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The Scout's Bride
The Scout's Bride

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“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

“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?”

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