Phoebe's Valentine

by Duncan, Alice

  It sounded as though Major Graves considered Sunshine’s presence in Phoebe’s wagon a personal affront. Jack wondered if the major expected the two-year-old to produce a tomahawk and try to scalp him.

  Phoebe didn’t answer the major’s question, but thrust him abruptly aside, leaving him to frown down at her. Reaching into the wagon, she spoke softly to the children.

  “It’s all right, Sunshine. Thank you very much, Sarah, darlin’. You did a wonderful job with the baby.”

  “That man scared her, Aunt Phoebe.” Sarah spoke accusingly and cast a look at Major Graves that made Jack smile. It was the first smile he’d found since they’d entered the fort.

  Jack helped lift the children out of the wagon and settled Sunshine’s little dress around her ankles. The dress had been cut down from one that was too small for Sarah. The child wore no shoes. Jack’s efforts won him a grateful smile from Phoebe, and he felt better all at once.

  With Sunshine’s comfort attended to and Sarah beside her, Phoebe turned to Major Graves. “This child is with us because her mother was killed, sir. I plan to adopt her and rear her as my own, as I am doing with my niece Sarah here and my nephew William, whom you’ve already met.”

  Phoebe gave Sarah and William each a loving smile which, if it had been directed at him, Jack figured would have lasted him a year or more. The major was not so moved.

  “But she’s obviously an Indian, Miss Honeycutt.” The major did not approve. Everything about him, from his posture to his tone of voice, proclaimed his distaste.

  “Of course she is, Major. That’s what I just told you.”

  Phoebe’s face looked serene as an angel’s. If Jack had been the major, her angel’s face would have reduced him to a puddle of melted male vanity. The major, however, merely looked crabby.

  He also sounded smug when he said, “Well, I’m very much afraid your intentions, however benevolent, will be for naught, Miss Honeycutt. You can’t tame these savages, you know.”

  “‘Tame’ them, Major?” Phoebe’s shoulders went stiff.

  Dan Graves shook his head as if deploring a sad fact of nature. “Yes. I very much fear they are far too much akin to the animals to be taken in to white households. It wouldn’t work, Miss Honeycutt.”

  Jack saw Phoebe’s eyebrows lift haughtily and wondered if he had to worry about losing her to the major after all.

  “I beg your pardon?” The question snowed from Phoebe’s lips, biting as sleet.

  With a condescending chuckle, Dan Graves said, “I realize you’re new to the west, Miss Honeycutt. But it’s as I told you. One can’t tame these savages. One can only subdue them or kill them. There’s no living with them. I fear your intentions, though well-meaning, are absurd to those of us who know about these things.”

  Jack wasn’t sure whether he felt more like grinning at the major’s idiocy or murdering him for being a preening bigot. Ultimately, he decided to stand perfectly still and do neither. He could almost see the retort forming in Phoebe’s brain, and he didn’t want her to slice him to ribbons as he expected she was about to do to the major. Her eyes narrowed ominously, and Jack stepped back a pace or two, even though he guessed it was cowardly of him.

  “That,” said Phoebe in the most cutting voice Jack had heard from her for weeks, “is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

  “Oh, it’s not, Miss Honeycutt,” Mrs. Davidson said.

  Jack hadn’t even noticed her, she seemed so small and insignificant next to the powerful personalities of Phoebe and the major.

  “Major Graves is right. The Indians are horrid, really.” Mrs. Davidson tee-heed, a sound that grated up Jack’s spine like a rusty saw blade. “They’re dirty and uncivilized and brutal and—and just horrid.”

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Davidson is right, Miss Honeycutt,” Dan Graves said, his voice an oily stain in the dry air.

  Jack saw Phoebe take a deep breath and tighten her hold on Sunshine.

  “Brutal?” Phoebe’s question slithered from between her lips. It sounded innocuous, but Jack suspected its intention was deadly as any rattler. “Horrid?”

  “Indeed.” The major smiled down at her, a superior being allowing an inferior the benefit of his wisdom. Mrs. Davidson nodded and smiled kindly at Phoebe.

