Here goes with another meandering little chapter. I do love the Betsy/Dusty pairing, or BUSTY as it has now been coined by JWood201! Which I think just about beats the acronym MAG by a hair's width, although MAG is of course, the original and best.
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Betsy decided she could get used to riding up on the stagecoach with Dusty. He was wonderful company, with his quite bizarre observations on the surrounding landscape, such as saying two distant, gnarly trees trees looked like "a coupla old guys runnin' with their feet tied together" and a set of hills in the South looked like "a fat man lying down." He enjoyed the sights of songbirds and buzzards alike. He told her that he knew the difference between a harmless corn snake and a poisonous king snake but that he'd run a mile if he saw either of them anyway. He told her that he missed his little dog Sparky, and that if Sparky were here now he'd probably be "sittin' up on the stagecoach roof lookin' like he owned the place." And all the while he flicked the reins and whistled gently to the horses and brushed away flies and drifted off from time to time into his own thoughts as the stagecoach swayed from side to side, rocking them together in companionable friendship.
Mr. Callahan rode back and forth between the two vehicles- the slighter, bouncier stagecoach and the big lumbering ox of a wagon that followed behind with Andy at the reins. Andy was an affable, handsome young man who cared deeply about the progress of the modern world. Cal knew that Andy saw true potential in the untapped resources of the West, and even though he was a quiet, thoughtful young man, Cal had a feeling that Andy would succeed in whatever field of expertise he set his mind to, be it pharmaceuticals or engineering or even plain old household inventions to make day-to-day living just that little bit easier.
Lulu, sitting on the wagon seat next to Andy, waved at Cal as he approached. Cal adored Lulu. She was like a daughter in some ways, but not at all like a daughter in others. She had certainly opened his eyes to some of the ways of the world, and at his age and with his experiences in life, he had thought that he'd seen everything.
"Hey, Lulu," Cal smiled, riding up alongside. "Andy."
"Hey, Cal," the showgirl smiled back. "How are the lovebirds?" She waved her arm towards the stagecoach, grinning wider when Andy let out a quite naughty chuckle next to her.
"Now, Lulu, who said they were 'lovebirds'?" Cal chided gently, but his eyes twinkled merrily.
"Well, I'd say they were getting' to be a little more than 'just good friends'." Lulu replied, primping her blonde curls. "Besides, I think it's the sweetest thing I ever saw."
Cal looked ahead to the stagecoach. Dusty had his head turned towards Betsy and was gesticulating with one arm waving wildly in the air. Whatever it was he was saying was making Betsy laugh quite unashamedly. Even the way she absently twirled the parasol was flirtatious, although she'd be mortified if she realised it, and scandalised if she thought Mr. Callahan had noticed too.
"I wouldn't be surprised if we heard weddin' bells as soon as we get to California," Lulu went on.
"Lulu!" said Cal, quite astounded. "Weddin' bells indeed!"
"Oh, come on, Cal," the wily showgirl winked at him. "He's liked her right from the start."
Cal looked at Dusty and Betsy. They certainly did look happy together. "Imagine that. My little pal, a married man," he mused.
"And you know what comes next," Lulu laughed, pushing out her stomach and pulling a face that was meant to represent a mother-to-be but instead looked like a heifer with constipation.
Andy couldn't contain a burst of laughter. "That's some vivid imagination you've got there, Lulu," he grinned, his white teeth gleaming.
"You men!" Lulu declared. "Suddenly getting all prudish at the mention of marriage and babies! Quite a different picture when y'all are starin' at a chorus line doin' the hoochie coochie."
"Here we go," said Andy good-naturedly. "Lulu McQueen's Lessons In Modern Men part three hundred and fifty six."
"You know it's true," Lulu chuckled, swatting Andy on the leg. "So, Cal- you gonna start havin' to keep an eye on them now or what? Make sure they ain't sneakin'off nowhere after supper, know what I mean?"
