Enlisted men wore dress helmets, and red plumes of artillery mixed with cavalry yellow in the group gathered around the quartermaster’s storehouses, which held six months’ supplies from Fort Yuma. The whole population of the post was assembled, from laundresses to Mr. DeLong and Colonel Shaw, who was coming through the crowd now, nodding and speaking as his wife graciously did the same.
At the far end of the room the trumpeter was testing his cornet while one of Mr. DeLong’s assistants tuned his fiddle. The orchestra was completed by the drummer. They struck up with spirit as the Shaws entered and the colonel swooped with his lady down the hall. He was a thin, graying man who regarded his wife as fondly as if she were the bride who had married a second lieutenant twenty-five years ago.
Now that the dance was formally opened, the floor quickly filled. Brittany’s fear of stumbling awkwardly about swiftly vanished as she learned that O’Shea’s hands and posture indicated which way to move. The floor was so packed that no one could notice mistakes and she was soon enjoying the dance.
Bridget O’Malley, flaming hair swept up with the brown velvet bow, glided past with surprising grace in the arms of a dark, burly sergeant. Captain Fenwick, the surgeon, squarish of shoulder, beard and face, steered his wife with care, for her bustle protruded so far that it required plenty of room. Gertrude Fenwick’s taffy curls were adorned with garnet combs that matched her swishing taffeta dress. Of the four laundresses only Mollie Stroud, the slim, black-haired wife of the bugler, was pretty, but the enlisted men waited their turns eagerly for being favored by the women and meantime danced with other troopers.
Hugh Erskine stood near the door, watching the festivities as if they were those of stone-age aborigines. Tyrell was nowhere to be seen. Somehow that dulled Brittany’s excitement, though when she looked up at O’Shea the expression in his gray-blue eyes made her pulse leap.
“I thought you said you couldn’t dance,” he murmured. “You’re light as a cloud. Makes me want to hold you tighter to be sure you’re real.”
He did so, palm warm and strong at her back, smiling down at her with possessiveness. “Lieutenant!” she said breathlessly.
“I wish you’d call me Michael.”
“Is that proper?” she asked doubtfully.
He whooped and spun her in a circle. “Lieutenant!” she implored. “Michael! I can’t follow when you move so fast!”
“You’re doing well enough,” he laughed.
Edward claimed her for the next dance, so bumbling and unsure that their feet were constantly entangled. Sweat from his perspiring brow dripped on Brittany, and she was unspeakably relieved when the number ended and Michael O’Shea eagerly took her back.
He proved to be her best partner. Captain Fenwick pumped her stolidly about as if she were a recalcitrant mechanism. Colonel Shaw’s keen hazel eyes were benevolent and kind as he inquired about how she was liking the post, but he danced stiffly, as if counting steps. She was astonished when Major Erskine bowed to O’Shea, who’d reclaimed her after each dance with someone else.
“If I might be so fortunate, Lieutenant O’Shea?”
“We’re all fortunate to have Miss Brittany, sir.” The lieutenant laughed. He relinquished Brittany with a secret pressure of her hand and went to make his duties to Gertrude Fenwick.
Erskine danced with grace and when he sensed Brittany’s need for a stronger lead, he supplied it, but his stern manner made her uneasy and more clumsy than when Michael O’Shea’s gay nonsense made her forget to worry about what her feet were doing.
“How do you find army life, Miss Laird?” He had a cultured, pleasant voice, but it was curiously flat.
“I can scarcely judge, Major. My former life was so secluded that Camp Bowie seems quite busy and exciting.” Except for the hours I spend trying to get my little cousins to pay attention to their lessons.
A faint smile tugged at the firmly set mouth. “Ah, then you’re not disturbed at inconveniences? Your cousin let me know, charmingly, of course, that my arrival forced her into highly inadequate quarters made even less suitable by your addition to the household.”
Annoyed at her cousin for making her sound a burden, Brittany said coolly, “I can’t see that my presence has incommoded my cousin, sir, since I sleep on a couch in the parlor.”
