“Any sign of the Comanche?”
Robert shook his head. “I think it was a quick hit-and-run raid. In retaliation for the village that Captain Miller struck last week.”
“Damn Miller!” Jeremy muttered.
“Yes, sir. Damn Miller. That kind of thing will start up some heavy wars with Buffalo Run. You know him, sir.”
“Yes, I know him.”
“The funny thing is, Colonel, I think that half-breed Comanche actually likes you. I think he believes you want to leave him and his people in peace. But if men like Miller keep on killing old men, women, and children, there isn’t going to be anything that anyone will be able to do.”
Jeremy clenched his fingers into fists at his sides. Robert was right. What the hell could he expect out of the Comanche when white men brutalized their people daily? Not that they weren’t a warlike tribe—they were. But Buffalo Run seemed to know a hell of a lot more about making a treaty—and keeping his word—than the United States government.
“Damn Miller!” he repeated furiously.
Robert remained silent—there was nothing either of them could say on the matter. “All right,” Jeremy said. “We’ll have to take greater care. No small hunting parties heading out. I’ll speak to the men, all of them. I think I’ll ride out to the site myself.” He started to walk away, then paused. “Keep a careful eye on my wife until I return.”
The Cherokee nodded, placing a hand over his chest. “I’ll guard her with my life.”
Robert was his man, Jeremy knew. Fiercely loyal.
But he seemed to be falling under Christa’s spell too. Don’t love her too deeply, he wanted to warn the man. Don’t let her hold your heart because she is clad in some prickly armor, and the knives she carries will cut and hurt you and you’ll be bleeding before you even know that you were struck.
“Thank you,” he told Robert. He strode away, calling for Staff Sergeant Hallie to bring around his horse. He called up Company B and ordered the men to prepare quickly. They were going to ride.
Nathaniel had gone about his duties, leaving Christa alone by the river, sitting wearily on an old decaying log, when she first heard the bugle calls.
At least one of the companies was leaving the camp. She jumped up and started for the trail.
Jeremy wasn’t necessarily leaving, she assured herself.
It might be a very good thing if he was leaving. If he did she wouldn’t have to face him for quite some time, and that would surely be a relief.
But she didn’t really want him to go. If something were wrong, Jeremy would be looking into the matter himself. And he would take all manner of risks because he was the senior officer.
She bit into her knuckle, wishing suddenly that she could run to him, warn him that he must take care. But, of course, if she hurried to him he might not want to see her. He was probably ready to throttle her over the things she had said to Clara Jennings. He had warned her not to make trouble.
She started along the path anyway, determined that she would at least discover what was going on. But even as she hurried along the trail she suddenly stopped, aware that someone else had stepped onto the trail.
It was Robert Black Paw, the Cherokee. Tall and usually quiet, he was an interesting figure. Today he wore his long ink-black hair in twin braids, and his regulation cavalry trousers along with a white shirt and a heavily decorated doeskin shirt. His features were not handsome, but they were chiseled like hard rock, giving him an exceptionally striking appearance. She didn’t know his age; he seemed as old as time. Wherever Jeremy was going, Robert Black Paw would know.
“Robert, my husband—”
“He will return before dawn,” Robert said. She stared at him, then started to hurry past him. “Mrs. McCauley,” he said, stopping her. She looked back to him.
“He is already gone.”
“What is it? What’s going on?” she asked him tensely.
“There is nothing for you to be afraid of.”
She kept hearing that. All along this trail. But there were things to be afraid of, and she knew it.
There were Comanche.
“Has he ridden out against a war party?”
Robert shook his head gravely. “He will be back before dawn. You are safe. He is safe.”
She realized suddenly that Jeremy could have found her if he had wanted to. He could have given her this message himself.
He hadn’t wanted to see her. Maybe he hadn’t trusted himself with her. Maybe he didn’t want his officers and their wives to know that he was itching to throttle his wife.
This was all for the best. She could pretend to be sleeping whenever he returned. With any luck, she wouldn’t really have to talk to him until he’d had a chance to cool down a bit.
I’m not afraid of him and I was right, she cried inwardly.
But something felt hollow and empty inside her. She was worried, worried that something could happen to him. Her heart beat too strongly. She pressed her palm against it. She couldn’t bear to lose him.
How had she become so entangled? She could not love him! But perhaps she did.
Robert Black Paw watched her with that seemingly ageless wisdom in his dark eyes. “Thank you, Robert,” she told him, and walked by. She skirted around the camp. She had no desire to return to the scene of their picnic. Bertha would lovingly tend to the beautiful silver and china that she had brought along with her from what had once been her hope chest.
She skirted around the campsite with its endless array of A-frame tents to come to their own much larger canvas structure. She entered the flap and closed her eyes, then opened them again. Home away from home. She had made their camp bed that morning, but she had done so quickly. Someone else had been in to clean behind her. Jeremy’s desk was next to one of the center support poles, his papers neatly stacked. The smaller secretary with her own writing instruments and her books was across from it.
Just as if it were all laid out for a loving couple. One that could spend an evening together, silent but bonded by the emotions between them, each set upon his or her own task.
