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Slowing his horse, the scout rode to the flagstaff, guiding with his knees. Seemingly occupied with adjusting his hat, he darted a glance toward Rebecca, who stood beside Doc Trotter, her face bright with excitement.
Dismounting at the prize table where the major’s apprehensive wife awaited him, Jack bowed. “Good day, Mrs. Little.”
Taken aback by his courteous greeting, she stammered, “How do you do, Mr…er… Jack.” Collecting herself, she indicated the ham and enunciated in round tones, “Your prize, sir.”
“Thank you.” The scout tucked the huge joint under his good arm and shouldered his way through the crowd. “Will you take this for the boys in the ward, Doc?” he asked, handing over his prize.
“With pleasure,” Doc Trotter trumpeted. Juggling the ham awkwardly, he beamed at the hospital’s benefactor. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Jack answered, his eyes on Rebecca. She smiled and it warmed him just as he had imagined. The reality was even more disturbing than his unwelcome daydream.
Tipping his hat, he nodded impersonally. “Afternoon, ma’am.” Then, remounting his horse, he rode away without a backward look.
Chapter Four (#ulink_6e7bc8be-eff0-5b50-b9cf-d138087fe0dc)
By the time the flag was lowered at sunset, the breathless heat had been relieved by a hint of a breeze. Rebecca wandered through her sweltering house, unwilling to light a lamp. Voices and laughter floated through open windows as celebrants finished their barbecue dinners and prepared for the dance.
Inspecting each room in the dusk, she tried to decide which of the possessions accumulated during her brief marriage to sell. Flora had explained that most families sold their belongings upon leaving a post, in order to travel light. The idea suited Rebecca. She had no attachment to her meager collection of household items and, though she did not intend to travel far, she certainly needed the money.
The music for the opening Lancers drifted from the blockhouse, distracting her. Giving up on her task, she moved to the porch to enjoy the music and the cool of the evening.
Across the parade ground, the moon rose, round and full, behind the barracks. Children chased fireflies on the parched lawn while their parents danced nearby.
When the music ended, giving way to the song of the cicadas, Rebecca felt sad and alone. She missed Paul and ached for lost opportunities. In time, she might have come to love him. Now she would never know.
The band began to play a lively reel, but the tune did not lift her spirits.
Still dripping, Injun Jack put on his clothes, reckoning by the music that it was safe to return to the fort. It was dark now and everyone would be at the dance.
He had endured the barbecue, surrounded by more people than he had seen in a month, accepting congratulatory slaps on the back that jarred his sore arm. He had strolled on the parade ground, until he realized he studied the face of every female he met, searching for a certain pair of hazel eyes. Disgusted at himself, he had headed toward the river for a swim and some solitude.
Now, as he returned to the fort, the challenge rang out, “Who goes there?”
“Hello, Paris,” Jack called to the picket, but he did not slow his step. He knew the man, a former lieutenant in the Confederate Army. Captured and faced with prison camp, Paris had become a galvanized Yankee, a Rebel recruited for Indian fighting in the West. Jack did not hold it against him, but it did not change the fact he had never liked him.
“Good race today, Major Bellamy,” Paris greeted him. “Reminded me of old times with you ridin’ like you were chased by Satan himself. Can I buy you a drink to celebrate?”
“Maybe sometime when you’re not on duty.”
“How come you’re missing the fun tonight?” the man persisted.
“Because I’ve had about as much fun as I can take,” Jack growled as he angled toward the road around the parade ground.
As he neared Officers’ Row, the scout’s thoughts turned again to the widow. Scanning the unlit line of identical buildings, he wondered which quarters were hers. He almost did not see her on the dark porch.
Rebecca huddled on the bench in the shadows, hoping her black dress would render her invisible as the scout approached. His broad shoulders and long-legged gait were unmistakable even in the darkness.
Each time she had met him, he had been different. One moment he was surly; the next, drunkenly amorous. He had been polite yesterday in front of headquarters, and utterly aloof today. She never knew what to expect, but she would not let him fluster her tonight. She only wished her heart did not pound as he came near.
