Merline Lovelace (22 page)

“What of you?” Louise asked Barbara, her blue eyes cool. “Will you stay at Morgan’s Falls while Zach goes about these duties?”

That was the agreement. He had held to his promise. She would hold to hers.

“I should like to, if it wouldn’t discommode you.”

Zach tried to ignore the note of forced politeness in his wife’s voice. She’d be better off at Morgan’s Falls, with his mother to watch over her and servants to tend to her every need.

The only problem was, he wanted her here. Like a shadow he couldn’t seem to escape, she’d become part of him.

He knew damn well Harry Chamberlain would have abandoned him in Bermuda. Throckmorton, too. He’d had the tale from the one-eyed rumrunner himself. The captain had also told Zach about Barbara’s refusal to leave his bedside for so much as an hour during the voyage back to the States.

In his dogged determination to get back on his feet during those weeks in Charleston, Zach had used her as nurse, crutch and ranting board. Looking back, he was surprised she hadn’t tossed a chamber pot at his head in the same manner she’d tossed the brandy bottle at it in Bermuda.

They’d come this far together, Zach decided, in an abrupt about-face. They should finish things together. Telling himself he was just responding to the desolation in her eyes at the thought of being under his mother’s thumb, he offered her a choice.

“If you want to stay at Fort Gibson until the summer heat gets too intense, I could arrange quarters here on post. They’re nowhere near as comfortable as my parents’ home,” he warned. “Only two rooms.”

Relief flooded her face. From the smile that came into her eyes, Zach might have given her a diamond necklace.

“Two rooms will be more than sufficient.”

Swinging wildly between despair and bitter loathing, Hattie made her way back to John Stallworth’s tavern. Zach had told her back in Washington City
that he intended to bring Barbara back to Indian Country to birth the child.

He didn’t care about the cow. Hattie knew he didn’t. He’d only married her to keep his child from being called bastard. Hattie had heard Louise Morgan mutter those exact words to her husband while they waited for the
Memphis Wheeler
to lower its gangplank.

She’d been prepared to quit her job at the taproom and return to Morgan’s Falls to help nurse Zach. Her few belongings were packed and ready.

She’d been prepared, too, to endure Barbara’s presence at the Falls until the bitch whelped. After that the Englishwoman would disappear from Zach’s life.

The fact that both Zach and his wife had decided to remain at Fort Gibson made matters easier. It was a busy post. Frontiersmen, Indians, whiskey runners, mule skinners and mountain men all came and went daily. Who could say what sort of ruffian the blonde might meet up with? Who knew what might happen to her while Zach was busy with his duties?

Briefly, Hattie considered asking Barbara to take her into service again. She’d be close to Zach that way, but
too
close to his wife. She was damned if she’d curtsy or kowtow to the woman.

Her thoughts whirling about in her head, she entered the rowdy establishment just off post that catered to soldiers and civilians alike.

She was serving tankards of ale to a boisterous gaggle of soldiers when Barbara’s brother strolled in later that same evening. She half expected his aristocratic nose to wrinkle at the stench of unwashed bodies, rough-cured buckskins and soot-blackened beams, then remembered the gaol-bird had spent the past months wallowing about in prison muck.

She slanted him a narrow glance as he made his way to the long plank set atop two barrels that served as a bar and ordered a tankard of ale. Eyeing him thoughtfully, she slapped at the hand that reached out to fondle her backside.

“Keep your hams to yourself,” she told the grinning, half-drunk soldier.

“Aw, Hattie. When are you going to let me court you proper?”

“When you sprout horns, O’Shaunessy.”

“I’ve already sprouted one for you, darlin’. It’s a real boner, too.”

His companions hooted and thumped the boards. It had become a game to them, trying to gain her affections, or at least attention. And no wonder. There were only three unattached white females at the fort. One was the widow Sallie Nicks, whose wealth and vivacious charm put her well above these men’s touch. The other sported a face eaten half away by the pox. Hattie could have had her pick of any single man on post if she’d wanted anyone but Zach.

Wondering if she could use the Englishman to somehow further her campaign to free Zach from his sister, she sidled up to the bar.

“I saw you at the riverboat landing. You’re Barbara’s brother, Sir Harry Chamberlain.”

His blue eyes swept over her. “I saw you, too. You have the advantage of me, though. I don’t know your name.”

