by Janet Dailey
“Don’t say that.” John T. pushed himself angrily to his feet. “Don’t ever say that. Yore momma’s filled yore head with tales about those times, but it wasn’t like that. An’ yore too young to remember how it was to be a slave.” He metal spoons clattered together in the tin bowls as he gathered up their eating utensils to clear the table. “If you was a slave in that house, one of them Devereaux men would be beddin’ you—maybe all of ’em. An’ there wouldn’t be nothin’ you could say about it.”
Cimmy Lou wasn’t unduly troubled by that thought. Her body had always gotten her what she wanted and she was not averse to using it, but she was wise enough not to say that to John T. Men tended to be jealous, possessive creatures, but that could be used too. Besides, she knew all about being sent up the back stairs at night to one of the masters’ quarters. Her momma had told her about that—and about the little presents they sometimes gave if a girl was real good at pleasing them. And Cimmy Lou knew all about pleasing a man. The fact remained that if. she was a slave now, she could have the Devereaux with their pretty gifts and John T. as well. Because John T. couldn’t have done anything about her going up those stairs.
With the dirty dishes set aside in the metal basin, John T. turned up the coal oil light. “You need to practice yore readin’.” His body cast a long shadow on the canvas wall as he crossed the tent to fetch the well-worn reading primer.
Reading and writing had always been such a mystery to her—and still were despite John T.’s sporadic attempts to teach her. Too often he was away from the fort on patrol for days, occasionally weeks at a time, and too much time passed between lessons. Now John T. sat close beside her at the table and held the primer open, watching over her shoulder while Cimmy Lou struggled to identify each simple word. John T. was always patiently correcting her.
She resented his superior knowledge. She disliked anything that made her feel small, and her inability to grasp the rudiments of reading made her feel foolish in front of him. Usually it was men who made fools of themselves around her, and she didn’t like it the other way around.
Cimmy Lou pulled back and took her finger away from the printed words on the page. “Don’t they ever write ‘bout nothin’ besides dogs and cats?”
“Sure, but this is for learnin’. Ya gotta start out with the easy ones. Come on,” John T. urged her, pointing to the primer.
“Does anybody write books ‘bout a man and woman lovin’?” She set out to distract him and make him forget that boring and frustrating primary reader. “Now, I’d like ta read ‘bout that.”
“There’s books like that.”
“Have you ever read any of ’em?”
“Sure.” He eyed her with a downward glance, conscious of the heat of her warm flank along his thigh and the rounded point of her shoulder against his bare chest.
“Tell me about ’em.” She slid an insinuating hand, fingers splayed, across his flat stomach and up to his chest. “Do they tell you how a woman feels when a man holds her an’ touches her? What do they say ‘bout lovin’? Do they talk ‘bout different ways?”
The book was taken from his hands and laid aside. “Cimmy Lou, this ain’t no way to learn to read.” But his curiosity was stronger than the mild protest as she shifted, half-rising and hitched up her skirts to sit astraddle his lap. The heavy globes of her breasts were before him, straining against the confinement of her blouse. John T. had trouble looking higher.
“Then let’s learn somethin’ else.” Her soft mound moved suggestively against his hardening shaft. “I nevah did know how to ride a cockhorse. Some kinda cavalry sergeant you are nevah to have teached me. Let’s giddy-up, John T.” She bit at his ear as he groaned and loosened the fly front of his uniform trousers. Their silhouettes on the canvas wall merged into a humped outline before he reached to turn the kerosene light down to a dim flicker. Then his hands were grasping her haunches, holding onto her as she rode the bucking horse.
CHAPTER 3
A DESERT MOON REIGNED OVER THE VELVET-SOFT NIGHT, aglitter with stars arching high above the inky blackness of the parade ground. To the north the mountains stood, a high, black wall rife with a sense of danger and mystery and all that is ancient and wild.