Jack planned to pass with no more than a nod, but somehow he found himself standing at the foot of her steps, hat in hand. “Good evening, Mrs. Emerson.”
“Good evening, Mr. Bellamy,” she answered quietly.
“Did you enjoy the picnic today?”
“Very much.”
“When I stopped at the hospital this afternoon, Doc said you’d been there. Thanks for checking on Teddy.”
“I was glad to.” She sighed, feeling her reserve melt when he smiled at her. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Bellamy?”
“Thank you.” Positioning himself on the top step, he leaned against a post and turned so he could see her. “You’re not going to Mrs. Little’s fancy cotillion?”
Her lips curved in a wry smile and she shook her head. “A widow puts something of a pall on festivities.”
“Malachi told me you lost your husband a couple of months ago, ma’am,” Jack said gently. “I am sorry.”
She blinked back tears at his unexpected words. “Thank you.”
“Were you married long?”
“Just three months, but I had known him most of my life.”
“So you were childhood sweethearts?”
“No, best friends,” she found herself admitting.
“At least you liked each other,” he chuckled companionably. “That’s more than some old married people can say.”
“Yes.” Searching for a more impersonal topic, Rebecca was relieved when the strains of a polka came to them on the night air. “Why aren’t you at the cotillion, Mr. Bellamy? Don’t you dance?”
“I’ve been known to gallop around a floor now and again,” he drawled.
“And you’ve been known simply to gallop.” He heard unexpected raillery in her voice. “That was a wild ride you took this afternoon.”
“Couldn’t have done it without Ol’ Jo,” he answered with a grin.
“What did you say to him to make him run so fast?”
“I asked how he would hold his head up if he got beat by a persnickety Yankee gray.”
To Rebecca’s amazement, a laugh bubbled inside her and spilled out. “Mr. Bellamy, you are impossible.”
“That may be, ma’am,” he agreed with a pleased grin, “but I have my good points. I don’t dip or chew. Don’t gamble much, except when I have a good chance of winning. I’m charming-—”
“And humble,” she interjected.
“And humble,” he conceded. “And I’m not as dumb as I look.”
“So you say,” she countered with a chuckle, peering through the darkness. “Is that water coming from a wet bandage?”
“It was hard to keep it dry while swimming,” he confessed, his eyes on an incriminating puddle, which inched across the porch.
“Between horse races and river water, that wound may never heal,” she chided, rising. “Come in and I’ll change the bandage.”
“No, thanks.” He remained on the step.
“You’re not going to let it become infected, are you?”
“No,” he answered slowly, searching his memory. Her words had struck a faintly familiar chord.
“Mr. Bellamy, please,” she urged softly from the doorway before she disappeared into the dark house.
On the porch, Jack pursued a provocative wisp of remembrance; a vague, jumbled remnant of memory that began with a soft “Mr. Bellamy, please”… and ended with a kiss. All at once, astonished recollection lit his face and he got to his feet and went into the house.
In the next room, Rebecca lit a lamp and opened the back door to admit a breeze. Then she washed her hands and rummaged in a cupboard, taking out a roll of gauze.
“Can I get you anything? A drink of water, perhaps?” she asked nervously when she saw him in the doorway.
“Nothing, thank you.” Stepping into the room, he towered over her, seeming to fill the tiny kitchen. He smiled down at her as if they shared a private joke.
He was so big, she thought, suddenly uneasy. She knew the power in his sinewy arms, for she had been caught in them. What had she been thinking to invite Injun Jack into her house? She had enjoyed his company out on the porch a few minutes ago, but now she remembered seeing grown men pale at the thought of facing him.
Hiding her misgivings, she pulled out a chair. “Wait here while I get my scissors from the sewing basket.”
