Книга - The Scout’s Bride

The Scout's Bride
Kate Kingsley


Jack Bellamy Could Strike Fear In The Toughest HeartBut the widow Emerson could hold her own against any man - even a brawny giant in buckskins, though in truth, his blue-eyed glance had her considering his offer of protection with a lot more than coldhearted interest.Rebecca Emerson Had A Stubborn Streak A Mile Wide Yet army scout Jack Bellamy saw the delicate prairie rose beneath the prickly exterior. Someone had to convince her that the western frontier was no place for a woman alone, and it looked as if he was just the man.









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u3a333a78-8013-5df2-a912-4c33d2fd698c)

Excerpt (#ue8df1d90-f150-55ac-bf8a-db171b040f0f)

Dear Reader (#ua0f0aede-da79-5481-a95b-101f757d2826)

Title Page (#u5a91adf0-daef-50f5-b7fa-736c48a45209)

Dedication (#u94fb4a4f-c072-545e-a647-e2a772207cf7)

About the Author (#u03d2b81f-eb24-57c0-a255-c8842686a63b)

Author’s Note (#ub8b66574-42f0-51dc-acce-49c2593e791a)

Chapter One (#u3a3a082e-5c63-5e31-bc7f-31795c3d3530)

Chapter Two (#u98dd0e8c-281a-57a7-8cac-72ff8f591da2)

Chapter Three (#u4325a933-b419-542d-9f8c-fd8c8ec9f148)

Chapter Four (#uf92fdec8-bdf2-55c1-9d79-54fee98fe9f1)

Chapter Five (#uae34a1a5-79bc-5ddd-9141-8dce48d6b504)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




“I’m not jealous.” She was

astounded by his presumption.


“I don’t mind jealousy,” he went on, as if he had not heard her. “It’s indifference that pains me.”



“You’re about to feel some real pain,” she warned ominously.



He yelped when she applied the alcohol to his arm. Kneeling beside him again, she placed a pad on the wound to cushion it. Her fingertips felt soft and cool against his skin as she wound a length of gauze around his arm, tying it expertly. But she never met his eyes.



“I don’t know what to make of you, Rebecca Emerson,” he murmured, reaching out to cup her chin in his big hand.



“Nor I, of you.” She looked at him at last.



“Then we’re starting even,” he whispered, tracing the line of her lips with his thumb before he bent to kiss her….


Dear Reader,



Everyone at Fort Hayes, Kansas, expected Rebecca Emerson to return East when her husband died. But Rebecca was determined to remain on the frontier, even if it meant accepting the help of the rugged army scout who had become her unwanted protector. Kate Kingsley’s new Western, The Scout’s Bride, is a marriage-of-convenience story you won’t want to pass up.

USA Today bestselling and multiaward-winning author Ruth Langan’s new series, THE JEWELS OF TEXAS, moves into full swing with this month’s Jade, the story of a small-town preacher who surrenders his soul to the town madam. Don’t miss this wonderful story from one of our readers’ all-time favorite authors.

This month’s Lady Thorn, from Catherine Archer, the story of a Victorian heiress who falls in love with a sea captain, is—in the words of the reviewer from Affaire de Coeur—”impossible to put down.” And Josh Colter and Alexandria Gibson discover they are both looking for the same man in Susan Amarillas’s new Western, Wyoming Renegade. Susan’s last two books have won her 5


ratings from Affaire de Coeur, and fans have been eagerly awaiting this tale of two people who must choose between family, and love and honor.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll keep an eye out for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.



Sincerely,



Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to: Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3




The

Scout’s

Bride

Kate Kingsley













www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Denny,

my husband, my best friend

and the hero of my own story




KATE KINGSLEY


loves to write historical romance. And having been raised in south Louisiana, she certainly has the background to bring history to life. Kate, who now lives in the San Francisco Bay area, has a strong background in advertising and media. She also does volunteer work at a local hospital, enjoys reading, biking and especially traveling—whenever she can find some extra time. With her daughter in college, Kate has a bit more time to spend with her husband, an actor and television announcer whose sexy voice can be heard on numerous network and cable programs.




Author’s Note


In the latter half of the nineteenth century, the government of the United States built a string of forts across the frontier.



Fort Chamberlain could have been one of them.




Chapter One (#ulink_4c4532b1-6e42-5be2-a72a-41166b3fc53e)


Arid and constant, the wind swept in from the prairie. It whistled between the buildings of Fort Chamberlain, snatching the tune from the instruments of the regimental band, nearly drowning out the clatter of the returning cavalry. Gusts raised dust devils and snapped the tattered flag, but did little to cool the sweltering afternoon.

At the flagstaff, trail-dusty soldiers halted and presented themselves to the garrison commander while onlookers cheered. On the verandas of Officers’ Row, women and children gathered to scan the forward ranks for beloved faces.

The blackclad widow who watched the company’s arrival from the edge of the parade ground did not linger to see its dismissal. Though glad for the joyful reunions that would follow, she could not bear to watch them. Squaring her slender shoulders, Rebecca Hope Emerson walked briskly toward the post hospital.

Three wagons had drawn up in front of the infirmary. Nurses, all enlisted men, poured out to assist the walking wounded while litter bearers moved among the wagons. The shouting and activity unsettled the teams, causing the mules to lurch in their traces and bray loudly, adding to the pandemonium.

Through swirling dust, Rebecca saw Doc Trotter, the civilian contract surgeon, in one of the open wagons, directing the bearers.

“Westfield, Farina, step to it! And be gentle,” he bellowed at two “mill birds” or guardhouse prisoners, who had been drafted into hospital duty. “These are wounded men, not sacks of potatoes.”

Catching sight of Rebecca, he boomed, “Here you are again, my stouthearted little friend.”

“You know I’m glad to help.” She halted beside the wagon. “What happened?”

“Company C got to a grading site the same time as a Cheyenne war party.” Doc’s attention was fixed on a wounded soldier. “They’ve brought us six of our own boys and three civilians. Will you prepare the operating room?”

“Right away,” she promised, already halfway up the steps.

In the foyer, Rebecca paused just long enough to plait her wind-tumbled hair into a neat braid. Plucking a Medical Corps apron from a peg on the wall, she donned it while her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the ward. Two rows of cots lined opposite walls along the length of the narrow room. Several patients watched as a nurse made up the unoccupied bunks. Another nurse emerged from the storeroom, laden with clean undergarments for the newcomers.

Sergeant Unger, the hospital steward, stood at the dispensing table in the center of the ward. With elaborate care, he measured a dose of quinine into a tin cup and filled it with whiskey, mixing “Army Elixir,” the military cure for pain, fever, sleeplessness or ill humors. He nodded when he saw the widow in the doorway. Though the hospital was no place for a lady, he welcomed her presence today.

In the operating room, Rebecca removed the sheets from the two tables in its center. Though she had prepared the room several times, she could hardly bear to look at the larger table, gouged and scratched, stained with blood that could not be scrubbed away.

She mustn’t dwell on what would happen here, she admonished herself. If surgery must be performed, it must be done. Even an amputation. It would, however, be done in the cleanest possible conditions. She would see to that.

Waiting for boiling water from the kitchen, she filled the lanterns and trimmed the wicks. She saw there was a pitcher of clean water on the washstand, then reluctantly gathered the surgical tools from the cabinet: scalpel, lancet, saw, even a small hammer and chisel.

When a nurse delivered a steaming kettle, Rebecca placed the instruments in a deep pan and poured scalding water over them. While they soaked, she scoured the tables with hard, yellow, army-issue soap, sluicing the excess water onto the floor. The puddles evaporated almost immediately in the dry heat.

Alert for the sound of approaching footsteps, she put out needles, catgut, gauze and a bottle of chloroform. She was fishing Doc’s instruments out of the hot water when he arrived just ahead of the stretcher bearing the wounded man.

“Ah, Rebecca-Perfecta,” he teased her from habit, “you’ve done well, as usual. Thank you, my dear. We’ll handle it from here. Administer the anesthetic, Corporal,” he directed the nurse accompanying him and selected a saw from his instruments.

“I’ll see if Sergeant Unger needs me,” Rebecca blurted. And, though she prided herself on her composure, she fled.

No sooner had she stepped out of the operating room than the mill birds reeled past her. Propelled by a mighty shove, they fell in a tangled heap at her feet.

“Move, damn it!” A furious voice reverberated in the foyer.

Whirling, she glimpsed a brawny back covered by dusty buckskin. One hand steadied the burden over his muscular shoulder as the interloper rounded the corner into the ward. Beneath a beaten wide-brimmed hat, his thick black hair streamed to his shoulders.

An Indian! Rebecca’s heart pounded. Then she forced herself to relax. He was probably one of the scouts, a friend rather than a foe. Her tolerance ended, however, when she saw what he carried: the limp form of a soldier, hardly more than a boy.

“What in heaven’s name?” she muttered, about to follow.

“Wait, Mrs. Emerson.” Scampering to his feet, Westfield blocked her path. “You oughtn’t go after ‘im.”

“Who is that?” She stared indignantly at the broad back.

“Injun Jack.” His eyes darting toward the ward, the English private implored, “Stay back, ma’am. You’ll pardon my bluntness, but I’ve ‘eard ‘e would just as soon split you from gizzard to gullet as to look at you.”

“Sì,” Farina concurred from the floor. “He’s a good scout, but bad when he’s ubriaco... drunk.”

“He doesn’t look intoxicated.” Moving to the doorway, she observed as the man traversed the room on silent moccasined feet.

“Well, ‘e smells like a distillery,” Westfield insisted as Injun Jack laid the wounded soldier on a bed and hunched down beside him. A few beds away, Sergeant Unger glanced up, but made no move to stop him.

“If nobody’s going to do nuffin’—” Westfield hitched his trousers around his waist “—we’ll ‘ave to see to this wild man.”

“Peste,” Farina mumbled, but he got to his feet.

Trailing them into the ward, Rebecca positioned herself at the dispensing table, at a prudent distance from the big Indian.

Also loath to approach closely, Westfield hailed him from ten feet away, “Afternoon, Injun Jack. We’ve come to tend the private.”

“No!” Loosening the unconscious man’s clothing, the scout did not look up.

“You’ve no right ‘ere,” the mill bird went on with surprising temerity. “Tendin’ the sick is our job.”

“Sì, our job today,” Farina corroborated from behind him.

When Injun Jack did not answer, Westfield advanced a foot or two. “Some clean clothes and a little whiskey, yer friend’ll be ‘alfway to recovery.” Cautiously, he took another step. “Just let us get to ‘im.”

“I said, no!” Spinning on lithe legs, the man rose to a wary, menacing crouch. His hair flailed across his face, obscuring his furious features, but the knife in his hand was plain to see. One instant, the lethal blade had been nestled in a beaded sheath in the small of his back. The next, it was bared, glinting dully, and pointed at those who dared to interfere. “Go,” he snarled.

“Wh-whatever you say.” The pair retreated, tripping over each other in their haste.

Injun Jack turned and split the seam of the wounded man’s high cavalry boot from the top to the ankle with his knife. Easing the ruined boot and a blood-soaked sock from the trooper’s foot with surprising gentleness, he dropped them on the floor.

Despite the scout’s tender care, the soldier grimaced in pain. Rebecca looked to Sergeant Unger in mute appeal. Unable to leave his patient, he nodded approvingly when she draped a towel over her arm and picked up a basin of clean water.

“No, signora!” Farina hissed, realizing her intentions.

“I intend to see that boy gets the proper medical attention.” Displaying more bravery than she felt, she marched to where the scout peeled back the soldier’s blue kersey trousers, slicing along the yellow stripe that ran up the leg.

Her heart pounded as she squeezed between the beds and stopped behind him. Brawny, dusty and sweat-stained, he emanated raw power, and Private Westfield had been right. The man reeked of whiskey.

She cleared her throat delicately, but Injun Jack did not acknowledge her presence. Uncertain what to do, she waited, using the time to study him.

He was taller than the few Indians she had seen. And his shoulders were broad. Fascinated in spite of herself, she watched the muscles rippling under his fringed buckskin shirt as he leaned over the wounded man. His big, gentle hands were a contrast to his unsavory appearance, she decided, eyeing the holster at his side. Jutting from it was the bone handle of a sixgun which looked well-oiled, well-used and deadly.

Her gaze roved from his narrow waist, down to the rawhide thong which secured his holster to his thigh. Under supple, formfitting leather pants, his sinewy legs were unmistakably powerful.

Perplexed by the direction of her thoughts, Rebecca tried to peer under his hat brim, past the hair which screened his face from her view. One glimpse of his angry visage was enough to daunt the most intrepid, but she could not leave the boy to his mercies.

“Why don’t you go along now, and let me do that?” Edging forward so he could not ignore her, she explained distinctly and rather loudly, “I need to treat his wound.”

In response, he drove the point of his knife into the floor near the hem of her skirt and left the weapon standing upright. She stared down at it in shock. In the sunlight slanting through a nearby window, it seemed to shimmer, vibrating from the force with which it had been driven into the planking.

Her fear giving way to anger, she dropped to her knees and set the basin on the floor with a thump. Unmindful of a splash that soaked her apron, she addressed him crossly, “You listen to me, Mr. Indian Jack or whatever your name is. If your dirty hands haven’t given this boy an infection already, the vermin dropping off your hair and clothes should be enough to kill him.”