From the guardposts around the fort’s perimeter came the echoing call, “Nine o’clock and all’s well,” traveling from sentry to sentry. Jake Cutter stepped up to the wooden post supporting the ramada roof outside the Wades’ quarters and angled his body against it, resting the point of his shoulder along a rough corner.
Light spilled out the window, cheerfully throwing itself into the shadows and reaching for the darkest corners. Cutter looked through the opening, seeing the officers and their ladies gathered inside, their warm voices and faint laughter drifting out to him. He’d put in his appearance, satisfied Colonel and Mrs. Betten dorf, and now he would leave, undoubtedly not missed by anyone there.
Yet something held him. Cutter felt the catch of loneliness and tried to shake it off. He was used to being alone. He was beyond these sentimental longings.
He straightened, intending to leave, but the soft sound of a footfall checked the impulse, staying him. He turned to see Mrs. Wade slip out of the house. He saw her hesitate when she recognized him; then she came forward, her manner relaxing.
“Captain Cutter, I should have guessed you’d be out here.” She stopped beside the pillar where he stood, her head tipped back while her direct glance went over him. “No cigar?” she observed with some surprise. “I thought you’d come out to smote.”
Any explanation seemed pointless, so Cutter reached inside his uniform for a long, slim cigar that was tucked in one pocket. “Do you mind?” he asked, bringing it out.
“Not at all.” Although the night air was mild, she wore a shawl around her shoulders. She faced the parade ground and the desert stars above it, showing him the clean, white line of her throat. Her eyes observed the flare of the match and, in a sideways study, watched him drag the flame into the cigar tip, puffing long and slow until it was burning well. “It’s quiet out here,” she said when he’d shaken the match dead.
His glance went to the window and its clear view of the people inside. “And not nearly as crowded,” he added.
Her laugh was a small, soft sound. “You don’t like being confined, do you, Captain? Not by walls or people ... or what they might think.”
“What makes you say that?” His head came up, watchful, though he made no attempt to deny it.
“An impression I have.” A faint shake of her head seemed to dismiss the importance of it. Yet a second later, when he looked away, her eyes came back to study him. Hannah sensed the ease in him, the loose and relaxed feeling returning to him as his initial tension at her approach left.
It was odd how she could look into his face at this moment and see the thing that made him different. All evening she had watched Stephen, seen the intensity in his eyes when Apache strategy was discussed and observed the tightness around his mouth when he was in the presence of superior officers.
Cutter seemed to have shrugged off the ambitions and worries that whipped and exhausted other men. Some long-ago decision had settled the question of his future to his satisfaction, and tomorrow didn’t trouble him.
“Everyone expects trouble from the Apaches.” Inside, the men had talked of little else, hushing when a woman came by, Hannah had noticed.
“People usually get what they expect.”
“What do you think Colonel Hatch will do? Put a force into the field?”
The cigar tip glowed red, then faded under a dulling accumulation of ash. Pungent smoke scented the still air. “He’ll do what he’s ordered to do. He’s a soldier.”
“And what will you do?”
“The same.” After a short silence, he said, “I’m not good at small talk, Mrs. Wade.”
“On the contrary, Captain Cutter, you are very good at it.” Her voice had a sharp edge to it. “You just said precisely nothing.”
“Idle specula
tion serves little purpose.” But her frankness had thrown him off stride.
In the darkness he searched her moonlit face. Self-control was evident in her composure, and that flare of pride was unmistakable. A strong will was there, too, revealing itself sometimes at the corners of her lips and in the tone of conviction in her voice. A rather reluctant glint of admiration came to his eyes. He wondered if Wade knew what a lucky man he was.
“If I may be so bold as to say it, Mrs. Wade, you are a remarkable woman.” The smile that gentled his hard mouth had warmth to it.
“More small talk, Captain?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I must write my cousin in Memphis and invite her for a visit.” Hannah spoke the thought aloud, then looked at him for a reaction. “I’ll introduce the two of you.”
