The Pride of Hannah Wade

by Janet Dailey

  Mrs. Mitchell’s tongue clicked in a reproving manner. “It’s shocking, isn’t it? I should think she would not budge from her quarters until that murderer was taken from here.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t,” Ophelia Bettendorf remarked. “This thing has ruined her—simply ruined her. It’s so sad. Everyone knows about those months she spent with the Apaches, Her reputation is permanently stained. A decent, respectable woman can’t risk being seen with her.”

  There was complete agreement in Sadie Mitchell’s expression. “I’ve said it before: she should have killed herself before she let them touch her. Why, there’s just no knowing what all they did to her. And what kind of women let strange men touch them?”

  As they watched, Hannah Wade walk past the post trader’s store, their lips were pursed in unforgiving lines. To have one of their own fall from grace was a reflection on them. As officers’ wives, a certain standard of conduct had to be kept, a certain propriety observed. They simply couldn’t let their husbands think that they might be like her and welcome the attentions of an Indian over death. It seemed to them that she must have wanted it or she would have fought or tried to escape; and failing that, she should have killed herself. But everyone could see that Hannah Wade was in remarkably good health, so it couldn’t have been that much of an ordeal—which meant that she must have been willing. It would have been best if she’d stayed with the Apaches instead of coming back and shaming her husband this way.

  Out on the parade ground, the sprinkling cart was dampening the dust, raising the sharp-scented smell of wet earth. The sun was warm on Hannah’s shoulders; heat was beginning to dominate the days again. The long skirt of her pearl-pay Irish poplin dress swished briskly with the stride of her legs. When she reached the guardhouse, her steps slowed and stopped.

  The colored soldiers on guard knew her and didn’t challenge her when she approached the door’s iron bars. Beyond the grate, Lutero sat cross-legged on the hard-packed floor, a still figure in the shadowy cell. Hannah stopped just outside the bars and stared inside.

  His bronze face was in shadows, but she could feel Lutero’s eyes on her. The atmosphere simmered with a wild tension, induced by the prolonged confinement. For all his outward stoicism and his seeming acceptance of the imprisonment, she knew he was haunted by the view of the desert mountains.

  Having lived with the Apaches, Hannah knew that pain and physical suffering and even death were things the Apache understood. But they were a nomadic tribe, accustomed to coming and going. To be held within four walls was the cruelest punishment to a creature that had run wild all its life. He came to his feet and placed his hands around the bars, revealing himself for an instant. A second later, he swung away, his muscles flexed and taut. He kept his back to the bars, denying her presence.

  She felt no pleasure at seeing him locked in the guardhouse. She had thought she wanted to see him punished; yet it didn’t accomplish anything. Lutero was like any other Apache. He hadn’t committed a crime against her so much as he’d done what any other Apache would do.

  Maybe that was true; maybe it was just the way of the Apache. Hannah knew only that it was becoming more difficult to blame Lutero for everything—for Stephen’s inability to accept her, the judgment of her peers, and the prejudices of society. Her feverish need for revenge had diminished to a less consuming level. She still hated, but now that hate was directed toward the injustice being done her. She had gone through hell, and now she was judged a sinner for surviving it.

  “What a surprise to find you here, Mrs. Wade.” The footsteps behind her had made little impression a moment ago.

  Hannah stiffened, becoming defensive in the presence of the newspaper publisher, and turned from the cell door to face him. “Somehow, I’m not surprised to see you here, Mr. Boler.”

  His mouth quirked at her slightly caustic remark, showing a wry respect for the sharpness of her tongue, but he directed his attention at the cell. “That’s him, is it?” It was a flat statement that required no confirmation from her.

  “That’s Lutero,” she said coolly, as if the name made a difference.

  “I understand that your husband brought him in two days ago.” Boler rocked back on his heels, his hands folded behind the checked jacket. His profile reminded her of a bulldog, with its jutting lower jaw and jowly cheeks.

  “That’s correct.”

