Merline Lovelace (10 page)

Andrew’s breath caught. She still felt it, too. The same fascination that had drawn them across a ballroom on a hot, sultry Louisiana night. The same damned sexual pull that had grabbed them both and still hadn’t let go. She might deny it. She might refuse to acknowledge it, even to herself. But she felt it.

He found himself hoping she’d received a telegraph or dispatch, hoping someone in Adler’s Gulch had confirmed what they both secretly suspected…that
Philip Bonneaux’s remains rested in a pine box buried under six feet of Montana mud. Claim jumpers and barroom brawls had ended the lives of so many of the dreamers who’d trudged north to make their fortunes. Scurvy, cholera and freezing winters had ended countless others. The odds were that Julia was already free of the bonds that tied her to another man.

The possibility tightened Andrew’s gut and left him wondering just what difference it would make if she
were
free. He wanted her, yes. In his arms and in his bed. But he couldn’t seem to think beyond the point of peeling off her clothes, pulling her slender body beneath his and parting her thighs. He didn’t
want
to think beyond that point, dammit.

He was still wrestling with the lust that gripped him like a vise when he noticed the bandage wrapped around her left forearm. His stomach plunged to his boots. What had happened? Who’d hurt her? Why the hell hadn’t O’Shea kept an eye on her, as he’d—

Suddenly, a child’s shriek split the air.

“Mama! Daisy got away!”

Something trailing a length of colored cloth streaked across the parade ground and darted right in front of Jupiter. The startled charger danced back, neck arching, hooves pawing the ground.

One hoof caught the end of the cloth. Squealing, the creature tied to the string flipped on its back. Frenzied, it regained its feet and scurried back and forth under Jupiter’s belly.

“Daisy, come back!”

Even a cavalry mount trained not to flinch at the sound of a pistol fired right beside its ear couldn’t be expected to stand still while something that resembled a poisonous desert coral snake wrapped itself around his hooves. Particularly when a frantic child broke away from the watching crowd and ran straight at him, arms waving like windmills.

“Suzanne!” Julia screamed. “No!”

Ears flattened, Jupiter reared. His iron-shod hooves pawed the air above the girl’s head. Yanking on the reins, Andrew wrenched the animal around and brought his forelegs down mere inches from the child, now frozen in fright.

Disaster might still have been averted if the critter at the end of the cloth rope hadn’t been freed when Jupiter reared. Emitting a series of shrill pips, it darted straight between the charger’s rear legs.

Bucking like a wild mustang, the chestnut flailed his hind legs and tried to dance away. By the time Andrew had him under control again, a white-faced Julia had snatched up her daughter and the shrill pips had been silenced.

Signaling the troops behind him to resume formation and continue past, Andrew swung out of the saddle. A shoulder to Jupiter’s side shoved the charger out of the way. Heart pounding, he faced the shaken woman with her child pressed tight against her.

“Is she all right?”

“I—I think so.”

His gaze whipped to the white bandage. “Are
you
all right?”

“Me? Yes, I’m fine.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“It’s a slight burn, nothing more.”

“Has the surgeon looked at it?”

“Yes, of course. Really, there’s no need—”

“Maaama!”

The heartbroken wail cut through their stilted conversation.

“He stomped Daisy!”

“Oh, no!”

Following the girl’s tearful gaze, Andrew swung around. The mangled remains of a small, furry animal lay in a pool of blood on the dusty parade ground.

“Is that a prairie dog?” he asked Julia incredulously.

“Yes.”

“On a leash?”

“It—it was a pet.”

Shaken out of his customary control, Andrew swept off his hat and pounded it against his pants leg.

“Dammit, woman, don’t you have any more sense than to let your daughter play with one of those little rats? They carry fleas and ticks and God alone knows what other kinds of vermin.”

The harsh stricture brought Julia’s head up. Eyes flashing, she’d just opened her mouth to reply when Private O’Shea stepped in front her.

“Begging your pardon, sir. I gave Suzanne the little critter.”

“And Daisy didn’t have fleas!” Tear-washed brown eyes lifted from Julia’s shoulder and pinned Andrew with an accusing look. “Little Hen and I dunked her in mama’s tub and scrubbed her good!”

