The Officer and the Traveler

by Rose Gordon

  Gray’s face was covered in blood and he was bound in handcuffs with a pistol pointing into his back, held by a strange man about Gray’s height and build, urging him to walk forward. Gray jerked, catching her eyes.

  His face fell. “Michaela, it’s not what they say.”

  “What’s not?”

  “Shut up and walk, Montgomery,” the man behind him said, hitting Gray in the back with the butt of his gun.

  Gray winced in pain and walked forward.

  Confused, Michaela scrambled across the hall and into the Ridgely’s home where General Ridgely was shouting something about rape and killing someone, Gray, if Michaela had to venture a guess.

  Michaela walked over to where Sarah was sitting on her bed, huddled beneath a blanket. She sat down beside her new friend. “Sarah, what’s going on?”

  Sarah didn’t seem to notice her as she watched her husband storm around their house like a madman.

  “Clam down and tell us what happened, Amos,” Pa said, coming to stand next to Uncle George and two other officers Michaela didn’t recognize.

  “That bastard was forcing himself on my wife!” General Ridgely roared. He thrust his open hand in Sarah’s direction as if nobody knew who his wife was. “Even if we cannot find proper evidence to support he accosted that Indian girl, he will face charges for this.”

  All eyes went to Sarah.

  “No, he won’t,” Mrs. Ridgely said softly, pulling her blanket tighter around herself and staring wide-eyed across the room at nothing in particular.

  “I don’t care what your relationship is with his wife, Sarah. He will pay for what he’s done.”

  Sarah lifted her chin a notch. “And if he hasn’t done anything wrong?”

  “Are you saying you willingly took your clothes off for him?” her husband demanded, piercing his wife with his gaze.

  “Well, no,” she said with a blush.

  “As I said, he planned to force her.” He gestured to the pistol on the ground. “He was holding that—loaded.”

  Everyone turned back to face Sarah who was now trembling. Michaela instinctively wrapped her arm around her. “Sarah?”

  Sarah shook off Michaela’s hold and stood. “You will not be bringing charges against him.”

  General Ridgely crossed his arms over his chest, only making him look more like a statue than he had before. “Is he your lover, Sarah? Coming by for an afternoon tumble?”

  Michaela’s stomach clenched in crippling pain, the air bursting from her lungs in a fierce whoosh. Was this how her mother had felt when she’d first learned of Pa’s lover?

  “Perhaps he is,” Sarah said with a careless lift of her left shoulder. “You’ll have your answer soon enough, I expect.”

  Something sharp and predatory crossed General Ridgely’s chiseled face. “Release him,” the general barked, walking from the room without a glance to anyone.

  A part of Michaela longed to stay and ask for an explanation from Sarah, but a bigger piece propelled her to seek out Gray first, and heedless to what anyone else had to say about it, she followed General Ridgely out the door and straight in the direction of the stockade.

  ***

  Gray let out a small grunt of pain and braced himself for the next round of blows Lieutenant Jefferson was about to deliver.

  Biff, bam, foosh… Jefferson’s fists pummeled Gray’s abdomen over and over as he stood chained to the wall, defenseless.

  “That will be enough of that,” came a crisp female voice.

  Gray snapped his head up. “Go away,” he choked. She didn’t need to stand there and witness him being beaten to death.

  “I need to speak to my husband,” she said to Jefferson.

  “He’s unable to talk just now,” Jefferson said, delivering another blow to Gray’s midsection.

  “I demand you stop right now or—” The rest of her words were cut off by the blood pounding in Gray’s ears and the awful pain zinging through his body.

  Once he’d caught his breath, Gray looked up and scowled. That fool was letting Michaela into his cell with him.

  “Don’t you hurt her,” he warned Jefferson.

  “Or what?” the younger man taunted, punching his meaty fist into his palm.

  “You’ve been relieved of your duty, Lieutenant,” Jack said, grabbing the man by the back of his coatee and throwing him to the ground with little effort. He placed a boot on his chest then leaned down to remove the keys from his pocket and tossed them to Michaela.

  Gray would have shaken his head if he didn’t think it would hurt to do so. He’d never realized how strong Jack was until the two of them had scuffled last week. Jack had certainly proven himself that night.

  “Is now a good time to finish our talk from earlier?”

  Gray started to laugh at her question, but grimaced in pain instead.

  Wordlessly, she walked over to where his right wrist was cuffed to the wall and unlocked the restraint then just as calmly, she walked over to the other side and did the same before turning her attention down toward his feet where two seventeen pound balls were cuffed to each of his ankles.

  “I think I’ll leave those on for now,” she said with a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. He wondered why that was. Did she fear he was seriously hurt or had she heard the latest accusations leveled against him and was upset? He thrust the thought from his mind. Why should he care so much about her opinion of him? She was the one who’d run off from him earlier without giving him a chance to explain himself, then having Mrs. Lewis make up some nonsense about someone being indisposed.

  “Perhaps you need a set, too,” he said tonelessly. “That way you can’t run when you hear something you don’t like.”

  She let out a sharp breath. “I didn’t run because— Never mind that now. We’ll talk about that when we get home.” She lowered her lashes and swallowed. “And can close the door.” Her voice returned to normal. “What happened today with Sarah Ridgely, Gray?”