  “I’ll tell you what’s brutal, Major Graves,” Phoebe said after a moment of silence, during which Jack could almost feel her gathering strength around her like a shield. “Brutal is an army full of soldiers murdering a mother holding a baby in her arms. Brutal is killing a band of starving people. Brutal is condemning a two-year-old child for the sin of having been born into a culture unable to withstand the incursions of an alien horde taking its land and its food and its livelihood.”

  Phoebe’s smoldering glare raked the startled major and skewered the shocked Mrs. Davidson. “Brutal is you, Mrs. Davidson, telling me this baby is horrid because she wasn’t born with white skin and blond hair.” Phoebe looked at Mrs. Davidson’s head as if it were covered in Medusa’s snakes rather than her own rather insipid braids.

  Turning back to Major Graves, Phoebe continued, “Brutal is what your men did to this poor innocent child’s family, Major Graves. That’s what brutal is. Brutal is the two of you.” Phoebe finished with a flourish Jack wished he could applaud,

  Then she turned to put her arm around Sarah, who gaped at her in astonishment. Jack saw Phoebe’s shoulders lift, as though she were trying to keep from crying. Or screaming.

  “Well, I never!” Mrs. Davidson’s shocked whisper shivered and hung in the air for a moment.

  “Obviously,” Major Graves said, his voice having lost all of its previous flirtatiousness, “Miss Honeycutt is an Indian lover, Mrs. Davidson.”

  Over her shoulder, Phoebe shot the major a glare hot enough to incinerate a more pervious creature. “I love this child,” she said sharply.

  Jack knew she was trying to make a point, but he also knew neither Major Graves or Mrs. Davidson would take it.

  Mrs. Davidson whispered, “I don’t believe I can take that child into my home, Major.” Her whisper was plenty loud enough for Phoebe to hear. She whirled around to face her two enemies again.

  “I wouldn’t stay with you if you offered me a brick of solid gold, madam.” To the major, Phoebe declared, “My family and I shall rest in the wagon this evening, Major Graves.”

  Although the major was evidently mad as fire, he said stiffly, “Nonsense. You and your—family—will be offered the hospitality of the fort, Miss Honeycutt. A room has already been prepared for your niece and nephew. I expect an extra cot can be arranged.”

  With an eloquent sniff, Phoebe said, “Thank you.”

  “Although you are incorrect in your assumption, Miss Honeycutt. My men were nowhere near this child or her family. Although,” the major conceded reluctantly, “they may well have been under observation. I fear it was your friend Mr. Basteau who murdered this child’s family.”

  Phoebe’s mouth fell open.

  Dan Graves executed a precise military turn and stalked away from Phoebe, Sarah, and Jack. Mary Davidson looked disconcerted for a moment, then picked up her rustly skirts and fled after the major.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I’ve never met a more pretentious, inflated, self-important ass in my life, barring that nincompoop George Custer, Phoebe” Jack told her later.

  “He was awful. But I do feel badly about accusin’ him of murderin’ poor little Sunshine’s mother.” Phoebe shuddered.

  “Now, Phoebe, don’t take on.”

  Jack put a hand on her arm and Phoebe shook it off impatiently. “Don’t you dare ‘Now Phoebe’ me, Jack Valentine. It was wrong of me to accuse the man, even if he is a contemptible jackass.”

  Phoebe felt her cheeks get hot when little Sarah gasped at her elbow. They heated even further when she heard Jack’s chuckle.

  “He is that, all right.” Jack turned from his chore of emptying the wagon and said, “And don’t feel
bad about accusing him wrongly, Phoebe. I’d venture to bet the major and his men have done their share of killing Indians. Unfortunately, that’s what they’re here for.”

  “To kill Indians?” Sarah’s horrified whisper made both adults peer at her.

  Phoebe felt compunction prickle within her. She put a hand on her niece’s shoulder and said with a defeated sigh, “I reckon it’s a war out here on the prairie, Sarah dear. It’s the Indians against us and vice-versa.”

  Sarah looked at Sunshine, her eyes eloquent of her incomprehension. “But—but Sunshine’s just a baby.”

  Phoebe struggled to think of something to say that might explain the sorry state of affairs to her niece, when a booming voice startled the three of them.

  “Well I’ll be a wall-eyed son of a bitch, it is you! I didn’t believe it when that idiot major said it was!”