Faced with a hostile child, an angry mother, a disapproving striker and the unabashed interest of dozens of bystanders, Andrew decided to do what any man in his situation would do—beat a hasty retreat. First, however, he offered his apologies to the sniffling little girl.

“I’m sorry Jupiter came down on your pet.”

“You’re a bad man,” she answered, her brown eyes shooting daggers. “You yelled at my mama and now you mashed Daisy. I hate you!”

I
t took Andrew all of twenty-four hours to discover he was the object of considerable censure on the post, not only for inadvertently destroying Suzanne’s pet, but also for allowing Julia to continue to work at the tubs.

Private O’Shea dropped several unsubtle remarks about the fact that the missus wasn’t cut out for such work. So did Private Rafferty and Corporal Gottlieb when he reported that no information regarding Julia’s husband had come in during Andrew’s absence. Even Mary Donovan pressed her husband into service to relay the general consensus of the women on Suds Row that Julia didn’t belong there.

The embarrassed sergeant major delivered his wife’s message the day after Andrew’s return. He and Donovan were observing mounted drill on the high grounds behind the stables. The sun beat down mercilessly. Swarms of flies buzzed around their horses’ eyes and ears. Swiping the sweat from his ruddy face
with his neckerchief, the grizzled sergeant cleared his throat several times before broaching the subject.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but the missus wanted you to know, uh…”

“Know what, Sergeant Major?”

“Well…”

“Well what, man? Out with it.”

“It’s the laundresses, sir.”

Andrew glanced at the whiskered veteran. Given her husband’s rank, Mary Donovan served as the unofficial commander of the laundresses. She’d proved invaluable at keeping Andrew informed of matters that needed his attention. She’d also quietly quashed some of the rivalries and jealousies that had led to serious confrontations on other posts. Thankfully, Andrew had never had to place a laundress under arrest for taking a meat ax to a rival for her husband’s affections or drum one out of the regiment because she’d been disrespectful to an officer.

“What’s the problem, Sergeant Major?”

“They feel a bit uncomfortable at havin’ an officer’s wife in their midst.”

Knowing it would do no good to remind the sergeant that Julia wasn’t an officer’s wife, Andrew kept silent.

“Mrs. Donovan told them to keep their noses in their own tubs and never mind what others do, but even she agrees it’s not proper, sir.”

“Does Mrs. Donovan have a suggestion as to what I’m to do about it?” the major asked dryly.

He’d already decided in his own mind how he’d handle the situation, but he was curious to see what the red-haired laundress had come up with.

“Well, sir, she does,” Donovan answered. “She’s thinking you could put Mrs. Bonneaux to work at the hospital as a matron. It’s hard labor, to be sure, but not so hard as the tubs.”

“My compliments to your wife, Sergeant Major, but I’ve already suggested that and Mrs. Bonneaux refused.”

“Did she now?” The sergeant pursed his lips and waggled his mustaches from side to side. “Mary’ll not like hearin’ that.”

“I’m thinking of offering her an alternate position.”

“May I inquire what, sir?”

“Instructress at the post school.”

“Hmmm.” The seasoned veteran chewed over the idea in his mind. “That might do, sir. It’s a bit early, being only halfway through July, but what with Corporal Lassiter going down with the bloody flux this spring, the children didn’t finish last year’s work proper. They’ve a bit of catchin’ up to do. Yes, sir, it will do.”

In truth, Andrew wasn’t sure whether the change in occupations would lessen or increase Julia’s load. Although Fort Laramie had opened the first school in Wyoming Territory back in ’59, the Army didn’t officially authorize or fund frontier post schools until just last year. Even then, attendance was only man
datory for the children of enlisted personnel, since the more educated officers’ wives generally preferred to teach their offspring at home.

The post chaplain had instructed Fort Laramie’s students for years, followed by a succession of well-educated enlisted personnel. Private Lassiter was the most recent—and the most vocal about the little devils he taught. From the reports fed back to Andrew by the harried instructor, the students spent more time plotting tricks to play on their teacher than they’d ever spent on studies. Taking on that high-spirited, rambunctious lot could prove almost as much of a strain for Julia as bending over the tubs.

He’d leave it to her, Andrew decided. Not that he had much choice in the matter. She’d already demonstrated that she’d do just what she had a mind to.