That startled him into looking at her more closely. His time at the post had bronzed his face, and it made a striking contrast to his well-groomed silver hair. “Indeed? I’m sorry about that, Miss Laird, and I would cede my quarters to family except that I expect mine very shortly.”
“Your wife is coming?”
He flinched. “My wife is dead. It’s my daughter who’s arriving, along with her nurse.”
“I—I’m sorry, Major Erskine,” Brittany floundered. “Is your daughter an infant?”
“No. She’s nearing five. But her nurse, an excellent woman, though limited, gives Laurie security when I have to be away.” He sighed. “I’m beginning to fear that my sister is right and I’m selfish in dragging the child around army posts.”
“If you’ll pardon my boldness, sir, keep your daughter with you,” Brittany urged. “I have very little memory of my father, but what I have is my greatest treasure.”
Her voice broke. A great wave of longing for Tristesse, Tante, and the father she barely remembered swept over her. She blinked back tears, glancing down to hide them.
“Thank you for saying that, Miss Laird.” The major’s tone was gentle. “You really think I’m not wronging Laurie by keeping her with me rather than sending her east to my sister?”
“Sir, your love is the best thing you can give her.”
“It cheers me to hear that. But,” he added worriedly, “she will soon be of an age where she’ll need the understanding and example of a woman of refinement.”
He was so troubled that Brittany said reassuringly, “She’s very young, Major, and perhaps in a few years—” Her voice trailed off.
“I’ll marry again?” He gave an acid laugh. “I swear that in these two years of my widowhood I’ve had every eligible sister, cousin, and daughter of my fellow officers thrown at my head till I’m weary dodging. I suppose I’ll be forced to marry eventually, for Laurie’s sake, but I view the expedient with repugnance.”
“Then you had best not marry, sir. It would be a grave injustice to your wife.”
“Why, if she knew my motives? I would support her in reasonable comfort. She would serve as mistress of my household and Laurie’s preceptress. There would be no wearisome pretense of love between us.”
“You think that a good model of marriage for your daughter?”
“It would be civil, at least, with, I trust, an amiability. I certainly won’t wed a woman that I hold in dislike.”
Brittany bit her tongue to keep silent. Perhaps he had loved his wife so much that this was all he was capable of, and there were doubtless many spinsters who’d be overjoyed at the bargain. Still, she pitied a child growing up in such a joyless, formal atmosphere.
The major pressed, “You disapprove?”
“It’s none of my affair.”
“Still, I should appreciate your opinion.”
“Very well, Major. I believe your child would fare better with the sincere love of one person. To expose her to an unloving union would be, I think, like giving her a tiny dose of daily poison—not enough to kill or sicken but enough to stunt her own capacity for true affection.”
The major winced, but his tone was patronizing. “A young lady must be romantic, of course. From my observation, children, so long as their needs are met, pay little heed to how their parents get on.”
“Not conscious heed.” Brittany thought regretfully of spoiled, unhappy Angela and Ned. “But a house without love is like one without fresh, healthy air.”
He shook his distinguished-looking head. “You may be right in an ideal sense, Miss Laird, but it’s clear you’ve grown up quite out of touch with reality.”
“Marrying without love
will never be my reality.”
He smiled briefly. “Indeed, my dear young lady, I wish you may find a husband who’ll fill your expectations.”
The number ended. Before O’Shea could claim her, Zach Tyrell took her hand, grinned carelessly at the approaching lieutenant. “With your permission, Mike?”
He swept Brittany away without waiting for an answer. On his breath she could smell the whiskey she’d learned to identify during her journey. Offended by it and his preemptory manner, she held herself as far away from him as she could and said icily, “You didn’t ask my permission, Mr. Tyrell.”
Those dark blue eyes dwelled on her mouth, her throat, where the pulse throbbed like trapped wings, touched the bareness of her shoulders. “Why bother?” he said grimly. “I’m going to dance with you whether you like it or not.”
