The Major's Wife

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Not so much as a single scuff mark signaled that the heel had once been separated from the boot. Brand-new at the start of her journey, the black leather was still relatively stiff and the breakage had been disappointing. To Millie. Rosemary would have thrown them away and bought a new pair in Tulsa.

“Good night, ma’am.”

“Good night,” she repeated, closing the door.

Seth watched the door close from where he stood across the compound. The smell of roses still filled his nostrils, leaving his insides hard. The flower’s aroma might be pleasant in small doses, but what he’d just experienced was sickening, mainly because it reminded him of Rosemary. The overpowering smell had taken him back in time.

“Marry her and I’ll make you a major,” General St. Clair had said that fretful morning five years ago.

Seth’s stomach recoiled all over again.

He’d refused the offer, more than once, but ultimately, before the day was done, he’d become a major and married her.

It had been a goal he’d set for himself, to become a major, and to do so at the age of twenty-three had been enticing, but that was not why he’d given in. The reason had been the general. The man had been afraid. Seth had assumed it was because of his daughter’s reputation, but St. Clair’s fear had been deeper, more distressing than one might experience over a reputation. The general had talked as if Rosemary’s very life was in danger, and eventually shared the truth that Rosemary was seeing another man, one she shouldn’t have been associating with, but was.

None of that had truly been Seth’s concern, but knowing how the general had numerous times put his own life in danger to save the men he commanded, he hadn’t been able to ignore the man’s plea for assistance. When the general had assured Seth that he could still return to Indian Territory, and that when things calmed down in Richmond, he’d see to the divorce himself, Seth had finally agreed to marry the girl. In name only. He’d left shortly after the ceremony, with the general’s promise of a divorce within the year ringing in his ears.

St. Clair had died less than a year later, and that’s when Seth had started pursuing the divorce on his own. It galled him, how he’d accepted the man’s deal—saved her reputation, and then worked twice as hard to prove he was capable of the position he’d been granted—only to have her ignore his requests. Not so much as a note had been sent his way, verifying she’d received his letters.

Why was she here now? The question jarred his insides. She had nothing to gain, and though he lived half a world away from Richmond, word traveled. He knew Rosemary wasn’t sitting in her father’s parlor, pining for her husband.

His gaze followed Winston as the man walked almost the entire length of the compound, his way lit by torches staked in the ground and shielded from the wind with heavy glass-and-brass enclosures. Winston turned near the icehouse and headed toward the location where a group had gathered.

Some of the boys sat back there most every night, strumming guitars and banjos, playing harmonicas and an assortment of other instruments they’d acquired over the years. Seth sat there plenty of nights, too, but it wasn’t their music filtering through his mind right now, it was an annoying little feeling he hadn’t experienced for a very long time. He couldn’t be jealous of Winston; the man had simply returned her boots. Yet there was an inkling of envy or perhaps resentment inside Seth. It had appeared as soon as she’d opened the door and smiled at the man.

She had Seth flustered. A crazy thing for him to be, but there was no other way to explain the turmoil swimming through his veins, and that confused him, too. Crazy as it was, he was attracted to her. A fact he’d been trying to deny ever since she’d climbed off the wagon and stomped across the dirt with that adorable uneven gait.

A smile tugged at his lips. Covered in Oklahoma’s red dirt, parasol whipping in the wind behind her, with bright red cheeks and windblown hair, she’d been a sight. He’d never seen anything so endearing.

And later, when he’d stepped onto the walkway after Russ had signaled that she’d left the bathing house, his heart had almost stopped in his chest. A puny gust of wind could have blown him over as he’d watched the beautiful woman walk toward him, dressed in a form-fitting blue-and-white dress that had him craving to see what lay beneath it. She still had on that dress, and he’d still like to see what was under it.

He drew in another breath of air, long and hard. The telegraph lines weren’t working. A renegade had chopped down several poles recently, and repairs had been ordered, but the troop he’d sent out hadn’t returned yet. It was ironic that the last message that had come in had been the one saying his wife was to be picked up in Tulsa.

A short time ago he’d questioned Lieutenant Paisley, but the man couldn’t say when the line might be up again. Poles could be down all the way to Tulsa. It had happened before. He’d given Paisley instructions—private ones—that as soon as the lines were working, a message needed to be sent to Richmond. He was determined to confirm his suspicions that it was, in fact, Millie in his cabin.

It had to be Millie. There were too many inconsistencies for her not to be.

Seth pushed off from the post he’d been leaning against. Whether it was Millie or Rosemary, payback was in order. “Lieutenant,” he shouted into the barn.

A man appeared instantly. “Yes, sir?”

“Get my saddle and some saddle soap. Bring it to my cabin.”

“Now, sir?”

“Yes, now.”

“But that soap will stink up your cabin. The Indians make it for us and—”

“I know,” Seth said, already heading there.