  “What do you suppose he was doing around here?” Speculation already showed in his small, shrewd eyes.

  Lutero’s back remained to the bars, showing his indifference to the presence of another pindah. The impassive black face of the guard revealed no interest in their conversation as he kept his eyes averted from the officer’s lady and the heavyset white man.

  “I’m sure you already know that he was a member of a war party that attacked an ore train bound for Silver City, but maybe you should ask him, Mr. Boler.” Lifting her skirts, Hannah turned and walked away from the guardhouse. She had guessed that the dogged editor would follow, and he did.

  “There’s been talk that he was coming for you.”

  “Why should he do that?” The sprinkler cart finished its rattling circuit of the parade ground and headed for the stables. Its bump and clatter gradually receded.

  “You were his squaw.” For a big man, he moved with ease, keeping pace with her reaching stride. She suspected that his protruding stomach was not flab but solid muscle, as hard as he was.

  “His wife and son are at the agency in Ojo Caliente. I am quite certain that if he was seeking anyone, it would be them.”

  “How do you feel about seeing him behind bars? Does it bother you to see him caged up like that?”

  “He was a party to the killing of two drivers and two men riding guard for those wagons,” Hannah reminded him with stiff-necked anger. “Surely you don’t think I condone that.”

  “I’ve found that women tend to be notional creatures, especially the ones who love bad men. According to them, the men aren’t bad, just misunderstood. They get caught up in a lot of romantic foolishness. Some are like a dog that loves the master who beats it.”

  “And do you think I’m one of those ‘notional’ women?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Wade. Are you?”

  She stopped walking. “I am certain that it would make a sensational story to write about forbidden lovers and claim that Lutero was coming to carry me off into the hills where we could live the wild and free life of the Apache. But there wouldn’t be a scrap of truth in it,” she declared in a heated voice. “I am beginning to wonder, Mr. Boler, whether it’s a newspaper you publish or dime novels.”

  Her outburst drew a smile from him. Out of the corner of one eye, Hannah saw the blue uniform of an officer. She half-turned as Stephen approached them and took a moment to bring her temper under control.

  “Is there a problem?” He looked accusingly at the man in the bowler hat.

  “None,” was the publisher’s calm reply, and then he doffed his hat to Hannah. “It’s my job to ask questions, Mrs. Wade. I apologize if any of them offended you. Good day to you, ma’am. Major.” Belatedly he bowed to Stephen, and walked away in the direction of the trader’s store.

  “What did he want?” Stephen demanded.

  “He was asking a lot of questions about Lutero, putting his own conjecture into all of them.”

  Stephen reached for her arm. “I’ll walk you to our quarters.”

  She was tempted to protest that she wasn’t ready to go back yet, but it would only antagonize him, so Hannah submitted to his pressure and let him escort her in the direction of Officers’ Row. Lately she’d caught herself giving in more and more often to his wishes rather than arguing and placing more stress on their already strained marriage.

  “Why did you do it, Hannah? Why did you speak to him? There’s no telling what kind of story he’ll print this time. He’ll rake all of that mess up again about you being his squaw. It’ll start people wondering all over again.”

  “I can
’t help what people think about me.” It was a frustration she had learned too well, creating a situation impossible to combat.

  They took several more steps before Stephen spoke again, this time with all that hard, explosive energy tamped down. “Colonel Bettendorf has suggested that it might be a good idea if you went east for a while. It would give you a chance to rest.”

  “I don’t need a rest, Stephen.” The last thing she needed was more idle time. She treated his suggestion with the tolerant patience she would show a child.

  “You do need a change of surroundings. Here you have too many reminders, you are under too much strain. You’ve gone through enough without having to endure more.”

  Hannah listened to his voice and read between the lines, a hardness growing inside her. “You want me to leave, don’t you, Stephen? I’m an embarrassment to you.”

  “I never intimated that at all.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “I merely think a change of scenery would be good for you, and your absence would give all this talk a chance to die down,” he reasoned with cool logic.

