Читать книгу The Scout's Bride - Kate Kingsley - Страница 11

“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.