“Is she southern?”
“Do you have a preference for southern ladies, Captain?”
“They do have soft white skins—smooth as a magnolia blossom.” The musing recall was followed by a slow exhalation of cigar smoke.
“Yes, they have lovely complexions,” she agreed, and his lidded glance concealed the wicked glint in his eyes. He could have told her that it wasn’t their faces he was remembering, but the innocence of her expression reminded him that, despite her married state, she was sheltered from all things that did not bring out man’s finer instincts. “What was her name?” Hannah asked unexpectedly.
“Whose?” His head came up slightly.
“The one whose skin you recall with such fondness. Were you very much in love with her?”
“That was long ago, Mrs. Wade.” He listened to the night’s sounds, hearing in his memory that softly drawling voice.
“What happened? Or would you prefer not to talk about it?” she asked.
“Not at all.” Cutter shrugged to deny the suggestion. “She was an unreconstructed Rebel who despised the blue uniform I wore. Eventually she got over that, but she couldn’t forgive me for commanding a company of coloreds. She wanted me to resign my commission, and I refused.”
“How unfortunate,” she murmured.
“I have no regrets,” he stated. “It wasn’t her love I rejected. I simply didn’t want her hates.”
Laughter rang out loudly from inside the house, and its intrusion reminded Hannah of her duty. She caught back a sigh before it escaped. Her shawl slipped lower on her shoulders as she made a small movement in the direction of the door.
“I must see to my guests.”
The gold braid on his dress uniform glinted as he bowed slightly, his hair heavy and black against the night’s darkness. “The evening has been a pleasure, Mrs. Wade,” His hard, tanned face was engrained with a roughness, presently tempered by an expression of respect.
“There is no reason to leave so early.” Hannah was surprised into the protest.
“There is no reason to stay any later,” he countered.
“But the party—“ She looked over her shoulder to the window’s view of her guests.
“I’m not their sort. We both know it, Mrs. Wade,” he said without apology. “I enjoy a rougher kind of pleasure. This cigar needs a shot of whiskey and a good poker hand to make it taste good.”
“Drinking and gambling. You disappoint me, Captain.”
“They are honest sins.”
“Indeed.” A smile broke across her lips, creating a small dimple in her left cheek. It danced there an instant before she gave him her hand. “Good evening, Captain Cutter,”
“Mrs. Wade.” Briefly, he pressed his mouth to the smooth knuckles of her hand, inhaling the warm fragrance of her skin.
A moment later she was gliding through the door and Cutter was alone with the night. He paused to take a last drag on the cigar, then flipped the butt into the darkness. Down the steps he ran with a light tread and swung along Officers’ Row to the bachelor quarters. A shot of whiskey was sounding better and better.
“Hayes. Hayes!” he called impatiently for his striker, tugging at the collar of his dress uniform the minute he entered his rooms.
A gangly Negro lad still in his teens tumbled into the room, all eagerness to serve his officer. “Yes, sir, Captain.”
A city boy from Philadelphia, Hayes had never been west until two months ago. He couldn’t ride, couldn’t shoot, but he was pursuing the romance, glamour, and adventure of a soldier’s life for all it was worth.
“Whiskey—and my blues.” Cutter shed the jacket of the dress uniform and tossed it on a chair for the boy to pick up.
“Going out again, sir?” Hayes tried to do all the chores at once, carrying the regular uniform while juggling a whiskey bottle and a glass, and picking up the discarded suit. “Where?”
“To see if there isn’t a game in progress in Grim-shaw’s back room—or to start one if there isn’t.” He rescued the bottle and glass from the young private’s clutches before they shattered on the floor.
“Ya mean poker? Gosh, sir, you don’t suppose I could come along and watch?”
There was the smallest break in the lift of the whiskey glass, the faintest hesitation of movement. Then Cutter threw the liquor down his throat, a hardness ridging his jaw and cheekbone.