For a home in the wilderness, it was so very domestic! Her trunk lay open with one of her cool cotton skirts stretched across it. A clean cavalry jacket lay folded over Jeremy’s. The beautiful quilt that Callie had made them was folded over the foot of the bed. The washstand, pitcher, bowl, and mirror were set to one side of the tent, while a small squat folding table that held the bottles of brandy, wine, and whiskey lay invitingly near the desks. Christa bit her lip, staring at it. Ah, the downfall of the wine.
Ah, the downfall of her own heart!
What would his feelings be when he saw her again? He had been so furious with her after their evening with Sherman! Would he return angry enough to half-kill, and would it turn into a tempest again?
Or perhaps it might be as he had said when she had warned him not to touch her. Perhaps she wasn’t so special. Perhaps she would bring him to a point where he wouldn’t care at all any longer.
She paced the tent, wishing that he hadn’t ridden away. They should have had it out by now.
“Christa!”
Someone called her softly from outside the tent. She lifted the flap. Celia Preston stood there, tiny, delicate, so pretty in her silver-gray day dress.
Beyond her, Christa saw Robert Black Paw was standing watch over the tent. She lifted a hand to him in salute. He nodded gravely.
Celia slipped into the tent, swirled around observing it, then plumped herself lightly down upon the foot of the bed. She smiled. “What space you have here! Of course, our tent is larger than most since Jimmy is a lieutenant, but this”—she broke off laughing, her velvet brown eyes wide—“this is sheer elegance in the wilderness.” Her smile faded. “Oh, Christa! I’m so nervous. Jimmy rode out with Colonel McCauley and Company B. What’s going on? What’s happened?”
Christa shook her head. “I don’t know. But everything is all right, Celia. The men are just very careful, you know that.?
??
Celia nodded. “I hope you’ll forgive me for intruding. I was just so nervous …” Her voice trailed away, and then she smiled again. “Oh, Christa! Did you give that virago what for this afternoon! You were wonderful. She’s still so indignant she’s about to pop! She and Mrs. Brooks haven’t stopped buzzing about you! May I have a glass of wine? Will you join me?”
“Yes, of course, I’m sorry, I should have offered you some already,” Christa said.
“Join me?”
“Er, I think not,” Christa murmured. She poured Celia a glass of the burgundy, handed it to her, and sat down beside her.
“How do you endure this awful waiting?” Celia said.
“I haven’t had to endure it often,” Christa murmured. Celia was staring at her again. She realized she had the young woman’s total—and perhaps awed—admiration.
“You’re so strong, so wonderfully strong!” Celia said. “And you manage with everything, no matter what happens! Jimmy tells me how wonderful you are all the time!”
“Maybe I will have a glass of wine,” Christa murmured. She felt so guilty. She didn’t deserve any admiration. She did everything that she did just so that her husband would never see her falter in any way, just so that she wouldn’t betray the slightest weakness. That was hardly noble.
“I wish I could be like you,” Celia said.
“Jimmy adores you.”
She smiled. “Oh, I hope so. But you see, you manage to be beautiful and the perfect wife.”
Christa swallowed down a long draft of wine, fiercely reminding herself that she needed to go slow, that she mustn’t drink too much.
She had, after all, become an excellent wife at last because of it.
“Celia, trust me. Jimmy finds you to be a wonderful wife.” She hesitated just a second. “And believe me, my husband does not often find me so perfect as you claim.”
Celia stood, her pretty mouth curving into a small smile. “How can you say that!”
“Easily. I assure you that he wasn’t very pleased with anything I had to say to General Sherman. Nor can he be very happy about today.”
Celia giggled. “I think that the ‘Dixie’ was the finishing touch with General Sherman! But, Christa! You’re very wrong! It’s a pity you didn’t stay this afternoon. I can’t remember his words, but he assured Clara Jennings that he had far more to say to her than he might to his wife! Christa, the colonel applauded your words to her! Why, surely, all of the men and ladies present—other than that shrew herself!—were in sympathy with you!”
Christa felt as if her heart skipped a beat. Jeremy had defended her? Against Clara Jennings? Was it true, or was Celia trying to make her feel better about the disaster of a social?
Celia leapt up suddenly, setting her wineglass down upon the little table. She gave Christa a quick and startling hug. “Oh, if I just had the courage to speak as you did! You were wonderful. I try every day to be more like you!”
Christa shook her head. “Celia, don’t say such things. Your husband loves you just the way that you are. You don’t want to be hardened, believe me. I’m just the way that I am because I was …” She broke off. She didn’t know how to explain the war, or the things that had happened after the war.
“A Rebel!” Celia supplied for her. Her brown gaze was still filled with affection and admiration. “Christa, I’m so sorry for you. For all the things that happened. I was so very far away. The war was just something I read about in the paper. Until I married Jimmy, of course, and he was assigned to Washington. Then the war was over before I ever found out that he had been with the troops sent in at the last. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to live in Virginia, with the battles going on constantly, with kinfolk involved, with the enemy swarming everywhere. I would have never survived it.”
