Читать книгу Marrying the Major - Victoria Bylin - Страница 10

“Major Smith!”

Tristan arched one brow at the stunned brunette. “May I lower my hands now?”

“Of course.” Most people groveled when they realized they’d stepped on his toes. Caroline Bradley snapped to attention but not in the way of an underling. She looked him square in the eye. “I’m sure you understand my reaction. As you can see, the stagecoach was robbed.”

“Yes.”

He wished now they hadn’t stopped at dusk. As luck would have it, they’d camped less than a mile away. By the morning light he’d spotted in the debris a woman’s shoe and a nightgown that had been mauled by dirty hands. Certain the two Miss Bradleys had been on the coach, he’d left Jon to search through the crates and had maneuvered down the ravine. He’d spotted the yellow coach lying on its side but hadn’t seen the women. Until Miss Bradley had gotten the jump on him, he’d believed the sisters had been abducted by the Carvers or left for dead inside the coach.

Looking at her now, the one he assumed to be the governess, he decided the timing of his arrival had been fortuitous. If he’d arrived in the dark, she’d have shot him. The elder Miss Bradley—the nurse—was struggling to stand.

Tristan stepped around the overturned coach and offered his hand. “Allow me.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

When the elder Miss Bradley reached her feet, the younger Miss Bradley put her arm around her waist to steady to her. Tristan couldn’t address both women as “Miss Bradley.” In his mind he’d think of them as Caroline and Elizabeth. If only one sister was present, he’d address her as Miss Bradley. When they were together, etiquette required him to address the eldest as Miss Bradley and the younger as Miss Caroline. Looking at the women, he easily discerned the difference in their ages and spoke to the nurse. “I presume you’re Miss Elizabeth Bradley?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

He looked at the governess and wished the rules of etiquette weren’t quite so clear. Calling this pretty woman by her given name struck him as too personal, even when he prefaced her name with “Miss.” He studied her with a stern eye. “I’ll address you as Miss Caroline. Is that acceptable?”

A populist gleam twinkled in her wide eyes. “Simply Caroline would do.”

“Hardly.”

“Then whichever you’d prefer, Mr. Smith.”

“It’s Major Smith.”

He’d been out of the army for months, but he hadn’t adjusted to being Mr. Smith. In England he’d have been Lord Tristan, a title that gave him indigestion but sounded normal to his ears. As much as he wanted to deny it, titles and ranks were in his blood.

Maybe that’s why Caroline’s tone struck him as insubordinate. Even more annoying, she reminded him of Louisa. Not only did she have a lively glint in her eyes, but she also had Louisa’s ivory skin and brunette hair. It was an utter mess at the moment, a tumbling pile of curls that had once been meant to impress him. He knew from her letters that she had a suitable education, but he hadn’t expected the keen intelligence he saw in her brown eyes. Or were they green? Hazel, he decided. She had eyes that mirrored her surroundings, and today they’d been muted by the grayish sky. He couldn’t help but wonder if her eyes had once been brighter or if they had faded with life’s trials.

He’d taken a chance hiring a stranger to raise his children, but he had little choice. He hoped Jon would see Caroline’s attributes as plainly as he did. His friend would certainly notice her female curves. Any man would—including Tristan, though the awareness had to remain fleeting.

She stood with her chin slightly raised, silent but somehow conveying her irritation with him. Tristan didn’t like being challenged even with silence, so he paused to examine the overturned coach. He didn’t expect to see the crate of quinine, though he held to a sliver of hope.

The new governess cleared her throat. “Sir?”

“One moment,” he ordered. “Jon will be here shortly. There’s no point in repeating yourself.”

“Who’s Jon?” she asked.

He glared at her. “He’s second in command at The Barracks.”

“A barracks? I thought you owned a ranch.”

“I do,” he said with aplomb. “The Barracks is a nickname. I assure you, Miss Caroline. You’ll live in a perfectly proper house.”

She gave him a doubtful look but said nothing.

Tristan cupped his hand to his mouth and called for Jon. “I’ve found the women. Get down here.”

When he looked back at the two Miss Bradleys, the eldest was giving him a look he could only describe as scolding. Tristan’s own mother had died when he was five, but he’d seen his wife give that look to Freddie. Tristan didn’t like receiving it from an employee.

