The Officer and the Bostoner (Historical Western Romance) (Fort Gibson Officers Series, Book 1)

by Gordon, Rose

  “Do you need any help, Allison?” Mrs. Lewis asked, breaking into Allison’s thoughts.

  “No, ma’am. I just wanted to make sure...” She trailed off and bit her lip. Just cut. Tightening her grip on the shears, Allison began to cut.

  Slow at first. Short, concise clips.

  “It’ll be straighter, if you hold the fabric up at an angle and just glide the shears across,” Sarah said helpfully, as she tucked a ringlet of her dark blonde hair behind her ear.

  Tentatively, Allison lifted the fabric, and with a prayer, pressed the V of the shears against the fabric and started to glide. She went slow at first, getting the feel for it, then sped up as she got more comfortable with it.

  “Oh, Allison,” Mrs. Lewis began, “did you forget to—” Her words died on her tongue as the loud sound of fabric splitting rent the air.

  Allison’s eyes flared wide. She somehow had turned the heavy fabric and now she was cutting at a sharp diagonal. Too scared of what might happen if she were to stop, Allison guided those cutting shears all the way down to the edge of the fabric.

  Tears pricked her eyes. What had she done wrong?

  “Allison? Would you like some help?” Mrs. Lewis asked, concern filling her voice.

  Yes! “No,” Allison said, shaking her head. She couldn’t accept help from Mrs. Lewis because then Wes would know she’d lied about being able to sew. She closed her eyes. Why had she lied about such a silly thing as knowing how to sew? She wasn’t his wife. She didn’t have to impress him with her womanly skills.

  Yes she did. Why, she’d never know. Perhaps it was pride or a longing to show him that he had underestimated her in the worst way. But no matter what it was, she’d wanted to prove to him she was far more capable than he gave her credit for.

  Allison stared down at the fabric. It was too late for this piece now. It was already cut, but perhaps her dress could still be salvaged, thereby proving to her husband that she wasn’t one who wasted things. An idea sprang into her head.

  Forcing a smile, she stood and discarded the scraps. “Looks lovely, doesn’t it?” she asked of no one in particular.

  Neither Mrs. Lewis nor Sarah spoke, they just stared at the fabric she’d termed lovely with their mouths slightly agape.

  Allison waved her hand through the air. “Don’t worry. I meant to do that. Wearing skirts that form points in the front and back has become all the rage back in Boston.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Lewis said as a wistful look came over her face. “I didn’t know that.” She sighed. “It’s been so long since I’ve been home, I have no idea what’s fashionable anymore.” She sighed again. “And probably by the time I make it back, they won’t be in style any longer.”

  “You’re likely right,” Allison murmured. Seeing as how such a ridiculous cut wasn’t in style now, it wouldn’t be whenever it was that Mrs. Lewis left here. Sighing, she knelt down to do the only thing she could do now: cut the other side of the skirt panel to match. Thankfully, she’d made it a good three-fourths of the way down the skirt before losing control of her shears. She shook her head.

  “Here,” Sarah whispered, “you might need these.”

  Allison looked up and nearly groaned in frustration when she saw what Sarah held: a little ball with hundreds of sparkling straight pins poking out. “Thank you.”

  Sarah winked at her then went back to sewing.

  Thirty minutes later, Allison had made all the appropriate cuts to form a skirt with the most unusual and idiotic design. She sighed and laid the fabric down with one panel on top of the other; next, using the ball of spikes Sarah had handed her earlier, she did her best to pin the two pieces together as straight as possible.

  Then she stared at it.

  But it didn’t magically sew itself together as she’d hoped. It was waiting for her. Waiting for her to do something, to be more precise.

  With a hard swallow, she picked up the spool of thread and unwound a few feet. Satisfied, she snipped the thread, then grabbed the package of needles that was on the table nearby, and prepared herself to thread the needle.

  In her left hand, she held the needle straight up and down, with the eye pointing toward the sky. Then with her trembling right hand, she tried to push the end of the thread through the hole. She missed. It bent. She missed again. The end looked as though it was now fraying and sweat formed on her brow. How difficult could it be to thread a needle? Just push the thread through the hole!

  She bit her lip and tried again, but her unsteady hand moved either the thread or the needle or both just in time to miss it.

  Her palms grew clammy and she tried again.

  “Mrs. Lewis,” Sarah asked from behind Allison, “might you go get some of those cookies you were talking about earlier? I bet Allison would love to try them. It might be a nice reminder of home for her.”

  “Oh, I bet you’re right,” Mrs. Lewis said. She set her sewing down and all but leapt off her chair.

  No less than a second later, Sarah’s slender fingers were taking the needle and thread from Allison’s hands.