Covering the soldier with a sheet, Injun Jack turned. The bluest eyes Rebecca had ever seen drifted over her, their corners crinkling with an unexpected smile.

“My hands are clean enough, ma’am,” he drawled, removing his hat politely, “though I’ll own there hasn’t been much time for laundry or bathing between skirmishes.”

“H-how dare you try to frighten me?” Sinking back on her heels, she glared at him accusingly. “You’re not an Indian.”

“I’m not deaf, either. You didn’t have to shout.”

“I was trying to make myself understood.”

“I understood. I’m still not going anywhere.”

“Then stay,” she snapped, wishing she could wipe the grin from his grimy, bewhiskered face. “Just don’t get in the way.”

Before he could respond, the soldier stirred and moaned. Opening eyes almost as blue as Injun Jack’s, he stared up at Rebecca blearily.

“A lady,” he whispered weakly. “Thought I was dreamin’.”

“No, not dreaming.” She leaned near. “How are you, Private?”

“Better for seein’ you.”

Nearly staggered by the alcohol on his breath, she shot bolt upright and glared at the scout over her shoulder.

“A little bourbon for the pain.” He shrugged.

“Are you a nurse, ma’am?” the soldier asked hoarsely. “Or an angel come to carry me to glory?”

“Neither. I just do what I can. I don’t think you’re bound for glory yet, but I’ll know better after I look at your wound.”

“Sergeant Unger can see to it.” The young man rallied enough to tuck the cover under his chin. “A lady shouldn’t be lookin’ at a man’s… limb. It’s not fittin’.”

Her hand on the sheet, Rebecca assured him, “You needn’t be concerned, Private. I don’t embarrass easily.”

A brown, callused hand stayed hers. “Teddy’s propriety is only part of the problem,” Injun Jack warned. “He took a good lick with a tomahawk. This isn’t like treating splinters and sprains.”

“I wish my only experience had been splinters and sprains, sir.” She stared pointedly at his hand until he withdrew it, scowling. “However, I lived three miles from Gettysburg during the late war.”

“A Yankee angel,” Teddy joked feebly. “What do you think of that, Jack?”

“I think it’s a good thing for you the war is over.” Rising, the scout sat on the adjacent bed. “Go ahead, ma’am. Your hands are cleaner than mine and I bet you don’t have nearly the vermin.”

Her face bright with color, Rebecca turned back the sheet, glad Teddy had closed his eyes on the situation. She was aware of Injun Jack sagging wearily in the shadows behind her, his head resting against the iron bedstead, his azure eyes following her every move.

Her brow puckered with worry when she saw the gash and the red streak running up the soldier’s leg. The cut had been packed with an alcohol-soaked bandanna in the field. The cloth was now brown and crusted with dried blood, its original color unidentifiable. After hours on the trail, it had adhered to the edges of the wound. Calling for hot water, she carefully set about removing it.

Teddy gritted his teeth and endured hot compresses to loosen the packing, though his jaw worked furiously as it was extracted. When blood gushed from the cut, Rebecca allowed it to flow for a moment to carry away the debris lodged inside. Tears sprang to the young man’s eyes, but he was silent while she washed the wound.

Looking around for the doctor or the steward to sew the gash, she was relieved to see the sergeant approach. “Hello, Injun Jack,” he greeted the scout while he inspected Rebecca’s handiwork.

“Hello, Unger.” The man made no effort to stand.

“Good work, Miss Rebecca.” The steward handed her a small tray which held a needle, thread and paper of morphine powder. “Here, you’re going to need these.”

“But-”

“If you’ll take care of Private Greeley, I’ll take care of the rest,” he told her reassuringly.

She glanced at Injun Jack who hunched in the shadows, seemingly dozing. “Very well,” she managed.

After the sergeant departed, she waited until the morphine took effect and Teddy’s breathing became deep and regular. His eyelids fluttered as she sewed, but he did not seem to feel any pain. She worked quickly for his skin was already hot and dry to the touch and on his cheeks were two bright spots of color.

“How bad is it?” he asked sleepily when she finished.

“I’ve seen worse,” Injun Jack answered for her.

Rebecca started at the unexpected voice behind her.

“How bad, angel?” Teddy pressed, struggling to stay awake.

“The cut is deep, but it’s clean and closed now,” she replied cautiously, “If there’s no infection—”

His eyes glittering with fever and the drug, Teddy strained to see the scout. “Promise you won’t let Doc cut my leg off, Jack.”

“Rest easy, boy. He isn’t coming near you with a saw,” the big man vowed, glowering at the woman as if daring her to object.

Placing a wet cloth on the soldier’s forehead, she urged soothingly, “Just rest now.” But the red streak on his leg concerned her.

She beckoned a nurse, but the man halted twenty feet away and would come no closer. Unwilling to awaken the entire ward, she went to him. “Please bathe Private Greeley,” she instructed, picking up a change of undergarments from a stack on the dispensing table. “And dispose of his old clothes while I fetch something for his fever.”

“Injun Jack won’t let me get that close, ma’am,” the nurse protested, “not without sliding his pig-sticker between my ribs.”

“He didn’t stab me,” she pointed out, shoving the long johns into his hands. “He didn’t even try.”

“No, but—”

“Tell him I told you to make Teddy more comfortable.”

“Yes’m.” The nurse trudged toward the sickbed, glancing back at her unhappily when the scout reached down to reclaim his knife from the floor. “Miss Rebecca says I’m to bathe Private Greeley.”

Injun Jack regarded him through slitted blue eyes for a long moment, then resheathed his knife. “Don’t hurt him,” he grunted, sliding down on the bed and covering himself with a blanket, “or I’ll have to skin you alive.”

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Rebecca left the rattled nurse to his duties.

Injun Jack lay still, listening to the howling wind. His arm throbbed and he was tired, so tired, but he could not sleep yet.

From behind a fringe of dark eyelashes, he watched Teddy’s Yankee angel at work. Her eyes modestly averted from her patient’s bath, she mixed a concoction for him. Slender, erect and not very tall, she moved with quiet competence, her glossy brown braid slapping between her shoulder blades with every move.

When she turned to dip whiskey from the crock, Jack glimpsed her profile. Her delicate features reminded him of a brooch his mother had worn. But unlike the cameo, her face was animated and expressive.

He judged her to be about twenty-five and pretty enough, but too prim and proper for his liking. She did have a nice mouth and a dimple when she smiled, but when she was riled, her stare could stop a bull buffalo in a dead run.

He closed his eyes wearily. Fatigue was making him foolish… foolish over a woman. But her eyes were beautiful. He wished he could remember what color they were.

Rebecca was relieved to find Injun Jack asleep when she returned to Teddy’s bedside. The patient was clean and quiet, but still unclothed. His new undergarments lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed, and the nurse was nowhere to be seen.

Though she knew it was silly, she ducked to peer beneath the beds. As she straightened, she found herself staring into Injun Jack’s blue eyes.

He grinned lazily. “If you’re looking for your nurse, you won’t find him there.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Not a thing,” he protested, the picture of innocence.

With a sniff, Rebecca turned her back to him and lifted her patient’s head. Holding the cup to his lips, she coaxed, “Drink this, Private.”

The groggy Teddy took a sip, his cooperative stupor ending when he tasted the medication. Shoving the cup away, he gagged, “Jehoshaphat, she’s tryin’ to poison me!”

“That’s not so.” She retreated, half expecting Injun Jack to leap from his bunk and cut her to pieces, but he did not move.

“Pass me your flask quick, Jack,” the young man appealed with a horrible grimace.

His benefactor was unsympathetic. “Soon as you finish what you’ve got there.”

“What I’ve got here is rotgut,” Teddy complained.

“It’s more quinine than whiskey. For fever…” Rebecca’s defense trailed off when he fixed her with a baleful stare.

“I could live through a fever, ma’am. I’m not sure about the whiskey.”

“Drink it, boy,” the scout commanded.

With a distasteful scowl, the soldier took the cup. “Your day is comin’, Jack,” he muttered. “Soon. You show her your arm?”

“What happened to your arm?” She glanced at the other man.

“Got in the way of an arrow.” Covered with a blanket, he made no move to reveal his injury.

“He was shot as he came for me,” Teddy elaborated.

“I wouldn’t have, if I had known you weren’t going to take your medicine.”

Holding his nose, the private drained the cup. “Now give me some good bourbon,” he panted, “and let her look at your arm.”

When Injun Jack threw off his blanket and sat up, Rebecca saw that his right arm hung limply at his side. Fishing a tarnished silver flask from inside his shirt with his left hand, he passed it to Teddy. “Take it easy. You’ve probably had too much already.”

After the young man drank and lay back on his pillow, Injun Jack plucked the flask from his hands and saluted the woman with it. “Your health, Miss Rebecca. That is your name, isn’t it?”

She nodded. His face was pale under his tan and a fine sheen of perspiration coated his forehead. The glaze in his eyes had more to do with fatigue and pain than with the whiskey he swigged. “I could look at your arm, if you’d like,” she suggested kindly.

“No, thanks.” Slumped against the bedstead, his big body hid the injured limb from view and made it virtually unreachable. “O’Hara treated it in the field.”

“This Mr. O’Hara is a doctor?” she inquired crisply.

“This Sergeant O’Hara is a ham-fisted Irishman who did what needed to be done.” He gripped the edge of the mattress to steady himself. “You’ll understand my reluctance, however, to have anyone else poke around in me after he finished.”

Rebecca regarded the scout appraisingly. He had threatened, bellowed and bullied, but he had not hurt anyone yet. Surely he would not harm a woman. “I must insist on examining your arm,” she said quietly.

Amusement glinted in his blue eyes. “You have a lot of stubborn for such a little gal.”

“And you have little sense for such a big man,” she retorted. “Are you going to let that arm become infected?”

“No, ma’am.” Docilely, he extended his right arm. The sleeve of his buckskin shirt had been split up to his shoulder and a dust-caked yellow scarf encircled his bare bicep.

Reaching across him, Rebecca tried to loosen the bandage. “You’re going to have to move. I can’t get to it.”

As he turned, his knees brushed against her, but she did not notice. Intent on her task, she stepped around his long legs to remove the wrapping, her apron catching on the sixgun at his side.

“So this is what reeks of alcohol,” she choked out when the fumes hit her.

“And a waste of fine bourbon it was, ma’am.” The scout drew deeply from his flask. “But O’Hara insisted.”

“The arrow seems to have missed the bone,” she said with relief. “Thank goodness, it passed through muscle and came out the other side.”

“Thank Sergeant O’Hara.” Teddy roused himself unexpectedly. “When he couldn’t pull it out, he pushed it through.”

She flinched at the thought.

“It’s not that bad.” Injun Jack sounded almost reproachful.

“No.” She tried to keep her concern out of her voice as she inspected the punctures. Both were seeping a nasty brown fluid. “There’s just a good deal of debris… and something else.”

“Tobacco juice,” Teddy supplied the answer groggily.

“Tobacco juice?” she echoed, her stomach pitching and rolling.

“O’Hara worked it through the wound,” the scout explained. “It’s not uncommon in the field. Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Fine.” She swallowed deeply. “It must be the heat.”

“Now look what you’ve done, Teddy.” Setting his flask on the floor, Injun Jack stood and steadied her with his good hand. “The Yankee angel looks like she’s going to faint.”

“Sorry.” Teddy was asleep before the word left his mouth.

“I’m not going to faint.” Irritated by her own weakness, she sidled away and found herself backed into the wall.

“Are you sure?” The big man’s voice was husky. He swayed toward her, his bourbon-scented breath stirring the tendrils at her temple.

“Of course.” Intending to convey calm confidence, she smiled up at her patient, but her smile wavered at the startling heat in his blue eyes. Washing over her, it sparked an answering flicker deep within her, melting her resistance. His lips were close, so very close. Her own parted and she held her breath… waiting….

Waiting for what? Coming to her senses in a rush, she drew herself up, increasing the distance between them without moving. What was she doing, behaving like a schoolgirl over an unkempt, uncouth scout who was drunk and getting drunker by the moment?

Deliberately she removed Injun Jack’s hand from her waist. Standing on tiptoe, she placed her hands on his brawny shoulders and pressed down until he sat on the bed. “If I am to treat you, you must comport yourself as a gentleman, sir,” she advised.

“If I can remember how,” he replied coolly. Hanging his gun belt on the bedstead, he sat down and retrieved his flask. He sipped from it and extended his injured arm, scowling when she came no closer. “Go on,” he growled. “I’m not going to shoot you.”

She looked as if she doubted his word. “I’m afraid you must take off your shirt before I can clean your wound.”

“I’m afraid you must cut it off,” he countered. “Since I can’t pull it over my head, perhaps you’ll accept the gentlemanly loan of my knife?”

Terrified she would cut him, Rebecca gingerly sliced through the damaged shirt from armhole to neck. The scout stared straight ahead, lifting his arm a little so she could split the side seam of his shirt, but he did not look at her. When she finished, he shrugged out of the ruined garment, his muscles rippling under bare, bronzed skin. A necklace of odd, ivory beads encircled his sturdy neck, nestling in the black hair that furred his chest.

Catching herself staring again, she lifted her abashed gaze. Just as she had feared, Injun Jack was watching.

“For a woman who doesn’t embarrass easily, you sure blush a lot,” he baited, taking his knife from her.

