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The Scout's Bride
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedication
About the Author
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Copyright
“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
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
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
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.