“I’m Hattie Goodson. I was maid to your sister when she first arrived in Indian Country.”

“Indeed?” His arched eyebrow indicated surprise that his sister would hire a tavern wench to attend to her. “How did that come about?”

“I was indentured to a squatter who got taken in by a false quit-claim deed. Zach—Lieutenant Morgan—shot the bastard square between the eyes and brought me back to Fort Gibson. That’s when your sister took me into service.”

The Englishman raised his tankard and took a leisurely swallow. She thought he might comment on his sister’s impulsive offer to employ a stranger, or perhaps Zach’s keen marksmanship.

His interest took a different direction. Setting the tankard on the bar, he swiped the foam on his upper lip with a casual hand.

“Enlighten me, if you would. What, precisely, is a quit-claim deed?”

L
ess than a week after her return to Fort Gibson, Barbara said goodbye to her brother. She did so with decidedly mixed emotions. He was her family, the only person who’d ever really mattered to her until recently. She hated to see him step aboard the steamer that would take him back to New Orleans, but the sad truth was that her husband and her brother rubbed each other exactly the wrong way.

One was a sophisticated schemer, the other a blunt-spoken soldier. Neither held the other in any particular esteem. Zach had no use for a man who would involve his sister in fraudulent activities. Harry had even less for a man who professed himself content with the plodding routine of life at a remote military outpost. The tension between them had mounted daily. For the first time in her life, Barbara was relieved to see her brother disappear.

“I’ll come back for you in July,” he promised, “after the baby’s born.”

She nodded but didn’t speak. He was already looking toward a future she wasn’t ready to contemplate.

“We’ll decide in July where we’ll go from here,” he told her. “We might stay in America for a while. From the little I saw of it, New Orleans offers definite possibilities for an enterprising pair with our talents. I’ll know better after I spend some time there.”

“Be careful, Harry. Please! Let’s have no more fraudulent railroad schemes.”

“No, no more railroad schemes.” Winking, he twirled his malacca cane. “I’ve something else in mind.”

Alarm feathered through her. “What?”

“Just an idea. It may not pan out. I’ll look into it while I’m in New Orleans.”

Before Barbara could demand more detail, the shrill scream of the steamboat whistle pierced the air. Harry dropped a kiss on her cheek, promised again to come for her in July and sauntered up the gangplank.

Troubled, she stood on the landing until the paddle wheeler pulled away. The harrowing months her brother had spent in the hulks had hardened him but obviously hadn’t crushed his adventurous spirit. He was a buccaneer right down to the toes of his polished boots.

Barbara had always been a willing participant in his plots and schemes. Now the mere thought of returning to that precarious life filled her with dread.

She
wouldn’t
think of it, she decided. Not for the next four months, anyway. She would spend those months nurturing the child swelling her belly and fill the time with the everyday tasks of a lieutenant’s wife.

And her nights, she thought with a sudden tightening of her throat, with Zach.

As it turned out, she spent her nights alone.

Any sudden, jarring movement caused Zach excruciating pain. So did the sagging ropes in the bed frame of the four-poster he’d purchased from Sallie Nicks and had moved into their cramped, two-room quarters. Consequently, Barbara occupied the four-poster while Zach stretched out each night on a bedroll in the front parlor.

His deep, rumbling breathing wouldn’t quite qualify as a snore but came dangerously close. She found the steady rasp both comforting and disturbing. She lay awake those first nights, listening to him, knowing he was so close and yet so very far away from her.

By unspoken consent, they didn’t address the future beyond the baby’s birth, but it didn’t take them long to establish a routine similar to that of other married couples on post. Everyone, Barbara soon learned, lived by the same schedule. The clear, piercing notes of a bugle sounded reveille and woke Fort Gibson’s residents at daybreak. Not long after that, a
thundering cannon roar echoed through the surrounding hills and the flag was run up the staff. The bugle sounded regularly throughout the day, announcing morning mess call, assembly, attention to orders, work detail, noon and evening mess formations.

Drums rolled at sunset to sound retreat, and the cannon boomed again during the ceremony of lowering the flag. Fifes accompanied the drums to announce tattoo at nine o’clock. Their shrill notes warned stragglers to return to the fort before the gates closed. Taps signaled lights out and an end to the long day.