Christa smiled wryly. “We survived, Celia, just because it’s natural to do so. And—” She paused again. “It is all over now, isn’t it?”
Celia nodded happily. “I’m so grateful, because I just don’t know how I’d endure this without you!” She sighed, then hurried toward the flap. She stopped and looked back. “Thank you, Christa.”
Christa shook her head. “No, thank you, Celia.”
Celia beamed. “I want to be there, waiting, when Jimmy comes back. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Christa watched her go. She sat for a while, wondering if it could be true, if Jeremy had really defended her.
A while later, Robert Black Paw called to her. He had brought her some of the buffalo stew left over from the ill-fated picnic.
She thanked him, but she wasn’t hungry. She left it to sit upon her writing desk. He asked her if she wanted anything else and she hesitated, then asked him if he thought some of the soldiers would mind heating her some water and bringing in the ladies’ camp tub. Robert assured her the men would be glad to serve her, and it seemed that they were. In less than thirty minutes she had her bath.
She used a few precious drops of her rose-scented bath oil and soaked and scrubbed until she felt wonderfully, squeaky clean. In the middle of her bath, she realized that she was doing it all for her husband. Tonight she felt that she owed him a certain debt.
Camerons always paid their debts. She had told him that once.
He could still return furious with her. He might have defended her just to save face.
Still, tonight she would wait up for him.
She dressed in one of her flannel nightgowns and sat down in the chair behind her desk. She brushed her hair a hundred strokes, then curled her toes beneath her and sat, waiting. Through the white canvas of the tent she could see the fire Robert Black Paw had built burning brightly. He was out there, warming his own meal, brewing dark rich coffee.
She watched the play of the flames.
The night drew on. She watched as the fire burned lower and lower.
Her eyes grew heavy. She slid more deeply into the chair, then rested her head on the desk and closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to fall asleep. She was far too nervous to do so.
But she closed her eyes.
And she slept.
When she woke the tent was dark. She was stretched out and comfortable. There was a remarkable warmth at her backside.
Disoriented in the darkness, she slowly became aware that she was no longer in the chair.
And she was no longer alone.
Jeremy had come home.
She stiffened. He had picked her up and brought her here, to lie beside him. But he wasn’t touching her. He was drawn to his own side of the bed.
“What’s wrong?” She heard his voice, deep and low.
He wasn’t sleeping. He had sensed her slightest movement.
She didn’t answer him. Her heart was suddenly thudding and she was afraid. She wanted to feign sleep.
He wasn’t going to allow her to do so. “What’s wrong?” he repeated.
“I—”
“Jesu, when the hell did you become afraid to speak your mind?” he demanded impatiently.
He still wasn’t touching her.
He had said that morning that she was half-dead herself.
She bit her lip. It was really difficult to thank him for anything.
“I didn’t mean to offend anyone this afternoon. It was just that when that woman started on Nathaniel—”
“You didn’t offend anyone.”
“I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“Well, that’s new,” he murmured wryly.
Her back was still to him. She was glad. She was glad for the darkness too. He certainly had no intention of making anything easy for her.
She inhaled quickly and spoke in a rush. “I understand that you—that you defended my position. Perhaps you thought that you had to. I just wanted you to know that I really didn’t mean to antagonize you, that I simply couldn’t stand what she was saying about Nathaniel. I didn’t want you to be angry—”
“I wasn’t angry, Christa.”
“I—”
“I know, Christa. My God, what kind of a wretch do you think me? Nathaniel has covered my back for years. He’s one of my best friends. Did you think me so low that I wouldn’t defend him myself?”
“But it wasn’t just for Nathaniel. It was for him and for Tyne and Janey and for so many other people. I’ve never heard anything so incredible as her attitude! She’s a northerner—”
Hell, yes, Jeremy thought, Clara Jennings was a northerner. Christa didn’t understand that many of the men and women in the North had never seen Negroes, just as many men and women in the North didn’t understand that more than half of the southern boys in the Confederacy had never owned a slave in their lives.
“The war has been won,” he said quietly, staring at the dark canvas above them, “but real peace and freedom will probably take decades.”
“Jeremy—”
She broke off.
Jeremy rose up on an elbow. She was trying to apologize, and to thank him. It was a unique experience.
And if he reached for her, she might even respond. Out of gratitude.
But tonight he was weary. Riding out to the scene of the Comanche raid had sickened his spirit, and he was tired.
And he wanted more than gratitude from his wife. He didn’t want her paying off any imagined debts. He wanted magic again. The kind he had touched last night.
“Go to sleep, Christa,” he told her.
He sensed the stiffening within her once again. He turned his back to her, closing his eyes tightly.
She smelled like roses, sweet and delicious. Her hair fell in a cascade of ebony silk, enough to entangle him straight to hell and back. When he had come in, she had been so incredibly beautiful, curled upon the chair, innocent in her sleep, all her defenses down. She had appeared so vulnerable. He had wanted to take her into his arms. Cradle her. Love her.
The scent of roses still teased his nose.
He clenched his eyes more tightly shut. Not tonight. There would be no battles fought, no peace discovered. He did not have to have her. He had warned her that she was not irresistible.