  Without any slowness or hesitation, Sarah threaded the needle for her. She then fiddled with the thread for a minute and handed the needle back to Allison. “You’re at the easy part now.”

  She took the threaded needle and stared down at it, her cheeks burning. “Thank you. I’ve never sewn before.”

  “I know.”

  Allison flushed hotter. “It’s not like that. I just never learned. See, back home, my mother always took our things to a seamstress.”

  “There’s no need to explain anything,” Sarah said, resuming her seat. “We can’t all be good at everything.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “But nothing.” She poked her needle back into the fabric in her hand and started sewing again. “Now, get to sewing. I am eager to see how this dress of yours will turn out.”

  Allison tried not to let on to her discomfort. Sarah knew as well as she did that this dress would be completely unwearable by the time she was finished with it. She was certain of it.

  Forcing herself not to grind her teeth, she took a deep breath and brought the tip of her needle close to the fabric. This was it. Soon these two pentagonal pieces of fabric would be stuck together. Forever.

  Blowing out one final breath, she poked the sharp needle through the hard fabric, noting how much more difficult it seemed for her to push it through than either Mrs. Lewis or Sarah. Dismissing the thought, she used her other hand to grab the end of the needle and pull it through. Then she turned the fabric over and frowned. Where should she enter the fabric again? She bit her lip. Not too close to the last stitch or it’d take her a week to reach the end. Deciding a finger’s width seemed reasonable, she pushed the needle through again, grimacing at the way the sharp end dug into her finger.

  For more than two hours she sewed. She poked it in one side, using her poor, red-tipped thumb to push the needle through, then turned the fabric over and pulled it the rest of the way through. Finally, she’d reached the end of the long straight part of her skirt. Not quite sure just what she’d do about the diagonals that made a point, she left those for later.

  “Are you done?” Mrs. Lewis asked with a sparkle in her eye.

  Allison rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, trying to soothe the hurt caused by repeated pokes from the needle. She reached forward for the cutting shears she’d placed on the table next to her after cutting the fabric. “Yes. I just need to sever the thread.”

  “I know you’re excited to be wearing a dress like you wore back East, but don’t forget to tie off the thread first.” Sarah’s voice was quiet and sweet, holding not a hint of annoyance or condemnation for Allison’s lack of knowledge.

  Allison’s eyes went wide. “Right.” She looked down and pulled the needle and thread a little tighter. She hadn’t given herself much thread to start with, so knotting what was left wasn’t going to be easy.

  She twisted the thread this way, then that, and
formed some sort of a sloppy knot that looked like it could hold, then cut the thread.

  Determined to prove to Mrs. Lewis, Sarah, Wes, and most of all, herself, that she could sew, Allison picked up the spool of thread and ignored the way her tender fingers protested as she held the needle in her left hand and the thread in the right and attempted to rethread the needle to sew up the other side.

  Ten frustrating minutes later, she nearly jumped for joy. Her needle was threaded and she hadn’t had to seek help from Sarah to do it.

  Just as she poked the thread back through the fabric to start the torture all over again, a loud trumpet sounded, scaring Allison half out of her wits.

  “Lunchtime,” Mrs. Lewis said, placing her sewing down in the little basket beside her chair.

  ~Chapter Seven~

  “Where’s your new dress, wife?” Wes asked as he walked through the door of the Lewis’ home and saw her seated on their sofa.

  Allison jumped at his words, then immediately dropped her skirt into the basket at her feet. “It’s not finished yet.”

  “It’s not?” he asked, feigning shock.

  “Of course not. It’s impossible to sew up a dress in a matter of a day.”

  “Hmmm.” He knit his brow and looked her up and down. “I thought you were an expert.” It took all the self-control he possessed not to crack a smile at the way her shoulders stiffened at his words.

  “I am. But these things take time.” She idly rubbed her blistered fingers together as they left the Lewis’ residence and made their way back to their room.

  The simple gesture along with seeing the sores on her hands gave him a new respect for her. She had no idea what she was doing but had pride and determination to keep up the charade. She might not end up with a suitable dress, but she would certainly have his respect. He tore his gaze from her raw hands and focused on the boardwalk in front of them. “Well, if an expert like you says it takes time, then I shall just have to wait a little longer.” He opened the door to their room for her. “Will you be wearing it tomorrow when I come to get you, then?”

  “No.”

  Ignoring her strained answer as best he could, Wes walked over to the crude fireplace and gathered a few twigs together in the middle. “Oh?” he queried casually as he lit a match and threw it on top of the kindling.

  “I already told you, these things take time. I don’t want to rush and make a mistake.” She went over to the pitcher of fresh well water he’d brought up before going to get her and poured it into the small metal pot he’d bought to heat their water.

