Grizzled old Mulvaney walked up just then.
Colt said to him, “Since you’ve got a fiver on this fight, will you be my second?”
The other rubbed his lined jaw and nodded. “You know I will, boy.”
The men gathered in a large circle behind the barn, the late-afternoon sun throwing long shadows around them.
Captain Van Smyth said to Colt. “Captain Dever will be my second.”
Colt flexed his hands and then pulled off his jacket and shirt. “Any time you’re ready.”
The other nodded and turned to the crowd. “This is a fight between men, not officers. No matter who wins, this fight never happened; you understand?”
He peeled off his own tailored jacket and shirt as a murmur ran through the crowd, which made a close circle. They could all be in trouble if Major Murphy got wind of this.
Captain Van Smyth sneered at Colt as he adopted a fighter’s stance, fists doubled. “I suggest the Marquis of Queensbury rules.”
“I never went to West Point,” Colt growled, “so I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I learned to fight in the corrals and saloons of Texas.”
“I expect you to fight like a gentleman,” the captain snapped as he crouched in boxing position.
“Let’s get one thing straight; I’m no gentleman and you aren’t either or you wouldn’t have tried to take advantage of a lady,” Colt said and moved in closer as the ring of men around them yelled encouragement.
“Pishposh. She’s no lady.” Captain Van Smyth sneered. “She’s just some savage buck’s—”
Colt hit him then, coming in under the captain’s fists and slugging him hard in the face, sending him stumbling backward into the weathered barn door. “Watch your mouth!”
“No fair! You gave me no warning!” And the captain struck a boxing pose again.
“I told you I learned to fight in saloons, not gentlemen’s clubs,” Colt yelled and charged the other man, grabbing him around the waist and taking him down into a pile of horse manure.
The crowd roared and crowded even closer as money exchanged hands, and Sergeant Mulvaney shouted, “Get him, lad! That’s it, rub him in the horse shit like he deserves!”
It was a warm day, even though the two were stripped to their waists and the sun would soon sink beyond the far horizon. They were both sweating now as they fought and the other men shouted and cheered them on. The captain’s body was muscled, with no scars. Colt’s body had dozens of scars from old fights and battle wounds. Otherwise, he thought they were fairly evenly matched. And then he realized his arm wound was starting to throb. He’d have to ignore it.
The captain was light on his feet, too, dancing in a circle now, his hands clenched in classic boxing mode.
Colt knew nothing of fancy footwork and boxing. When he saw a weakness, he dived in, caught the other around the waist, and they went down, rolling and tumbling in the grass.
“You low-class bastard!” the captain snarled, but Colt came out on top and hit the other in the mouth. Blood ran down the perfect, handsome face and into the wispy mustache.
Colt stumbled to his feet as the other stood up and went into boxing stance again. The soldiers were all shouting and waving their fists, urging their favorites on. Colt could feel sweat breaking out on his big body, and his arm ached.
Blood trickled down Captain Van Smyth’s face and dripped onto his chest as he stood up and faced Colt. “All right then, we’ll fight like your Texas barroom brawlers, if that’s what you want!”
He was angry, Colt could tell by his distorted red face, and with his anger, his reason and caution disappeared. He charged Colt, swinging wildly, and Colt stepped aside deftly and caught him with a right jab to the ear as the captain lunged past.
The captain swore and staggered, then moved in close, swinging hard. This time he caught Colt above the eye.
Colt gritted his teeth to hold back a cry of pain. He knew from the feel that the captain must have opened a cut above his left eyebrow, and then blood trickled into his eye, blinding him. He heard a low moan around him as he stepped back and shook his head, throwing blood on the men nearest him.
Sergeant Mulvaney stepped up. “I say we stop this fight now, Lieutenant, you can’t even see—”
“Not a chance!” Colt cursed and slung his head to clear his vision.
The captain grinned. “Now, you Texas tramp, I’ll show you how a gentleman fights!” He stepped in and hit two punches, hard and fast, to Colt’s ribs. Colt, half-blinded by blood, staggered and grabbed onto the other man, stalling for time, but the captain punched him hard in the kidneys.