  “I’m not leaving, Stephen,” she stated. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of, and I won’t run.”

  “Hannah, you don’t understand,” His patience was thin. The inner force that always drove him was pushing at him now. “You are making things awkward.” “For you?” she challenged. Stephen ignored her comment. “I’ve requested a transfer—“

  “Oh, Stephen.” It was Hannah’s turn to be exasperated with him. “Don’t you think the rest of the regiment knows about me? I’m sure they’ve all heard about it at Fort McRae, Fort Wingate, and Fort Stanton, as well as all the others.”

  “I’ve asked to be transferred out of the regiment,” he finished the statement she had interrupted. “It will very likely mean a demotion in rank.”

  Her anger faded into a kind of pitying sadness. “What happens if the story follows us to another regiment?”

  “It won’t—especially if you spend some time in the East, until my transfer comes through. Then, when you join me, you’ll be fresh from the East, as far as they’re concerned.” He had it all planned.

  Hannah turned her head away, troubled by his inference that her ordeal was damaging his career. It wasn’t fair that she should suffer when she’d done no wrong—and it was doubly unfair that Stephen should feel any backlash.

  “I’ll think about it, Stephen,” Hannah promised in a subdued voice.

  A patrol approached the front gate, returning from a five-day scouting expedition. The increasing volume of grunting horses, scuffing hooves, and jangling metal bits claimed the attention of the fort. Stephen stopped short of their quarters to glance at the column riding in, and Hannah paused as well.

  “Cutter’s back. That means I’ll be going out in the morning.” As always, the patrols were rotated; two scouting details went out and one always remained at the fort to cover emergencies. “Better get my things ready,” he advised her.

  “I will.”

  A hard eagerness directed him away from her. From previous experience, Hannah knew that Stephen wanted to be present while the colonel was briefed on the patrol’s activities so that he would have the intelligence firsthand on the movement of any hostiles in the area. When he walked away from her without a word, she realized just how wide the schism between them had become. More and more he treated her with indifference and found reasons to be absent. When they were together, they were always on the edge of quarreling. She didn’t stay to see the weary column forming up on the parade ground to await dismissal. Instead, she turned to walk the rest of the way to their quarters.

  The rooms stifled her with their airless space and confining walls. Within minutes of returning, Hannah was seeking the shade of the ramada, from which she could view the fort’s routines. She sat in a chair, crudely made of bent wood with a slatted seat and back, too many troubled thoughts running through her mind to be able to completely relax.

  Most of the activity centered on the stables, where the returning troopers were busy unsaddling their horses and making sure they were watered and fed. Then Hannah recognized a familiar figure coming down Officers’ Row. Her heart seemed to lift at the sight of Cutter’s long-legged and lean shape. Alkali dust powdered his uniform, and he looked hot and dry, saddle-weary and trail-worn.

  On an impulse, she called to him. “Captain!” She watched him hesitate in mid-stride as his head came up and his gaze swung toward the low adobe building. “I have some Sonora lemons if you’re thirsty.”

  There was the smallest pause before he switched directions to walk toward her. “Sounds damned good.”

  He followed her inside and down the narrow hallway to the kitchen in the rear. The lemons were sitting out, and Hannah began slicing them while Cutter went to the washbasin to clean up. The splash of water and lathering soap was a companionable sound, accompanying the thud of the knife that released the citrusy tang of lemon scent into the air. Cutter stood for a minute drying his hands on a towel and watching Hannah as she crushed every bit of juice and pulp from the lemon halves into a small glass pitcher. When she began grinding sugar lumps into coarse granules, he fetched in an olla that was suspended from the rafters of the rear porch.

  “I wish we had some snow from the mountaintops.” Hannah diluted the sugared lemon juice with the tepid water in the olla.

  “It’s all melted.” Cutter took the glass she poured for him and lifted it to her in a toast. “Salud.” He downed half of the glass before he lowered it. He smacked his lips with relish and smiled at her. “I’ve found few drinks in my life that are better than whiskey, but this is one of them.” Cutter sat on the edge of the table, hooking a yellow-striped leg over one corner.