“Not with me, Hayes.” The denial was flat and unequivocal.
There was a line that existed between officers and enlisted men—a line that wasn’t to be crossed. The delineation of rank had to be maintained for order and discipline. Nothing must ever interfere with the unquestioning obedience to an officer’s command.
“Yes, sir.” Hayes’s glum, crestfallen response tugged at Cutter, but he poured himself another drink and finished changing uniforms.
Thirty minutes later he was seated at the poker table playing a game of seven card stud in the private room located in back of the fort’s trading store. Oates Grimshaw, who held the trading franchise with the army, ran the store and reserved a separate room for officers, segregated from the enlisted men. An attempt had been made at giving it a decor befitting a gentleman’s rank. Inexpensive reproductions of hunting scenes adorned the rough walls and water-filled ollas were suspended from the rafters to cool the room. The latest available newspapers and eastern publications were on the tables conveniently situated near the armchairs. Officially, gambling was against army regulations, but a friendly game between fellow officers was invariably overlooked.
With a snap and a flourish, cards were dealt to the players around the table, four besides Cutter. Two were fellow officers, second lieutenants in rank, and the one in the checked jacket and bowler hat was Hy Boler, owner and editor of the Silver City Gazette. The well-dressed fourth man was the proprietor, Oates Grimshaw.
One of Grimshaw’s lackeys brought a round of drinks, then disappeared through the door, swallowed up in the smoky haze of the enlisted men’s side. A pair of aces were showing among the cards in front of Cutter as he flipped a poker chip into the table’s center without looking at his hole cards. “That pair is worth something.” He waited to see who was going to stay.
There was a spilling of chips into the pot, each player matching the bet and remaining in the game to see the last card. “Down and dirty.” Oates Grimshaw dealt it out. His bushy mustache swept into handlebars as if its thick profusion could make up for the receding hair on his head.
“Come on, Lady Luck,” the newspaperman coaxed in a murmur as he dragged the final card close to the edge of the table to steal a look. He was a big man, his bulk solid, and he had a bulldog quality to his features. An easterner, he hadn’t adapted to the western style of dress, clinging instead to his vests and gold watch chain.
“Speaking of ladies”—Grimshaw finished the deal with himself and set the deck aside—“you didn’t stay long at the Wades’ party for that new lieutenant and his wife, Captain.” It was an idle observation, not requiring comment as he picked up his three hole cards to peruse them in cautious secrecy. “Mrs. Wade is a beautiful woman. I’ve always thought so.”
“All women are beautiful,” Cutter replie
d dryly, and sliced off the end of a new cigar with his knife, then placed it in his mouth to moisten the cut tobacco end.
“I’ve seen some that would disprove that claim,” one of the lieutenants scoffed, a bachelor like most of the junior officers at the fort.
“That’s because you got too close.” Cutter smiled and made his bet, his pair of aces showing still commanding the table. “A thing of beauty can rarely withstand a close inspection for flaws.”
“Yes. You are likely to find another man’s fingerprints all over her.” Hy Boler frowned over his cards. “I don’t have any use for a woman who’s been handled by others.” He reached for his chips. “I’ll see you, and raise you.”
The second lieutenant took another look at his cards. “Handled or not, there’s something to be said for taking down the hair of a beautiful woman.” He matched the bet.
Cutter had an instant’s vision of the deep mahogany tresses lying in a smooth pile atop Mrs. Wade’s head when she’d stood with him on the porch. Just as quickly, he clicked it off.
As the betting came full circle to him, he matched the single raise and called the bets. He flipped over his downed cards. “Full house. Aces over sixes.”
“Damn,” the newspaperman swore at his luck as the winnings went to Cutter.
The cards were thrown into the center to be gathered by Grimshaw, the dealer. “Women,” he shuffled the deck. “They are the root of many a man’s troubles.”
“I don’t know.” Cutter settled back in his chair to await the new deal. “A man’s always running either from something or after it.”