The new governess reflected the same disapproval. “Major, you should know—”

“Not now.”

“But I have something to tell you!”

“I know enough,” he snapped at her.

He must have established his authority because she sealed her lips. He looked up the hill, saw Jon navigating the incline and waited in stony silence for his friend to arrive. Tristan couldn’t stop himself from wondering about the quinine. If the Carvers knew the value, they would have stolen it. Judging by the mayhem on the road, at the very least they’d smashed the crate. Without sufficient quinine, his next bout of fever would be a brute.

As Jon came down the hill, Tristan saw the look his friend wore after a battle when bodies lay askew and the price of victory was its most obvious. He hadn’t found the quinine.

The man strode to Tristan’s side, acknowledged the women with a nod, then spoke in a quiet tone. “I found the crate. It’s been smashed. The bottles are broken or missing.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon murmured. “There’s nothing to salvage.”

The younger woman cleared her throat. “Major Smith—”

“Miss Caroline!” He bellowed to make a point. “Do you always interrupt with such enthusiasm?”

“Only when it’s important.”

She said no more, leaving it up to him to humble himself and ask. “If you don’t mind, it will have to wait. I’m expecting an important shipment. Jon is looking for—”

“Quinine,” she said quietly.

Instead of scolding her again, Tristan stared into her shimmering eyes. “Go on.”

“Part of the shipment was destroyed, but I salvaged seven bottles. They’re hidden in the stagecoach.”

He said nothing because being in her debt was humbling and he didn’t know how to be anything but a man in command. Malaria had turned the tables on him. The disease was in charge, and it had been since he’d left the West Indies. Now Caroline Bradley was in charge. He didn’t like being beholden to anyone, especially not a woman with brunette hair and intelligent eyes. Molly had been gone for more than a year. He missed her terribly, but his own illness had forced him to cope with the loss quickly. He had only one focus—to provide a family for Freddie and Dora in case of his death.

Jon offered Caroline his hand. “You must be one of the Bradley sisters. I’m Jonathan Tate. I keep Major Smith in line.”

Tristan watched the woman’s eyes for a flicker of interest. Jon was twelve years older than she was, but women found him appealing. More than once Tristan’s second in command had been called a pussycat, while Tristan had been called “sir” by everyone including his wife and children.

Caroline Bradley shook Jon’s hand, then introduced her sister. Apparently, the elder Miss Bradley went by Bessie. Tristan should have been doing the honors, but he disliked social pleasantries. They reminded him too much of the stilted formality of his childhood.

“It was terrible,” the eldest Miss Bradley said about the robbery. “One minute we were riding along at a reasonable clip, and the next we were flying around the curves. The driver made it around a turn and stopped the coach. He told us to run for our lives.”

“What happened to him?” Tristan asked.

“They shot him,” Caroline said quietly. “I did my best to bury him, but his family might want to do better. His name was Calvin.”

Tristan knew Calvin. He’d worked briefly at The Barracks. He had no family, but Tristan wouldn’t leave him in an unmarked grave. He turned to Jon. “When we get to the ranch, send someone to take care of the body.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tristan turned back to the women. “Was there someone riding shotgun?”

Caroline shook her head. “There was supposed to be a second driver, but he didn’t show up. Calvin made the decision to go alone.” She gave him a deliberate look. “He was anxious to deliver the quinine.”

Calvin would have known the importance of the medicine. Yet again, Tristan was beholden to someone. The debt couldn’t be repaid except to live in a manner worthy of the sacrifice. That meant showing kindness to Caroline and her sister. Looking at her now, he saw a courageous woman who’d survived a robbery, buried one man and saved another by salvaging the medicine. Needing to focus on something other than her attributes, he changed the subject. “Do you know who robbed the stage?”

Bessie answered. “Calvin mentioned the Carvers before we left Cheyenne.”

“That’s the assumption,” he acknowledged.

Caroline had the haunted look of a soldier reliving a battle. “The robbers ransacked the stagecoach. We heard them making threats, so we hid. We couldn’t run because Bessie twisted her ankle.”

Tristan couldn’t stand the thought of the Carvers harming either of the women.