She said nothing, but refused to look at him as she washed his arm from the shoulder to the tips of his fingers. Carefully, she cleansed his wound, probing gently for debris, and treated it.

He bore her painful ministrations in silence. By the time she tied a new dressing into place, his flask was empty and his eyes were glazed.

“Won’t you lie down?” She tried to ease him back on the bunk. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Rest is the best thing for you now.”

“Not till I thank you for your charity to a stranger,” he slurred, hauling himself to his feet. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my manners. Allow me to properly introduce myself, ma’am. Jonathan Braithwaite Bellamy, at your service.”

His attempt at a bow ended precipitously when he overbalanced and lurched toward her. Bracing both hands and a shoulder against his chest, she leaned against him to keep him from falling forward.

Jack shook his head, confounded. He had intended to kiss her hand, but both hands seemed to be planted against his chest and her body was pressed against his. He hadn’t even seen a woman for three months and now he was holding one, he realized through an alcoholic fog. Things were working out better than he had planned.

She gasped in surprise when he slipped his good arm around her waist, drawing her against him. “Mr. Bellamy,” she protested, her hands trapped between their bodies, “please.”

“Please,” he whispered, remembering his manners. Her eyes are hazel with little flecks of gold. How could he have forgotten?

She stiffened when his lips claimed hers, but did not shrink away. She fit against him, her small firm breasts pressed against his chest. She felt so right, he thought hazily, pulling her even closer.

Rebecca was motionless as his mouth covered hers, hot and bourbon-flavored, inciting a riot of unfamiliar sensation, inviting an unlearned response. There were no thoughts, only feelings as she returned his kiss, afraid to breathe, afraid to move, for fear the unexpected, exquisite pleasure would end.

When it did end, the feelings receded. Her face burning from the brush of his stubbled cheek, she blushed crimson in mortification. Plastered against his muscular length, her toes barely touched the ground. She attempted to squirm out of his grip, but he would not release her.

Grinning down at her, he mumbled, “You kiss even better than you doctor. I’m downright thankful to be your patient, ma’am.”

“You…”

But before she could muster a fitting tirade, he toppled backward, taking her with him. She landed atop him in a black billow of skirt and petticoat.

Untangling herself from his loose embrace, she scrambled to her feet. “Ooh! You, sir, are a disgraceful, uncivilized savage.”

Injun Jack did not hear. A silly grin on his disreputable, bearded face, he sprawled on the narrow bunk and began to snore.




Chapter Two (#ulink_3261ef5b-1b74-5efb-ba03-badb6d24d6c8)


Rebecca’s patients did not awaken at the sounds of Dress Retreat from the parade ground. Teddy stirred fitfully when the sunset gun was fired, but Injun Jack snored on, sleeping the sleep of the dead.

Or the dead drunk. The woman glared at him. The scout lay with his back to her, his good arm crooked beneath his head.

He hadn’t awakened when she redressed his wound after their fall or when she washed his exposed upper body, unwilling to remove his leather pants. He didn’t move now as the nurses bustled around, lighting the lamps against the approaching night. No innocent babe ever slept more soundly, Rebecca thought tartly, and Injun Jack Bellamy was far from innocent.

He had tramped into the hospital, threatened the nurses and tried to intimidate her. He had insulted her, pawed her and made her lose her temper, something she tried never to do. But most disturbing was the memory of his drunken kiss and the feelings it stirred in her. No one, not even Paul, had affected her so.

“Why don’t you go home and get some sleep, Rebecca?” Trying to keep his gravelly voice low, Doc Trotter joined her.

“I thought I’d stay awhile yet.” She smiled at the short, stout man.

“As you say, my dear.” Careful not to waken Teddy, he peered beneath the blanket at his wounded leg. “We must keep an eye on that red streak,” he muttered. “He’s resting easily enough. I thought he might need more painkiller, but apparently he does not.”

“He partook rather liberally of Mr. Bellamy’s flask.”

“Mr. Bellamy? Ah, Injun Jack.” Doc nodded in comprehension. “Sergeant Unger told me you had taken him on.” He regarded her, uncertain how to broach the subject. “He didn’t…er… harm you?”

Her face colored tellingly. “I’m fine, thank you. And so is he, though he did his arm no good when we fell.”

“How badly is he injured? I’d as soon face an angry bear than rouse Injun Jack.”

“He’ll be fine until morning. The arrow passed through his arm and there’s no sign of blood poisoning. I cleaned the wound thoroughly before he passed out—-”

“From pain?”

“From whiskey.”

The physician laughed aloud at her rueful expression. “Pain, exhaustion and good bourbon make a mighty potent sedative. This is probably the first sleep he’s had in days.

“You’ve done a fine job, my dear,” he complimented her. “Call if Private Greeley awakens in pain. We’ll make do with laudanum since there’s no more morphine and no supply wagons within a hundred miles. I’ll be glad when the railroad finally reaches Chamberlain.

“Sure I can’t talk you into going home?” he asked, preparing to leave her. “I can get one of the nurses to walk with you.

“Very well,” he said when she shook her head. “Keep pouring water down our young friend. If his fever continues past midnight, dose him with more quinine and rub him with alcohol to cool him. I’ll be close by if you need me.”

“Doc—” she stopped him impulsively “—do you know who Joe is? Mr. Bellamy has been muttering about him.”

“Old Jo—that’s his horse,” he replied with a chuckle, “named after his old commander, General Shelby. If he wakes up, tell him I had the ornery animal taken to the stables.”

“Mr. Bellamy was a soldier?” Rebecca stared skeptically at the shaggy man. He snored through her scrutiny.

“A major in the Iron Brigade of the West, one of the finest in the Confederate Cavalry.” Perched on a footlocker, Doc drew on an endless supply of post gossip. “He doesn’t talk much about himself, but I understand he comes from a fine old family.”

“An officer and a gentleman,” she murmured sadly. “You would never know now. What do you suppose happened?”

“The war.” The physician shrugged.

“The war changed a lot of things,” she murmured. “So Major Bellamy came west.”

“I understand he has lived among the Indians for the past few years. He’s an expert tracker and the best interpreter on the plains. The army’s only complaint is that he’d rather talk to hostiles than fight them. Says he’s had a bellyful of killing.”

“He has an odd way of showing it,” she scoffed. “He pulled a knife on Privates Westfield and Farina this afternoon.”

Getting to his feet, Doc grinned. “Did he hurt them?”

“No.” Rebecca could not help but return his smile. “But they nearly hurt themselves trying to get away.”

“Thus the legend of fearsome Injun Jack grows.” His dark eyes twinkling in amusement, the physician departed.

Rebecca settled in, shifting in her seat, searching for a comfortable position. A crackle of paper reminded her of the letter in her apron pocket. She had been busy when the courier brought it.

Pulling out the envelope, she inspected it in the dim light. Wrinkled and water-stained, its postmark was more than a month old. Judging by the scrawled address, her stepbrother’s wrath had still been at fever pitch when he had written it.

But Lyle was usually angry. Cold, unremitting fury seemed to be a Hope family trait. Rebecca had been seven years old when her widowed mother had married Lyle’s father, Caleb.

Dour and acrimonious, Caleb had had little regard for anyone or anything. He’d blamed everyone but himself for his misfortunes. When her mother died, he had considered his stepdaughter an unpaid servant, a housekeeper or a field hand, depending on the season. He treated his own son little better. He wore out his land, sapping its fertility, and died on the brink of ruin, cursing God.

Lyle was his father’s son. For years, Rebecca had dodged his fists when cold anger gave way to white-hot temper. Not every man would give his spinster sister a home, he had told her as she cooked and cleaned and helped him hold onto his rocky inheritance. She hadn’t believed his self-righteous mouthings, but they had worn on her, almost as much as his constant criticism.

Nothing had pleased him. When times were hard, she worked in the fields beside him, but when crops failed and bills came due, he begrudged even the food she ate…until Paul Emerson proposed.

Sweet, kind Paul, her childhood friend, had returned from the war a confident, soft-spoken man; a captain in the U.S. Cavalry. And he had wanted Rebecca as his wife.

Her stepbrother had been livid to think she would desert him, her only family. He forbade her to see her suitor, threatening to lock her in her room. In the end, his harshness drove her away.

Though Rebecca was fond of Paul, she had not loved him. She had promised herself she would learn. It would not be difficult. He was a good man and she would make him a good wife.

She had tried, though there had been little time. No sooner had they arrived at windswept Fort Chamberlain, one of a string of forts across the frontier, than Paul had been assigned to lead a series of patrols. While her bridegroom came and went, the new Mrs. Captain Emerson endeavored to make a home for them. Surrounded by determinedly genteel officers’ ladies, she strove to become the perfect wife, the wife Paul deserved.

During an expedition to Fort Wallace, where cholera raged, he contracted the disease. He was quarantined upon his return to Fort Chamberlain. Rebecca had stayed by his side to the end. In a matter of days, she found herself alone among strangers, her marriage over almost before it had begun.

“Water, please, water.” The hoarse plea penetrated her memories. Stuffing the envelope into her pocket, she looked around. Across the aisle, Doc rose from a chair in the shadows to tend the recent amputee.

Both of Rebecca’s charges slept. Teddy felt warm, but it was too early for more quinine. Poised to place her hand on Injun Jack’s forehead, she snatched it back when he grunted without opening his eyes, “Leave me alone.”

“I’ll leave you alone,” she muttered under her breath, “till the cows come home.”

Fuming, she went to the window and stared out. From the dark parade ground came the comforting sounds that had already become the rhythm of her life.

The buglers’ call to Tattoo heralded the sound of voices as the men assembled for roll call amid flickering lanterns. The officers on duty emerged from their houses on the Row and went to the flagstaff where the nightly reports would be made. Soon Taps would sound on the night wind, lights would fade from windows and Fort Chamberlain would sleep.

Returning to her chair, Rebecca opened Lyle’s letter. As she expected, it was filled with recriminations. Faced with imminent failure, he ordered his stepsister to come home and bring Paul. The soldier boy would find plenty to keep him busy on the farm, he insisted, instead of gallivanting around the West, chasing Indians.

He closed his scribbled diatribe by reminding Rebecca that she owed him a debt of loyalty. He also requested money, neglecting to thank her or even to mention her savings that she had left for him.

She did not know whether to laugh or cry. She had no money. Paul had left her twenty-seven dollars in greenbacks, a small pension, and a large bill with the army trader. She had dismissed the striker, the soldier he had hired as a servant, and returned unused luxuries to the trading post, but her pride would not allow her to make her dilemma known. No one knew but Mr. Peeples, the trader; Colonel Quiller, the post commander; and her friend Flora.

Closing her eyes, the widow tried to recalculate her meager finances as she had so many times in the past month. The numbers were chased from her head when Teddy thrashed in his bed.

Discovering he burned with fever, she forced water and more quinine down his unwilling throat. She bathed him and talked to him softly through the long night. When his fever broke a little before dawn, Doc appeared, eyes bloodshot and chin unshaven, to help her change the perspiration-soaked linens.

“He should sleep now,” he told her when her patient rested quietly. “Let me get my jacket and I’ll walk you home.”

The first hint of dawn lit the sky when they emerged from the hospital to stand for a moment, overlooking the parade ground. Encircled by a wide, hard-packed dirt road, the quadrangle was the center of life at Fort Chamberlain, bordered on the east by barracks and headquarters buildings and on the west by Officers’ Row, the hospital and the main gate. At opposite ends of the grassy expanse, the post’s only trees jutted up unexpectedly on the flat plain: a tamarack that overshadowed the hospital porch and a cottonwood near Suds Row, the laundresses’ quarters.

Rebecca breathed the morning freshness, savoring the quiet. Soon the fort would be clamorously awake and bustling. Though the wind had died, the air was chilly. In the stillness, the only sound was the croaking of the frogs in the river behind Suds Row.

“Your help was invaluable as usual, Rebecca,” the contract surgeon said as they walked to her quarters on Officers’ Row, “but I wish you would not work so hard.”

“I don’t mind. It gives me something to do with my time.”

He shook his gray head sadly. “Every time I look at you, my girl, I wish things could have been different. You deserve to be happy.”

They walked in silence, stopping in front of her tiny duplex quarters. Like all the housing at Fort Chamberlain, it was shoddily built and unpainted. Dust sifted through the chinks in the summer, and snow in the winter. The wooden structure’s most appealing features were the communal porches affixed to its front and rear.

“Have you decided yet what you are going to do?” Doc asked in a hushed voice, careful not to wake her neighbors.

“I want to stay,” she sighed. “Paul and I were going to make a new life in Kansas. I know it will be hard, but I want that new life, even without him.”

“You’ve explained that to Colonel Quiller?” he asked gravely.

“Yes, but what I wish and what the army wishes are very different things. I fear the army will have the last word.”

“You don’t think he can be persuaded?”

“He insists the frontier is no place for a woman. For me to stay would be imprudent as well as improper.” Her voice was bleak as she recalled her last meeting with the commander. “He says I must return to the East as soon as it is safe to travel.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” the man said glumly. “Edgar Quiller is the stubbornest man I’ve ever met.”

“You’re a good friend, Doc. You needn’t do anything—except quit calling me by that ridiculous nickname,” she teased quietly as she mounted the steps.

“But it fits, Rebecca-Perfecta.” He grinned. “Good night.”