As she gasped and stiffened, he grinned audaciously, bringing her closer to him with a hand that spanned her back. “Just consider it payment for my saving your neck,” he suggested. “The Apaches would have done a helluva lot more than dance with you—though when it was all over, if you weren’t kept for a drudge, they might have danced your scalp at a victory celebration. They wouldn’t have raped you, though.” He went on casually, slurring his words a bit. “Apaches don’t take scalps much. Once in a while they want one for ritual purposes, but mostly they leave the hair.”
“Mr. Tyrell!”
“If you can call O’Shea Michael, you can call me Zach.”
“I know Lieutenant O’Shea considerably better than I know you! And let me add, sir, that you do not improve upon closer acquaintance!”
He brought her so near that their bodies touched. She gasped, breasts tingling at the contact, warmth rushing through her. “Let’s make our acquaintance real close and see what you think then!”
They were by the open doors. A spillover of soldiers were dancing on the hard ground, so they were unremarked as Zach danced her outside in a wild spin and out through the soldiers.
“I—I’ll scream!” she choked.
“Do. Then Mike and I will have to fight and the post will really buzz.”
“You—you—”
They had reached the darkness behind the school-house. He brought her full against him. His mouth came down on her protesting lips. At first his kiss was brutal, harsh as his arms, but then he groaned, molding her to him, and his kiss turned pleading, urging, tenderly plundering, till she ached and lay tremulous in his embrace.
He laughed huskily as he lifted his head. “Well, Miss Brittany, on closer acquaintance, you improve till I damn near can’t stand it!”
Her knees still refused to hold her, but as the intoxicated dizziness drained away at his mocking words, she said coldly, “Now that you’ve had your—your payment, please return me to the dance. My escort will be worried.”
“And whispers will start?” He shrugged, keeping an arm loosely around her while his big warm hand held hers. “I came to see you, not lollygag around with a passel of women I’ve no interest in. As for Mike, we’re friends. When I tell him you were supposed to go with me, he won’t be too angry.”
“I never said I’d go with you!” she blazed. “How could I when you didn’t ask?”
“You knew I was coming in.” When she started to speak hotly, he placed a finger on her lips. “Don’t play games, Brittany! You knew I’d come for you.”
She sputtered at his cool arrogance. “So I’m to read your mind? You could perfectly well have stopped by when you brought in that Indian boy.”
“So you’re miffed about that?” he chuckled. “Fact is, I didn’t have time to palaver and I knew if I saw you, I’d want to stay a while. How’s the kid doing?”
“All right, I suppose.” Brittany felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn’t inquired about the child, but the truth was that she didn’t want to be reminded of Apaches. “He keeps to himself except for going to school.”
Zach mused a moment. “I thought about keeping the poor little devil myself,” he said roughly. “But I’m gone a lot, and I thought he’d get sent up to San Carlos, where he probably has relations.”
“Then you don’t think he ought to be educated?”
“In the white man’s way instead of as an Apache?” He shook his head ruefully. “I don’t know. The Apache way of life has to change. They can’t raid and range all over their old haunts. But their religion and customs and knowledge of the wilds—those they can keep. Those the boy should know. Along with enough white man savvy to let him handle them.”
“You seem to have thought about it.” Brittany was surprised that a frontiersman who’d had his share of fighting Apaches would think about the problems they were going to have in changing their whole manner of existence.
His teeth flashed in the darkness. “I know about being dragged out of one life and plunged into another. When I was a tad older than that boy, Comanches killed my folks over in Texas. It was six years before soldiers killed my adoptive father in a skirmish and captured me. I’d forgotten English. Turned pure Comanche. Ran away twice after an uncle claimed me. But he and my aunt had a lot of patience. They finally convinced me that my Comanche band was scattered or dead and I had to make the best of being a white man.”
“You certainly didn’t become overcivilized,” she thrust.