  “Nothing.”

  “All right.” The way she drew those two words out made him want to squirm. She had a way of doing that, he was swiftly learning. “Why did she scream?”

  He sighed. “I scared her.”

  “How?”

  Apparently she expected the whole sordid tale. “Can I explain everything later when I’m not on public display?”

  She frowned and threw a glance over her shoulder. “I don’t see you in the stocks.”

  “That’s because they were already filled with drunkards,” he said with a scowl.

  She crossed her arms and lifted an eyebrow at him.

  “I was outside the Lewises’ front door and I heard a noise coming from the Ridgelys’. I’d just seen General Ridgely a few minutes earlier, having lunch in the Officer’s Lounge so I knew he wasn’t there and I assumed Mrs. Ridgely was in there having lunch with the other ladies like she always does.”

  “So you decided to go investigate?” There wasn’t a hint of condemnation in her voice, only uncertainty.

  “Yes. The noise it…it was like someone had just opened and closed the door right behind me. As I said, I had a logical reason to believe that both of them were out of their home and thought to investigate to see who’d let himself in their home.”

  “And your gun?”

  “A man cannot go into some place where he suspects a criminal to be without having a weapon, Michaela.”

  “Why were you—”

  “Because he might get shot,” Gray said as if he were speaking to a three year old. “Only a fool would—”

  She silenced him with a slender finger against his lips. “I’m not completely dimwitted, Gray. I was asking why you were over at the Lewises’.”

  He licked his bloodied lips, the taste of iron filling his mouth. “I’d come to talk to you again at a time I knew nobody would be indisposed.” He inwardly cringed. “I had no idea I was about to happen upon someone who truly was.”

  Something flickered in Michaela’s green eyes. Bef
ore he had a chance to determine what it was, she leaned down and unlocked the iron shackles around his feet. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  If ever tension had been high between Gray and Michaela, it was nothing compared to the atmosphere between them when they returned to their room from the stockade.

  “Do you need help with your coat?”

  “I think I’ll leave it on,” Gray said, his jaw tight.

  “You need to take it off so I can see your wounds,” Michaela argued.

  Gray let out a strangled groan. “You don’t need to fuss over me.”

  “I’m not fussing.” She grabbed the pitcher and basin off the shelf in the corner. “I don’t wish to be left a widow out here. Or worse, have to steal away to go see a naked Indian in the night in hopes he has a miracle cure for a wound you’re too stubborn to expose.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his sore lips. “All right. Come help me. But then we need to talk.”

  “Believe me, I have no desire to leave this room until we’ve both shown our hands, so to speak.” She walked over to him and carefully helped him peel his tattered and stained coatee off. She set it on the bed then willed her hands to be steady and gentle as she went to work on the buttons of his shirt. When she reached the bottom and spread the fabric aside, a small, involuntary gasp lodged in her throat.

  Several fresh bruises were forming and several bumps—ribs most likely—were poking out against the skin just above his waist in the most unnatural way. “You’re really hurt.”

  “Yes, I am,” he agreed quietly.

  She eased him backwards. “Sit on the bed, while I gather supplies.” She picked up the water pitcher and poured some in a glass for him to drink, then put the rest into the basin. “Do we have any fresh linen?” She already knew they did, but wanted to keep him talking to her. Especially now that he was closing his eyes and his face looked whiter than it had been earlier.

  “On the shelf,” he mumbled.

  Michaela took down a folded sheet and began ripping it into strips. When she had about four good sections torn off, she put one of the strips in the water and carried the basin over to him.

  She set the pitcher down on the bed beside him and removed one of the water-saturated strips and lightly squeezed some of the clear liquid out of it, then folded it over a few times. “This might be cool.” She pressed the cloth against the gash above his eye, noting how he winced. She pulled her hand back and cringed. She’d hoped all the blood on his face had been deceiving, but it hadn’t been. Carefully, she wiped all the drying blood away from around his eye then moved to his swollen nose, lips, and chin.

  Fear of hurting him worse kept her from squeezing his nose to see if it was broken. Not that there was anything she could really do for him if it was. She continued cleaning off his face with the fabric, the once clear water in the bowl now tainted with a red hue.

  “Is there a medic stationed out here?” she asked him.

  He nodded. “Please don’t.”

  She stilled and looked down to where she held the fabric of his shirt, posed to remove it. “I need to see your injuries.”

  “Not that. Don’t send for the medic. I’ll be better off without him.”

  “You need stitches,” Michaela explained as she took extra care in removing his shirt. If it were possible, in the amount of time it had taken her to clean the blood off Gray’s face, more bruises had developed.

  “I’ll heal without them,” he said with a grunt.

  She doubted that but didn’t wish to argue with him right now. When she’d stripped off his shirt, she set it aside and helped him lie down and get comfortable.

  Her biggest concern had to be his ribs. Even lying down the ones on his bottom left side protruded.

  Tentatively, she touched them. “Does this hurt?”

  He sucked in a sharp breath then practically doubled over.

