The Officer and the Bostoner (Historical Western Romance) (Fort Gibson Officers Series, Book 1) (4 page)

She sucked in a sharp breath and shivered as the seriousness of his words and expression sank in. “But what of Nicholas?” she asked on a shallow breath.

Mr.—no
Captain
—Tucker came to stand in front of her. “I can’t speak for the others, but I’ll give you my word. If you marry me, I’ll keep my hands to myself and petition the circuit judge for an annulment when Mr. Parker comes to claim you.”

~Chapter Four~

What was he saying? Ten minutes in the company of this highfalutin woman and he’d been transported back to Charleston. He grimaced. It had been all the social standards, insincere interest, and money which had prompted him to seek entrance to West Point and join the Army as an officer.

Wes had never been impressed by money—his father’s or anyone else’s. By the time he was old enough to join the army, he was so tired of living under the restrictions and demands his father’s wealth had put on him, he’d gladly given up his life of privilege along with his father’s promise that one day he’d own the family business and had joined the army.

And now, he’d just opened his mouth and offered to make one of
them
his wife.

Though she was fine to look at, Wes had no trouble envisioning what she’d be like as a wife. From the frilly lace along the neckline of her traveling dress down to the unsuitable, and dare he say, ridiculous looking shoes she wore, she had spoiled and frivolous stamped all over her.

“All right,” she said, stealing him from his thoughts.

He repressed a groan at her acceptance of his ill-conceived proposal and nodded once. “Very well.”

“Where’s the church?” she asked.

He snorted. “There ain’t one.”

“Oh.”

“
Come on. If we hurry, we’ll catch the chaplain before he leaves the blacksmith’s,” he said as he led her back toward the barracks.

“
This doesn’t look like a blacksmith’s shop,” she said, putting her hands on her hips.

Wes shook his head and walked over to the shabby four-drawer bureau against the wall opposite the set of two bunks. “You’re very perceptive, Miss Pierson.” He closed his hands around the scratched and dented knobs of the second drawer from the top and gave it a hard jerk, grimacing as the drawer screeched open. “I’ll just need a few minutes to change into my uniform, and then we may go.”

She sighed. “Is that necessary?”

“
Yes,” he said, not bothering to look at her. He slipped the gold buttons of the dark blue coat, or coatee as those of his rank were expected to call it, that he was wearing.

“
Have you no modesty?”

He shrugged. “No, I can’t say that I do.” He peeled off his coatee and began to unbutton his shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn around, her cheeks growing pink. He would have chuckled if he didn’t feel so bad for her
Nicholas
. If she became this squeamish seeing a man remove his coatee, the poor man would have a very disappointing wedding night.

He quickly removed the remainder of his off-duty attire and pulled on his undershirt and tan duck trousers. He pulled the cord to tighten the waistband then slipped the pewter button through the buttonhole before grabbing his dark blue coatee. Sensing her discomfort, he quickly fastened the eight gold buttons running down the front of his coatee, snatched his shako (or in other words, his overly tall stovepipe hat) from the top of the bureau, then fastened his gun belt around his waist and slipped his revolver into the holster.

“Let’s be off,” he said, lightly pressing his fingertips into the small of her back. He bit back a grin at the way she stiffened at his touch.

“
Where are we going now?” she asked when he steered her away from the big square of buildings that made up the barracks.

“
To the blacksmith’s shop.” He guided her through a little alley at the corner of the barracks between the fort’s jail and where they kept the animals. “When not preaching on Sundays, Chaplain Malone runs the blacksmith shop.”

An odd smile bent her lips. “Have you ever heard of Gretna Green?”

“No.”

“
It’s a place in Scotland where— Oh, never mind. I doubt you’d care.”

He whistled. “Beauty
and
brains.”

She cast him the worst scowl he’d ever seen.

“That’d be more effective if your lips weren’t twitching.”

At that, her horrible scowl vanished, replaced by the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen, robbing him of his breath.

“Now that’s a nice look for you,” he said when he was certain he could speak smoothly and not embarrass himself. “You should wear it more often.”

“
I will. When Nicholas gets here and carries me away from this—this—” She waved her hand around, gesturing to the open plains he’d come to call home, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “Then I shall wear it all the time. The whole way to Austin, in fact.”

A tight knot formed in his belly and bitterness filled his mouth. She was just like all the young ladies he’d been introduced to in Charleston. “And let me guess, your
Nicholas
is going to whisk you away to his mansion in Austin where all you’ll have to do each day is get dressed and decide which dinner party you wish to attend?”

“
You act as if that’s the most dreadful fate imaginable.”

To Wes, that
was
the worst fate imaginable. “Don’t you worry, you’ll be back to wearing your fancy dresses and drinking tea all day soon enough.” At the rate their afternoon was going, this infuriating woman might not have to wait for her precious Nicholas to come save her; much more of her condescending attitude and he’d brave riding through the endless miles of the Indian Nations just to be rid of her.

“
Good day, Captain Tucker,” Chaplain Malone greeted, wiping the back of his sleeve across his sweaty forehead.

Wes nodded. “Chaplain. Can you spare a minute to conduct a wedding?”

A slow smile spread across the other man’s face. “Sure thing.” He dropped his hammer and brushed his hands off on his trousers. Chaplain Malone walked across the room, presumably to retrieve his prayer book. “I didn’t know you was gettin’ married.”

“
I didn’t, either,” Wes mumbled.

Beside him, Miss Pierson, soon-to-be Mrs. Tucker, sighed.

Chaplain Malone came back with his cracked leather prayer book and turned to Miss Pierson. “Can I have your name, miss?” he asked, the color in his cheeks growing to match his ruddy nose.

“
Allison Pierson.”

