The Scout's Bride

“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.