by Janet Dailey
Putting on her robe, Hannah left the bedroom and walked on slippered feet down the narrow hallway to the parlor. Stephen glanced up from the writing desk only briefly when she entered. She glided silently across the room to stand behind him and spread her hands over the tightly corded muscles in his shoulders.
“It’s getting late, Stephen,” she said gently. “Shouldn’t you be coming to bed?”
“Later.” His shoulders were rigid under the affectionate caress of her hands.
She hesitated for an instant, then slid her fingers into the thickness of his tobacco-brown hair at the nape of his neck. “Then I’ll wait up with you.”
Impatiently he caught at her hand and ended its fingering of his hair by dragging it down. “I don’t want you to wait up for me, Hannah. Now, please go to bed.”
“No.” She moved away from his chair and crossed her arms in a stubborn, determined gesture. “I’m not going to let you ride out of the fort tomorrow with this harshness between us.”
Her action accidentally pulled open the front of her robe and revealed the golden-tan flesh over her collarbones. When Stephen looked at her, his glance was drawn to the exposed skin; irritation flashed across his ruggedly handsome features, thinning his mouth beneath the bushy mustache.
“Close your robe, Hannah,” he ordered curtly. “I don’t want to be reminded that you’re as dark as an Indian all over.”
“It isn’t something I can change overnight.” She pulled the front of her robe together and held it closed with her hand. “It will fade in time, Stephen.”
He laid the ink pen on the writing desk and, for a moment, cradled his head in his hands, his elbows propped upon the desk. Then he rubbed his hands over his face as if trying to wipe something from his mind.
“When you came back to me, more than anything else I wanted Lutero caught so he could be punished. I kept telling myself that everything would be all right if only I could get my hands on him and make him pay for what he’d done to you. Now he’s in the stockade,” His voice was low and haunted. “And I have a face to go with the knowledge of what he did to you. I can visualize the two of you now.”
“Stephen, don’t do this.”
“Every time I look at you, I see him. Every time I touch you, I wonder if he has touched you the same way. You say that you hated him—you hated it.”
“I did!”
“No. If you had, you would have killed yourself before you let him do it.” He went back to the same line of reasoning, the same belief that had punctuated all their arguments.
“Death is very final,” Hannah reminded him. “And I wasn’t ready to die. I still had hope. I still expected to be rescued.” She paused, her mood suddenly turning bitter. “I hadn’t realized that rescue would mean I would be treated with cruelty and meanness equal to, any physical torture I endured at the hands of the Apaches. Because I was a victim, I’m shunned, ostracized, and condemned by everyone I once considered my friend,”
“How do you expect people to react when you let yourself become some Apache’s squaw? You didn’t have any respect for yourself, so why should they respect you?”
“When an Apache thinks his wife has been unfaithful, he cuts off her nose. Why don’t you try that, Stephen?” she challenged.
“I think you preferred being his squaw,” he countered savagely. “You certainly aren’t happy with me.”
“No. No, I’m not,” Hannah agreed. “I expected you to be happy to have me back. I thought you wanted me, that you loved me. It was a miracle that I survived, and I thought you’d be as grateful as I was that we were together again. But I honestly think you are sorry I didn’t die.”
“You’d be better off dead. We’d all be better off if you were dead,” Stephen stated harshly. “We’d be spared all this humiliation and ugly gossip, all the scandal and recriminations. Sometimes, Hannah . . . sometimes I wish you had died. I loved you.” Past tense. “Now, when I look at you I see that Apache. His handprints are all over you. Everybody can see it.”
“If someone stole your horse and rode it, you’d ride it again when you got it back. Or if a thief broke into your house, you wouldn’t move out of it just because someone had been in it. Why do you despise me because I was assaulted?” Hannah couldn’t understand.
“You’re not a horse. You’re my wife. And a woman other men have used is soiled—her virtue is gone, and without it, there is nothing to respect.”
“I’m a whore; is that what you’re saying? You’re married to an adulteress?”