“Good night.” With a chuckle, she closed the door.

Reveille sounded as Rebecca went into her tiny kitchen. Drinking a dipperful of tepid water from the bucket by the back door, she wistfully eyed the coal scuttle beside the cold stove. She was too tired to haul water for a bath and her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her that she had missed dinner last night.

Locating a day-old biscuit, she smeared it with apple butter and stepped onto the back porch to gaze out at the prairie beyond the dreary yard.

She was glad Fort Chamberlain was an open post. Wellguarded and armed with moveable howitzers, its only earthworks were trenches; the only ramparts, the positions of the sentries.

But she never felt a threat here, only an exhilarating sense of freedom as she viewed the plains spreading out before her, undulating and as vast as an ocean. Its mood, its color changed with every hour, with every day. During her short stay in Kansas, Rebecca had come to love the vivid blue mornings sparkling with dew, the lavender haze of the evenings and the bright wildflowers that dotted the dun-colored landscape, so different from the green hills of Pennsylvania.

“Good morning, Messmate,” she called softly when a lean, gray-striped cat emerged from under the steps and stretched sleepily. Plopping down to sit on his haunches, he meowed and blinked at her expectantly.

“Sorry about dinner,” she whispered, presenting the last of her biscuit, “but I should have known you’d be here for breakfast.”

The cat climbed the steps to sniff her offering dubiously. Taking it from her fingers, he chewed without enthusiasm, then looked to her for more.

Through the thin walls of the duplex behind her, Rebecca heard her neighbors rising. Inside, pots clanged, Captain March whistled a jaunty tune and his wife called her family to breakfast.

The cheerful, homey sounds made her feel even more alone. Tears burned her eyes as the familiar sense of loss flooded over her. Drawing a ragged breath, she forced herself to remember that she had lost her husband, but not her entire future.

She would go on with her life, she vowed, trudging into the house. She would find a way to stay in the West.



Opening her eyes, Rebecca looked dully around the stifling bedroom. She lay on her narrow bed, fully clothed, except.for her cage crinoline. Collapsed and misshapen, it rested on the floor where she had shed it. By the light filtering through the curtains, she guessed it was well into the morning. When the knocking that had awakened her resumed, she stumbled to the parlor and opened the door. An immaculate soldier stood on the other side.

“Private Ballard at your service, Mrs. Captain Emerson,” he greeted her with a polite bow. Having won the honor of serving as orderly of the day by being the best turned out man at Guard Mount, he took his duty very seriously. “Colonel Quiller sends his compliments and requests your presence in his office.”

“Now?” She blinked sleepily.

“As soon as possible, ma’am.”

“Please tell him I’ll come as soon as I make myself presentable, Private. I will be there within half an hour.”

“I’ll wait, if you please, ma’am.” He sat down on the shady bench outside the front door.

Rumpled and out of sorts, she returned to the bedroom to inspect her black dress in the washstand mirror. How stupid to have fallen asleep in her only mourning gown. With no time to press and freshen it, she would have to find another dress.

Within ten minutes, she had returned her crinoline roughly to the shape it had been before her encounter with Injun Jack and improvised a suitable mourning costume by affixing a black collar and cuffs to a purple dress. Her face was scrubbed, her hair neatly arranged, and her bonnet tied under her chin when she emerged to rescue the orderly from her neighbor boy, Billy March.

Grateful for deliverance from the five-year-old tyrant who had challenged his right to sit on the porch, Private Ballard escorted the widow across the parade ground. He chatted amiably, glad for the rare opportunity to talk with a woman.

Rebecca responded, but her mind was on the upcoming meeting. Why had the colonel sent for her? Had he heard of Injun Jack’s drunken kiss and decided to bar her from the hospital? Was wagon traffic rolling again? Or had he changed his mind about allowing her to stay? Whatever the reason, this audience would give her a chance to present her case again, she told herself optimistically. She would hear what he had to say… then he would hear her.

“It will be nice, don’t you think?” the orderly was asking.

“I’m sorry.” She smiled in apology. “What will be nice?”

“The gazebo for the dance.” He indicated an unfinished building near the main gate. Within its skeletal frame, a fatigue detail of Negro soldiers clambered up and down ladders, fastening festive paper lanterns to the exposed rafters. “Mrs. Major Little decided the new blockhouse would be just the place to hold the Fourth of July dance. She convinced the Old Man that it would look like a grand gazebo… as good as any they have back East.”

“Indeed.” Rebecca fought a grin as she envisioned Mrs. Little descending on the commander. Since Colonel Quiller was a widower, the wife of the next ranking officer had stepped into the coveted role of hostess. Critical and overbearing, Mrs. Major Little was the enforcer of army tradition and the undisputed social leader at Fort Chamberlain. She enjoyed the deference of the handful of officers’ wives at the post and strove tirelessly to bring the frontier up to eastern standards.

“I don’t imagine you’ve met Mr. Derward Anderson?” He gestured toward a dapper fellow who had set up an easel under the tamarack near the hospital. “He arrived last night.”

“I have not had the pleasure.” She watched the man fight to keep his sketchbook from being borne away on the Kansas wind.

“He came all the way from New York City to tour the untamed West and report on it for the Illustrated News.”

“How exciting,” Rebecca replied appropriately. For soldiers faced with years of monotonous duty on the frontier, a visitor was a welcome diversion.

“He has already gotten a taste of the barbarous frontier,” the young man related with relish. “A band of Sioux attacked the freight wagon bringing him from the railhead and chased it almost all the way here.

“Though you’re not to worry, ma’am,” he added hastily. “You’re safe at Fort Chamberlain. Our lads are as brave as any on the plains.”

“Of that I am certain, Private Ballard.”

His chest swelling with pride, the orderly showed Rebecca into the colonel’s spartan office. “Mrs. Captain Emerson, sir.”

“Very good, Private.” Dismissing him with a nod, Colonel Quiller invited, “Do come in, Mrs. Emerson, and sit down.”

“Thank you.” Rebecca looked around, glad to see Lieutenant Porter, the ever-present adjutant, was absent. She could speak to the commander in relative privacy, though his staff worked on the other side of the high partition covered with maps and rosters. She longed to leap to her appeal, but she forced herself to sit and ask serenely, “You wished to see me, sir?”

Reluctant to begin, the colonel observed his visitor across the desk. Not a hair was out of place despite the infernal wind, and she looked cool, even in the heat. But, as usual, he found her to be a study in contradictions. Though she was not wearing the obligatory black of mourning, her appearance was thoroughly decorous. He preferred her purple dress to her widow’s weeds, he decided. Their stiffness always seemed out of place with her lively hazel eyes. Those eyes had been sad in recent days and he found he missed her laughter and dimpled smile.

But when she turned that smile upon him now, he mentally girded himself for battle. That she was a worthy adversary had come as a surprise at first, but he was beginning to recognize signs of her mettle. Though she looked soft and demure, he knew from experience her proper demeanor masked considerable intellect and a will of pure steel, a formidable combination.

He liked her, he admired the fact that she never resorted to tears, he even enjoyed their skirmishes. But their eventual outcome was never in doubt. She had to go. Women were the worst thing that could happen to an army post. Just look at the folderol involved in a simple Fourth of July celebration. Picnics, cotillions, gazebos…

Brusquely he turned his attention to the matter at hand. “Mrs. Emerson, I regret that it has been impossible to arrange for your return to the East since your husband’s death. After the massacre at Lookout Station, overland travel has all but halted.

“That unhappy circumstance is about to change, however. Three companies will leave Texas within the week, bound for Fort Chamberlain. When our joint forces have sought out the Sioux and the Cheyenne and placed them on reservations, you may proceed safely homeward.

“Unfortunately—” he charged ahead to deter her protest “—I must ask you to vacate your quarters in preparation for our reinforcements’ arrival. You are being ‘ranked out,’ as we say in the army. My apologies for the inconvenience, but I fear you must stay with friends until your departure.”

She sat forward on her chair. “Colonel Quiller, couldn’t I-”

“There can be no debate this time, madam.” He silenced her with a gesture. “I do not understand your reluctance to return to the safety and comfort of the East, but it changes nothing. To put it plainly, you are a civilian with no rights, no place here.”

“Even if I found employment?” She surveyed him challengingly.

“At Fort Chamberlain?”

“I could work at the hospital.”

“What kind of rubbish has Noah Trotter been filling your head with?” the colonel asked exasperatedly. “Be assured, Mrs. Emerson, we all appreciate your help, but a military hospital is no place for a young lady.”

“Perhaps I could work off my debt at the trading post.”

“Absolutely not. Mr. Peeples is quite willing to accept payment in installments.”

“I can cook,” she offered desperately.

“Enough!” he cut her off. “Your late husband would be shamed to hear you suggest such a thing.”

“He would be more ashamed to think I cannot live on what he left me.” She kept her voice quiet, hoping it would not carry into the other office as she offered her final gambit, “I will seek a position in Chamberlain, if I must.”

“You will not. An army wife has no business in a railroad town.”

“But I am a civilian, as you pointed out,” she argued.

“You are also an officer’s widow,” he exploded, not caring who heard. “As commander of this post, I try to do what is best for my men and their dependents. I have made my decision regarding your presence here and I expect you to concede gracefully.”

“Gracefully?” she repeated, rising from her chair. “I have conceded gracefully all my life. I’ve done as I was told. But this time, sir, both grace and docility are in short supply. I intend to stay in Kansas.”

The commander also stood. He leaned across the desk, his face dark with wrath. “Madam, I’ll load you onto the wagon myself, if I must. Indians run rampant along the Arkansas. My command could burn to the ground if even a spark gets out of hand in this wind. I cannot and will not be responsible for an unmarried, unattached woman.”

“Then I will take care of myself.” She swept from the office without a backward look. “Good day, Colonel.”



On the steps outside the office, Malachi Middlefield regarded his companion with concern. “What’s ailin’ you, boy? Your face is as white as a fish’s belly.”

“Took an arrow in the arm yesterday,” Injun Jack growled reluctantly. “I must’ve lost more blood than I thought.”

“Dad-blame it, Jack.” Dragging him into the shade, Malachi glared at him. “How come you didn’t mention that when you told me ‘bout Teddy meetin’ up with that Cheyenne?”

The brawny scout glared back, embarrassed by his weakness. “Because I’ve felt worse after poker games at Elvira’s.”

“Reckon that’s so.” The mule skinner grinned, momentarily distracted. “Cards, whiskey, a pretty gal—” Realizing he had been diverted, he broke off. “You might not hurt so much if you hadn’t throwed that nurse feller through the infirmary winda.”

“He was interfering with my bath.” Injun Jack straightened and drew a steadying breath. “I needed privacy.”

“You don’t git it, hollerin’ out the winda, wearin’ nothin’ but a bear’s teeth necklace and a towel. You dang near gave the major’s wife apoplexy.”

Malachi’s mirth was cut short when the door to the colonel’s office was thrown open and a petite female figure sailed out.

“Son of a—” The scout winced, catching the woman in his arms. “I mean, careful, ma’am.” The collision threw her against him, tilted her hoopskirt askew and knocked her bonnet lopsided.

“I’m terribly sorry.” Steadying herself with one hand against his chest, the woman straightened her bonnet with the other and stepped back.

“Well, well, the Yankee angel.”

Rebecca nearly groaned aloud. Shaken by her confrontation with the colonel, she did not know if she could face Injun Jack after what had happened between them at the hospital.

“Good morning, Mr. Bellamy,” she said stiffly, hazarding a look at him. Clean, shaved and wearing a clean shirt, he scarcely resembled the rugged man she had met yesterday.

One thing had not changed, however. His hands had found their way to her waist again and lingered there. Realizing her own hand rested on the front of his snowy shirt, she yanked it back and retreated.

“Mr. Middlefield, what an unexpected pleasure.” She beamed when she saw Malachi. “I didn’t know you had returned to Fort Chamberlain.”

Ducking his balding head, the teamster mumbled into his beard, “Got in last night. How are you, Mrs. Emerson?”

Jack frowned, taking note of her wedding band. He hadn’t seen it yesterday. And he hadn’t been looking for it just now when she had felt so nice in his arms. Mrs. Emerson, eh? Well, damn.

“Sorry to hear of your husband’s passin’, ma’am.” Malachi struggled with the formal words. “I ain’t had time for a proper call, but I aim to visit you soon as I can to pay my respects.”

“That’s very kind, Mr. Middlefield. I’ll look forward to it.” Rebecca favored him with another smile before turning to Jack. “How is your arm this morning, Mr. Bellamy?” she asked coolly.

“Better,” he answered, his tone just as aloof.

“And how is Private Greeley?”

“Sleeping, but Doc says his leg looks as well as can be expected.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Thank you for your kindness to Teddy… and to me.”

She glanced up at him, alert for any sign of insinuation or mockery in his blue eyes, but he stared off across the parade ground and went on uncomfortably, “I suspect I wasn’t the easiest patient you ever had, though the closer I got to the bottom of my flask, the hazier things became.”

He didn’t remember what had happened, Rebecca realized, almost limp with relief. Then, irrationally, she felt a stab of disappointment. That kiss had shaken her to the soles of her boots and he didn’t even remember.

“I woke up this morning, almost as good as new,” the scout concluded, smiling and far too handsome and clear-eyed for her liking.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me—” she nodded briskly in farewell”—I must get home.”