The sergeant major cleared his throat. Embarrassment stained his cheeks above his bushy mustache. “She’d have to be kept on the rolls and be guaranteed her quarters and rations,” he said apologetically. “Mrs. Donovan wouldn’t advise her to accept anything less.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wonder whatever gave us the notion that we run either this post or our companies?”

“Beats the hell out of me, sir. But while we’re on the subject…”

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Donovan also suggested you might want to
be making your peace with the daughter, sir. Suzanne was a bit upset about her pet, she was.”

Some day, Andrew thought sardonically, he’d take off his uniform for the last time and go back to civilian life. Maybe then he’d discover what it was like to live without two hundred or more pairs of eyes watching his every step from reveille to retreat.

“You may assure Mrs. Donovan I have every intention of mending my bridges with the girl.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was, Julia decided as she settled her hips more comfortably on the split rail bench outside her quarters, the kind of evening poets rhapsodized about.

A violent thunderstorm had swept through only an hour ago, taking with it the worst of the heat. A balmy breeze had followed in its wake. The wind now frisked like a playful colt, kicking up the long johns and uniform shirts pegged on the lines to dry. Beyond the clotheslines, the Laramie sparkled clear, crystalline blue.

Even the mosquitoes that made the mornings and evenings such misery had taken French leave, as the troopers described their occasional unauthorized absences. Someone in one of the tents across the river was playing a haunting, unfamiliar tune on a harmonica. The notes floated on the breeze like small, perfect butterflies above the usual early-evening rattle of pots and pottery.

As the junior resident of Suds Row, Julia’s turn in
the communal kitchens behind the quarters came last. She didn’t mind the wait. It gave her the chance to take a break between the heat of the laundry fires and even fiercer heat of the cookstoves.

On an evening as fine as this one, the spare moments were doubly precious. Humming along with the harmonica, she rested her shoulders against the rough adobe wall and watched Suzanne weave bits of feathers and beads into her doll’s hair under Little Hen’s careful tutelage.

With something of a shock, Julia discovered that she felt more content at that particular moment than she had in months. She still hadn’t received any word from Philip, but she and Suzanne had a roof over their heads and hearty, if somewhat monotonous, fare to eat. True, her hands were red and cracked and the burn on her arm she’d received from a splash of boiling water stung a bit. By and large, though, she felt too tired and lazy to worry about it.

But not too lazy to experience a sudden jolt when the clip-clop of hooves drew her gaze and she identified Andrew on his big chestnut. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since his return and Daisy’s unfortunate demise two days ago.

She sat upright, lifting a hand in an instinctive and wholly feminine gesture to tuck her hair behind her ears. As flustered by her instinctive need to primp as by the sudden ribbon of heat that coiled in her belly, she dropped her hand. The contentment she’d enjoyed just seconds before shattered like a thin sheet of ice
hit with a wooden mallet. Guilt flooded in, along with the bitter acknowledgment that Andrew Garrett could still make her pulse leap after all the years and all the lies.

Shamed by the heat spreading through her veins, Julia rose and smoothed her palms down her serge skirt. When she had her emotions firmly under control, she lifted her gaze to the officer silhouetted against the summer sky. Only then did she notice the pony Andrew led at the end of a long tether.

The two girls took note of his approach at that moment, as well. Snatching up her doll, Suzanne darted to her mother’s side. Little Hen followed more slowly, her liquid brown eyes wide and curious. The three females stood together in a loose cluster while Andrew made his way toward them. He halted a few yards away and tipped his hat with a smile that included all three.

“Good evening, ladies.”

All too conscious of the people milling about up and down the row, Julia inclined her head an inch or two. “Good evening, major.”

Leather and wood creaked as he swung out of the saddle. “I came to see if I could make amends to Suzanne for, uh, mashing her pet.”

Julia’s glance swept past him to the pony at the end of the tether. She really couldn’t afford to stable a horse, but one look at Suzanne’s open mouth and awed eyes made her instantly recalculate how much it would cost to feed three instead of two.

“You brought a pony?” Distrust and childish wonder chased each other across the girl’s face. “For me?”

“For you.” Gathering up the slack in the rope tether, Andrew drew the dainty little pinto forward. “Her name is Con-Ra-Wah-Ti.”

“What does it mean?”

“Pretty Red One,” Little Hen translated shyly.

“Because of her red spots,” Andrew explained gravely. “But you can name her anything you like.”