Cal laughed heartily over the rattle and squeak of the wagon's wheel axles. "I don't think those two would know what to do even if they did sneak off somewhere after supper."
"Be surprised," Lulu nodded sagely. "All men have that instinct, even someone like Dusty."
Cal cleared his throat. He hated when Lulu was right. His little pal Dusty might be an amiable klutz but he was still a man, with all a man's rightful attributes, and he certainly did seem to be interested in the pretty young brunette perched on the seat next to him.
Betsy swayed on the stagecoach, listening to Dusty's latest theory, that when it was hotter the sun moved slower, just to make sure you knew it was hot. It sure was warming up anyhow. She twirled the parasol, feeling the back of her neck begin to prickle.
"And when it gets right to the top of the sky, right up there where it's bluest," Dusty went on pointing straight up, "it just stops. Right there. Like it's got itself a parking space. Stops right there and beats down on you like a big..." he pulled a face, hunched his shoulders, "...a big...a big thing that beats down on you and is hot."
"Dusty, you're making me hot just thinking about it," Betsy said, pouting.
"Here." Dusty reached for the water bottle, prising off the lid and handing it to her. She took it and swallowed, no longer worried about catching his germs seeing as they'd now shared three actual kisses, even if the third one was only small because Lulu had been looking.
"I know why the desert gets so cold at night even though it's real hot in the day," said Dusty, turning towards Betsy with a proud look on his face. "It's because sand doesn't hold in the heat. Maybe 'cause the little grains of sand are too itty-bitty or somethin'." He pinched his thumb and forefinger together to demonstrate no size at all. "I also know why cactuses live in the desert. It's 'cause they're full of water. Flint told me you can drink it. And he also said that the Indians chew this stuff off cactuses and it makes 'em act funny."
Betsy smiled, twirling the parasol. She blinked in the heat. A fly buzzed past, almost colliding with her face.
"When bones get dry they bleach out white," Dusty continued, "but they ain't white to start with, they're kinda brown or grey, with all bits of skin and meat stuck onta them, then the buzzards pick 'em all clean."
"Dusty!" Betsy protested. "Please!"
"What?" Dusty asked, his eyebrows lifting. "This is all stuff I'm learnin' so that I won't be the dumbest one in class when I get to school."
"Dusty," she chided. "It's good that you're getting an education along the trail, but I don't need to hear all the details of how bones decompose. Thank you." The heat and the thought of smelly animal bones were making her feel a little nauseous.
"Okay," he shrugged. He leaned forward on his elbows and drifted off into thought. After a few moments he perked up again. "How come you can't see colours in the dark?" he asked, looking round at her for an answer.
"Because it's dark, Dusty. There's no light."
"Do the colours disappear, or are they still there?"
"They're still there, only you can't see them."
"But how do you know they're still there, if you can't see 'em?"
"Because they can't just disappear, Dusty."
"Why not?"
"Dusty." she sighed. It was getting a little too hot now for this why not business, and she knew how long Dusty could keep going on the same subject. "Because things that exist and are established as existing can't just suddenly disappear."
"Maybe they just go someplace then. At night. Someplace where they can still be colours."
"Yes, maybe they do."
Dusty went silent again. Betsy watched him thinking, wondering what he was going to come up with next. The stagecoach bounced over a small pile of stones and she lurched sideways, banging into him.
"Betsy, are you all right?" he asked, peering at her face.
That was the last thing she remembered.
When Betsy came to she was lying on the plush seat inside the Brookhavens' stagecoach. She blinked, bringing her gaze into focus, becoming aware of six pairs of eyes peering curiously at her. It was amazing how many people had managed to squeeze themselves into the small stagecoach.
Dusty was hunkered down on his haunches next to the seat by her head. His face was a picture of worry. "Betsy! Betsy! Oh my gosh, Betsy, you fainted!"
She blinked again, tried to sit up, but Dusty put his hand on her shoulder, making her lie down again. "I fainted? Really?"
