to shuffle and stomp his feet to the music. Unlike the fiddler, who had held his free arm straight down at his side while dancing, Furlin’s arms—bent at the elbows—sawed to his sides, outward and back. His steps created the same sort of beat against the floorboards even though his steps were slightly different. One, a bent-knee twirl of his foot was not a step used by either of the other two performers.
More hoots filled the room. The calls demanded the woman resume dancing.
Smiling wide, Furlin nodded toward the fiddler as his steps took him to the opposite side of the stage front. “Wahoo!” He jumped off the foot-high platform into the crowd.
His fists clenched, Cecil eyed his newest employee as he left the stage. He refused to ask himself why watching another man joining this woman on the stage to show off his own dancing skill bothered him.
The woman resumed dancing, moving forward to the center again as she did so.
“Last round, gents,” the young fiddler called out. “Have your tip money at the ready if you’d like to show the lady—” His words were drowned out by an outcry.
“More! More!”
Cecil felt his gut twist. He already sensed this was going to get out of hand. Foolish pair of foreigners. Although the two had hardly spoken, he had heard enough to know they were not from any part of the United States of which he was aware. Scottish? Irish? No, they did not speak with an Irish brogue—he had heard plenty of that while in the Army, plus Cullum, who used to work for the ranch, had been Irish. Maybe Canadian? To keep his nerves from visibly twitching, he picked up his glass of beer.
A man—possibly in his middle-to-late thirties—stumbled onto the stage. As he straightened, he had to step back in order to keep his balance. “I’m dancing with you now, woman. Then we can go somewhere…private.”
Cecil narrowed his eyes. Abner Vogel. Cecil knew more about him than he wanted to. He had made the mistake a couple of years ago of hiring him only to learn that he was a trouble-maker, a drunk, and a petty thief. After he sent Vogel on his way, he later heard that the man created even more trouble when in town.
“Right. You know step dancing, do you?” Her smile having faded, the young woman studied the man and danced a step toward the back.
“I’ll show you some real dancing.” The man grabbed for the woman’s arm. He jerked her toward him and wrapped his opposite arm around her back.
No! It ends! Whether she was a saloon girl in the making or a decent woman too ignorant to know what was good for her, nothing of value would come of letting Vogel have his way with her. Cecil slammed his glass onto the bar surface hard enough that half the remaining beer splattered on his hand before he could pull it away. Fists clenched, amidst cries of objection, he began to push his way through the ever-tightening crowd eager to see how the action on the stage played out. Cecil guessed some might think this was part of a vaudeville act—a staged scene intended to entertain before all the players finished playing their parts and took their bows. If she had possessed any sense at all, she would have known that no decent woman would step inside a saloon—certainly not in this town.
“I say, you cannot just manhandle her that way.” The fiddler stopped playing and dropped the bow to his side.
“You’ll stay out of it, unless you want a bust in the chops. Now, start playing.”
Cecil shook his head. The boy’s heart was in the right place—wishing to defend his sister. He was in over his head, though. Even with Abner being half-drunk already, and his body showing the effects of riotous living, the teenager was no match for the man.
“No, Eddie! Pocket the tips and save the violin. Get out of here.” Screaming her orders, the young woman wriggled an arm between her body and that of the attacker as she pressed her chin against her breastbone.
“I’ll not leave you to the likes of him.” Kicking the violin case toward the back of the stage, the young man twisted long enough to place his violin and bow on the top of the upright piano.
“Do what I say, Eddie! Let go of me, you lout! The dancing is over!”
“Not until I say.” The man trapped the back of the young woman’s neck inside his bent elbow and pulled her head toward his. “I’ll show you what a real man is like. How about a little kiss, sweetheart?” He pressed his lips to her face. “There’ll be more where this is coming from.”
“I’m not your sweet—gaaugh!” Screaming, the woman turned her head so the man’s lips met her cheek. She raised a foot and stomped the top of his boot with her heel.
Cecil shoved his glass toward the back of the bar and turned to fully face the stage. This ends now!
“You’ll pay for that, witch!” Yelling, Abner released the woman’s neck. He pulled his arm back, his hand balling into a fist.
“None of that, now!” Eddie squeezed his tall, thin body between Abner and the young woman. “Let her go!”
That kid is no match for Vogel. Using both hands, Cecil shoved aside two men blocking his path.
“Fight! Fight!”
As he shouldered his way toward the stage, Cecil clenched his teeth. They want a fight? They’ll see a fight.
“That kid’s a goner.”
Cecil bumped aside the cowhand who considered himself a prophet. Not if I can help it.
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The Bride Who Step Dances is not on pre-order, but is expected to be released in February. To be notified of the release, please sign up for Zina Abbott's Newsletter by CLICKING HERE
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I currently have a book on sale through February 20th, The Millwright's Daughter. To access the joint author promotion where you will find this book available for only 99c, please CLICK HERE
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Other recent books I have available:
Stollen by Stella
Please CLICK HERE
Anthelia Yosemite Bride
Please CLICK HERE
Mail-Order Barber
Please CLICK HERE
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