The pain was unbelievable, worse than his throbbing arm wound. Sweat and blood ran down Colt’s face and dripped on his chest. He could smell his own rank sweat and the copper scent of blood as he backed away, stalling for time so he could recover from the blows.
The captain charged, and in a daze, Colt saw that grinning face, the wispy mustache, coming in for the knockout. In Colt’s mind, he saw Hannah’s terrified eyes and knew if he didn’t whip him, the captain would go back later and attack her again. Colt had to make a believer out of the arrogant officer.
“Don’t you ever touch her again,” Colt gasped between cut lips.
“Hell of a thing, to be fighting over an Injun’s whore.” The captain grinned, his light curls now hanging across his forehead. “Why, she ought to be happy to take on any white man now.”
Colt had never felt such fury. She was not his to love and protect, but his anger boiled up inside him like a volcano as he charged in, forgetting pain and blood. All he could think of was Hannah. “You snooty sonovabitch! You ever touch her again, I’ll kill you and anyone else who tries!”
He struck the captain with a right cross, then a left. The captain staggered backward, blood spurting from his mouth as Colt hammered him. But Colt showed him no mercy, not even when the captain threw his hands up in front of his face, backing away until he staggered and went down, Colt on top of him, pummeling him again and again. He wanted to kill the man for daring to touch Hannah, and that was all he could think of, pounding the man’s sneering face.
Now two soldiers were pulling him off even as he fought to keep slugging the superior officer. Sergeant Mulvaney was one of those attempting to hold him back as Colt struggled to return to the fray.
“Lieutenant, the man’s out cold!” the old man shouted in his ear.
Colt ceased swinging and took a deep breath, stepped back. He felt both blood and sweat streaming down his own battered face, but the captain looked in worse condition. The arrogant Easterner lay battered and bruised, his face almost unrecognizable.
“Someone get some water,” Colt gasped, leaning against his knees, breathing in gasps.
The captain’s friends poured water over him and after a few minutes, he sat up, but there was no fight left in him. He sat there on the ground, one eye swollen shut, looking up at Colt.
“Want some more?” Colt stepped forward, his fists clinched, but the other shook his head, holding his hands up to protect his face.
His friends stood him slowly on his feet.
It was dusk dark now. One of the other captains made a dismissing gesture. “All right, everyone, show’s over. Break it up, and everyone keep your mouth shut.”
Men nodded, and Colt saw money exchange hands and heard losers grumble. It was turning dark and Colt hurt all over. His injured arm felt as if it were on fire.
The old Irish sergeant grinned and handed him his shirt and jacket. “Good show, Lieutenant. I’ll buy you a beer.”
Colt only grunted. He felt like one mass of pain and bruises, and he knew from the way the captain limped that Van Smyth felt the same as he gingerly slipped on his clothes.
Sergeant Mulvaney put Colt’s arm over his shoulder to help him walk. “Ye hurt bad, Lieutenant?”
“Not as bad as he is.” Colt leaned on him as they limped away. “He won’t be botherin’ Hannah again.”
Behind him, he hea
rd the men still talking as they broke into smaller groups and drifted away.
“Where to now, lad?” The old sergeant looked up at him, concern on his grizzled face. “The infirmary?”
“Oh, hell, no,” Colt swore. “Doc would feel duty bound to report this and the major would explode. He’s got enough trouble without his officers tryin’ to kill each other. Take me to my quarters.”
“That eye looks like you need some help,” the sergeant protested.
“I’ll manage somehow,” Colt gasped as he gritted his teeth and hobbled across the parade grounds.
It was dark so maybe no one had noticed the men coming from behind the barn, two of them limping. Colt could only hope. Every step was painful, every muscle seemed bruised. He could only imagine what his face looked like. He grinned in spite of himself. He doubted Captain Van Smyth, or anyone else, would bother Hannah again; they’d be afraid to. At least he could stop worrying about her while he was out on patrol.
It was dark inside his quarters as the sergeant helped him to his bed and lit a lamp. Colt collapsed on the edge of his bunk and tried to suppress a groan.