“I’ll walk you,” Injun Jack informed her, offering his arm.

She balked. “No, thank you.” It was one thing to chat with him on the headquarters porch and quite another to be alone with him. What if he remembered, after all?

“Pardon me, Injun Jack.” Private Ballard appeared beside them. “Colonel Quiller wants to see you and he has ordered me to take Mrs. Emerson home. At once.”

The big scout’s jaw set belligerently. “Tell him I’ll—”

“Mr. Bellamy, you really should go to the colonel,” Rebecca blurted, grateful for the interruption. “After my conversation with him, I doubt he’s in the mood to be kept waiting.”

“He is pretty riled, sir.” The orderly stepped between them, nervous but insistent. “I’ll see her home.”

“I’m perfectly capable of finding my way across the parade ground alone in broad daylight, Private,” she cut in hotly, “and you may tell your commander as much. Good day, gentlemen.”

“Whatcha reckon Quiller said to that poor little widder?” Malachi mused as she marched away. “She’s usually got a downright sunny disposition.”

“The ‘poor little widder’ seems to have a temper, too,” Jack said with a chuckle. She had fire behind that cool, proper and— the idea crept up on him—soft exterior. Frowning thoughtfully, he went into the colonel’s office.



“Botheration,” Rebecca mumbled under her breath when she heard a shout behind her. Turning reluctantly, she allowed the adjutant to overtake her. “Good day, Lieutenant.”

“Isn’t it warm to be playing chase, Rebecca?” he grumbled as he crossed the quadrangle toward her. “I’ve been calling since you left headquarters. Didn’t you hear me?”

Handsome and dashing, Francis Porter was everything an adjutant should be, from the toes of his polished boots to his lush, waxed cavalry moustache. But just now that moustache drooped in the heat and his aristocratic face was flushed from exertion.

“I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t listening.”

“I guess you weren’t thinking either, wandering around without an escort,” he sighed, shaking his head indulgently. “Whatever shall I do with you, Becky, except see you home?”

“It’s really not necessary.”

“It’s most necessary.” Taking her hand, he placed it in the crook of his arm. “Don’t you know I want to take care of you?”

“You’ve been very kind to me since Paul’s death, Francis,” she said quickly, hoping to escape the inevitable.

“I could be kinder,” he persisted as they walked to Officers’ Row. “I’ve only just learned of your bill at the trading post.”

She glanced at him sharply, unwilling to ask how he knew.

“Paul, God rest him,” he continued, “had extravagant taste. You shouldn’t have to bear the burden alone. Let me help you.”

He had no idea what he was asking, Rebecca thought, shaking her head firmly. “You are a good friend, but no, thank you.”

“A friend,” he muttered. “You know how I feel about you, Becky. I can hardly believe you think you must seek employment to stay at Fort Chamberlain.”

“You heard about my conversation with the colonel?”

“It sounded more like an argument from where I was, on the other side of the partition.”

They walked in silence, Rebecca’s spirits sinking with every step. No doubt the gossip was already spreading. Everyone at the fort would know about the scene by nightfall. And everyone would be just as disapproving as Francis.

When they reached her house, the young officer turned to her. “I know Paul has been dead a short time, Becky, and I beg your forgiveness if my haste seems indecent. But surely you’ve deduced my intentions by now.”

Imagining she could feel her neighbor’s nosy stare from behind lace curtains, Rebecca tried to stop him, but once the lieutenant had begun, the words poured from him in a rush.

“Marry me and stay in Kansas. I’m sure the Old Man will grant permission, even though your mourning period is not over. As he told you, he wants what’s best for you.”

“Oh, Francis…” She hesitated, framing a tactful refusal. “You are kind, but it is too soon for me to remarry. Thank you, though, for your gallant offer.”

“Will you promise, at least, to consider my suit, Becky?”

“I promise,” she agreed, unwilling to hurt his feelings. How could she explain, when he regarded her so hopefully, that she would not marry again except for love?

“Then I will ask no more for now.” With a possessive smile, he carried her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Good day, Rebecca.”

“Good day.” Reclaiming her hand, she fled to the relative privacy of her quarters.




Chapter Three (#ulink_26767625-5740-5e50-a2d1-eca1b4d00f19)


“Are you ready, Rebecca?” Flora Mackey sailed into the kitchen, her blond curls bouncing. “The Fourth of July only comes once a year and I don’t want to miss a thing.”

“I’m almost finished.” Rebecca smiled as her visitor helped herself to a cup of coffee.

“Wait till you see what we’ve got to eat,” Flora announced, eyeing a platter of apple dumplings warming on the back of the stove. “Brian shot a prairie chicken and I made bean salad and corn muffins. There’s plenty, in case Prissy Porter joins us.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Rebecca responded to the familiar gibe. “His name is Francis.”

“And yours is Rebecca,” Flora answered absently, selecting a dumpling. “Why do you let him call you Becky? I know you hate it.”

“I don’t want to hurt his feelings.” The other woman sighed.

“You’re too kind for your own good. Look at you, bringing food for the picnic when I said you shouldn’t.”

“But I want to. I’m still drawing half rations.”

“In that case, I hope you’re bringing those pickles Brian likes.” Flora’s eyes widened when she turned to face her friend. “Deviled eggs!” she breathed. “Wherever did you get eggs?”

“One of the freighters brought them from town. I had more use for eggs than champagne, so I traded one of Paul’s bottles for a dozen.”

“I love deviled eggs. I love food,” the pretty blonde said around a mouthful of pastry. “Maybe that’s why my new dress is tight already. You’re going to stifle, you know, wearing that heavy black thing.”

“It’s unavoidable unless I stay at home,” Rebecca contended, “and that may not be such a bad idea. At least I wouldn’t have to face Colonel Quiller.”

“Oh, don’t take what he said to heart,” Flora advised airily. “I don’t think he’d really load you onto a wagon himself.”

“Does everyone at Fort Chamberlain know about our disagreement?” Rebecca asked in exasperation.

“When you’ve been in the army as long as I have, my girl, you’ll know there are no secrets on a military post, especially a small one in the middle of nowhere.”

“Then everyone knows I made him so angry that he told me I had no rights here?”

Flora shrugged. “Regulations say civilians have no rights at a fort. As soldiers’ wives, we’re ‘camp followers.’ He would banish all of us, if the army would let him. And small wonder. Did you see—”

“The gazebo?” Rebecca cut in mischievously. “As good as any back east.”

“I’d like to see Quiller try to evict Mrs. Major Little,” Flora giggled. “He thinks he has problems with the Cheyenne and the Sioux.”

Shaking her head, Rebecca chuckled. Flora always made her laugh, even now when she had little reason for joy.

When she had arrived at Fort Chamberlain, Mrs. Captain Flora Mackey had taken her under her wing. Born and bred in the army, she had guided the newcomer through the rigid customs of Officers’ Row. She had rounded up household items for the newlyweds and charmed the quartermaster into giving them a coal-burning stove in this place where wood was so scarce. And she had chattered gaily through all of it.

When Paul died, Flora had stayed by her side. Her friendship had helped the widow through difficult times. Just yesterday, when she had heard of Rebecca’s ranking out, she offered her hospitality. “I fear you must sleep in the parlor, but we’ll make the best of it,” she had said. “It’s only temporary, after all.”

“Mesdames,” the Mackeys’ striker yelled excitedly from the porch where he waited, “it is the bugle call for Guard Mount. You do not want to miss it, non.”

“Then bring the basket, Private St. Jean,” his mistress shouted back.

The striker paced while the women packed the picnic basket. Then, scooping it up, he charged out of the door with Flora on his heels.

“Hurry,” her voice drifted back to Rebecca, “and bring a sunshade. You’re going to need it.”



“Nary a breeze,” Malachi complained, “an’ hot enough to scorch the hide off a Gila monster. Reckon we could find a shady tree?”

“Stake your territory,” Injun Jack answered tersely. “You’ve only got two choices.”

“How ‘bout that big cottonwood by Suds Row? Mebbe a sociable laundress can jolly you out of your mood.”

“Don’t start, Mal,” the scout warned.

The mule skinner paid him no mind. “There ain’t nothin’ you can do, you know. If Quiller says you gotta let that arm heal, that’s what you gotta do.”

“I don’t need my arm to translate,” Jack retorted. “Big Bear is ready to talk peace.”

“I know you worked for this,” Mal granted, “but another scout can handle the parley. You bin on the trail too long, gettin’ by on bad food, no sleep and pure cussedness. You gotta rest.”

“Everybody wants to take care of me…you, Quiller, that Emerson woman. Can’t a man have any peace?”

Wisely, Mal kept silent as they skirted the crowd gathering at the flagstaff. Fort Chamberlain’s new flag drooped in the still air, thick with smoke from pits near the mess halls.

Positioning themselves well away from officers and social obligations, the men watched as wagonloads of visitors rolled in. Some of the arrivals were farm families from nearby homesteads. Most were railroad workers and those who profited from them.

“I should’ve gone to Wolf Robe’s camp,” Jack muttered.

“Mighta bin safer,” Malachi allowed. “There’s that newspaper feller agin, and I reckon he’s lookin’ for you.”

Swearing under his breath, Jack moved to put the tree between him and Derward Anderson. “I wish you’d never brought him here.”

“Ain’t my fault if he wants to make a legend of you.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” the scout asked sourly.

“No, sir,” Mal lied, a grin splitting his homely face. “I think it’s a shame the way that greenhorn follows you around. You can come out now. He’s gone.”

Jack showed himself cautiously. “I hear some reporter went all the way to Fort Hays to tag after poor Cody and write about him.”

Hooting with laughter, Mal cuffed the scout’s good shoulder. “That’s what Derward Anderson aims to do for you, Injun Jack.”

“Not if he intends to go back to New York City in one piece,” Jack growled, his blue eyes sweeping the crowd, alert for the tenacious newspaperman.

His glower faded when he saw Rebecca crossing the parched parade ground with a comely blonde and a private lugging a huge basket. Clad in black, the widow looked prim and proper, but for one jarring detail. She carried the most ridiculous little pink parasol ever made.

“What’re you grinnin’ at?” Craning his neck, Mal grinned, too, when he saw her. “Don’t she beat all creation?”

“She does indeed,” the scout murmured, watching her join the officers’ wives in an open tent near the flagstaff. Clustered in the shade, they observed their husbands with pride. Guard Mount, the only duty on this holiday, was proceeding with rousing music and great pomp. Jack scarcely noticed.

What was it about Rebecca Emerson? he brooded. She was pretty, but no great beauty. She was prissy and stiff, two traits that did not appeal to him. Why, then, was he intrigued by her? And why was he unsettled by faint, improbable fancies… the feel of her trim body molded against his and the taste of her lips?

The moment the companies were dismissed, Flora nudged her friend and whispered, “Look, that man is staring at us.”

Rebecca could not tell whether she was affronted or flattered. “What man?”

“The big, good-looking one under the cottonwood. Who is he?”

Rebecca stole an inconspicuous peep across the wide stretch of parade ground just as the man turned a broad, familiar back. “Injun Jack,” she muttered, an unwelcome blush staining her cheeks.

“Injun Jack?” Mrs. Little overheard. “Do you know him, Mrs. Captain Emerson?” she demanded.

“I… I just met him at the hospital.”

“What a terrible man,” she said with a shudder. “I hope you were not subjected to the same crude behavior as I.”

“No, ma’am.” Rebecca nearly sighed in relief when the woman turned to speak to someone else. If Mrs. Major Little did not know that Injun Jack had kissed her, then no one did.

“I don’t think he looks crude or terrible,” Flora murmured in Rebecca’s ear. “I think he looks exciting and rather handsome. Brian never mentioned that. Of course, he wasn’t concerned about looks at the railroad camp the other day. He was just glad Injun Jack was his scout. He said—”

“There are the two loveliest ladies at Fort Chamberlain,” Brian’s jovial voice interrupted their conversation.

“The loveliest in Kansas,” Francis amended, beaming.

“Do I hear a ‘loveliest on the frontier’?” Flora fluttered her eyelashes at her husband.

“You are shameless.” Laughing, Brian summoned the striker. “Leave the basket, Private, and go enjoy your first Independence Day in your new country.”

“Merci, mon capitaine.” The Frenchman saluted smartly.

“Doesn’t that fellow speak English?” Francis frowned as St. Jean hurried away.

“Not much and not well,” Flora answered, “but he performs miracles in the kitchen, even with rations.”

“And he pampers madame outrageously,” Brian added affectionately. “Shall we promenade before it gets any hotter?”

Taking the arm Francis offered, Rebecca could not resist a glance at Injun Jack. Clad in light buckskins, his gun belt riding low on slim hips, the scout faced in her direction. One broad shoulder was braced against the tree trunk as he talked to Malachi Middlefield. She could not tell if his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, rested on her. She did not know why it should matter.

As the couples strolled, children capered around them in the dry brown grass. They chatted, stopping here and there to visit with friends and greet new faces from town.

It was good to be out among people, Rebecca mused, even if she did look like a crow among songbirds in her widow’s weeds. Though the day was hot, it should be enjoyable if she could keep Francis at arm’s length. And if she could forget Injun Jack’s presence.

Despite her resolution, her gaze was drawn to the big scout. He was alone now, his arms crossed on his chest, his face unreadable. She nodded. He did not acknowledge her gesture though she knew this time he watched. Suddenly she wished she were somewhere else, doing something besides walking arm-inarm with Francis.