Much to Barbara’s surprise, she adjusted easily to the routine. Without card parties and balls and midnight suppers to tire her out and keep her abed until noon, she began to rise when her husband did. While she tended to her toilette, the private who supplemented his meager army pay by serving as Zach’s batman, cook and general dogsbody helped him shave and struggle into his uniform. Husband and wife took breakfast together, after which the lieutenant attended to his duties.

These were necessarily restricted. Since he couldn’t march, much less climb into a saddle, Colonel Arbuckle appointed him military adjunct to the federal commission now busily engaged in negotiating with the various tribes. With the arrival of Governor Stokes, the commission’s chairman, activities
picked up considerably. Zach spent long hours each day providing both insight and advice.

While he labored in the stuffy office given over to the commissioners, Barbara slipped into the role of officer’s lady.

It began with a stream of visits from the other wives on post. Most were eastern-bred, determined to cling to their gentility and refinement despite the primitive surroundings. A good number were Cherokee, Choctaw or Osage. Wives of the senior enlisted personnel also came on duty visits to Lieutenant Morgan’s new bride.

They were all curious about the Englishwoman who’d snared the dashing lieutenant. The fact that the bride was already increasing didn’t seem to raise any eyebrows. Barbara soon found herself immersed in lively discussions about lying-in gowns, swaddling blankets and christening robes.

The women also imparted a great many tips on ways to soften the austerity of army quarters. Armed with their advice, she made regular visits to Sallie Nicks’s warehouse to purchase carpets for the hard-packed dirt floors, figured muslin for curtains and such wildly expensive delicacies as tinned peaches and molasses to add variety to the standard army rations of beans and beef.

A variety of social activities enlivened the non-duty hours. To fight off boredom, the soldiers wrote and staged theatrical performances. The post chaplain conducted religious services in the same
building used for Indian councils. The regimental band gave rousing concerts on the parade ground. Amateur pugilists took to the ring. Horse racing was a wildly popular sport, Barbara discovered. Soldiers, Indians and traders ran their mounts against each other and the racehorses brought upriver by owners intent on relieving the soldiers of their pay.

In addition, a great many dinners were given and returned. The widow Nicks, Fort Gibson’s unofficial hostess, hosted a lavish entertainment in honor of Governor Stokes and the other members of the federal commission. It was at this dinner that Barbara first understood how essential Zach had become to the delegation.

“We could not have concluded that agreement with the Seminole delegation from Florida without your husband’s assistance,” the wispy-haired governor confided over a glass of sherry. “Lieutenant Morgan and his father had hunted the land set aside for the Seminole. Zach described every river and stream and drew exact maps for the Seminole delegation to follow. When they returned from their explorations, they agreed to sign a statement indicating they were satisfied with the proposed lands. I’ve forwarded that statement to President Jackson.”

“I don’t doubt he’ll make good use of it,” Barbara murmured.

She was familiar enough with the politics of Indian Country now, and her short meeting with the
president had convinced her he’d use every possible means to move those eastern tribes that still expressed stubborn reluctance to leave their home-lands. Whether he would do so without more bloodshed remained to be seen.

Her gaze drifted to her husband, who was helping craft new territories for those tribes. He stood tall and square-shouldered in his dress uniform. Unfortunately, he could only achieve that pose with the aid of a cane. Biting her lip, she returned her attention to Commissioner Stokes.

“Now if only the soldiers at Fort Gibson could keep these pesky settlers out of Indian Country,” he was saying. “They put at risk all we’re trying to accomplish here, and there certainly seems to be a sudden influx of them in recent weeks.”

“Yes, there does.”

Barbara couldn’t help but remember the first day she’d met Zach, when he’d arrived back at the fort with a bruised and battered Hattie in tow. She hadn’t seen her former maid in weeks and could only be glad of it. The woman had made no effort to hide her dislike that day on the landing, and Barbara had no desire to deal with it.

One by one, the days slipped by. March flowed into a rain-drenched April. The rains gave way to a balmy May. Like a hen going to roost, Barbara took each day as it came and nurtured the life growing inside her belly.

She received two missives from her brother, both sent from New Orleans. He gave no hint as to his activities other than to state he’d found a wealth of opportunities in that most cosmopolitan of American cities. In each, he reiterated his promise to return for her come July.

