The Scout's Bride

“I’m perfectly capable of finding my way across the parade ground alone in broad daylight, Private,” she cut in hotly, “and you may tell your commander as much. Good day, gentlemen.”

“Whatcha reckon Quiller said to that poor little widder?” Malachi mused as she marched away. “She’s usually got a downright sunny disposition.”

“The ‘poor little widder’ seems to have a temper, too,” Jack said with a chuckle. She had fire behind that cool, proper and— the idea crept up on him—soft exterior. Frowning thoughtfully, he went into the colonel’s office.

“Botheration,” Rebecca mumbled under her breath when she heard a shout behind her. Turning reluctantly, she allowed the adjutant to overtake her. “Good day, Lieutenant.”

“Isn’t it warm to be playing chase, Rebecca?” he grumbled as he crossed the quadrangle toward her. “I’ve been calling since you left headquarters. Didn’t you hear me?”

Handsome and dashing, Francis Porter was everything an adjutant should be, from the toes of his polished boots to his lush, waxed cavalry moustache. But just now that moustache drooped in the heat and his aristocratic face was flushed from exertion.

“I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t listening.”

“I guess you weren’t thinking either, wandering around without an escort,” he sighed, shaking his head indulgently. “Whatever shall I do with you, Becky, except see you home?”

“It’s really not necessary.”

“It’s most necessary.” Taking her hand, he placed it in the crook of his arm. “Don’t you know I want to take care of you?”

“You’ve been very kind to me since Paul’s death, Francis,” she said quickly, hoping to escape the inevitable.

“I could be kinder,” he persisted as they walked to Officers’ Row. “I’ve only just learned of your bill at the trading post.”

She glanced at him sharply, unwilling to ask how he knew.

“Paul, God rest him,” he continued, “had extravagant taste. You shouldn’t have to bear the burden alone. Let me help you.”

He had no idea what he was asking, Rebecca thought, shaking her head firmly. “You are a good friend, but no, thank you.”

“A friend,” he muttered. “You know how I feel about you, Becky. I can hardly believe you think you must seek employment to stay at Fort Chamberlain.”

“You heard about my conversation with the colonel?”

“It sounded more like an argument from where I was, on the other side of the partition.”

They walked in silence, Rebecca’s spirits sinking with every step. No doubt the gossip was already spreading. Everyone at the fort would know about the scene by nightfall. And everyone would be just as disapproving as Francis.

When they reached her house, the young officer turned to her. “I know Paul has been dead a short time, Becky, and I beg your forgiveness if my haste seems indecent. But surely you’ve deduced my intentions by now.”

Imagining she could feel her neighbor’s nosy stare from behind lace curtains, Rebecca tried to stop him, but once the lieutenant had begun, the words poured from him in a rush.

“Marry me and stay in Kansas. I’m sure the Old Man will grant permission, even though your mourning period is not over. As he told you, he wants what’s best for you.”

“Oh, Francis…” She hesitated, framing a tactful refusal. “You are kind, but it is too soon for me to remarry. Thank you, though, for your gallant offer.”

“Will you promise, at least, to consider my suit, Becky?”

“I promise,” she agreed, unwilling to hurt his feelings. How could she explain, when he regarded her so hopefully, that she would not marry again except for love?

“Then I will ask no more for now.” With a possessive smile, he carried her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Good day, Rebecca.”

“Good day.” Reclaiming her hand, she fled to the relative privacy of her quarters.

Chapter Three (#ulink_26767625-5740-5e50-a2d1-eca1b4d00f19)

“Are you ready, Rebecca?” Flora Mackey sailed into the kitchen, her blond curls bouncing. “The Fourth of July only comes once a year and I don’t want to miss a thing.”

“I’m almost finished.” Rebecca smiled as her visitor helped herself to a cup of coffee.

“Wait till you see what we’ve got to eat,” Flora announced, eyeing a platter of apple dumplings warming on the back of the stove. “Brian shot a prairie chicken and I made bean salad and corn muffins. There’s plenty, in case Prissy Porter joins us.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Rebecca responded to the familiar gibe. “His name is Francis.”

“And yours is Rebecca,” Flora answered absently, selecting a dumpling. “Why do you let him call you Becky? I know you hate it.”

“I don’t want to hurt his feelings.” The other woman sighed.

“You’re too kind for your own good. Look at you, bringing food for the picnic when I said you shouldn’t.”

“But I want to. I’m still drawing half rations.”

“In that case, I hope you’re bringing those pickles Brian likes.” Flora’s eyes widened when she turned to face her friend. “Deviled eggs!” she breathed. “Wherever did you get eggs?”

“One of the freighters brought them from town. I had more use for eggs than champagne, so I traded one of Paul’s bottles for a dozen.”

“I love deviled eggs. I love food,” the pretty blonde said around a mouthful of pastry. “Maybe that’s why my new dress is tight already. You’re going to stifle, you know, wearing that heavy black thing.”

“It’s unavoidable unless I stay at home,” Rebecca contended, “and that may not be such a bad idea. At least I wouldn’t have to face Colonel Quiller.”

“Oh, don’t take what he said to heart,” Flora advised airily. “I don’t think he’d really load you onto a wagon himself.”

“Does everyone at Fort Chamberlain know about our disagreement?” Rebecca asked in exasperation.

“When you’ve been in the army as long as I have, my girl, you’ll know there are no secrets on a military post, especially a small one in the middle of nowhere.”

“Then everyone knows I made him so angry that he told me I had no rights here?”

Flora shrugged. “Regulations say civilians have no rights at a fort. As soldiers’ wives, we’re ‘camp followers.’ He would banish all of us, if the army would let him. And small wonder. Did you see—”

“The gazebo?” Rebecca cut in mischievously. “As good as any back east.”

“I’d like to see Quiller try to evict Mrs. Major Little,” Flora giggled. “He thinks he has problems with the Cheyenne and the Sioux.”

Shaking her head, Rebecca chuckled. Flora always made her laugh, even now when she had little reason for joy.

When she had arrived at Fort Chamberlain, Mrs. Captain Flora Mackey had taken her under her wing. Born and bred in the army, she had guided the newcomer through the rigid customs of Officers’ Row. She had rounded up household items for the newlyweds and charmed the quartermaster into giving them a coal-burning stove in this place where wood was so scarce. And she had chattered gaily through all of it.

When Paul died, Flora had stayed by her side. Her friendship had helped the widow through difficult times. Just yesterday, when she had heard of Rebecca’s ranking out, she offered her hospitality. “I fear you must sleep in the parlor, but we’ll make the best of it,” she had said. “It’s only temporary, after all.”