Sternly she reminded herself that Jack Bellamy was a rude, insulting rogue. He had kissed her and promptly forgotten it…which was exactly what she must do. Determined to get him out of her mind and keep him out, she was careful not to look his way again when they moved to watch the chess game under the tamarack.

Absorbed in planning his strategy, Doc hardly noticed them. The colonel nodded coolly, but said nothing. Rebecca was not sorry when her friends were ready to go on to the sergeants’ hotly contested horseshoe tournament.

From the other end of the quadrangle, the scout’s icy blue eyes narrowed when he saw the adjutant lay his hand possessively over Rebecca’s. He had never liked Porter. He liked him less now.

“What’s it to me if there’s something between them?” Jack muttered to himself, looking away. “Not a damn thing.”

He did not see Rebecca withdraw from Francis’s grasp and walk toward the officers’ tent. He did not notice that the adjutant followed her sulkily, with Flora and Brian trailing behind.

As she neared the tent, Rebecca realized that the women within had fallen silent. Steeling herself, she met Mrs. Major Little’s eyes and read unmistakable censure in them. Caroline Johnson and Sally March chatted with each other. Only Willa Plath smiled in welcome. “Come, join us in the shade,” she invited.

“Thank you.” Closing her parasol, Rebecca took a seat in the circle of officers’ wives. “It’s very hot out there.”

“I fear she is not accustomed to the Kansas sun yet.” Francis arrived and placed himself beside her.

“You really must be careful, Mrs. Emerson,” Mrs. Little lectured. “Sunstroke is all too common on the prairie.”

“You won’t have to worry about sunstroke much longer, will you, Rebecca?” Caroline asked enviously, holding onto her squirming young daughter. “I understand you’re going back east.”

“That’s Colonel Quiller’s wish.” Rebecca smiled blandly.

“I wish I were going,” Caroline murmured, seemingly unaware that her daughter had slid down and stood beside her chair.

“We were just remarking that the fort is so full of people,” Mrs. Little changed the subject. “It is hard to avoid socializing, even when bereaved. Will you attend the dance this evening, Mrs. Emerson?”

“No, the picnic is the extent of my socializing today.” Smiling when Caroline’s daughter presented herself, she took the child into her lap. “Hello, Phoebe.”

“You’ll be there, won’t you, Lieutenant?” Mrs. Little turned her attention to Francis.

“Of course he will, Mama,” Amy Little proclaimed as she joined them. Newly arrived from finishing school in New York, she was Fort Chamberlain’s reigning belle.

Rebecca nodded pleasantly at the girl and her escort. The young cavalry lieutenant, George Davis, had taken Paul’s command.

“How would it look if the adjutant did not attend a post dance?” Amy went on, gazing up at Francis coquettishly. “Horrors!”

“Hello.” Brian and Flora joined the growing circle. “Enjoying the day so far?”

“Very much,” Amy gushed, answering for everyone. “Won’t the dance be fun? Did you see Mama’s clever idea?”

Rebecca buried a giggle against Phoebe’s curls when Flora exclaimed with wide-eyed innocence, “The gazebo? Why, it’s as clever as anything I’ve ever seen in the East.”

“Thank you, dear Mrs. Mackey,” Mrs. Little practically purred.

“But wouldn’t you know it?” Amy lamented. “The first cotillion in weeks and the colonel says we must end it before midnight.”

“Dawn will come early for the companies who must ride out tomorrow, Miss Amy,” Francis explained.

“Why can’t they go the next day?” she protested with a winsome pout. “Can’t our boys wait one more day to fight Indians?”

“We hope not to fight this time, unless we have to,” Brian answered. “A large, well-armed patrol along the Smoky Hill River will serve to tell us if the Sioux are honest about their hopes for a truce.”

“And it will be their last chance to talk peace before they are completely outnumbered by superior forces,” George added. “Our reinforcements will arrive any day now.”

“Oh dear, the noon gun already,” Flora interjected with a brittle smile. “Rebecca, will you help me set out our lunch?”

Rebecca complied at once, returning Phoebe to her mother. She knew Flora’s vivacious manner and constant chatter masked dread every time her husband rode out with his men. Company C, his command, would leave in the morning.

“Try not to worry,” she soothed quietly as they spread a quilt on the ground and unpacked the basket. “Brian will be careful. He’s been on plenty of campaigns.”

“I know, but it gets harder every time he goes.” Flora smiled feebly. “You’d think after a lifetime in the army, I would have known better than to marry a soldier….”

“But you love him,” Rebecca completed the thought. They had had this conversation often in the past months.

“Look at this feast,” Brian pronounced, joining the women, oblivious to his wife’s concern. Plopping down on the quilt, he surveyed the picnic lunch with pleasure. “Pass the pickles, please.”

A dozen muted conversations went on as the families and friends of the officers dined. All discussion ceased abruptly, however, when a raucous clamor reached their ears.

“Look out, boys, here we come!” A dray, overflowing with garishly dressed females, rounded the curve from town in a cloud of dust. Squealing and laughing, the women clung to the sides of the wagon as it bounced behind a galloping team.

“Oh,” Flora breathed in awe, her face turned toward the spectacle, “a whole covey of soiled doves.”

“Flora!” Francis sputtered disapprovingly.

Brian chided mildly, “An officer’s lady is not supposed to know about those women.”

“But we do.” Flora grinned without a hint of remorse. “Don’t we, Rebecca?”

“They are rather hard to miss,” the widow agreed wryly.

“This is no subject…or sight…for ladies,” Francis cut in, stroking his moustache in vexation. “What are they doing here?”

“The colonel did invite the whole town,” Rebecca reminded him, her eyes on the wagon circling the parade ground. Its occupants leaned out, blowing kisses to the men in the crowd.

“Sorry we’re late,” a buxom redhead blared from the front seat, “but Nell couldn’t find her petticoat.”

“This is intolerable.” The adjutant shot a dark look toward his commanding officer, who watched the new arrivals impassively.

“There’s no reason for the Old Man to expel them unless they misbehave, Francis,” Brian argued sensibly. “If they observe post regulations, they can stay, regardless of who or what they are.”

“And the enlisted men will have someone to dance with tonight besides the washerwomen,” Flora teased him.

“Not that there’s a good deal of difference—” Francis’s retort was cut off by the blaring voice.

“Look, it’s Injun Jack! Howdy, Jack, save me a dance tonight.”

Against her will, Rebecca glanced toward the cottonwood tree. In its shade, the scout waved his hat at the red-haired woman.

“More cake, Francis?” she asked, turning her back on the scene.

Brian drowsed after lunch, his head in Flora’s lap, as Rebecca and Francis watched a group of men grease an unused flagpole near the guardhouse. Nearby, others marked the field for the afternoon’s events. From its starting point at the flagstaff, the racecourse ran straight past the tamarack and onto the brown, limitless prairie.

“Though I’ll officiate most of the afternoon, I plan to compete in the horse race,” Francis announced. “It’s the biggest event of the day.”

“You’ll be up against some stiff competition,” Brian murmured lazily, “Graham from the Tenth and Smith from my company.”

“I’m not worried.” Leaning to peer over Rebecca’s shoulder, Francis put his head so near hers that his moustache tickled her cheek. Squinting into the distance, he pointed. “See those stakes out there? We’ll ride straight out to the first one, loop around past the second and third, then come back.”

“What is the prize?” she asked, listing away from his closeness.

He sat back with a rueful smile. “A smoked ham and the thrill of winning. People will talk about this race for months to come. Betting is already quite heavy…unofficially, of course.”

“It’ll get heavier if Injun Jack races,” Brian contributed. “His Ol’ Jo is fast.”

“Not any faster than Clipper, my gray,” Francis argued.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention!” Sergeant-Major Flynn bellowed from the racecourse, “Colonel Quiller orders the commencement of Fort Chamberlain’s third annual Independence Day Games. The sack race begins in five minutes. Officials to your posts, please. Contestants to the starting line.”

“Duty calls,” Francis sighed. Getting up, he nudged Brian with his toe. “Take care of Becky while I’m gone.”

“She couldn’t be safer,” the captain answered without opening his eyes.

After a moment, he roused himself to walk the women to the sidelines where they watched an uproarious military tug-of-war between infantry and cavalry. When it ended, the victors, flushed with exertion and pride, assembled at the flagstaff where Amy Little stood.

Gesturing to a crock on the table beside her, the girl intoned in her best finishing school voice, “It is my great pleasure to present this prize, a gallon of maple syrup all the way from Vermont, to the Infantry Team.”

“Dios.” Under the cottonwood, Diego Dominguez y Garcia turned to his fellow scouts. “This Senorita Little is beautiful, st?”

“Don’t hurt my eyes to look at ‘er,” Solemn Longfellow allowed.

“What do you think, Injun Jack? She is not muy bonita?”

“She’ll do,” Jack replied absently, his eyes on a petite, blackclad figure near the flagstaff.

“But you have another woman in your heart?” the Mexican guessed. “Yo, también. I stray, but I always return to my wife.”

Jack did not bother to argue. “You’re going to stray once too often,” he warned, “and Antelope won’t let you back in the lodge.”

“Sí, even Kickapoo women can be unreasonable sometimes,” Diego sighed. But his swarthy face brightened when he saw the contestants gathering around the greased pole. “Let us not talk of women now, amigos. Can I interest you in a small wager?”

“Dominguez, I think you’d rather gamble than eat,” Solemn offered with rare insight.

“But when I win, amigo, I eat very well.” The Mexican chuckled. “Too bad Malachi could not endure the crowd. If he had not gone, he could buy my dinner tonight.” His dark eyes lit on a pair of Negro soldiers nearby. “Buenas tardes,” he called, “are you betting men?”

Shaking his head, Jack watched the face beneath the absurd pink parasol. Rebecca’s sparkling eyes were on the action at the greased pole and her dimples flashed with her smile.

He imagined that smile turned upon him, warming him. He imagined—What the devil was he doing? he asked himself abruptly, shoving the daydream from his mind. He barely knew Rebecca Emerson. And he would do well to stay away from her. He had no room for a woman in his life…not even a pretty little widow who would be leaving soon. The army would never let her stay.

“I tell you, hombre, this race will be no race at all if this man enters,” Diego was gesturing toward him when Jack looked around. “Injun Jack, he owns the fastest horse in Kansas, perhaps in the West. Es verdad?”

“It’s true,” Solemn confirmed.

“Couldn’t be any faster Cap’n Graham’s,” the tall Negro soldier disagreed politely. “That horse is pure lightnin’.”

“Only the cap’n can handle him,” the short one contributed.

“’Course he’s quite a rider,” the first man bragged.

“I have great respect for Capitán Graham and his famous Buffalo Soldiers,” Diego flattered his victims, “but I still would wager he cannot win against Injun Jack.”

“You got yourself a bet.” The tall Negro dug in his pocket. “I got a half eagle that says Cap’n Graham wins that smoked ham.”

“Saddle up, mi compadre,” Diego entreated, “and we will eat well tonight.”

“You’ll win enough to buy your dinner,” Jack countered as he headed toward the stable. “I’m keeping the prize.”

Diego shrugged carelessly and called, “Do I have any other takers? I say Injun Jack will win by a length.”

Anticipation was high among the crowd milling at the edges of the racecourse. Flora bounced on her toes when the first competitors emerged from the corral. “Look, they’re coming,” she cried. “I see Francis.”

The yellow plume of his hat bobbing bravely, the adjutant nodded at his friends and guided his gray to the starting line.

“So that’s Boston Clipper,” Rebecca murmured. The horse tossed its head and pranced, seemingly aware of the crowd’s admiration. “He’s magnificent.”

“But what an adjutant needs with such a steed is beyond me,” Doc blustered from nearby, pushing his way toward them. “Good afternoon, young people,” he greeted them. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his brow. “It’s hotter than blue blazes out here, but I couldn’t miss the race. Might I interest you in a small wager, Captain Mackey?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll bet a double eagle that Injun Jack’s gelding leaves his opponents in the dust.”

“Injun Jack is racing? No, thank you, sir,” Brian refused.

“You can’t blame me for trying,” Doc grumbled with a twinkle in his eye. “I backed a loser in the footrace and was ignobly defeated in chess. I wanted one success before the day is over.”

“Is that Ol’ Jo that everybody talks about?” Flora’s face fell when she saw Injun Jack’s roan. “He looks so… ordinary.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Rebecca counseled, studying the horse with a farmer’s eye. “He might run like the wind.”

“Maybe,” Flora murmured dubiously.

Taking his place among the racers, Jack fought the urge to look at Rebecca while he waited for the starting gun. Instead, he tightened his hat cord under his chin, wrapped his reins around his good arm and studiously ignored Derward Anderson sketching nearby.

When the shot sounded, seventeen horses burst down the straightaway, their hooves casting divots of sod behind them. The spectators cheered as Francis and Captain Graham vied at once for the lead, running neck and neck. Company C’s entrant, Smith, was third, trailing them by a length, with Injun Jack close behind.

“Don’t let him catch you, Smitty,” Brian urged as Jack closed the gap between them.

“Come on, Injun Jack!” Doc bawled in encouragement when the scout eased into third place, just past the first stake.

“Come on, Jo, come on,” Rebecca chanted as he overtook Captain Graham and rounded the second stake, gaining on Francis.