“Go to bed, Hannah.” Stephen abruptly ended the argument. “We will not discuss this subject again. Not ever. In time, we’ll forget it. For now, we’ll put it behind us and never mention it again.”
Hannah felt very cold inside. She said nothing, simply turned and walked from the room. A great deal was behind them, gone and never to be retrieved, beginning with love and trust.
CHAPTER 19
STABLE CALL FOLLOWED REVEILLE AT SIX O’CLOCK THE next morning. After the horses were fed and groomed, twenty of those from A Company were saddled and packed with field equipment. The newly risen sun laid soft pastel yellow and pink light on the collection of adobe buildings surrounding the parade ground as the troopers led their mounts into the rectangular area.
Along the edge of the parade ground, Hannah stood slightly apart from the other officers’ wives who had gathered to see the patrol off. On the field, Sergeant Hooker’s deep-toned voice issued a command, and the troopers began counting off as she watched Stephen and Lieutenant Digby approach Colonel Bettendorf and the officers standing with him.
Colonel Bettendorf issued some last-minute instructions and then the leave-taking ceremony began. Stephen and the lieutenant traveled down the line, shaking hands and accepting the well wishes of Cutter, Lieuten ant Sotsworth, and the others remaining on post. When Stephen reached Hannah, an air of reserve cloaked him. He took her hand, holding it and managing to make her conscious of its lingering traces of roughness.
“Good-bye, Hannah,” he said.
Everything except that had been said last night, and she wondered if he realized that. “Good luck, Stephen,” she said with an equal lack of feeling, and watched him wheel away to join the patrol, followed by Lieutenant Digby. Her chest ached with anger and a bitter rage that was more the backlash of pain than anything else.
Sergeant Hooker reported to him. “Patrol ready, suh.” At the responding nod, his voice lifted to order, “Prepare to mount. Mount!”
In unison, the black soldiers swung onto their army saddles amid the sounds of legs slapping leather, horses grunting under the weight, and equipment clanking together. Amos Hill and three of his Apache scouts waited astride their horses in a formless group while the ranking corporal affixed the pole holding the company guidon into the socket of his stirrup.
“Right by twos!” Hooker sang out the call. “March!” The column rode out at a trot. They were scheduled to be back in less than a week. With the advent of hot weather on the desert, patrols were limited to a five-day stint to spare the men and horses.
The churned-up dust on the parade ground settled slowly onto the hard ground. Hannah stood in stiff resistance to the eyes she felt watching her. When she turned to go back to their quarters, the glances were quickly averted, the women’s heads dipping together to exchange whispered comments. She suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of reentering those dark, airless rooms. They wanted her to run and hide like some shamed child. She was suffocating under their stuffy, self-righteous moral judgments; she needed to breathe.
She changed directions, altering her course to head toward the stables. The air might reek there, but at least it would be with honest smells. She extended her muscles, feeling the stretch of her legs and the release of pent-up energy. Her heavy skirts wound about her legs and interfered with the reach of her stride, while their swishing rustle almost masked the footsteps approaching behind her.
“May I walk with you?” Cutter was beside her, mat
ching her long stride.
“Are you quite sure you want to be seen with me, Captain?” She was conscious of the bite in her voice, and of the observing eyes along the parade ground although she refused to look in the direction of the other wives. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m something of a pariah at this fort.”
“I believe my reputation can stand it.” He ranged easily alongside her, like Hannah looking neither left nor right.
She heard the smile in his voice, but her blood was running too high for it to calm her. The stable area was astir with activity. New horses, purportedly green-broke when the army bought them, were being broken to saddle by the more experienced riders of the colored troop. Hannah swept past the dust-laden corrals where the grunts of man and animal filled the air accompanied by the reverberating thuds of stiff-legged bucking. When she came to the empty enclosure where the Apache prisoners had been held before being transferred to the agency reserve, she would have bypassed its ghostly reminders for the solitude of the high desert beyond, but Cutter stopped her.