The other man turned around and looked at him, frowned. “Holy mother of God,” he said, “you look like the dogs have been draggin’ you around under the porch. Here, let me get some of that blood off.”
“I’ll be all right,” Colt mumbled and fell back on his bunk. He felt the other yanking off his boots and putting his feet on the bed, then bending over him.
“I can wash the blood off a little, lad, but I think you need more than that, maybe some stitches.”
“Don’t get Doc,” Colt closed his eyes. “I don’t want the major to know about this.”
“All right.”
Then Colt heard footsteps and a door closing.
Colt opened his good eye. He was alone. Good, Sergeant Mulvaney had gone to his own quarters. Well, he couldn’t blame him. Anyone who might have a connection with this fight could face big trouble if the major found out about it.
Colt stifled a groan and closed his eyes again. His mouth felt like dirty cotton and his split lip stung. He’d give a front seat in hell for a drink of water, but he wasn’t sure he had the energy to get up and stumble across the room to the pitcher. Perhaps in a little while he would try. In the meantime, every muscle and bone in his body was hurting. Maybe if he could sleep a little while, he’d wake up feeling better.
He heard a door open.
“Colt? Oh, my God, Colt?”
A woman’s voice. He opened his eyes slowly to see a dim form standing by his bunk.
And then a small, cool hand touched his forehead and he heaved a sigh of relief. “Hannah? You don’t belong here.”
“The sergeant came for my help,” she whispered. “And it’s a good thing he did. Now you lay still and let me see what I can do.”
Colt smiled and relaxed. He didn’t care how mangled he was. If Hannah was here, everything was going to be all right.
Chapter 14
Hannah surveyed the injured man and shook her head. Men. They were always fighting about something. This time, she knew it was about her. That had been silly of Colt; she didn’t have any honor left to protect.
His eyes were closed and he had probably drifted off to sleep. Just as well, she might hurt him cleaning those wounds. She put Travis on the floor to play, cautioned him to be quiet. Then she got a washbowl of warm water and some clean rags, began to wash Colt’s body. Most of the injuries were bruises, but that cut over his eye was going to have to be stitched.
He stirred and moaned.
“This is going to hurt some,” she warned him.
“Probably no more than it did when I got it,” he murmured.
“I’ll have to stitch it closed and I don’t have anything but plain thread and needle.” She bit her lip, not wanting to hurt him.
“Stitch away. I’ll pretend I’m a torn shirt.” His green eyes opened and he grinned at her.
She got a needle and thread and used whiskey to disinfect the cut, then gave him a drink from the bottle. “This is no joke,” she scolded. “You’ll probably always have a scar there.”
“The captain has some, too.”
“It wasn’t worth it,” she said as she bent over him.
“It was to me. I couldn’t let him get away with that. If I did, every man on this post would try to grab you.”
She couldn’t help but sigh and smile down at him. “You’ve got an old-fashioned sense of honor.”
“I’m a Texan,” he muttered. “We take care of women.”
“All right, grit your teeth and pretend to be an old shirt.” She had her needle poised.
“I’m ready.” He closed his eyes and winced as she pulled both sides of the wound together and began to stitch.
“I’m so sorry I’m hurting you,” she whispered as she sewed the wound up.
“I’ve been hurt worse,” he said between gritted teeth.
After a few minutes, she stepped back and took a deep breath. “There, I’ve finished and I’ve got most of your wounds bandaged. Would you like something to eat?”
He reached out and caught her hand. “I’m not sure I can handle a fork.”
She pulled away from him, busied herself putting things away. “How about some soup?”
“That’d be nice.”
“I’ve got a big pot at home and some fresh baked bread to float in it. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He didn’t answer, his eyes closed.
She thought he looked like a hurt little boy lying there, his face swollen and bruised, his lip cut. Without thinking, she leaned over and brushed her lips across his. He didn’t stir. “Come on, Travis. Let’s go get some soup.” She picked up her child and went out the door.
It was pitch dark when she returned with the soup and put Travis on the floor to play.
“Colt?” she whispered as she leaned over him. “Wake up, I’ve got some food.”