Hunched forward, Jack seemed to be talking to his mount. In a blinding burst of speed, Jo passed Clipper and rounded the last stake.

As the horses galloped along homestretch, Injun Jack was a wild sight, leaning low in the saddle, his long black hair streaming out behind him. Tied on, his hat stayed on his head, but the brim was bent back by the wind. His expression on his sun-bronzed face was exuberant as he thundered over the finish line ahead of Francis. Straightening his legs, he stood in the stirrups, threw back his head and emitted a shout, half war whoop and half Rebel yell.

Slowing his horse, the scout rode to the flagstaff, guiding with his knees. Seemingly occupied with adjusting his hat, he darted a glance toward Rebecca, who stood beside Doc Trotter, her face bright with excitement.

Dismounting at the prize table where the major’s apprehensive wife awaited him, Jack bowed. “Good day, Mrs. Little.”

Taken aback by his courteous greeting, she stammered, “How do you do, Mr…er… Jack.” Collecting herself, she indicated the ham and enunciated in round tones, “Your prize, sir.”

“Thank you.” The scout tucked the huge joint under his good arm and shouldered his way through the crowd. “Will you take this for the boys in the ward, Doc?” he asked, handing over his prize.

“With pleasure,” Doc Trotter trumpeted. Juggling the ham awkwardly, he beamed at the hospital’s benefactor. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jack answered, his eyes on Rebecca. She smiled and it warmed him just as he had imagined. The reality was even more disturbing than his unwelcome daydream.

Tipping his hat, he nodded impersonally. “Afternoon, ma’am.” Then, remounting his horse, he rode away without a backward look.




Chapter Four (#ulink_6e7bc8be-eff0-5b50-b9cf-d138087fe0dc)


By the time the flag was lowered at sunset, the breathless heat had been relieved by a hint of a breeze. Rebecca wandered through her sweltering house, unwilling to light a lamp. Voices and laughter floated through open windows as celebrants finished their barbecue dinners and prepared for the dance.

Inspecting each room in the dusk, she tried to decide which of the possessions accumulated during her brief marriage to sell. Flora had explained that most families sold their belongings upon leaving a post, in order to travel light. The idea suited Rebecca. She had no attachment to her meager collection of household items and, though she did not intend to travel far, she certainly needed the money.

The music for the opening Lancers drifted from the blockhouse, distracting her. Giving up on her task, she moved to the porch to enjoy the music and the cool of the evening.

Across the parade ground, the moon rose, round and full, behind the barracks. Children chased fireflies on the parched lawn while their parents danced nearby.

When the music ended, giving way to the song of the cicadas, Rebecca felt sad and alone. She missed Paul and ached for lost opportunities. In time, she might have come to love him. Now she would never know.

The band began to play a lively reel, but the tune did not lift her spirits.

Still dripping, Injun Jack put on his clothes, reckoning by the music that it was safe to return to the fort. It was dark now and everyone would be at the dance.

He had endured the barbecue, surrounded by more people than he had seen in a month, accepting congratulatory slaps on the back that jarred his sore arm. He had strolled on the parade ground, until he realized he studied the face of every female he met, searching for a certain pair of hazel eyes. Disgusted at himself, he had headed toward the river for a swim and some solitude.

Now, as he returned to the fort, the challenge rang out, “Who goes there?”

“Hello, Paris,” Jack called to the picket, but he did not slow his step. He knew the man, a former lieutenant in the Confederate Army. Captured and faced with prison camp, Paris had become a galvanized Yankee, a Rebel recruited for Indian fighting in the West. Jack did not hold it against him, but it did not change the fact he had never liked him.

“Good race today, Major Bellamy,” Paris greeted him. “Reminded me of old times with you ridin’ like you were chased by Satan himself. Can I buy you a drink to celebrate?”

“Maybe sometime when you’re not on duty.”

“How come you’re missing the fun tonight?” the man persisted.

“Because I’ve had about as much fun as I can take,” Jack growled as he angled toward the road around the parade ground.

As he neared Officers’ Row, the scout’s thoughts turned again to the widow. Scanning the unlit line of identical buildings, he wondered which quarters were hers. He almost did not see her on the dark porch.

Rebecca huddled on the bench in the shadows, hoping her black dress would render her invisible as the scout approached. His broad shoulders and long-legged gait were unmistakable even in the darkness.

Each time she had met him, he had been different. One moment he was surly; the next, drunkenly amorous. He had been polite yesterday in front of headquarters, and utterly aloof today. She never knew what to expect, but she would not let him fluster her tonight. She only wished her heart did not pound as he came near.

Jack planned to pass with no more than a nod, but somehow he found himself standing at the foot of her steps, hat in hand. “Good evening, Mrs. Emerson.”

“Good evening, Mr. Bellamy,” she answered quietly.

“Did you enjoy the picnic today?”

“Very much.”

“When I stopped at the hospital this afternoon, Doc said you’d been there. Thanks for checking on Teddy.”

“I was glad to.” She sighed, feeling her reserve melt when he smiled at her. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Bellamy?”

“Thank you.” Positioning himself on the top step, he leaned against a post and turned so he could see her. “You’re not going to Mrs. Little’s fancy cotillion?”

Her lips curved in a wry smile and she shook her head. “A widow puts something of a pall on festivities.”

“Malachi told me you lost your husband a couple of months ago, ma’am,” Jack said gently. “I am sorry.”

She blinked back tears at his unexpected words. “Thank you.”

“Were you married long?”

“Just three months, but I had known him most of my life.”

“So you were childhood sweethearts?”

“No, best friends,” she found herself admitting.

“At least you liked each other,” he chuckled companionably. “That’s more than some old married people can say.”

“Yes.” Searching for a more impersonal topic, Rebecca was relieved when the strains of a polka came to them on the night air. “Why aren’t you at the cotillion, Mr. Bellamy? Don’t you dance?”

“I’ve been known to gallop around a floor now and again,” he drawled.

“And you’ve been known simply to gallop.” He heard unexpected raillery in her voice. “That was a wild ride you took this afternoon.”

“Couldn’t have done it without Ol’ Jo,” he answered with a grin.

“What did you say to him to make him run so fast?”

“I asked how he would hold his head up if he got beat by a persnickety Yankee gray.”

To Rebecca’s amazement, a laugh bubbled inside her and spilled out. “Mr. Bellamy, you are impossible.”

“That may be, ma’am,” he agreed with a pleased grin, “but I have my good points. I don’t dip or chew. Don’t gamble much, except when I have a good chance of winning. I’m charming-—”

“And humble,” she interjected.

“And humble,” he conceded. “And I’m not as dumb as I look.”

“So you say,” she countered with a chuckle, peering through the darkness. “Is that water coming from a wet bandage?”

“It was hard to keep it dry while swimming,” he confessed, his eyes on an incriminating puddle, which inched across the porch.

“Between horse races and river water, that wound may never heal,” she chided, rising. “Come in and I’ll change the bandage.”

“No, thanks.” He remained on the step.

“You’re not going to let it become infected, are you?”

“No,” he answered slowly, searching his memory. Her words had struck a faintly familiar chord.

“Mr. Bellamy, please,” she urged softly from the doorway before she disappeared into the dark house.

On the porch, Jack pursued a provocative wisp of remembrance; a vague, jumbled remnant of memory that began with a soft “Mr. Bellamy, please”… and ended with a kiss. All at once, astonished recollection lit his face and he got to his feet and went into the house.

In the next room, Rebecca lit a lamp and opened the back door to admit a breeze. Then she washed her hands and rummaged in a cupboard, taking out a roll of gauze.

“Can I get you anything? A drink of water, perhaps?” she asked nervously when she saw him in the doorway.

“Nothing, thank you.” Stepping into the room, he towered over her, seeming to fill the tiny kitchen. He smiled down at her as if they shared a private joke.

He was so big, she thought, suddenly uneasy. She knew the power in his sinewy arms, for she had been caught in them. What had she been thinking to invite Injun Jack into her house? She had enjoyed his company out on the porch a few minutes ago, but now she remembered seeing grown men pale at the thought of facing him.

Hiding her misgivings, she pulled out a chair. “Wait here while I get my scissors from the sewing basket.”

Jack prowled the kitchen. Furniture and amenities were few at an army post, but Rebecca had made a comfortable home here. A hardtack crate, nailed to the wall, served as a shelf. The room’s seats, four rough-hewn wooden chairs, were cushioned by colorful braided mats. A length of blue cloth had been sacrificed to cover the table and the tiny window. On the sawbuck table was a vivid bouquet of wildflowers.

When she returned, he sat down and extended his arm so it rested on the table, watching as she positioned herself at his shoulder.

Rebecca prepared to tend to his arm. She tried not to notice that his long hair, still damp from his swim, was drying to a blue-black sheen and that he smelled of fresh air. Her fingers were clumsy when she tried to roll his soggy shirtsleeve. Dexterity would have made no difference. The sleeve would not go past his muscular forearm.

“Allow me,” he suggested considerately when he saw her sheepish expression. Removing his gun belt, he laid it on the table. Then he shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to her. “I’d prefer you didn’t cut this one up.”

She blushed, as he had known she would, and draped the shirt over the back of a chair. Then, careful not to look at him, she pulled the lamp near and knelt beside his chair. “There’s blood on this,” she said accusingly, eyeing the sodden bandage.

“Only a little… from this afternoon.”

Her expression was skeptical as she removed the wrapping and inspected the wound. “What is this? Not more tobacco?”

“Healing herbs, a Kickapoo cure,” Jack murmured, studying her. In the lamp’s glow, her upswept hair seemed a silvery halo. Her delicate face, partly in shadow, was intent as she bent over her task.

“What do you think?” he asked, his breath stirring her hair.

“I think it needs to be cleaned.” Efficiently, she rose and took an exquisite decanter from the shelf.

His blue eyes flickered with interest. “What’s that?”

“Whiskey for medicinal purposes. It belonged to my husband.”

“Well, pour some in a glass before you pour any on my arm. It’s going to sting like holy Ned.”

“You’ll pardon me, Mr. Bellamy,” she objected, “but I’ve been around you when you’ve been drinking and I’d rather not repeat the experience.”

“I wasn’t myself at the hospital the other day,” he defended himself.

“I should hope not.”

“I don’t recall it very well,” he ruminated. “Was I rude?”

“Very.” Her attention was on cutting a piece of gauze for a swab.

He seemed to digest the news. “I knew I was disgraceful and uncivilized.”

Rebecca’s scissors ceased their activity and she stared at him in dread.

“ ‘No better than a savage.’ That is what you said, isn’t it?” he asked politely.

“You remember.” Crimson flooded her face.

“Some of it.”

She could not bring herself to ask which parts he recollected. If he had forgotten their kiss, she was not going to remind him.

Dousing the swab with whiskey, she threw a sidewise glance at him. Jack stared out into the night, seemingly deep in thought. The lamplight burnished his bronzed skin and glinted on the ivory necklace around his neck. The rising wind caused the lantern to flicker, casting shadows across his impassive face.

“I’ve never been much for apologies,” he said at last. “I don’t even like the word sorry, but I apologize if I offended you.”

She dropped her hand, tucking the alcohol-soaked gauze among the folds of her skirt. “I’m willing to make allowances. Besides losing a good deal of blood, you had had too much whiskey and too little sleep. I understand if you were not yourself, as you say.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t usually kiss strange women.” His face was solemn, but his eyes danced with mischief.

“Mr. Bellamy,” she sputtered.

“And if I do kiss them,” he continued with an unrepentant grin, “it’s not like me to forget.”

She stared at him in shock, but an answering glint of humor shone in her eyes. “And I suppose you don’t yank every hapless female you meet off her feet, either?”

“Just you, I’m afraid.” He chuckled.

Attempting to hold onto decorum, she scolded, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I should, but it was worth every sore muscle I had the next day.”

“Save your flattery for your red-haired friend from Chamberlain,” she advised tartly.

“You mean Elvira? She’s just a friend.” He smiled charmingly. “Why don’t you call me Jack, if you’re going to be jealous?”

“I’m not jealous.” She was astounded by his presumption.

“I don’t mind jealousy,” he went on as if he had not heard her. “It’s indifference that pains me.”

“You’re about to feel some real pain,” she warned ominously.

He yelped when she applied the alcohol to his arm. Kneeling beside him again, she placed a pad on the wound to cushion the bandage. Her fingertips felt soft and cool against his skin as she wound a length of gauze around his arm, tying it expertly. But she never met his eyes.

“I don’t know what to make of you, Rebecca Emerson,” he murmured, reaching out to cup her chin in his big hand.

“Nor I, of you.” She looked at him at last.

“Then we’re starting even,” he whispered, tracing the line of her lips with his thumb before he bent to kiss her.

Tenderly, his mouth moved over hers, the tip of his tongue exploring the crease between her lips, teasing them to open. When they parted under the merest pressure, he entered, reveling in the warmth and the sweetness of her response.

Rebecca was transfixed by sensation, every aspect of the moment stamped in her mind: the hard floor beneath her; the music carried on the breeze; the moth that batted itself against the lamp chimney; but most of all, Jack’s kiss, setting her afire, with feelings she had never felt before.

Pulling away, she stared up at him with a troubled expression. “I don’t think you should have done that.”