“I can’t let you go beyond the fort’s perimeter. It isn’t safe, even in daylight, twenty yards from here.”
She offered no argument against his restriction as she swung back toward the pen of the former prison camp. Hannah crossed her arms, rubbing them with her hands in suppressed agitation. Cutter observed the turbulent sweep of emotion animating her features.
“Do you know what it is I’ve done that is so wrong?” She turned on him, but Cutter knew she wasn’t asking for an answer. “I didn’t hide my head in shame. I walked among them with my head high. I didn’t grovel at Stephen’s feet and beg him to take me back. I went through hell and survived. That’s my sin. Now they all expect me to feel guilty because I didn’t kill myself. And I won’t!”
“No,” he agreed quietly. Her gaze fell to the yoked front of his uniform blouse and the army insignia on the brass buttons.
“I hate that uniform,” she insisted with vehemence. “I hate the duty it represents and its strict, unforgiving codes. ‘Death before dishonor.’ I did nothing wrong! Nothing! It isn’t fair.” Her raised fists pounded against his chest as her broken voice declared over and over, “It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair.”
Impassively Cutter absorbed the force of her blows, letting her expend all the violent energy that had to lash out at something. When it was finally drained and she was left empty, he gathered her close. She stirred in brief resistance, then settled against him, burrowing her head against his shoulder. The hurt he felt in her made him ache. He gritted his teeth, damning those narrow-minded people for doing this to her.
His hands stroked her shoulders and back in comfort as her warm body pressed against him, penetrating the barriers that he usually kept between them. Bending his head, Cutter pressed his lips to the top of her head, then stayed to nuzzle the silken texture of her hair, and breathe in its fragrance.
Without thinking, he kissed the salty wetness on her cheek left by the angry tears. When she shifted, tilting her head up to look at him, Cutter gazed at the face that had lived in his mind for so long, seeing its strength and its stillness. It stirred alive his reckless urges and made him rash.
“You’re beautiful, Hannah.” He saw the sun-bronzed skin over her cheekbones, fully aware that the color didn’t stop with her face, but it was all on the outside. It was the woman within who moved him.
Her lips were soft and unresisting in that first instant of contact. Encouraged, Cutter pressed his advantage and drove against them with warming insistence. Her hungry response jolted through him and his arms tightened aggressively around her. His feverish longings broke through, making him rough with her when he had meant to be gentle.
All sense of restraint was lost in the heat of the moment as they strained together, locked in each other’s arms as their lips found the closeness each was seeking. They stood on the edge of the high desert, giving in to the temptation that was upon them.
When Hannah pulled away from him, Cutter was unprepared. Breathing hard and shaken, he saw her bow her head as she turned from him to avoid his gaze. The sensation of her was still with him, the press of her long legs, so firmly muscled, the strength of her arms, the sensation of her fingers sliding into his hair. He took a step toward her to bring her back, but a small lift of her hand stopped him.
“No.” Pride made her lift her head. The deep disturbance his kiss had caused was revealed in the troubled darkness of her eyes, but there was no mistaking the determination in her denial. “I am married. Maybe it isn’t much of a marriage anymore, but Stephen is my husband.” She turned suddenly wary. “Or did you think that because of the Apaches I have no morals left?”
“No, dammit!” Cutter abruptly checked his rising temper. “Maybe I stepped out of line, but what happened with the Apaches has nothing to do with it. I’ve wanted—“
“Don’t say it.” She shut her eyes, then opened them wide, in control again. “Don’t say something both of us would come to regret, Cutter.” Unable to argue, he turned grim and silent. She turned to leave, then paused. “Thank you, though, for giving me a sense of worth again.”
A muscle worked in his jaw as Hannah left him to slowly retrace their route. He didn’t want her to walk alone, but he had no right to be at her side, as she’d reminded him. All he could do was add to her problems. He’d never meant to start thinking about her; now Cutter didn’t know how he was going to stop. More than once he’d told himself that he would be better off leaving the service, getting away where no talk of her would follow him, but he’d kept postponing the decision. Maybe now was the time, before more hurt was done. He turned when she was out of his sight.