Dusty nodded. "Me and Mr. Callahan had to carry you down. You almost fell under the wheels!" At this announcement his eyes went wide and scared. "You coulda been squished!"
Betsy smiled as Mr. Callahan patted Dusty's shoulder to get him to stop talking.
"Well, luckily you weren't 'squished', Betsy," the big wagonmaster smiled. "Dusty hollered loud enough to wake the dead and we got you down with no problem."
"Except I nearly dropped you," Dusty admitted. "On your head." He accompanied his admission with a diving gesture of his right hand and a whistling noise.
"Dusty." Mr. Callahan's gentle shoulder patting became a hard squeeze which successfully shut his little pal up.
On the opposite seat, Mr. and Mrs. Brookhaven looked relieved that Betsy had recovered. "Oh, you poor dear!" Daphne Brookhaven declared. "This dreadful heat. The West is certainly no place for a young lady!" With that, she fanned herself liberally, clutching her husband's arm for support.
"Quite, my dear," agreed Carter Brookhaven, patting his wife's dainty hand. "Poor Betsy, you must travel with us inside the stagecoach from now on."
"But then who's gonna keep me company?" Dusty piped up, swivelling on his heels to glare at the opulent old banker.
"Young man, you are hardly in need of company," Mr. Brookhaven retorted. "All day long we have to listen to your rambling soliloquies on everything from how long it takes for a man to die of hunger to literally how much blood a horsefly ingests from the poor animal's rear end."
"Carter!" cried Mrs. Brookhaven, fanning herself furiously.
"Sorry, dear. But you know what the boy's like."
Betsy tried sitting up again. This time Dusty let her. When she was upright he got up and sat on the seat next to her, so close their arms were touching. "Was it the heat, Betsy?" he asked, leaning in towards her. When Betsy nodded wordlessly, he continued on with,"You know, Betsy, you always wear those dresses that go right up to here," he indicated under his chin with the back of his hand, "and all down to here." he indicated the tops of his battered old boots. "Maybe you should try wearing something a little looser."
"Dear boy, the very suggestion!" Mrs. Brookhaven spluttered, her eyes widening like saucers.
"I don't mean like, take anything off," Dusty started, but was stopped again by a glare from Mr. Callahan. Heaving his shoulders, the young man pressed his lips tight shut and stared pointedly out of the window.
"Betsy, you need to drink some coffee and eat something," Lulu said from outside the stagecoach. "Then you need to haul yer caboose back to the wagon and sleep in the shade."
"Oh, Lulu, I'm all right, really! It's probably just a touch of heatstroke," Betsy protested.
"Heatstroke? Isn't that dangerous?" asked Mr. Brookhaven.
"Not in small doses," Andy explained. "Betsy's probably just a little dehydrated. Her salt levels will have depleted. Lulu is right- something to eat and drink and a lie-down for a couple of hours and Betsy will be fine."
"Oh, you poor girl," Daphne Brookhaven said sympathetically. "I wish we had brought some of that Beluga caviare, Carter, dear. It's just about the saltiest thing I know of."
"My dear," Mr. Brookhaven replied, "imagine the stench of Beluga Caviare in this heat?" Too late, he realised the effect his words were having on Betsy. She paled and slumped against Dusty, who stopped sulking and immediately put his arm around her shoulders.
"Now, come on everybody, I'm sure poor Betsy would appreciate it if we could just stop talking about caviare and bodily functions," Cal admonished them all, missing the fact that his words too, were making Betsy go even paler.
"I think I may have started it," Dusty said, looking around at all the faces. "I was talking about how buzzards pick all the old bits of skin and stuff off of bones when they..."
"Dusty..." Betsy mumbled, and fainted again, falling face down into her young friend's lap.
