The Unlikely Wife

“Or an Indian scout,” he interjected hopefully.

She chose to ignore him. “If I don’t keep my hat on I’m going to be sunburned. I could die of sunstroke. Do you want to explain that to my father?” She paused a moment, to give him time to digest her comment, he supposed, then turned her back again. “Slice it off at about my shoulders.”

“Perhaps you could stay in the wagon.” Even as he said it he knew that would be too much to ask of someone like Rebecca.

She spun around. “With Aunt Belle? All day, every day? For a week? I’ll go mad. Wouldn’t you?”

She turned her back on him again. When he made no move toward her, she tossed, “Lieutenant,” over her shoulder. There was just enough threat in her voice to irritate him. He stepped around the desk and took the dark tresses in his left hand. She deserved this, he thought. Let her explain it to her father.

His knife was sharp, and it took only a moment. When the final cut was made she tossed her head, turning the bluntly cut locks into curls. Placing the hat firmly on her head she sent him a grin. “Thanks,” she said as she walked away.

Clark looked after her, down at the knife and handful of dark, soft hair, and back at the retreating figure. He realized with a start that his hands were shaking and his breathing had become labored. He returned the knife to its sheath but stared at the hair for a long moment while the wind tried to pull it from his grasp. He had the fleeting feeling that he had just scalped her.

He drew a white handkerchief from his pocket and, entering his tent, spread it on his bunk. Carefully, not wanting to miss a strand, he placed his treasure on top and folded the handkerchief around it, tying it with a string from his pack. Then he unbuttoned his blouse and, without pausing to analyze his actions, tucked the bundle into the pocket in the lining, next to his heart.

Chapter Three (#ulink_f4676823-03c7-574f-a0f7-1476f37d0051)

Aunt Belle would probably swoon. Then she would try to find a way to punish her. But Aunt Belle’s authority had diminished with every mile they put between themselves and Chicago. Soon Rebecca would be back in her father’s care, and he was easily managed.

Rebecca made her way from Lieutenant Forrester’s tent to the ambulance, putting Aunt Belle out of her mind. The lieutenant’s face was much more fun to think about. He tried so hard not to register any reaction that it took something outlandish, like a request that he cut her hair, to get him to so much as raise an eyebrow. Disconcerting him was worth anything Aunt Belle could think to do to her.

Alicia had set up a camp table and two chairs beside the ambulance and sat hunched over a book. She looked up when Rebecca arrived. “You actually did it,” she whispered.

Rebecca took off her hat and gave her bobbed hair a toss. “Do you think you can get my scissors from your mother and trim it for me? I doubt if it’s very even. Maybe you could cut it in layers, like a man’s, so it’ll lie better.”

Alicia merely stared.

“Relax, Alicia.” Rebecca moved to the other chair and put the hat on the ground beside her. She looked at the table for the first time. It was set with Aunt Belle’s everyday china and flatware—probably this was her idea of practical. There were only two places and an extra plate sat atop Alicia’s.

“Is Aunt Belle feeling all right?” She hoped her determination to cut her hair hadn’t actually made her aunt ill.

“She won’t come out,” Alicia whispered.

Rebecca glanced at the wagon, noticing that the canvas had been unrolled completely. “Even now? There’s nobody around.”

“There’s lots of men around.” Alicia waved her hand to encompass the whole camp with its many little campfires. “Besides, our driver said he would be bringing our dinner soon. Mother doesn’t want anybody to see her in the pants.”

“She might as well change into a dress if she’s never coming out of the wagon. Of course, then she would have no reason to stay in the wagon.”

Alicia started to giggle, then touched her finger to her lips. “She’s sure she will be instantly scalped.”

“That’s ridiculous. She’d be perfectly safe.”

Alicia gaped at her a moment, then hissed, “You said women would attract the Indians. That’s why we’re wearing these awful pants.”

Rebecca shook her head. “Lieutenant Forrester said that. I called his bluff.”

“What!” Alicia clapped her hand over her mouth.

“There may be some truth in it,” Rebecca acknowledged, “especially when we get farther west. Alicia, that wasn’t the real reason he didn’t want us along, but it was the reason he gave. The pants prevent him from claiming we disregarded his concerns.”

Alicia leaned back and stared at Rebecca as if the explanation was too much to fathom. After nearly a full minute she asked, “What do you think was the real reason?”

Rebecca grinned. “He thinks I’ll flirt with all the soldiers.”

Alicia arched a brow. “And won’t you?”

“No!” She tried to look indignant, but in the face of Alicia’s knowing nod it was impossible. She grinned instead. “At least not until I get tired of Lieutenant Forrester.”

Clark signaled a halt when he saw the rider. Sergeant Whiting relayed the order then squinted at the approaching figure. “He’s riding a mule.”

Clark lifted the binoculars that hung from his saddle and took a look. “Some old-timer.” He passed the glasses to Whiting.

“I think it’s Decker,” Whiting said. “He’s done some scouting for the army.”

“Hold the column. I’ll see what he wants.” He spurred his horse forward.

“First Lieutenant Clark Forrester, Seventh Cavalry,” he said when they had drawn rein near each other.

“How do, Lieutenant?” The man extended his hand. “Name’s Carl Decker. Saw your dust from over yonder. Soon as I knew you wasn’t a band a renegades, I decided I’d come on in, see if I could share a fire and have some company for the night Startin’ to get a little spooked out here alone.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Decker.” Clark turned his mount, and they started back toward the waiting column.

“Don’t nobody I know call me Mr. Decker. Carl, maybe, or more likely Short Deck. On account a me being not so tall, I reckon.”

Clark shook his head. “They wouldn’t call you Short Deck because you cheat at cards, would they?”

Decker spat a stream of tobacco juice on the far side of his mule. “Maybe,” he said with a chuckle.

Clark waved the troops forward, and he and Decker fell in alongside the sergeant.

“Short Deck,” Whiting said. “I thought that was you. Where you headed?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Sam,” the old man answered. “I’m thinkin’ about leavin’ the state. Or I may just find myself a place to hole up over here in Salina or yonder in Abilene.”

“I can imagine the accommodations you’re looking for,” Whiting said.

Decker laughed. “How far am I gonna be backtrackin’ here, Lieutenant?”

“I planned to camp about a mile farther west.”

“Don’t mind trading a couple miles for some company. How many men ya got here?”

It was Whiting that answered. “Forty. Most of them green as grass.”

“They’ll do,” Clark said, knowing at least a few of the men in question had heard their sergeant

“Replacements for Hard Ass?”