She also received a visit from Zach’s parents. They’d come to Fort Gibson to purchase supplies and check on their son. Some of the animosity Louise Morgan had exhibited during her last meeting with her daughter by marriage faded when she saw the home Barbara had made of their austere quarters, but her eyes were grave as Zach and Daniel saw to the loading of the supplies.

With a sigh, she turned to Barbara. “He makes light of my questions, so I must ask them of you. Is my son still in great pain?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he will one day walk without a cane?”

Barbara hesitated. Zach insisted he would toss away the cane one day soon. He insisted, too, that the regimental surgeon would clear him to remain on active service. Yet she’d seen him grit his teeth when he didn’t know she was watching, and heard him grunt each time he tried to turn over at night. Sighing, she answered his mother the only way she could.

“I don’t know.”

Louise bit down on her lower lip. She looked as though she wanted to say more, but settled for a brief admonition.

“Take care of him, and yourself.”

“I will.”

Shortly after their visit, the officers assigned to Fort Gibson received word that Colonel Henry Dodge, commander of the new dragoon regiment, had decided to assemble and train his unit at Jefferson Barracks in Missouri Territory. Zach and his fellow rangers voiced bitter disappointment. To a man, they felt the dragoons should train here in Indian Country, where they would be employed.

Barbara shared their disappointment but had already begun to suspect deep in her heart that her husband would never recover enough to assume the captaincy President Jackson had promised him. Zach confirmed her suspicion one evening in late May.

He sent word that he had been detained and not to wait dinner for him. When he hadn’t returned when the fife and drums sounded nine o’clock tattoo, Barbara sent the private who served as Zach’s batman back to his barracks. Trimming the lamps, she settled a soft lawn nightdress over her swollen breasts and belly and sat on the side of the bed to brush out her hair. She was up to seventy-three strokes when the front door crashed open.

Startled, she jumped to her feet. Her fist closed around the brush handle. Heart thumping, she rushed to the bedroom door and pushed it open.

“Steady, old man. Steady.”

Nathaniel Prescott staggered into the front room.
His uniform jacket was buttoned all cockeyed and his gait was unsteady as he half carried, half dragged Zach with him. Huffing under his friend’s weight, he made for the one sturdy armchair in the room.

“Got to get you into a chair before we both go down,” he muttered.

He dipped his shoulder. Zach dropped into the seat, went rigid and instantly turned the air blue with his curses. A thoroughly crestfallen Prescott quickly apologized.

“Sorry, old top!”

Barbara snatched a shawl from the hook behind the bedroom door and threw it over her nightdress. When she rushed into the front parlor, a wave of whiskey fumes hit her like a slap in the face.

“What goes on here?”

Both men turned around—Nate unsteadily, Zach stiffly. Her heart clutched when she saw the white lines bracketing her husband’s mouth.

“Zach, are you all right?”

“Ha!” He gave a hoot of drunken laughter, but whatever he’d imbibed didn’t impede his speech. “It appears I’m as right as I’ll ever be,” he announced. “According to our esteemed regimental surgeon, at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means, wife, I’m no longer fit for military service.”

“What?”

Prescott brushed his hand over his mustaches. His brown eyes held both sympathy and misery.

“Major Parks performed the required sixty-day medical evaluation this afternoon. With that ball lodged in Zach’s spine, Parks had no choice but to declare him unfit for continued service.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes,” Zach countered in a deep, whiskey-roughened baritone.

Suddenly, he sat straighter. A frown carved deep furrows in his forehead. Barbara hurried forward, thinking the pain was about to take him. He surprised both her and Nate with a gruff dismissal.

“Take yourself off, Prescott!”

“You might show a little more gratitude, old man. I
did
haul your carcass all the way across—”

“Take yourself off. I can’t have you ogling my wife in her nightdress.”

That, of course, directed the lieutenant’s immediate attention to Barbara. His glance dropped like a stone to her middle, then to the skirts of her lawn nightdress. From the tide of red that swept into the man’s cheeks, she guessed the sheer lawn provided him an almost unimpeded view of her lower limbs.

Fumbling at his uniform buttons, he made for the door.

“Yes, well, we’ll sort this out tomorrow, Zach. Parks isn’t the only army surgeon. Colonel Arbuckle might well decide to send you back to departmental headquarters for a second evaluation.”

Zach answered with a noncommittal grunt and sat unmoving after the door closed behind his friend.