  Hannah sipped at her own glass, a smile acknowledging his compliment. “How was the scouting patrol?”

  “Same as always—a lot of hard riding, the horizon dotted with smoke signals, and meals of hardtack fried in bacon grease.” In a few words, Cutter sketched a fairly accurate picture of the tedium and hardship of a patrol into the Apacheria country.

  “You must be exhausted.” Belatedly she noticed the deep creases around his eyes and the beard-shadowed hollows in his cheeks. Yet the overall impression he gave remained one of tough resilience.

  Cutter shrugged and rubbed thoughtfully at the bristle on his face, the motion making an abrasive, scraping sound. “Guess I look pretty bad.”

  “You look fine,” Hannah assured him, a wide, warm smile spreading over her face.

  For a moment, Cutter paid close attention to her smiling mouth, then averted his glance to gaze into the lemonade glass. “What have you been doing with yourself lately?”

  “Keeping the gossips busy,” she admitted with a certain wryness.

  “How?”

  “I went to the guardhouse today to see Lutero. I thought... I wanted the satisfaction of seeing him locked up, imprisoned the way I had been, even though my bars were invisible. But I couldn’t hate him for that anymore.” She looked at the lemony pale juice in her glass. “I can’t blame him for the small and petty attitudes of other people.”

  “No, you can’t.” Neither of them named names.

  “It’s been suggested that I should go east for a while.”

  “Are you going?”

  “I don’t know.” Agitation pushed her away from the table, restlessness and indecision pressing on her. At the window, Hannah swung back to look at Cutter. “What do you think?” She had come to value his opinion and his judgment.

  He seemed to be taking care with his words. “I think that we would miss you. We don’t have that many young, beautiful women on the post.”

  “That’s an evasion, not an answer,” she retorted.

  “I can’t help you make that decision.” Cutter unhooked his leg from the table’s corner and straightened, his thick brows pulling together in a single line.

  He came to the window and looked out for a moment, then turned to look at
Hannah, conscious of the rawness of his emotions. “Do you want to leave?” he asked, too casually.

  “No,” she admitted, and thought that he breathed easier, but it was difficult to tell with Cutter. He was too frequently poker-faced.

  “You have to do what you think is right, Hannah—not what somebody else says.” Cutter swirled the liquid in his glass, then gulped down another swallow of it.

  “Hannah.” Stephen’s voice came from the front parlor.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” she answered him as Cutter moved away from the window and put the table between them. When Stephen entered and saw Cutter, he stiffened, displeased at finding the other officer in his quarters. Suddenly the room seemed very small to Hannah, with the two men filling it. “Some lemonade, Stephen?” She reached for the pitcher and poured some into a glass.

  Stephen took it and sipped at the juice while watching Cutter finish his and set the empty glass on the table. “Thanks,” he said to Hannah. “It’s a guaranteed quencher for a thirsty man.” Then to Stephen, “Good hunting to you, Major.”

  After Cutter had left, Stephen looked at her with grim disapproval. “What were you thinking, Hannah? Entertaining a man alone in our quarters. People have enough to gossip about now without you giving them more.”

  “If they can make something out of a glass of lemonade, then let them,” she flashed. “Cutter is the only friend I have at this fort.” She set her unfinished glass of lemonade on the table with a sharp click and left the room.

  They barely spoke to each other for the rest of the day. That evening Hannah sat at the vanity table and pensively brushed her long auburn hair. Tattoo call lifted into the night’s stillness.

  Her glance strayed to the unoccupied bed. The last time she’d seen Stephen, he was at the escritoire in the parlor. Her hand paused on a downward stroke of the hairbrush. This contention between them had to end, regardless of its source or her feeling of justification. She couldn’t let him go out on patrol tomorrow without making an attempt to patch things up. For too many nights lately she’d gone to bed without touching him, without talking to him at all. Tonight was not going to be another one of them.