The Bride Wore Feathers (15 page)

"Then join in the gaiety. Our guests look to fun-lovers like you and me to set the pace. I believe if Millie Huffman doesn't find something to laugh about soon, she'll shrivel up and fall down inside that stiff collar she has hugging her righteous neck."

As always, Boston Custer found a way to untie Dominique's laces and make her laugh. She grinned up at him, giggling under her breath, as she pictured Major Huffman's wife trapped inside her very proper and voluminous dress. Of the three Custer brothers serving their country at Fort Lincoln, Boston was the least military minded. Although Armstrong and Tom were both endowed with a playful sense of humor, Boston made a career of it. All he seemed to think about was the pursuit of fun and beautiful women. He was physically dissimilar as well. Both older brothers had red-blond hair and blue eyes, but the youngest Custer sported a head of coffee-colored locks and looked at life through hazel eyes.

Feeling a kinship and warmth for Boston that was more brotherly than anything, Dominique pushed herself out of the rocker. "All right, you win. First let me stop by the kitchen. I'll join you in a minute."

"The kitchen?" Boston's eyelids popped open, and he brought his palms against his cheeks with a resounding pop. "God almighty, little girl. Haven't you been paying attention to your illustrious uncle, the boy lord general?"

Dominique stood on tiptoe and peered over his shoulder to see if the other guests—or Libbie—had heard. Satisfied Boston's irreverence hadn't crossed the threshold, she released her pent-up laughter.

Pleased to see his niece acting like herself again, Boston added a startlingly accurate imitation of the general's voice to his words as he went on. "He'd say, 'Why, Libbie, you cute little sunbeam in this boy's heart, if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times—I can't stand to see my little girl even
pass
by the kitchen door. Those sweet hands are much too delicate for such work. Yes, ma'am, they're better suited for brushing my long golden curls and massaging my neck, which has grown weary from carrying my oversized head around, and they're just made for polishing my boots, cleaning my horse's hooves, oh, and digging—'"

"Uncle Bos." Dominique choked the name out through a fit of laughter. "Why, if Uncle Armstrong knew how you spoke of him, he'd have you court-martialed."

Laughing along with her, Boston said, "It would be worth it to see you laugh. A girl as pretty as you should never have cause to frown. Come on, now—let's join the old hens and see if we can't ruffle their feathers."

Dominique bit her lip to keep from laughing as she strolled by the ladies. She gave each of them a short nod, explaining as she passed, "I have something to attend to in the kitchen, but I'll join you all in a moment. Aunt Libbie? I'll be speaking with Mary. Is there anything else you need by way of refreshments?"

Libbie took a fast inventory and shook her head. "We're all right for now, but do ask her to warm the cobbler. Oh," she added as an afterthought, "and don't dawdle too long. You know how Autie feels about his girls going into the kitchen."

Trying to catch Dominique's attention, Millie Huffman waved her hanky and said, "Tell Mary not to fix any cobbler for me. I'm fairly straining against my stays as it is after last night's sweet cake!"

Millie chuckled, but her laughter sounded more like cackles to Dominique who was already strangling on Libbie's words. The sudden image of a great white chicken flapping about in the yard—wearing Millie's dress, no less—tested her mettle and challenged her to keep a sober expression on her journey from the drawing room. Once in the hallway, she leaned against Libbie's new French satin wallpaper and took huge gulps of air. Her fragile control renewed, she continued on her way and found Mary laboring over the business end of a mop.

"Pardon me?"

The servant looked up from her work and dragged the back of her hand across her brow. "Yes'm?"

"The letter I gave you yesterday—did you make sure Private Stoltz received it?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am. I give it to my sister Annie. I know she give it to him, 'cause she says he scairt her half to death."

"And she's positive it was Private Stoltz and not some other soldier?"

"Annie is one worthless free gal, all right, her being born after President Lincoln signed them papers and all, but her stories is always wider than they is tall. She asked his name, she did, before he turned and made like he was gonna git her. It was Stoltz, all right."

"Thank you, Mary. Oh, Mrs. Custer wants you to warm the cobbler now."

Her heart heavy, Dominique retraced her steps, stopping at the same spot in the hallway. This time, instead of fighting convulsive laughter, she battled a dull ache within. Unused to the sensation, disliking the feeling intensely, she stabbed a freshly manicured fingernail at the maroon border running along the edges of the buff-colored wallpaper.

Jacob Stoltz would pay dearly for this breach of etiquette. He would rue the day he had chosen to ignore an invitation from Dominique DuBois. She would see to it that Uncle Armstrong gave him the most disgusting, most often avoided jobs in the entire army. She would have him sent into Indian territory on imaginary missions. She would see that his arrogance was rewarded with a thousand arrows to his heart. And a thousand more to his backside.

Buoyed in spirit as she plotted her revenge, Dominique straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was determined to join the ladies and gentlemen in the other room, and equally set on giving them the cheerful young woman they'd become accustomed to. Walking stiff-legged, she marched toward the drawing room.

Just before she stepped into view, Dominique manufactured the biggest smile she could. Then she brought her fingertip to the corner of her eye and wiped away a tear.

Chapter 7

"Stoltz? You in here?"

Jacob stepped out of the feed room carrying a bucket of flax and molasses. At the sight of his ranking officer, he paused and touched the brim of his hat. "Morning, Captain."

"At ease, Private." Edgar Ruffing pulled a cheroot, the last one in the package, from his shirt pocket and slowly drew it across his upper lip. Closing his eyes, he indulged himself with several deep breaths of the rich tobacco, then struck a match and lit the small cigar. Through a long stream of smoke, he finally said, "Got a real plum of an assignment, if you're interested, Private."