“
Very good.” Chaplain Malone flipped open his prayer book and might have begun reading about the sanctity of marriage had Wes not stopped him.

“
Can we skip that and get right to the vows, please?”

“
Eager, are ya?” Chaplain Malone chuckled and waggled his eyebrows.

Eager was one way to put it. But not for the reason the older man was insinuating. “Just get on with it, would you?”

Chaplain Malone flipped to the back page of the book, where he’d long ago scribbled down the correct vows, and cleared his throat.

Five minutes later, Captain Wes Tucker was looking into the dark brown eyes of Mrs. Wes Tucker and having the damnedest time deciding whether to kiss her or not.

***

Allison was terrified. Not only did it look like this handsome stranger just might kiss her, but she was powerless to stop him. All through the ceremony, she’d been unable to do anything other than stare at the man with whom she was about to enter a sham marriage.

She’d already thought him to be handsome, in a rugged sort of way, with his tall build that brought him a good six inches above her five-foot-seven frame, laughing eyes, and lips that had no resistance to turning up into the most breathtaking smile she’d ever seen.

But staring at him now in his full military uniform, he looked different. Perhaps it was how much taller, broader, and more intimidating he looked dressed in his dark blue coatee with what seemed like an endless row of bright gold buttons, imprinted with eagles, that bisected his midsection. His face looked grim with a set jaw and blue eyes that appeared as hard as stone, partially shielded by the brim of the hat he wore. She couldn’t be certain, but from where she stood, she’d guess that hat had to be at least seven-inches high: a stovepipe hat, as the gentlemen in Boston referred to the top hats that were unseemly high and had a circular circumference rather than an oval shape. Above the brim, on the ‘pipe’, was a piece of metal shaped like a golden eagle, then two thin stripes made out of patent leather, and a chin strap fashioned out of the same shiny material. At the very top of his hat was a golden clip, of sorts, that held the long quill of a bright red, curving cock feather.

He was magnificent.

And now he was leaning toward her.

Her eyes widened and her lips parted a fraction, just in time to have his warm lips press against hers. He pulled away and winked at her.

She gasped at his boldness. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself. She was merely shocked he’d been so bold as to kiss her, then smile and wink as if it’d been some grand jest. It had nothing to do with the way her lips tingled in a manner they never had following one of her kisses with Nicholas.

“Come along, my darling dear,” he called, moving toward the door.

A slow heat crawled over Allison’s face. “Thank you,” she murmured to the blacksmith and then followed her husband to the door. “Where are you taking me now?” she asked when he started walking away from the blacksmith’s shop, but not in the direction of the barracks.

“To the commanding officer’s quarters,” he said simply.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the little row of log cabins that appeared to be multiple apartments connected by covered walkways. They’d dined in the cabin on the right, as it was Mrs. Lewis’ home, if she remembered correctly. Her husband, Captain Wes Tucker—or Wes as she thought it best to call him now—swung open the creaky door to the apartment on the left, revealing a room as large as the formal parlor in her parent’s home. However, in Boston, the parlor had been decorated with gold wallpaper, two royal blue sofas with mahogany arm rests and an upright piano, which occupied the corner of the room. By contrast, this room was nearly bursting with enough furniture to furnish a parlor, study and dining room. In the corner, there were even cabinets and shelves that appeared to hold cooking supplies. A door positioned in the middle of the back wall likely led to their bedroom.

She sighed. It’d be hard growing accustomed to such cramped quarters, but she’d just have to make do. She’d only be here a few weeks anyway, she reminded herself as she walked over to one of the two windows in the room. Besides, at least this room was bigger than the one he’d taken her to when he’d changed. She cringed at the memory of the room that couldn’t have been any larger than the closet she’d used in Boston.

One thing was for certain: the furniture arrangement in this room would not do. She walked over and rested her gloved hands on the back of the faded, threadbare sofa, then pushed. It would be much more functional if—

“What are you doing?” Wes asked, his voice laced with humor.

Allison froze. “I was moving it up against the wall.”

“Put it back, please.”

“
Why?”

“
Because this isn’t your house to rearrange.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Well, as long as I’m living here, I’ll decorate the way I want, and if you don’t like it, then you can stay somewhere else.”

“You’ll be staying somewhere else, too.” He held up a little brass key and waved it back and forth.

“
You mean this isn’t our apartment?”

He shook his head. “It’s my superior’s apartment. And while he’s always been kind enough to  allow me entrance whenever I please, I highly doubt he’d like for me to bring my new wife here to set up house with him. Now, move that sofa back where it came from so we can go get my things and move into our room.”

Allison swallowed and lowered her face so he couldn’t see her blush.
Our room
. She shoved the sofa back to its former position and then scampered out the door.

“
It’ll just take a few minutes to gather my belongings,” he said, joining her outside.

She nodded. Why was it when it came to telling her important information, such as they were in someone else’s home, this infuriating man waited for her to make a fool of herself,
then
gave her the pertinent information—usually in the form of one of those glib remarks that he seemed to spew quite frequently?

“
Will the quarters we’ll be staying in be similar to that?” she asked, gesturing to the apartment they’d just left.

A sharp bark of laughter passed his lips. “Not quite.”

She frowned. “A touch smaller, perhaps.”

He eyed her askance. “Yes, a touch.”

“Why do we not get to stay in one of those?” She glanced over to another set of adjacent cabins that shared a walkway. “Surely they’re not all occupied.”

“
No,” he agreed, “just these two. General Ridgely and his wife live in that one and Colonel Lewis and his wife live in the one next to it. Those two—” he pointed to the other set of cabins— “are empty at the moment. We don’t have a lot of commanding officers here right now, but if they come, that’s where they’ll live.”