His green eyes barely opened and he moved about. “Huh? Oh, I’m stiff and sore.”
“I’ll wager the captain is, too. Here, let me prop you up on pillows and feed you some of this. If you’re lucky, you can make sick call and take it easy for a few days.”
She sat down on the edge of his bunk and put a pillow behind him. “I’ve put some of that fresh bread in the soup, should make it easy to eat.” She put a spoonful between his lips.
“Hey, that’s good.” He smiled up at her despite his sore mouth. “You’re a good cook, Hannah.”
“I’ve been running a house since my mother died when I was nine.”
“You deserve a better life that you’ve had,” he said as she put another spoonful in his mouth.
“I’m not complaining,” she answered. “I take life as it comes.”
“You’re a fighter,” he said as she fed him. “You’re a Texas girl to the core.”
“Here, eat the rest of this and go to sleep,” she commanded and gave him the last of the soup. Then she leaned over him and pulled the pillow out from behind his head.
He felt her long hair brush across him as she leaned close and he smelled the warm, clean scent of her. Had he imagined that she had kissed him before? Maybe he had. “I’m much obliged to you,” he whispered as she fluffed his pillow.
“It’s okay, Colt,” she said. “I’ve got to go; I’ve got cookies and tea cakes to bake.”
“I like cookies—cold milk and cookies,” he murmured, smiling as he closed his eyes and sighed. “Mama used to bake me cookies.” Everything seemed to be hurting, but his stomach was full and this woman had looked after him. No one had really looked after him in all these years. His mother had died on the trip out from Indiana. He heard the door close softly and he drifted off to sleep, imagining that Hannah was in his bed, snuggled up close to him, her blond head in the crook of his shoulder so that he could turn and kiss her forehead. His dreams were pleasant that night and he fell into a deep sleep.
A sound brought him straight up in his b
ed, a loud sound that interrupted his sleep. What the—?
Then he recognized a brash bugle call even as his body complained about the sudden movement. It was barely dawn in his little room, and for a moment, he blinked, wondering why he hurt and what the hell was going on.
Then he heard the sound of confusion outside, running feet, and the bugle blew even shriller. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and groaned at his pain and stiffness.
Now a loud rap at his door. “Lieutenant, there’s a patrol this morning.” Sergeant Mulvaney’s Irish accent.
“What?”
The grizzled old man opened the door and saluted. “Texas Ranger just brought word. Big party of Comanches movin’ west, sir. We’re going to try to intercept them.”
“At ease, Mulvaney. All right. See that Rascal is saddled. Who’s in charge of the patrol?”
“Captain Van Smyth, sir.”
“Oh hell,” Colt grumbled. “This will be one helluva day. Go on, Sergeant. I’ll be out as soon as I pull my clothes on.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant slammed the door and was gone.
Colt stumbled to the window and looked out. Men were running everywhere; horses galloped to the parade ground, rearing and lining up. “Just what I need to start my day off right: a patrol with Captain Snooty chasin’ Comanches in the June heat.” He grabbed for his boots.
It took him only a moment to dress, every bone and muscle in his body aching and complaining. He was hungry as hell and what he wanted was biscuits, bacon, and eggs, but he’d be lucky to get a cup of coffee.
The only thing that cheered him was the fact that the captain would be as pained and hurting this morning as Colt was. And the two of them faced a long, hot dusty day chasing after Comanches.
He strode outside and found the grizzled sergeant holding Rascal’s reins. “By Saint Patrick’s bones, you look like death warmed over, lad.”
“Thanks, Mulvaney. Good mornin’ to you, too.”
“Here, I got you a canteen of coffee, sir.”
Colt nodded his appreciation and took a big swig. It was hot and had a good slug of whiskey in it. That seemed to revive him and he looked around. Captain Van Smyth was already mounted, and his face, all swollen and discolored, looked worse than Colt felt. Around them, horses whinnied and reared as troopers mounted and lined into formation. Word about the patrol must have gotten around the post fast because a lot of people were outside to watch the Cavalry ride out. He spotted Hannah in the crowd, holding her sleepy little boy, and he nodded to her. She nodded back, looking anxious.
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