Bessie squeezed her sister’s hand. “The good Lord had an eye on us.”

Tristan doubted it. In his experience, God ignored the needs of human beings as surely as the duke had ignored his third son. Where was God when Molly lay shaking with fever? Neither did God care about little Dora, who still cried for her mother, or for Freddie, who didn’t cry at all. Tristan had seen too much death to deny the hope of an afterlife, but he didn’t see God in the here and now. He especially didn’t see a loving Father when fever made him delusional and his bones caught fire.

Bessie indicated the area around the coach. “As you can see, we’ve been camping. Caroline saw to everything.”

He studied the patch of ground sheltered by the coach. Caroline had done a commendable job of salvaging essentials from the wreckage. She’d built a fire, used a pot to fetch water from a stream and neatly organized food they’d brought from Cheyenne. The campsite was a testament to ingenuity, neatness and order, all traits Tristan admired. Nonetheless, he imagined the women would prefer his house in Wheeler Springs to another night in the open. They’d have to move quickly to arrive by nightfall, especially with packhorses laden with their possessions. He did a quick calculation and decided the women could ride together on Grandma. Jon could manage a packhorse, while the other carried what it could.

“We should be on our way.” He turned to Bessie. “Miss Bradley, how severely is your ankle injured?”

“It’s just a sprain.” She looked at Jon. “I can walk up the hill if someone will give me a strong arm.”

Jon turned on the smile that made him a pussycat. “I’d be delighted—”

“No,” Tristan interrupted. “I’ll escort Miss Bradley up the hill. You help Miss Caroline break down camp. Make sure you’re careful with the quinine.” Tristan would have preferred to carry it himself, but he felt wobbly.

Jon focused on the pretty brunette. “I’m at your service, Miss Caroline.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tate.”

“Call me Jon.” He shot Tristan a sly glance. “Only the major insists on formalities.”

The woman smiled. “Jon it is. For the sake of simplicity, Bessie and I go by our first names. You’re welcome to call me Caroline.”

Jon nodded graciously and Caroline smiled.

Though pleased by their budding friendship, Tristan felt envious. What would it be like to seek a woman’s attention? To woo her the way he’d wooed Molly? They’d had a stellar courtship, even if he said so himself. He hoped Jon would show the same ambition for Caroline. If Tristan’s plan worked, they’d fall in love and get married. If the malaria bested Tristan, they’d raise Freddie and Dora, and his children would have a family.

At Caroline’s direction, Jon went to work gathering their meager possessions while she retrieved a bundled nightgown that presumably held the bottles of quinine. Tristan stepped to Bessie’s side and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

“Thank you, Major.”

As he helped the injured woman up the hill, he admitted to a sad fact. He didn’t have to slow his pace to match hers. In fact, she’d slowed down for him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Jon laughing with the pretty brunette. In other circumstances, he’d have given his friend a run for his money for the woman’s attention … and he’d have won.

Caroline liked Jon, but Major Smith struck her as a pompous, arrogant, pigheaded fool. If he hadn’t been so rude, she’d have told him about the quinine the instant she recognized him. She didn’t expect her new employer to be overly friendly, but she’d hoped for common courtesy. She didn’t like Major Smith at all.

Watching as he escorted Bessie up the hill, she saw the slowness of his movements and turned to Jon. “How long has Major Smith had malaria?”

“Four months.” Jon stopped gathering blankets and looked up the hill. “He won’t tell you anything, but you should know what he’s been through. If you have questions, you should bring them to me. I know him as well as anyone. We served together in the West India Regiment. He’s been to Africa, India, all over the world.”

“And England,” she added.

“Yes, but not for a long time.” Jon’s expression hardened. “That one is his story to tell. What you need to know is that he lost his wife a year ago. Molly was a peach. We all loved her.”

“Was it malaria?”

“Yes. It struck hard and fast. She died within a week. Tristan wanted to leave the West Indies for the sake of the children, but his transfer request wasn’t approved. He had no choice but to stay until he caught the disease himself.”

Caroline ached for the entire family. “The children must be terribly frightened.”

“They are,” Jon replied. “Dora cries at the drop of a hat. It’ll break your heart. Freddie doesn’t show his feelings, but they’re deep. He’s like his father in that way.”