Jack prowled the kitchen. Furniture and amenities were few at an army post, but Rebecca had made a comfortable home here. A hardtack crate, nailed to the wall, served as a shelf. The room’s seats, four rough-hewn wooden chairs, were cushioned by colorful braided mats. A length of blue cloth had been sacrificed to cover the table and the tiny window. On the sawbuck table was a vivid bouquet of wildflowers.
When she returned, he sat down and extended his arm so it rested on the table, watching as she positioned herself at his shoulder.
Rebecca prepared to tend to his arm. She tried not to notice that his long hair, still damp from his swim, was drying to a blue-black sheen and that he smelled of fresh air. Her fingers were clumsy when she tried to roll his soggy shirtsleeve. Dexterity would have made no difference. The sleeve would not go past his muscular forearm.
“Allow me,” he suggested considerately when he saw her sheepish expression. Removing his gun belt, he laid it on the table. Then he shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to her. “I’d prefer you didn’t cut this one up.”
She blushed, as he had known she would, and draped the shirt over the back of a chair. Then, careful not to look at him, she pulled the lamp near and knelt beside his chair. “There’s blood on this,” she said accusingly, eyeing the sodden bandage.
“Only a little… from this afternoon.”
Her expression was skeptical as she removed the wrapping and inspected the wound. “What is this? Not more tobacco?”
“Healing herbs, a Kickapoo cure,” Jack murmured, studying her. In the lamp’s glow, her upswept hair seemed a silvery halo. Her delicate face, partly in shadow, was intent as she bent over her task.
“What do you think?” he asked, his breath stirring her hair.
“I think it needs to be cleaned.” Efficiently, she rose and took an exquisite decanter from the shelf.
His blue eyes flickered with interest. “What’s that?”
“Whiskey for medicinal purposes. It belonged to my husband.”
“Well, pour some in a glass before you pour any on my arm. It’s going to sting like holy Ned.”
“You’ll pardon me, Mr. Bellamy,” she objected, “but I’ve been around you when you’ve been drinking and I’d rather not repeat the experience.”
“I wasn’t myself at the hospital the other day,” he defended himself.
“I should hope not.”
“I don’t recall it very well,” he ruminated. “Was I rude?”
“Very.” Her attention was on cutting a piece of gauze for a swab.
He seemed to digest the news. “I knew I was disgraceful and uncivilized.”
Rebecca’s scissors ceased their activity and she stared at him in dread.
“ ‘No better than a savage.’ That is what you said, isn’t it?” he asked politely.
“You remember.” Crimson flooded her face.
“Some of it.”
She could not bring herself to ask which parts he recollected. If he had forgotten their kiss, she was not going to remind him.
Dousing the swab with whiskey, she threw a sidewise glance at him. Jack stared out into the night, seemingly deep in thought. The lamplight burnished his bronzed skin and glinted on the ivory necklace around his neck. The rising wind caused the lantern to flicker, casting shadows across his impassive face.
“I’ve never been much for apologies,” he said at last. “I don’t even like the word sorry, but I apologize if I offended you.”
She dropped her hand, tucking the alcohol-soaked gauze among the folds of her skirt. “I’m willing to make allowances. Besides losing a good deal of blood, you had had too much whiskey and too little sleep. I understand if you were not yourself, as you say.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t usually kiss strange women.” His face was solemn, but his eyes danced with mischief.
“Mr. Bellamy,” she sputtered.
“And if I do kiss them,” he continued with an unrepentant grin, “it’s not like me to forget.”
She stared at him in shock, but an answering glint of humor shone in her eyes. “And I suppose you don’t yank every hapless female you meet off her feet, either?”
“Just you, I’m afraid.” He chuckled.
Attempting to hold onto decorum, she scolded, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I should, but it was worth every sore muscle I had the next day.”
“Save your flattery for your red-haired friend from Chamberlain,” she advised tartly.
“You mean Elvira? She’s just a friend.” He smiled charmingly. “Why don’t you call me Jack, if you’re going to be jealous?”
“I’m not jealous.” She was astounded by his presumption.