“Well, if it ain’t the honorable Cap’n Cutter.” Cimmy Lou Hooker sauntered toward him. “I thought you was too good t’mess around with another man’s wife. Or ain’t you got no respect for Majuh Wade?”
His glance sliced past her to the brushy area from which she’d emerged. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.” The catlike smile on her mouth became more marked. “You reckon she’s tryin’ t’pay the Majuh back fo’ all the time he spent with me while she was gone?”
“My God,” Cutter swore under his breath. “Does John T. know?”
“No, an’ you won’t tell him,” she said, and laughed at the impotent anger darkening his craggy face.
“He’ll find out sooner or later—I won’t have to tell him. What do you think will happen then?” he challenged.
“I can handle him.” Cimmy Lou shrugged confidently.
He viewed her with utter disgust. “Who ever put the thought in your head that your body is all a man needs to make him happy?” He walked away, returning the salute of a black trooper on a clean-up detail who was coming toward him.
Cimmy Lou’s smile deepened. Now Mrs. Wade couldn’t make a fuss about the presents the major had given her, or she’d have to tell the major what she’d seen. It would serve that high and mighty Captain Cutter right if she did. She took a step in the direction of the enlisted men’s housing, where she’d been going when she’d heard Mrs. Wade’s voice raised in anger and gone to investigate. But Leroy Bitterman’s approach caused her to pause.
“Workin’ hard?” She saw the wheelbarrow he’d left beside the manure pile.
“You shore ain’t,” he accused.
“I got the day’s wash all hung out on the bushes t’dry,” Cimmy Lou informed him.
“Don’t give me that. I seen ya with the cap’n. How come you won’t leave them white officers alone?”
“Why don’t you jest mind yore own business?”
He caught her wrist, ignoring the twists of her arm that attempted to free it. “Yore my business.”
“Yore no good,” Cimmy Lou hissed angrily. “Everybody says you got a rotten core. You even cheat yore own kind.”
“Then make me good. Takes a woman t’make a man good. It’s a woman what makes a man settle down an’ make somethin’ of hisself. Settle
me down, Cimmy Lou.” He moved backward toward the thick brush, pulling her with him.
“No.” Her struggles were as weak as her protest as she let herself he dragged into the desert brush. “I don’t want to.”
“I waited long enough.” Bitterman shoved her to the ground and held her down with the weight of his body, pinning her wrists against the sand above her head. She thrashed wildly under him, and he struck her with the flat of his hand. “Why do you make me hurt you? You want what I got t’give.” As she lay panting and still, her cheek throbbing from the slap, his hand grasped the cotton material of her drawers and tore it away from her skin. The ripping sound drew a groan from her. He cupped her face in his hand and turned it to him. “I’ll make you cry out fo’ me before I’m through.” One-handed, he loosened his pants. “It’s time you found out there’s only me.”
She gave a little moan. “Yes.” The assent was reluctantly drawn from her as she gave in to the eagerness growing inside. “Do it, Leroy,” Cimmy urged in aching agreement. “Do it to me.”
He released her hands and they went around his neck to bring him down to her as she wrapped her legs around his waist to lock and hold his hard-driving hips. More than once she called his name, finding primal wonder where before she’d known only calculated pleasure.
“Bitterman? Hey, Bitterman!” a searching voice shouted.
Still panting, he straightened to tuck in his gray uniform blouse and fasten his pants, throwing a glance over his shoulder before bringing his attention back to her love-heavy features. Her slack lips were swollen from his kisses and her black eyes were heavy-lidded and dreamy soft. Behind them, Bitterman could hear someone moving along the edge of the brush looking for him.
“You wanna see me again, don’t you?” he said, low and confident of how completely he’d gotten to her.