  “I’m sorry,” she gushed, yanking her hand back to the safety of her chest. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know,” he gasped.

  “Here, lift your head and I’ll adjust your pillow.” She righted his pillow under his head, then grabbed hers and put it under his head, too. ‘An injured man can never have too many pillows,’ Pa used to say when making a visit to the infirmary. “How’s that?”

  “Good.”

  Her eyes drifted back to his ribs and she swallowed uncomfortably. Even lying down they looked painful. She reached hesitant fingers to the fastenings of his waistband and loosened it to give him a bit more breathing room and a little less pressure on his abdomen.

  “Thank you,” he rasped.

  She had the oddest urge to kiss his bruised cheek.

  He idly patted the bed next to him. “Sit. We’ll talk.”

  Michaela smoothed her skirts. “Are you sure? Perhaps you should rest now and we’ll talk later.”

  “No,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes which were so swollen she doubted he could open them very far anyway. “We’ll talk now—even if I have to hold you down to do it.”

  “Yes, because you look like you have the strength and stealth to do that very thing,” she teased.

  He opened one eye a sliver. “Don’t test me.”

  Shaking her head, she walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down next to him. If he wished to talk, she’d listen, but now wasn’t the time to argue.

  “I didn’t mean it how it came out. Earlier,” he clarified. “This morning.”

  Michaela’s face heated and she moved to sit with her back against the wall and her legs out in front of her on the bed, parallel to his body. She lowered her hand to his head and idly combed her fingers through his thick, black hair. “I know.”

  He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “You do?”

  She sighed. “We’ve been married for less than two days, I didn’t expect that you’d have suddenly fallen in love with me.”

  “So you ran because of your father?”

  She momentarily stilled her fingers. “I didn’t hear him coming up the stairs, then suddenly he was there lurking in the corner behind you and it suddenly occurred to me that everything I’d said to you, I’d said outside where anyone could see or hear us—including him.”

  “I spoke to him about sneaking up on people and he claimed he was there the whole time.” He groaned and shifted positions a little. “You do understand that even if I knew he’d been there or we’d have had our discussion inside, it wouldn’t have changed things between us?”

  “I think so.”

  “No, I don’t think you do.” He grimaced and grunted and groaned and moved into a seated position next to her. He reached across his abdomen and placed his hand on his ribs. “His presence here doesn’t bother me.” He frowned a little. “Actually, it does, but not in that way. Regardless of you being his daughter, you are my wife…” He trailed off, a silent plea of understanding in his eyes.

  “But you don’t really see me that way,” she said softly.

  “No, I see you that way,” he corrected, letting his eyes fall to her chest briefly.

  Tingles ran up her spine. “But you don’t love me,” she tried again, silently congratulating herself on her voice only wavering a little during that entire statement.

  He groaned and raked his hands through his hair. “I don’t know how to explain this.”

  “I don’t think there is anything else to explain.” She prayed he didn’t contradict her. It was embarrassing enough that this had somehow all seemed to take a turn where it appeared she was the one who wanted intimacies all the time. That wasn’t it. Not really. She did enjoy them well enough, but she didn’t need them. It was more a thing of pride mixed with duty, she supposed. How was she supposed to keep her husband happy and content if he had no interest in her that way?

  “No, I need to explain.” He let out a breath that sounded almost akin to a sigh of defeat. “My mother was a prostitute.”

  Michaela wasn’t sure
which broke her heart more: the shock of his words or the way he’d lowered his lashes and bent his head almost as if he were ashamed to admit such a fact aloud.

  “Up until we met at McHenry, I’d lived in a room at a brothel in the city. Every night men would come in, select a scarcely dressed woman they liked, then use her for their pleasure. There was no love and certainly not much enjoyment on the woman’s side of things. Just business. Coins in exchange for pleasure. No different than going to a play or opera, really. The only difference was that usually there was only one performer and one patron who’d become a performer and in the end they both won: one got pleasure, one got money. I didn’t know or understand any different, just thought this was just the way the world worked and didn’t ask questions.

  “While some women truly saw their lives as just a job and a way of being, others didn’t. Some of the men hurt the women. Sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally. As a boy, I was just told my mother was ‘entertaining a gentleman’. But when I got older, I noticed bruises, or would hear screams or cries.” His pale face grew dark with a haunted shadow. “That didn’t sound like any sort of ‘entertainment’ to me.”

  A sob formed in Michaela’s chest at his words. “Oh, Gray,” she choked.

  “By the time I was old enough to understand what happened between the women and the men who came each night, I had no interest in the act. No matter how much my body demanded I do something to fulfill the feelings, even just the sight of a woman filled me with, I couldn’t. Women at brothels, no matter how much they deny it, have feelings and lives, too. They might grow to act numb to their work, but that’s just it: it’s just an act. There is no respect or security, no promise of anything past a few coins in exchange for their dignity and possibly well-being.” He swallowed audibly. “You’re my wife and I treated you exactly the same.”

  The disgust that filled his voice nearly shattered her already broken heart and brought tears to her eyes. “No,” she said, shaking her head fiercely. “You didn’t mean to hurt me. I know that.”

  The pain that flashed in his eyes at her words only made her hurt for him more.