When Betsy came round this time, it was just Mr. Callahan and Lulu in the stagecoach with her. Mr. Callahan was holding a tin mug of steaming coffee, the aroma of which smelled like heaven to Betsy. She smiled at her two friends, feeling embarrassed that her behaviour had brought everyone running and ejected the Brookhavens from their own vehicle. "What did you do with Dusty?" she asked in a small tired voice.
"We put him to work doing something useful," Cal replied. "He made this coffee. Here, just take small sips."
"It wasn't Dusty's fault I fainted," Betsy told them, sitting up again, her head a little giddy but not unbearably so. "I do wear too many clothes for this heat. I've got about two more layers under this," she picked at her blouse.
"Corsets are the curse of the modern woman," Lulu said firmly. "They pinch and pull and cut you off in the middle. You don't need one out here. Who's lookin', anyway?" she looked at Cal, then at Betsy. "Well, besides Dusty, that is, and he's already told you to loosen up."
Cal smiled at Lulu's suggestion that Betsy loosen up.
"I was always taught to dress like a lady," Betsy said demurely.
"Out here that don't amount to a hill o' beans," Lulu drawled. "Fact, some girls even go as far as to wear britches out here so's they can ride and work with the men."
Betsy pulled a disapproving face at the thought of wearing men's clothing. "Ugh," she pouted.
"Not sayin' it's fer you, honey," Lulu grinned.
"You're not ill, are you, Betsy?" Cal said then. "Nothing's bitten you lately? Because you can catch things from horseflies. Stomach illnesses and..." he stopped, not wishing to make Betsy faint a third time- it had been awkward enough extricating her face from Dusty's lap as the surprised young man sat there with his hands hovering in the air above her, not knowing what to do with himself as she lay slumped across him.
"No- I don't think so," Betsy pondered. "Just the heat, I guess." She sipped at the coffee. It was thick, strong, liberally sweetened and very, very comforting. Dusty sure knew how to make coffee even if he messed everything else up.
"You're not sitting back up on the stage, that's for sure." Cal said firmly. "Not today, anyway. Dusty'll have to manage on his own."
"Oh, but Mr. Callahan!" Betsy said a little too loudly. At the same time she caught sight of Dusty himself hovering outside the stagecoach with Andy and the Brookhavens. He was looking through the stagecoach window at her, but as their eyes met he turned away and started rubbing at the back of his neck. "Poor Dusty!" Betsy said, continuing to look at her friend. "I'll bet he blames himself for this."
"Betsy, it's not whether it was his fault or not," said Cal, "It's the fact that he always seems to be at the center of everything that goes wrong around here."
"That's not his fault, either!" Betsy said, her eyes wide with indignation. "And besides, what if he only messes up because he gets nervous thinking that everyone is expecting him to mess up?"
"Betsy," Cal said, smiling sweetly, "Dusty messes up because he's Dusty."
"Well, I don't think that's fair." Betsy held her coffee cup in both hands and stared into its inky depths. "I mean, he makes such fine coffee too, but I bet no-one said thank you to him for it."
Lulu exchanged a look with Cal, who sighed heavily. "C'mon, Lulu," he said. "We'll let 'em talk."
Lulu nodded. She patted Betsy's arm as she stood up. "You come back to the wagon after. Y'hear me?"
Betsy nodded. "All right. But I'm not happy about it."
"I know, hun. But I'd feel better knowin' you were okay where I could see you."
Lulu and Cal left the stagecoach, which bounced heavily back on its springs as the big wagonmaster hopped out onto the ground. Cal stopped briefly to talk to Dusty. Moments later, Dusty appeared at the stagecoach door.
"May I come in?" he asked, politely.
"Of course, Dusty!" Betsy smiled, happy to see him. "You don't need to ask!"
Dusty climbed into the stagecoach, which only rolled slightly under his meagre weight. He sat on the plush seat next to Betsy and watched as she sipped his coffee.
"Is the coffee okay, Betsy?" he asked, his fingers kneading nervously on his thighs.
"It's wonderful, Dusty," she said. "You should open yourself a coffee house when we get to California."