“I know I shouldn’t have,” he answered soberly. Rising, he put on his shirt. What possessed him? He hadn’t intended to kiss her again.

What had she done? Rebecca asked herself, watching him fasten his gun belt. Mama had always said, “If you conduct yourself as a lady, others will treat you as one.” If she were truly a proper lady, she would be outraged by his kiss. If she were truly proper, she would not have kissed him back. If she were proper, she would order him to leave.

Squatting beside her, the man seemed to search for the right words. When he spoke, his apology came as a surprise to both of them. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to go?”

Biting her bottom lip, Rebecca wavered. She knew what she should do, but she blurted, “No, don’t go! I mean…if you promise not to kiss me again, Mr. Bellamy, we’ll say no more about it.”

“I’ll behave myself for the rest of the evening, I promise.” As if to demonstrate his good intentions, he stood and extended a hand to her. “Shall we move back to the front porch?”

Rebecca led the way. Halting on the top step, she stared up at the star-studded sky. “Isn’t it glorious?”

“Even more beautiful than the fireworks will be.” Jack stood close behind her.

Sitting down on the step, she increased the distance between them. “Colonel Quiller is so concerned about fire,” she remarked, “it seems odd he would allow fireworks tonight.”

“Quiller knows what he’s doing.” The man moved down to stand in front of her. “By having one big display, there won’t be so many small ones, so there’s less risk of fire. He also ordered a special fire detail to stand by. I wouldn’t worry, though.” Lifting his head, he sniffed the wind. “I smell rain.”

“I don’t see any thunderheads.” Rebecca smiled when a small gray form materialized out of the darkness and trotted toward them. “I do see my cat, however. At least I think he’s my cat. Messmate only shows up around suppertime.”

“The name fits,” Jack chuckled. “He ate quite well at the barbecue.” His amusement faded when Messmate wound around his ankles. Never overly fond of cats, he sought a graceful escape.

“Listen.” He cocked an ear toward the unseen orchestra. “Strauss. It seems a pity to waste it. Do you waltz?”

“I…I shouldn’t. Thank you,” Rebecca answered after a long silence. She loved to dance, but she did not dare… not only because of what others might say if they saw them, but because she did not know what would happen if he took her in his arms.

Out on the parade ground, dark forms milled around the flagstaff, catching the couple’s attention. Suddenly a skyrocket shot upward and exploded overhead, a splendid, multicolored flare against the velvety black sky. Stepping down beside Jack, Rebecca gazed up at the sight.

He stirred restively as the faint fragrance of roses from her hair wafted to him on the rising breeze. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay with her, alone in the moonlight, without kissing her again. “Why don’t we join the party?” he suggested. “It’s dark. No one will even know we’re there.”

“All right,” she agreed, grateful for a distraction from his nearness.

At the back of the crowd, George Davis glanced toward the new arrivals. His brows lifted in surprise, he greeted them quietly, “Mrs. Emerson, Injun Jack, what a surprise.”

Standing beside the lieutenant, Rebecca spied Flora, seated with the other officers’ wives. Brian hovered behind her, bending frequently to comment in her ear. Colonel Quiller paced at the flagstaff with one eye on the sergeant who lit the fireworks, the other alert for fire in the dry grass. Francis stood nearby, his upturned face illuminated by the pyrotechnics.

“Oooh!” A cry rose from the audience when a brilliant rocket burst overhead. Caught by a sudden gust of wind, the fiery array broke apart, sending ash and cinders to earth in a dozen different places. In an instant, five grass fires had ignited on the ground.

As Jack and George raced to stamp out the fires near them, the crowd scattered in all directions and the bucket brigade sprang to action. Out on the quadrangle, a boy who had lolled in the grass watching the display tossed his quilt to Jack.

Bunching it in his hand, the man beat at the fire, rapidly containing the flames. But, while Rebecca watched, the blaze leapt over itself and set another small patch afire. Hauling her skirt up around her knees, she ran to stamp it out before it spread.

“What are you doing?” Jack roared, suddenly beside her.

“Trying to help.”

“Get back.” He shoved her behind him, but she would not stay. They worked side by side until the blaze was extinguished.

When they turned from the blackened patch, he uttered a strangled curse and lunged at her. Her hoops broke with a splintering crack as he carried her to the ground.

Facedown in the dirt beneath his big body, she gasped for breath. To her horror, she felt him rise to his knees above her and slap at the back of her dress.

“Are you all right?” Rolling her onto her back, he yanked her into a sitting position. “Are you all right? Speak, woman!”

“I think so,” she managed.

“Didn’t I tell you to get away?” His sooty face scowled down at her. “Why didn’t you wait for the fire brigade?”

“Why didn’t you?” She returned his glare. “You probably made your arm bleed again.”

“You let me worry about that,” he snapped.

“Becky, what are you doing here?” Francis frowned down at them.

“I was watching fireworks,” Rebecca replied with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Before she set herself on fire,” Jack griped as he stood up. He turned to offer a hand, but the lieutenant had dropped to one knee beside the woman.

“Are you hurt, my dear?” he was asking solicitously.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. Getting to her feet, she strained to see her damaged skirt over her shoulder. It had taken on an odd shape from the broken hoops beneath it. Even worse, a wide portion of fabric was missing from hem to waist. “Oh, my dress is ruined!”

“Damn your dress,” Jack snarled.

“Is he bothering you?” Francis glared at the scout.

“She’s bothering me,” Jack fumed, disturbed by unaccustomed fear. “This stubborn female scared me out of ten years of my life.”

“That’s enough.” The adjutant swung his short circular cape over her shoulders. “I’ll take you home, Becky.”

“I brought her. I’ll take her home,” Jack contended.

“Neither of you need to bother, thank you. And thank you for your cape, Francis, but it doesn’t hide the hole.” Removing the wrap, she returned it.

“You can’t walk home unescorted,” the officer objected.

“I won’t have to. Lieutenant,” she called to George Davis, “will you be so kind as to take me home?”

“I’d be honored, Mrs. Emerson.” As the band played “Good Night, Ladies,” he offered his arm gallantly.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Rebecca called over her shoulder.

Francis stalked away, muttering under his breath. Jack remained, watching her crinoline flash white in the moonlight with every step. It was just as well Davis was walking her home, he thought, suddenly weary. He didn’t need to bid her goodnight on her dark doorstep. He had already come close to forgetting his promise.




Chapter Five (#ulink_cc0e4024-b385-5bad-ab85-122c7c2fb3b5)


The air was fresh and rain-washed when Jack rode back to Fort Chamberlain. Though his arm ached, he felt better than he had for days. His body was healing and his mind was clear after watching the sun rise.

Fatigue call was sounding as he guided Ol’ Jo through the main gate. The fort was already returning to normal. At the flagstaff, the adjutant received officers’ reports. A work party stripped the blockhouse of its drooping paper lanterns. Only soggy black patches in the grass served as reminders of the night’s misadventure.

Jack was surprised to see the patrol assembling on the other side of the parade ground. Clad in campaign clothing and equipped for several days, they ranged along the road in front of the headquarters building. He rode to join Diego at the head of the column. “Qué pasa? I thought you weren’t leaving till afternoon.”

“First we patrol between the fort and the railhead, then we go,” the Mexican replied with a shrug. “El coronel gave the order after a messenger arrived. He wishes it to be safe for a visit by some dignatarios from the railroad this afternoon. Solemn will show these tenderfoots some buffalo.” Gold flashed as he grinned. “You, I think, will have the honor to dine with them tonight.”

“Damn.” Jack wished he were going. He would be more useful on patrol than at the fort, coddling eastern visitors. Quiller’s decision to make the army’s presence known on the plains was as calculated as a chess move, but it was fraught with risk. A show of power might deter the Sioux from more bloodshed, but it could incite some of the volatile young braves. He was just glad Mackey was in command. The captain had a cool head.

Resting his hand on the stock of the Spencer rifle in his saddle scabbard, Jack looked around. A dozen people clustered on the headquarters steps, bidding their farewells. Rebecca stood a little apart, trying to give the Mackeys some privacy. Though she looked as if she wished she could disappear, she did not seem much the worse for last night’s experience. In fact, she was lovely.

“Don’t start,” the scout muttered under his breath. He had given himself a stern lecture during his morning ride. Curiosity, a weakness of his, had led to what happened last night. He had forgotten the kiss at the hospital, so he had kissed her again. He had wanted to see if she would kiss him back. She had. Now his curiosity had been satisfied. No more moments of weakness, he ordered himself, trying to ignore Diego’s amused gaze.

Unaware of his observation, Rebecca brooded. She should never have come to see the patrol off. She wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t thought Flora might need her. She was uncomfortably aware of Francis’s reproachful stare. She had done nothing wrong by going to the fireworks display, she told herself, but she had hurt his feelings when she made her brief appearance with Injun Jack.

Even more than the adjutant, she dreaded facing the scout. Last night had been folly from the kiss in the kitchen to the ruin of her dress. And she hadn’t even thanked him properly for putting out the fire.

“Good morning, Mrs. Emerson,” a polite voice interrupted her troubled thoughts.

“Good morning.” Glad for the distraction, Rebecca joined George Davis at the foot of the steps. “How are you this morning?”

“Ready to be underway, but I’m glad of an opportunity to speak to you, ma’am… privately.”

“What is it, Lieutenant?” she asked with a puzzled frown.

He hesitated, then said stiffly, “First of all, Mrs. Emerson, you must know that Company B is quite fond of you.”

“You’ve all been very kind.”

“Then I hope you’ll understand,” the young officer went on miserably, “if I caution you not to spend time with Injun Jack.”

“What?” Rebecca stared at him, unable to believe her ears.

“I know he kept you from serious injury when your dress was burning and we all appreciate it. But a lady of your quality…”

“I think I understand,” she murmured when he faltered. Though part of her rebelled at having to defend her actions, she could not summon up any real outrage. George was obviously ill at ease with what he considered his duty toward his captain’s lady.

“I assure you, Lieutenant, Mr. Bellamy’s actions last night were no more than kindness to a widow,” she lied. “I probably will not see him again.” That was the truth. Once she had thanked him, she intended to avoid him completely.

“I hope I haven’t offended you,” George muttered woefully, “but I am concerned for your welfare.”

“I understand.” She sighed.

“What do you understand?” The pair turned to see Francis behind them, his jealous green eyes resting upon them.

“That the entire company worries for the captain’s lady,” George blurted defensively.

Regarding Rebecca with a proprietary air, the adjutant murmured, “You never have to worry as long as I’m around.”

“Then you’ll look in on her while we’re away?” The other man’s relief was apparent.

“I can take care of myself,” Rebecca protested, glaring back and forth between them.

“But you don’t have to,” George assured her. “If you need anything, you have only to ask Lieutenant Porter.”

“Your most willing servant.” Sweeping his hat from his head, the adjutant bowed gallantly.

She was spared having to answer when Brian gave the order to mount up. Kissing his wife’s cheek, he grinned at Rebecca. “Make Flora behave while I’m away.”

“If I can.” Returning his teasing smile, she moved to stand beside her friend.

“God be with you, Brian,” Flora called. “God be with you all.”

“Aren’t they handsome?” Amy Little gushed. Joining the women, she watched as the two long columns of men lurched forward, their equipment rattling. “It is disappointing that they don’t wear their dress uniforms on campaign. They don’t even wear insignia, so you can tell the officers from the regular soldiers.”

“Insignia catch the light and make them targets,” Flora answered tersely.

“Then it’s just as well. They’re still the cavaliers of the plains,” the young woman maintained romantically.

At the head of the column, Brian’s company saluted the colonel and began to sing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

Through the dust, Rebecca glimpsed Injun Jack across the road on the parade ground, frowning as he watched the cavalry’s departure. His frown deepened into a scowl when Derward Anderson approached him. Wheeling his horse, the scout headed for the stable, nearly trampling the newspaperman as he passed. He never glimpsed Rebecca’s disapproving face.

The women watched the patrol ride west until they were specks against the horizon, and their song and clatter had long faded. Then Rebecca said gently, “Come, Flora. I’ll walk you home.”

The fort was quiet as the two women cut across the parade ground to Officers’ Row. Few voices could be heard and those were subdued. A haunting spiritual and the click of curry combs came from the stables where the Buffalo Soldiers tended their horses.

“Good morning, young ladies,” Doc greeted them on his way to deliver the sick call report. “I see the boys got off with your husband in the lead, Mrs. Mackey. He’s a fine officer.”

“Thank you.” The captain’s wife smiled in wan appreciation.

“I suppose you’re wondering about your patient, Rebecca.”

“How is Private Greeley this morning?”

“I gave him laudanum last night and he’s still sleeping. He should wake soon. Would you like me to send for you when he does?”

“Please.”

“And Rebecca-Perfecta—” the physician hesitated before leaving them “—do you think you might help Sergeant Unger inventory the stores and pharmaceuticals? I could order a nurse to help him, but you know the ‘volunteers’ I get. Most are men the sergeants are trying to get rid of. I don’t trust them not to drink what’s left of the whiskey or help themselves to the laudanum.”

“I’ll come as soon as I can, Doc.”

“You can go now if you wish,” Flora offered as they resumed their walk. “I should visit the infirmary. I think Private Greeley is one of Brian’s men. But I just can’t do it today.”

“You don’t have to,” Rebecca told her soothingly. “Would you like to come to my house? Or would you prefer to go home?”





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