Barely keeping a hot glare of loathing from his eyes, Jacob studied the haughty officer. This was a man the other soldiers described as "full of himself." They said his hands were callused from patting himself on the back. When Jacob had looked for calluses and found the captain's hands smooth and soft like those of a white woman, he understood the joke the other men made of their commanding officer.

He also came to understand the deep respect Ed Ruffing had for General Custer and recognized that his life was a poor imitation of the Long Hair's. Since their commander's departure, Ed had allowed his yellow hair to grow long, down to his shoulders. On Custer, whose red-gold hair was thick and curly, the effect was dramatic. On Captain Ruffing, the imitation was laughable. Pale almost to the point of whiteness, his hair hung in long, unkempt strands and made him look like the backside of a mare after a long, fly-ridden summer.

To Jacob, the captain's personality, or lack of it, showed most when he walked. His gait, alive with exaggerated hip movements, made him look as if some invisible string tied to his man parts tugged at him as he walked, led him, as it were, to his destination. Jacob's smile was genuine when he suddenly realized the major role he would play in determining that destination.

"I am interested in anything that will help the Seventh, sir," he said with a bright grin.

Ed took a deep drag of the cheroot, inclined his head, and blew out six perfect circles of blue smoke. Then, even though he was approximately the same height as Jacob, he managed to look down on him. "That's the attitude to have, Private. How'd you like to go to town?"

"To Bismarck, sir?"

"All those muscles, and brains, too. Of course to Bismarck, soldier—where else?"

In spite of his vow to hide his true feelings, his purpose, Jacob's eyes dulled. "Of course," he echoed, "where else but Bismarck?"

Did he have a choice, and if so, should he accept? He hadn't been to one of these places called towns since he was a very small boy. Only in the past few days had he become comfortable with cavalry life, confident that his identity would continue to be a secret. Would it remain so in Bismarck? He thought back to his youth, to the few visits his family had made to the towns dotting the wild country on their ill-fated journey west. He remembered best the large buildings called stores. Jars of candy, child-sized crackers, and cookies came to mind, filled his senses with the ghosts of their inviting aroma and sweet, comforting taste. Going to town held only good memories, drew no disturbing reminders from his past. Was it worth taking a chance to find out if Bismarck would reward him as the towns of the past had? Was it worth the risk of declining the invitation and finding he'd insulted his commanding officer?

Jacob considered the captain's proposal and recognized the generosity behind the invitation. The officer acted as if he'd offered Jacob his freedom, his very life. As much as he hated to think of the obstacles he might face in town, he knew he'd be a fool not to accept.

Calling up some of the English phrases he'd been practicing, Jacob kicked the soft ground with the toe of his boot, and said, "Golly, Captain, I am truly obliged to you, sir. Thank you kindly."

Ed's brows rose, then knotted as Jacob spoke. After a thoughtful drag on the cheroot, he snapped, "It's time you got busy, then. We'll be using the buckboard. Make sure it's clean, and pad all the seats with blankets. There'll be a couple of women along."

Women?
The invitation was yet another foolish waste of his valuable time. This assignment would not help him to learn of the soldiers' plans
or
reveal the date of Custer's expected return. This trip could only serve to lower his status among the recruits. But how could he decline now that he'd accepted the Captain's invitation? Or was it an order?

Loosening his collar, Jacob grimaced and said, "Women, sir?"

"Women, you know? They're the ones with the high-pitched voices, round little behinds that wiggle when they walk, and big round titties just made to fit in these." Ed stuck the cheroot in his mouth, then cupped his hands and drove them toward Jacob's face. Oblivious of the murderous thoughts behind the private's blank stare, he puffed out his thin chest and went on, "I'll be escorting the general's niece to town."

"Dominique?" Jacob blurted out, his fingers instinctively going to his shirt pocket and the ridges of the envelope it concealed.

Ed's smug grin reversed itself. "That's Miss DuBois to you, Private. And yes, the pretty lady has chosen me to accompany her." He flipped his cheroot over near Jacob's boot, then rubbed his hands together. "That lucky little gal doesn't know what a treat she's in for, assuming I can find a way to get rid of her homely old chaperon and Lieutenant Woodhouse, that is."

Wishing the captain's head was beneath his heel instead, Jacob ground the cigar into the soft earth. "And if you get rid of the others?" he asked, his jaw tight.

Breaking into a burst of obscene laughter, Ed cupped his hands again and leered. "I'll be filling these and maybe a whole lot more."

Jacob stood rigid, his fists clenched, as the captain laughed and enjoyed his carnal fantasies. Only one thought kept his hands from circling the man's throat. When the day of reckoning occurred between the soldiers and the Lakota—and more and more it looked as if the confrontation couldn't be avoided—he would find a way to make certain this Long Knife was the first to die.

Ed straightened his jacket. "Now get busy, Private. Finish feeding the stock, then put the lead team on the buckboard. When you're done with that, pick out a couple of good mounts—one for you and another for one of the Indian scouts. You two will ride shotgun. Now get to it," he ordered as he spun on his boot heel and marched toward the barn door. "Miss DuBois wants to leave on the hour."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
Anything you say, you dog whom I will cut into so many pieces the spirits will never find enough of you to take you to your final rest.
Only slightly mollified by the thought, Jacob finished his chores. Then he hitched the horses to the buckboard and adjusted the plank on which the women would ride.