"Hey, there's an idea!" Dusty grinned. "My very own coffee house. That would be wild."
"You could open it near the schoolhouse, then I could come in after work," Betsy said, her eyes shining. She finished the last of the sweet, bitter liquid and set her cup down on the floor. "The Brookhavens will be wanting their stagecoach back," she went on.
"You need to be okay first, Betsy," said Dusty. "Besides, Mrs. Brookhaven ain't all that weak."
Betsy settled back against the satin upholstery and looked around at all the fixtures and fittings, the cushions, the lace, the Brookhaven Coat-Of-Arms, the velvet drapes on the windows. "Imagine if this was our stagecoach, Dusty," she said mischievously. "Our own stagecoach, and we were the ones travelling in style."
"Yeah!" Dusty grinned. "And Mr. Brookhaven was the driver, sittin' up there in a big old top hat."
"We could drink champagne all the way to California."
"And I could order Mr. Callahan around." Dusty's eyes gleamed at the thought.
Betsy narrowed her eyes and giggled. Dusty looked back at her with a conspiratorial grin.
"I'd go anywhere with you, Dusty," Betsy said suddenly. "Even if it was so hot my skin melted. Even if it was to a volcano, or a desert island."
Dusty gaped, completely taken aback. "You would?" he asked in a small voice.
"I would," she replied, decisively. She reached out and took both of his hands in hers, curling her fingers into his warm, work-roughened palms. She looked at him with unmistakeable intent, her eyes wanting him so much she could feel them shining.
Even Dusty couldn't miss a cue like that. He watched her for a moment or two longer, then leaned forward slowly and pressed his lips to hers, softly at first, then increasing the pressure as she pulled on his hands, then finally kissing her with passion as she let go of his fingers and slid her hands up his arms and round his shoulders.
Midway through the kiss Dusty took his hat off and leaned further into Betsy, pressing her up against the satin upholstery. Betsy wound her fingers through his hair, twisting great untidy hanks of it in her fingers. The kiss deepened still further, and Betsy began to fear total loss of her senses and yet another fainting spell when there was a sudden sharp rapping on the stagecoach door.
"Hey! Break it up, you two!" It was Cal, and he was impatient to get going.
Dusty broke free from the kiss, although he wasn't happy at being disturbed. "Gee, the best part of my whole day and you had to ruin it," he said belligerently.
"Little pal," Cal said in a deceptively nice tone of voice, "if you don't put the young lady down and get your britches out of that stagecoach right now, I'll come in there and haul you out myself."
"Okayyy," Dusty grumbled. He retrieved his hat and wedged it back on his head, pulling the strap under his chin while Betsy blushed at having been caught kissing so flagrantly. "Guess I'll see you later, Betsy," he said, quite unwilling to leave.
"Dusty!" came Mr. Callahan's voice, much, much louder this time.
"Okayyyy," Dusty repeated. Then bold as brass he leaned in for one more quick kiss before Mr. Callahan began rocking the stagecoach to get him out.
"Dusty, this is the Brookhaven's vehicle, not a headquarters for your libido," he smiled as Dusty scrambled out, readjusting his hat.
"My what?" Dusty said, pulling a face.
Cal patted Dusty's cheek affectionately. "Your urges," he said with a knowing grin.
"Oh. Oh!" Dusty blushed, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Yeah...sorry Mr. Callahan, I think I got carried away a little."
A couple of moments later, Betsy clambered out, straightening her dress and her hair and wobbling slightly as the blood rushed from her head. "I think I do need to go lie down," she admitted, smiling shyly at Dusty, who pushed hair out of his own eyes and smiled back like a love struck teenager.
Mr. Callahan raised his eyes heavenwards. "And I always thought I got away with it by not having kids," he sighed, watching as Betsy and Dusty ambled off together towards the wagon to join Lulu and Andy.
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yes...there'll no doubt be more...