The Scout's Bride

“Mesdames,” the Mackeys’ striker yelled excitedly from the porch where he waited, “it is the bugle call for Guard Mount. You do not want to miss it, non.”

“Then bring the basket, Private St. Jean,” his mistress shouted back.

The striker paced while the women packed the picnic basket. Then, scooping it up, he charged out of the door with Flora on his heels.

“Hurry,” her voice drifted back to Rebecca, “and bring a sunshade. You’re going to need it.”

“Nary a breeze,” Malachi complained, “an’ hot enough to scorch the hide off a Gila monster. Reckon we could find a shady tree?”

“Stake your territory,” Injun Jack answered tersely. “You’ve only got two choices.”

“How ‘bout that big cottonwood by Suds Row? Mebbe a sociable laundress can jolly you out of your mood.”

“Don’t start, Mal,” the scout warned.

The mule skinner paid him no mind. “There ain’t nothin’ you can do, you know. If Quiller says you gotta let that arm heal, that’s what you gotta do.”

“I don’t need my arm to translate,” Jack retorted. “Big Bear is ready to talk peace.”

“I know you worked for this,” Mal granted, “but another scout can handle the parley. You bin on the trail too long, gettin’ by on bad food, no sleep and pure cussedness. You gotta rest.”

“Everybody wants to take care of me…you, Quiller, that Emerson woman. Can’t a man have any peace?”

Wisely, Mal kept silent as they skirted the crowd gathering at the flagstaff. Fort Chamberlain’s new flag drooped in the still air, thick with smoke from pits near the mess halls.

Positioning themselves well away from officers and social obligations, the men watched as wagonloads of visitors rolled in. Some of the arrivals were farm families from nearby homesteads. Most were railroad workers and those who profited from them.

“I should’ve gone to Wolf Robe’s camp,” Jack muttered.

“Mighta bin safer,” Malachi allowed. “There’s that newspaper feller agin, and I reckon he’s lookin’ for you.”

Swearing under his breath, Jack moved to put the tree between him and Derward Anderson. “I wish you’d never brought him here.”

“Ain’t my fault if he wants to make a legend of you.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” the scout asked sourly.

“No, sir,” Mal lied, a grin splitting his homely face. “I think it’s a shame the way that greenhorn follows you around. You can come out now. He’s gone.”

Jack showed himself cautiously. “I hear some reporter went all the way to Fort Hays to tag after poor Cody and write about him.”

Hooting with laughter, Mal cuffed the scout’s good shoulder. “That’s what Derward Anderson aims to do for you, Injun Jack.”

“Not if he intends to go back to New York City in one piece,” Jack growled, his blue eyes sweeping the crowd, alert for the tenacious newspaperman.

His glower faded when he saw Rebecca crossing the parched parade ground with a comely blonde and a private lugging a huge basket. Clad in black, the widow looked prim and proper, but for one jarring detail. She carried the most ridiculous little pink parasol ever made.

“What’re you grinnin’ at?” Craning his neck, Mal grinned, too, when he saw her. “Don’t she beat all creation?”

“She does indeed,” the scout murmured, watching her join the officers’ wives in an open tent near the flagstaff. Clustered in the shade, they observed their husbands with pride. Guard Mount, the only duty on this holiday, was proceeding with rousing music and great pomp. Jack scarcely noticed.

What was it about Rebecca Emerson? he brooded. She was pretty, but no great beauty. She was prissy and stiff, two traits that did not appeal to him. Why, then, was he intrigued by her? And why was he unsettled by faint, improbable fancies… the feel of her trim body molded against his and the taste of her lips?

The moment the companies were dismissed, Flora nudged her friend and whispered, “Look, that man is staring at us.”

Rebecca could not tell whether she was affronted or flattered. “What man?”

“The big, good-looking one under the cottonwood. Who is he?”

Rebecca stole an inconspicuous peep across the wide stretch of parade ground just as the man turned a broad, familiar back. “Injun Jack,” she muttered, an unwelcome blush staining her cheeks.

“Injun Jack?” Mrs. Little overheard. “Do you know him, Mrs. Captain Emerson?” she demanded.

“I… I just met him at the hospital.”

“What a terrible man,” she said with a shudder. “I hope you were not subjected to the same crude behavior as I.”

“No, ma’am.” Rebecca nearly sighed in relief when the woman turned to speak to someone else. If Mrs. Major Little did not know that Injun Jack had kissed her, then no one did.

“I don’t think he looks crude or terrible,” Flora murmured in Rebecca’s ear. “I think he looks exciting and rather handsome. Brian never mentioned that. Of course, he wasn’t concerned about looks at the railroad camp the other day. He was just glad Injun Jack was his scout. He said—”

“There are the two loveliest ladies at Fort Chamberlain,” Brian’s jovial voice interrupted their conversation.

“The loveliest in Kansas,” Francis amended, beaming.

“Do I hear a ‘loveliest on the frontier’?” Flora fluttered her eyelashes at her husband.

“You are shameless.” Laughing, Brian summoned the striker. “Leave the basket, Private, and go enjoy your first Independence Day in your new country.”

“Merci, mon capitaine.” The Frenchman saluted smartly.

“Doesn’t that fellow speak English?” Francis frowned as St. Jean hurried away.

“Not much and not well,” Flora answered, “but he performs miracles in the kitchen, even with rations.”

“And he pampers madame outrageously,” Brian added affectionately. “Shall we promenade before it gets any hotter?”

Taking the arm Francis offered, Rebecca could not resist a glance at Injun Jack. Clad in light buckskins, his gun belt riding low on slim hips, the scout faced in her direction. One broad shoulder was braced against the tree trunk as he talked to Malachi Middlefield. She could not tell if his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, rested on her. She did not know why it should matter.

As the couples strolled, children capered around them in the dry brown grass. They chatted, stopping here and there to visit with friends and greet new faces from town.

It was good to be out among people, Rebecca mused, even if she did look like a crow among songbirds in her widow’s weeds. Though the day was hot, it should be enjoyable if she could keep Francis at arm’s length. And if she could forget Injun Jack’s presence.

Despite her resolution, her gaze was drawn to the big scout. He was alone now, his arms crossed on his chest, his face unreadable. She nodded. He did not acknowledge her gesture though she knew this time he watched. Suddenly she wished she were somewhere else, doing something besides walking arm-inarm with Francis.

Sternly she reminded herself that Jack Bellamy was a rude, insulting rogue. He had kissed her and promptly forgotten it…which was exactly what she must do. Determined to get him out of her mind and keep him out, she was careful not to look his way again when they moved to watch the chess game under the tamarack.

Absorbed in planning his strategy, Doc hardly noticed them. The colonel nodded coolly, but said nothing. Rebecca was not sorry when her friends were ready to go on to the sergeants’ hotly contested horseshoe tournament.