Caroline glanced at the arrogant man struggling to climb a hill. “How sick is he?”

He hesitated. “I’ve seen Tristan at his best and at his worst. He’s a fighter. If anyone can beat the malaria, he can.”

He hadn’t answered her question. “Is today his best or his worst?”

“It’s typical.”

Later Caroline would ask Bessie about the course of the disease. “How did he come to be in Wyoming?”

“It’s as far from swamps and England as he could get.”

Caroline understood his aversion to swamps. His dislike of England baffled her, but she knew Jon wouldn’t explain. She followed his gaze to the top of the ravine where the major had just crested the ridge. Caroline didn’t know why God hadn’t answered her prayers for a family of her own, but she saw a need here. Major Smith didn’t like her, but his children needed someone who wouldn’t leave them.

She wondered if he’d made arrangements for a guardian in case he succumbed to malaria. She couldn’t bear the thought of growing to love these children and losing them to a distant aunt or uncle. She turned to ask Jon more questions, but he’d finished gathering their things and had tied them in a blanket. “Do you have the quinine?”

She indicated the bundled nightgown. “I’ll carry it.”

With the pack of clothing slung over his shoulder, he offered his elbow. “Shall we join them?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Holding the quinine in one hand, she took his arm with the other. When the path narrowed, they broke apart and she climbed alone. It seemed a fitting way to end the ordeal in the canyon. Soon she’d be in Wheeler Springs. She’d be able to take a bath and sleep in a bed. She’d meet Major Smith’s children, and she’d have people who needed her. Feeling hopeful, she stepped from the ravine to level ground and saw Bessie and Major Smith at her trunk. In addition to clothing and a few personal treasures, it held her sister’s medical bag. Bessie needed it to give the major a dose of quinine.

“I’ll get it,” Caroline called.

She didn’t want Major Smith looking at her things. It struck her as too personal, plus she’d hidden the one photograph she had of her husband. Their marriage had been secret, and she had always used her maiden name. Charles had been a black man and a crusader, a gentle giant and a man of great faith. He’d died at the hands of a mob because he believed in educating all children regardless of color—and because he trusted people too easily.

Caroline had no idea what Major Smith would think of her choices, and she didn’t care. She would always admire Charles and had no regrets, but it hurt to be an outcast. She didn’t want to fight that battle again, so she hurried to the trunk before the major could look inside. She handed Bessie the quinine bottles, lifted the medical bag and unbuckled it. Jon walked up to them with a canteen in one hand and a tin cup in the other. Major Smith took the cup and looked at Bessie. “The quinine, please.”

Bessie opened a bottle and poured a dose of crystals into the cup. “Quinine is most effective when mixed with alcohol. I have some in my bag.”

Caroline opened a tightly corked flask and handed it to the major. He poured a swallow in the cup, returned the bottle to her, then swished the liquid to absorb the crystals. He downed it in one swallow and turned to Bessie. “You’re experienced with malaria.”

“I’m afraid so,” she answered. “I nursed hundreds of soldiers during the war.”

Caroline put away the bottle, set the medical bag in the trunk and glanced around for a wagon to take them to Wheeler Springs. Instead of a wagon, she saw four horses. Two were saddled. Two carried supplies.

“I don’t see a wagon,” she said.

“There isn’t one,” the major replied. “The bridge over the gorge is out. We’ll use one of the packhorses for your things. Jon can ride the other one, and you and your sister can share the gray.”

A shiver started at the nape of Caroline’s neck and went to her fingertips. Horses terrified her. She and Bessie had grown up in Charleston where their father had been a doctor. They’d been city girls. What little riding she’d done as a child had been slow and ladylike. She hadn’t enjoyed it, but she hadn’t become terrified of horses until the night she’d seen her husband lynched. As long as she lived, she’d never forget the sudden bolt of a horse she’d believed to be gentle.

No way could she ride to Wheeler Springs. She had neither the skill nor the confidence to sit on a horse. Neither did she have the courage. How she’d make that clear to Major Smith, she didn’t know, especially when he was looking at her as if he’d just had the best idea of his life. What that idea was, she didn’t know. She only knew this man was accustomed to giving orders, and he expected them to be followed.