Prudence and Laramie: A Love Story
by Lela Marie De La Garza

Laramie brought his horse to a halt and watched as Prudence came down the church steps. Though she was dressed in the plain grey her parents favored, she had defiantly sewed lace at the collar and cuffs, tied her bonnet with cherry-coloured strings.

Prudence managed a quick glimpse at Laramie, enough to see that his shoulders were broad and his hair raven black . . . 

Flanked as she was, by protective parents, a glimpse was all she had time for. They hustled her in into the buggy quickly and drove home; unworthy eyes should not gaze on their beloved daughter.

For several Sundays after that Prudence was able to exchange a quick glance with Laramie. She knew this was wrong, of course. Laramie was a gambler and a gunfighter, and she herself was to be married in April. (But his teeth were so white against the bronze of his skin . . . )

There came a week when her father had to be out of town on business. Her mother chose to accompany him, and the aunt who was supposed to chaperone Prudence took suddenly sick. That Sunday she went to church alone. Laramie saw his chance and stepped boldly forward. Lifting his hat he said "Good morning."

Prudence realized the only thing to do was ignore his greeting. But she also realized how blue his eyes were . . .  For long seconds she drowned in them . . . then she said "Good morning."

Laramie pressed his advantage. "Ma'am, I've been admirin' you for some time now . . . "

At that Prudence realized she must hurry away, and she did-but not before giving Laramie a smile that spun his head and his heart . . . 

Laramie knew now that his attentions, though inappropriate, would not be unwelcome. After that Sunday he began riding up and down the lanes near Prudence's house. One afternoon he found her picking berries. This time she didn't run away . . . 

Laramie helped Prudence fill a pail with blackberries. They talked till the slanting sun told her it was time to go home. After that Prudence began finding excuses to leave the house: she wanted to gather flowers . . . visit a neighbor . . . just get some exercise . . . 

Her mother suspected nothing. Prudence had always been a good, truthful girl. In reality, Prudence was meeting Laramie every chance she got. Neither of them had ever been in love before. Laramie had known many women, but he'd never felt about any of them the way he felt about Prudence. The only man in her life was Hiram, who'd been calling on her for almost a year. He worked in a bank, and had the approval of both her parents. They were to be married in April.

Until now Prudence had been happy with the situation. It was certainly time for her to marry; other girls her age had two or three children by now. Hiram was a good man, and Prudence liked him very much. She hadn't realized there was anything else to feel . . . that love was storm and fire and hunger for something she'd never known . . . 

Laramie urged her to run away with him. "I'll stop drinking and gambling," he promised. "I'll get an honest job of work and build us a house. You wouldn't be sorry."

Prudence was tempted almost beyond her strength. But she dared not go against her parents' wishes nor her upbringing. Though it broke two hearts, she could not disgrace herself and her family like that. Resolutely she told Laramie good bye and went home to work on her wedding gown, unheeding of the tears that ran down her face, spotting the white satin.

On a clear morning in spring Prudence stood by her father in the church. Soon he would give her to the man who stood waiting at the altar. She'd determined to make Hiram a good wife, returning his love as best she could; never letting him know anything was missing. There would be children, and they would help to fill this emptiness . . . 

The organ started playing, and Prudence's father took his daughter down the aisle. She half feared, half hoped that Laramie would come riding into the church and scoop her on to his saddle. But such things happened only in books. It wouldn't happen this time.

It didn't. Prudence and Hiram took the ancient vows and listened to the preacher pronounce them married. When he said "You may kiss the bride," Hiram lifted her veil and gave her a tender and completely decorous kiss. Then they walked out of the church, man and wife.

Suddenly there was a nearby commotion. Drunken cowboys, who enjoyed disrupting events, were stampeding their horses in a circle, laughing and yelling. They began recklessly shooting off their guns, and a stray bullet hit Hiram in the chest.

He fell to the ground, and Prudence knelt beside him, sobbing, blood turning her white dress crimson. Hiram managed a last look at Prudence and whispered her name once before his eyes filmed over and he lay still. The cowboy who'd killed him rode up. "You killed my husband!" Prudence choked.

"I didn't mean to do that Pretty Lady," the man said, slurring his words. "But I'll make it up to you." He reached for Prudence and dragged her on to his horse. She screamed and struggled, but his arm was like a band of iron. The horrified onlookers, with no easy access to weapons or fast horses, could only watch as he rode away with her.

"Where are you taking me?" Prudence gasped.

"Someplace where we can have some fun," he answered. "I can make you forget all about that husband of yours." She lost consciousness then, until he stopped under a massive tree, dismounted, and pulled her to the ground. Then he began to tear at the bodice of her gown.

Prudence had never been touched so. All she could do was pray it would be over soon and that he would kill her after—that she wouldn't have to live with this shame . . . 

Suddenly a familiar voice said "Let her go!" Prudence almost fainted again—this time with relief. Laramie had followed them. She thought Laramie would kill the man, but he contented himself with putting a bullet through the cowboy's hat and one through the toe of his boot. "Give me your guns," he ordered, and put them in his saddlebag. The man's horse had bolted at the sound of the shots. "He can't get far now," Laramie said with satisfaction. "The law won't have a hard time picking him up." Then he turned his attention to Prudence. "Are you hurt? Did he . . . ?"

"No," she answered. "You were in time." Laramie put her tenderly on his horse and took her back to the church where her frantic parents waited with the ineffectual sheriff as he tried to put together an ineffectual posse.

"Young man," her father said, "I'll be eternally grateful to you for this. But I'm afraid I can't give you my daughter."

Prudence surprised herself and everyone else by speaking up. "Papa, I'm almost of age. And you can't give me to anyone. I can choose for myself, and Laramie is the one I choose." She went to Laramie and stood defiantly by his side. "I'll go with you now. Anywhere you want."

But Prudence got another surprise. Laramie refused. "'l'll court you proper, for a decent six months," he said. "And I'll marry you in church. I hope it's with your parents' blessing." He looked directly at Prudence's father. "I know what I've been. I know what I've done. I've killed men—but only when they drew on me first. That's all over now. I'll take off my guns for good."

Prudence expected her father to explode in a tirade, but there was one more surprise coming. "Young man, if you do all you say, and you're the only one who can make my girl happy, I won't object. But after what's happened today, I don't think you should put away your guns. This is a wild, wicked land, with more saloons than churches. Those who break the law have more power than the ones who try to enforce it. My daughter needs a man who can protect her. I believe you're that man."

Then Prudence did something she'd never done in all her life. She put her arms around Laramie's neck and gave him a long, lingering kiss—in front of her dead husband, her parents, a yard full of scandalized church goers.

Prudence had been born to respectability, raised on respectability, taught respectability-sometimes with words, sometimes with blows. She'd lived with it and for it. Now Prudence realized that respectability was only a word . . . and by another word—love—it meant nothing at all.