  Phoebe, Jack and Sarah spun around.

  “General Sheridan!” Jack sounded joyful. “My God!”

  The two men embraced, smiling like long-lost brothers who’d just found each other.

  General Sheridan? Great Lord in heaven. Phoebe could only stare at the man, mouth agape.

  Stepping back and grinning broadly, Jack said, “I’d like to introduce you to Miss Phoebe Honeycutt and her niece Sarah Finnerty.”

  Phoebe found herself unable to speak.

  Sarah, having been taught manners by Phoebe herself, curtseyed politely and said, “Pleased to meet you, General Sheridan.”

  With a gentlemanliness that astonished Phoebe, Sheridan shook Sarah’s hand soberly, his eyes twinkling in appreciation. Then he turned to Phoebe, bowed in a gracious manner, held out a hand and said, “Miss Honeycutt? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Indecision held Phoebe captive for several seconds. Then, swallowing years of hate with a gulp of courtesy, so much a part of her it seemed inbred, Phoebe stammered, “How . . . how do you do, General?”

  Sheridan’s smile didn’t look like that of a devil, Phoebe thought as she shook his hand. Why, he seemed like just an ordinary man.

  “I’m quite well, thank you. I must say you’re like a breath of fresh air to us out here in this wild place. And I commend you for trying to care for this poor little tyke.”

  “You-you approve? I thought you said the only good Indian was a dead one.”

  “Phoebe!”

  Jack’s hiss made Phoebe realize how rude her question had been. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment and she stammered, “Oh, I-I mean—”

  The general’s expression hardened for an instant, then softened with an unhappy sigh. “Please don’t apologize, Miss Honeycutt. I understand.”

  His smile looked much more gentle than Phoebe would ever expect a Yankee devil general’s smile to look. “I’m afraid life sometimes lands people in situations they don’t necessarily enjoy, although, as a soldier, I am determined to do my duty.”

  What in the world did that mean? Phoebe wanted to ask him, but her words seemed to have dried up and turned to dust in her throat.

  Jack murmured, “Phoebe’s brother Paul was killed at Cedar Creek, General Sheridan,” and Phoebe saw Sheridan’s eyes widen for a moment. She swallowed hard and prayed she wouldn’t cry. She wanted to kick Jack Valentine.

  After a slight pause, Sheridan cleared his throat and said, “Well, I guess that proves my point then.” He looked straight at Phoebe when he said, “I’m very sorry, Miss Honeycutt.”

  Phoebe murmured something; she wasn’t sure what. Then Jack took her arm and she heard him say, “We’ll see you at dinner, I expect, General. We have a lot to catch up on.”

  “We surely do. God, it’s been years. Sure you don’t want to join up again, Jack?”

  With a wink for Phoebe and a chuckle for Sheridan, Jack said, “Absolutely certain, sir.”

  Phoebe allowed Jack to lead her and Sarah away, feeling numb. It bothered her a lot that Philip Sheridan seemed to be such a polite, genteel fellow. She would have preferred him to be crude and bumbling, a drunkard as General Grant was reputed to be. A man of an unrefined, degenerate nature would be a far more suitable villain to have played such a dismal role in her life than the small, agreeable Philip Sheridan.

  # # #

  Phoebe dressed in her one good gown, a yellow one, for supper that evening. She hadn’t worn it in years, and was surprised to find it hung loose on her.

  Sarah, eyeing her critically, said, “That dress looks pretty old, Aunt Phoebe.”

  Looking down at her faded yellow gown, Phoebe had to acknowledge Sarah was right. “Well, I don’t reckon it matters much, Sarah. We’re just eatin’ with a bunch of Yankees, after all.”

  Sarah nodded wisely and tucked Sunshine’s blanket up to her chin. “Reckon you’re right.”

  Besides that, although she didn’t say so to her niece, Phoebe was attached to her old yellow ball gown. It was the first and only ball gown she’d ever had. It should have been the first of many. As it was, its faded beauty oddly fitted Phoebe’s mood, which was grim as she dressed for a supper she did not want to attend.

  Apparently General Sheridan had demanded a formal dinner for the fort’s guests, though. Phoebe feared she would have to make polite conversation with him or with Major Graves, and she didn’t want to do it.