It took even less time than he’d anticipated. He’d barely opened the tin, had yet to work much of the black slime into the leather when the door to her room opened. Her little nose was curled and her eyes were squinting.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Oiling my saddle.” He explained the obvious without looking up.

“In here?”

“Why not in here? An army man has to keep his equipment in order.”

She crossed the room, opened the door. “Don’t you have a barn for that kind of thing?”

He leaned back in his chair, stared at her pointedly. “If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to leave.”

That was a nasty glare, the one she flashed his way, as she stomped across the floor to Russ’s old room. Seth allowed himself a moment to gloat.

Only a moment, because in the next instant she was back, pouring something onto the seat of his saddle.

“What the—” He grabbed the bottle, not needing to sniff the container to know she’d just dowsed his saddle with rose oil. “What do you think you’re doing?” A stupid question, but it was all he could think to say.

“Disguising the stench,” she said with a curl to her lip.

They stood there, across the table from one another. In all his born days, Seth had never backed down from a challenge, and he wasn’t about to start now. He even felt the tiniest mingling of guilt. After all, her only weapon was a bottle of rose oil.

Wrong.

Two nights later, Seth conceded her plethora of female things was more than he could take. Like those big bows, all eight of them, tied to the rungs of the ladder leading to his loft. And the bouquet of flowers that had been sitting in his hat this morning, which she’d positioned in the center of the table as if it was some huge, hideous vase.

She had to have done that after he’d gone to bed last night.

He should have heard her. He’d barely slept. Not with the way he was sneezing. The thought of another sleepless, miserable night snapped his last nerve. Two days of trying to out-scent each other hadn’t got him anywhere.

Seth barreled through the door of their cabin. “What are you doing here?”

Spinning around from where she stood near the stove, she held up a bundle of weeds. “Drying out wild lavender.”

He sneezed.

“Bless you,” she said.

He’d been worn down before, but never quite like this. The cabin was overrun with flowers and bows and cushions and curtains. A man couldn’t take it.

“No, I mean, why are you here?” He sneezed again. “If it was to make my life as miserable as possible, if the past five years haven’t been enough, you’ve succeeded.” They hadn’t spoken much over the past forty-eight hours, having been too busy trying to outdo each other. He was ready to talk now. “I did your father a favor—not to mention you—and he promised me a divorce in return.” After one more sneeze, Seth waved a hand around the cabin. “Instead, I get this.”

Her eyes grew wide. “My father promised you a divorce?”

“Yes, he did.” Seth hurried to shut the door before the entire compound heard him. “What were you thinking that night? Why’d you climb into my bed?”

“I—I...”

The way she trembled from head to toe sent a wave of guilt curdling in his stomach. He took a step back, but wasn’t going to back down on his questioning. He needed some sleep—in a cabin that didn’t smell like a flower garden.

Another sneezed raked his body.

“Bless you,” she repeated. “And I don’t know why I did that.” She spun, then walked across the room so the table separated them. “I thought I was going to marry another man, but—”

“He was already married,” Seth supplied.

“Yes,” she answered quietly, “he was.”

That despondent little whisper did more to his insides than it should have. So did the way she gathered up several pots of flowers and set them outside the door.

“Why are you here?” he asked as she propped the door open.

“Because of your letter,” she said.

“Which one?”

She frowned slightly. “The one asking for a divorce.”

“Which one?” he repeated.

Her frown deepened.

“I’ve sent you five sets of divorce papers.”

“You have?” Shaking her head, she said, “I—I, um, I only saw this last set. The ones that arrived last month.”

“How can that be?” he asked. “I know they were delivered.” After hearing no response to his first requests he’d insisted upon and received confirmation that the papers had been delivered to the house.

He saw how wide her eyes grew before she turned and headed into his office. “M-my sister, M-Millie, always accepts the correspondence that arrives at the house.”

Following, watching her pull dried bundles of flowers from the rope stretched from corner to corner, he sneezed before asking, “And she withholds mail from you?”

“No...” Millie was searching for an explanation. She’d wondered if that had been the first time Seth had sent papers, yet had believed Rosemary when she’d assured her it was. The fact that Papa had promised a divorce was a surprise. He’d never mentioned that, but she had to believe Rosemary knew about it.

The way Seth sneezed several more times had guilt and concern rippling through her.

“Then why didn’t you get my other requests?” he asked, somewhat winded.

“There was a lot of mail after Papa died.” Millie continued to pull down the flowers. It had been fun, irritating him, but his puffy, bloodshot eyes said this had gone far enough. “Anything to do with the army, anything official looking, was forwarded on. I must assume that’s what happened to your previous letters.”

He gave a nod that didn’t really say if he believed her or not. She, on the other hand, had no doubt that Rosemary had received every set. Squeezing past him, flinching at another of his sneezing bouts, she carried the flowers she’d gathered out the front door.