“Not much danger of that on the Texas frontier,” he agreed amicably. “But you come from that soft plantation country that might as well be in Louisiana. Ever get homesick?”
I cry most nights. I wonder if there’ll ever be a time when I can think about Tante and Tristesse and be gladder that I had them than I am sad.
“There’s no use being homesick when you can’t go home,” she said tightly. “We must get back before someone notices we’re gone.”
“He’s already noticed.”
Her abductor chuckled softly, putting a hand under her arm to lead her across the dark space to where Michael O’Shea was gazing about the shadows fringing the headquarters.
“Brittany!” The relief in O’Shea’s face was swiftly followed by suspicion as he stared at Tyrell. “This lady is under my protection, Zach. If you’ve—”
Zach spread his hands but his eyes mocked her. “You must ask the lady.”
Hoping the shadows hid her blush, Brittany swallowed. Damn Zach! He knew she didn’t want them fighting and getting hurt over her. She smiled at O’Shea and slipped her hand through his arm. “The crush inside turned me a bit faint, Lieutenant. We came out for a breath of air.”
“You’re recovered?” he asked with quick concern that made her feel deceitful.
“I’m fine.”
Zach made her a sweeping bow. “Thanks for the—dance, Miss Brittany. See you later, Mike.”
O’Shea raised a golden brow in surprise. “You’re not quitting this early?”
“Guess I’m more in the mood for a game of cards or billiards if I can find some other misanthrope over at the club room.” He strode off to the trader’s, where a few lamps were burning.
O’Shea looked after him. “It’s not like Zach to miss a dance,” he said with a mystified shrug.
“Have you known him long?”
“Ever since I came to the post, two years ago. He served as a scout after he got out of the army and was at Camp Bowie most of the time till he started his ranch last year. Funny to see Zach Tyrell bring in a load of hay or grain or firewood, but I guess he likes it.”
Back in the stifling, crowded hall, Brittany danced every number, but though Hugh Erskine did his reserved best to be affable and Michael O’Shea whispered absurd things in her ear, Brittany felt strangely desolate.
For her, when Zach Tyrell moved off into the shadows, the dance was really over.
VII
Regina gave Brittany a venomous rebuke the first time they were alone together on the day following the dance. “Are you determined to become the scandal of the post?” she demanded. “Vanishing outside with Zach Tyrell! Mrs. Shaw glossed over that shocking episode of your
arrival, but there was no Indian attack to excuse you last night!”
“I was dizzy from the heat,” Brittany insisted. “Anyway, other couples stepped out from time to time. I saw you and Major Erskine—”
Eyes glittering, Regina checked her pacing and swung to confront Brittany. “I am a married woman and enjoy certain liberties not to be allowed a green girl straight from the swamps.”
Too angry to trust her control, Brittany clamped her lips tight and started to leave the room. Her cousin barred the way. “Did Tyrell make advances?”
“Regina, that is none of your business.”
Green eyes narrowed. “He did, then! And whose business will it be if you turn up pregnant with his brat?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Well, if it does—or there’s any evidence that you’re acting the slut, don’t expect us to harbor you!”
“I certainly won’t,” said Brittany, cheeks flaming. Her hand itched to slap that beautiful witch face. “In fact, Regina, if you’ve so low an opinion of me, it might be best if I inquired about the post for work. The Shaws might use an extra maid, and I heard Mrs. Taunton complaining that their striker doesn’t thoroughly clean and can’t cook.”
“You—you wouldn’t!”
“I wouldn’t do anything I don’t do here.”
“But—you, my cousin! A hired servant!”
“Better hired than unhired,” Brittany returned coolly. This time Regina let her pass.
That evening, news flew over the post that made any mildly scandalous behavior at the dance swiftly forgotten. The infant daughter of Corporal Stroud, the bugler, and his wife, Mollie, youngest and prettiest of the laundresses, had taken sick with a sudden virulent fever and died in convulsions. Because of the heat she would be buried next day.
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