  Nevertheless, she knew where her duty lay. She’d been doing it all her life. The knowledge didn’t make her feel any happier. She just hoped she’d be allowed to sit next to Jack.

  As it turned out, she needn’t have worried about the major. He apparently now deemed her unworthy of his regard and devoted his attentions to others. To Phoebe’s unutterable relief, she was seated between Jack Valentine and Philip Sheridan. Shortly into the meal, she realized she actually wanted to like Sheridan and felt disloyal. Good Lord.

  As soon as the interminable dinner ended, she pleaded exhaustion and excused herself from after-supper chit-chat. She executed a curtsy her mother would have applauded, and turned to flee.

  She hadn’t even made it out the door when Jack caught up with her. “Let me walk with you, Phoebe.” He took her arm, and Phoebe felt as though she’d found shelter from the storm. She almost sighed and sagged against him before she caught herself.

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  “Grueling meal, wasn’t it?”

  She could hear the humor in his voice and responded to it with a grin of her own. “Mercy, yes.”

  They strolled the silent fort yard for a moment or two. Phoebe looked up, saw the star-spangled territorial heavens, and realized she was almost getting used to these vast western skies.

  “Will you let me love you tonight, Phoebe?”

  Jack’s soft question caught her by surprise. His breath felt warm against her ear. It made her whole body tingle in anticipation.

  It was difficult to draw air to speak. When she could form words, they came out shaky. “You—you want to pretend again?”

  “No, Phoebe. I don’t want to pretend. I want to make love to you. I want it to be you and me, and I want it to be perfect.”

  “Oh!”

  “Come with me, my beautiful, shining Phoebe,” he breathed. “Come with me and love me tonight.”

  “But—” Phoebe’s brain was about as useful as a plate of scrambled eggs. Mad thoughts and protests spun through it, none tarrying long enough to do her any good.

  “I have a whole cabin all to myself, Phoebe.”

  “I—”

  Jack kissed her hard before the one shaky syllable could die in the evening air.

  “You want me, too, Phoebe. I know you do. Please love me tonight. Please, my darling, beautiful Phoebe.”

  Love him tonight. Lord on high. The conviction that she would love him forever fought desperately with propriety in Phoebe’s brain. Propriety lost.

  “All right,” she sighed.

  He picked her right up off the ground and carried her the last few paces to his quarters. Then he collapsed on the bed with her.

  Phoebe squealed, “My dress!”


  “What about your dress? Your dress is beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

  “But I don’t want it to get wrinkles!”

  Her wail bespoke such terrible distress, it speared right through Jack and lodged in his organ of humor, where it quivered and tickled. Even though he wanted nothing more than to rip her dress right off her body and devour her whole, he rolled onto his back and collapsed with laughter. When he opened his streaming eyes, Phoebe had sat up and was batting her skirts down. She was also glaring at him.

  “I-I’m sorry, Phoebe.” His voice crinkled with amusement in several places.

  “I do not care to be laughed at, Mr. Valentine.” Phoebe’s face had gone stony, and her words were sharp and cold as icicles.

  Jack sat up and grabbed her before she could fling herself away from him. “You’re not getting away from me that easy, Phoebe. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you lead me on the way you did and then run away.”

  “You—I—what?”

  The offended shriek which would, three or four weeks ago, have made him madder than hell, tonight only made Jack’s humor bubble up again. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. They both shook with his laughter, Phoebe because she was trapped.

  “Oh, my darling little Phoebe,” he gasped. “You make me laugh.”

  “Obviously.” Jack could tell she was not amused.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he gasped. “It’s just that you’re always fussing about wrinkles. First it was your face, and now it’s your dress. It just struck me as funny.” As if to prove he wasn’t fibbing, he went off on another gale of chuckles, once more carrying her with him because he didn’t let her go.

  “Wrinkles may be of no import to you, Mr. Valentine. This, however, happens to be the only party gown I own, and I do not wish it to become crumpled.”

  She also apparently didn’t wish to remain here as a figure of fun for him, because she grabbed his strong arms and tried to wrench them away from her. Of course she had no luck at all. Her indignation seemed to wilt a little when he pressed his lips against her throat.

  “Don’t try to get away from me, Phoebe. I won’t let you go.”