Although the desire to reach out and touch the spotted hide blazed in Suzanne’s face, she clutched her doll to her chest and stubbornly held back.

“Mama says I shouldn’t accept gifts from strangers.”

“We’re hardly strangers, but in any case Pretty Red One’s not a gift. You’ll have to earn her.”

Suspicion leaped into the girl’s brown eyes. “How?”

“She has to be groomed, watered and fed every day, and taken out for exercise as often as possible. When you’ve shown me you can take care of her, we’ll talk to your mother about whether or not you can keep her.”

Suzanne’s lower lip trembled. “I don’t know how to groom a horse. Or ride one, either.”

“I’ll show you.”

“And I will help,” Little Hen volunteered with one of her rare, sweet smiles. “I have a pony, too, which my grandfather keeps for me.”

Obviously torn between her longing for the little pinto and her dislike of the major, Suzanne looked to her mother for guidance.

“You’ll have to take full responsibility for caring for her yourself,” Julia warned. “I’ll be too busy at the tubs to help you.”

Andrew’s glance met hers over the heads of the girls. “That’s something you and I need to discuss.”

“We’ve already discussed it,” she replied, stiffening.

With a look that said the subject wasn’t closed, he offered Suzanne the rope lead.

“Why don’t you and Little Hen take Pretty Red One for a walk along the river and get to know her?”

Accepting the lead with a show of reluctance, Suzanne looked the pony over. Her glance darted to the man standing beside her mother.

“She’s not as pretty as the doll my papa gave me.”

“Suzanne!”

Blushing for her daughter’s rudeness, Julia admonished her to show more appreciation. The unrepentant girl refused to give ground.

“If I keep her, I’ll have to name her something else.”

“If you keep her,” Andrew replied with a nod, “that’s certainly your choice.”

Shooting the major a dark look, she tugged on the pony’s halter. The pinto followed her and Little Hen with well-mannered docility.

“Please forgive her lack of graciousness,” Julia
murmured, embarrassed for her daughter. “She’s not usually so ill-mannered.”

A smile crept into his eyes. “She’s inherited some of her mother’s stubbornness, I think.”

“Unfortunately so. And since we speak of stubbornness, I hope you haven’t come to tell me I should move back in with Victoria McKinney. You’d be wasting your breath.”

“Would I?”

“Yes. I much prefer earning my own keep.”

“There are other ways to earn your keep. And not,” he said hastily, remembering their earlier, angry discussion, “on your back.”

Heat flooded her face, but she lifted her chin and met his eyes squarely. “What, then?”

“The post school. It closed early this spring due to the lack of an instructor. If you feel you’re up to it, you could take over teaching duties immediately.”

She mulled over the offer, doubt and indecision creasing her forehead.

“It’s honest work, Julia. We need an instructor.”

“Would I remain on the rolls?”

“That was one of the conditions of employment Mary Donovan stipulated,” Andrew replied dryly.

“Mary’s behind this?”

“No, she told her husband to suggest the hospital, but when I offered this as an alternative, he seemed to think she’d support the idea.”

A rush of affection for the Irish laundress filled Julia. Like a busy hen watching over the entire coop,
the warmhearted Mary Donovan looked after officers’ ladies and troopers’ wives alike. Although Julia fit neither category, she’d certainly reaped the bounty of the woman’s generous spirit.

“I’ll have to thank her,” she murmured.

“Does that mean you accept?”

“Yes, although,” she added with a wry smile, rubbing a hand absently over her injured arm, “I don’t guarantee I’ll make any better instructor than I have laundress.”

“Roll up your sleeve and let me see your burn.”

Startled, she whipped her arm behind her back. “It’s nothing, merely a small scald.”

“Henry Schnell told me it was more than a mere scald and that it needs watching. Let me see it.”

“Really, I don’t think—”

“Burns can fester and kill as quickly as cholera or smallpox out here. Let me see it, Julia.”

With a glance at the neighbors loitering about, she conceded with obvious reluctance. “All right, but please come inside. I’ve given the post enough cause for gossip without rolling up my sleeve and letting you examine me in public.”

Julia soon discovered that rolling up her sleeve and letting Andrew examine her in
private
proved a far greater mistake. Although both the door and the window shutters remained open to the balmy evening, the walls seemed to crowd in on them when he followed her inside.