  Didn’t want to make a mistake? He nearly snorted. More likely she was hoping that either a dress would magically appear or she could stall so long that her suitor would be back to collect her before she actually finished her ill attempt at one. “I see.” He grabbed two logs and placed one on either side of the little fire he’d created. “Allison, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  “Actually, there is.”

  He bit back a smile. “Yes?”

  “You’re building that fire all wrong.”

  Wes craned his neck around to see this peculiar woman. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That log—” she pointed to the short log on the right side of the fire— “needs to be closer to the fire.”

  Wes frowned. “No. I don’t think it does.”

  “It does if you want your tea to be warm.”

  Standing, he grinned at her. “Well, m’dear, if that’s the case, then I can honestly tell you that I find absolutely no fault with the fire. I like my tea cold.”

  “Cold?”

  He nodded and pulled out his daily ration of coffee beans and placed them on the table. “That’s the way we South Carolina folk like it, I’m afraid. But if you’re of the mind to make me a hot beverage, coffee will do nicely.”

  She wrinkled her nose up, presumably at the memory of the coffee she’d sipped this morning. She bit her lip and stared at the small pouch he’d put on the table.

  “Of course, I like mine a certain way. I’ll show you.” He walked over to her and untied the bag of beans.

  Wes picked up a small handful and smashed them with the butt of his revolver. “When the water boils, put this, just like this, in there to brew the same way you’d brew tea.”

  Allison frowned at him, but heaven help him if he knew why.

  Shrugging, he resumed his seat on the edge of the bed and removed his shako, boots, and then his coatee.

  Without so much as a glance in his direction, Allison bent down to attend to the fire. He grinned at the way she moved things around, creating a larger flame.

  He shook his head and mindlessly undid the cuffs on his sleeves. “Did you enjoy your time with Mrs. Lewis and Mrs. Ridgely?”

  “Yes, they’re both very nice.” She placed the pot onto the fire. “Thank you for introducing me to them. I have no idea what I might have done without their company today.”

  “Perished of tedium, perhaps.”

  A small sputter of laughter passed her lips at his suggestion, just as he’d hoped it would. “Probably. There isn’t much to do around here, is there?”

  “No.” He moved up the bed to lean against the flattened pillows. “It’s fairly quiet and simple here.”

  “Yes, I’d noticed.”

  “I’m sure you have.” He closed his eyes. He didn’t know about her, but he hadn’t slept well last night and being out in the hot sun this morning had made him even more tired. Dinner wouldn’t be served for another hour, which provided the perfect opportunity for a small nap. “Every so often, there’ll be a ball,” he murmured, locking his fingers together and placing them behind his head.

  “A ball?” Her tone was drenched with doubt.

  “Yes, a ball,” he countered, forcing himself to open his eyes. “As it would be, every two months or so, we have dances with the Cherokees.”

  She shook her head, causing two tendrils of her long, dark hair to fall loose around her face. “I swear, you are the least serious man of my acquaintance.”

  “Then you need to spend more time with—” He cut himself off before he made such a foolish suggestion. The last thing she needed to do was spend more time with anyone, especially Gray. “Believe it or not, I was being very serious about the dancing. I wasn’t here when it started, but every two months or so, the Indians will come to trade goods. While they are here, they want to dance.”

  “And you actually dance with them?”

  He couldn’t tell if that was surprise or disdain he sensed in her voice. “Yes. In case you have not noticed, there are very few females around there. We men do enjoy some female companionship, when possible.”

  Her face turned red and she dropped her eyes. “I didn’t realize...never mind.” She turned her attention back to the pot of water. “It’s not that I was criticizing them or any of you, I was merely surprised the Indians would want anything to do with the Army, that’s all.”

  He laughed and shut his eyes again. “They probably don’t. But they still have to trade with someone. Besides, this ball isn’t quite what you might think. Back East people go to balls to socialize with friends and seek a spouse, if necessary. This ball is about business, keeping peace and making trades. If one of those squaws were to be harmed by one of our men, it wouldn’t end well. Not—”

  “Wes!” Allison shrieked.

  Wes snapped his eyes open and nearly laughed at the sight of the pot in the too large fire. Boiling liquid bubbled over the side and onto the fire, putting it out and creating a huge billow of smoke as it hit the hot coals below. He pushed himself out of bed, grabbed the closest item of fabric to him—which just so happened to be his coatee—and reached into the fire to grab the pot’s handle. After he pulled the pot out, he set it down on the table and dropped his coatee on the bed again. “Your water, my lady.”

  Her wide eyes collided with his, making him want to laugh all the more. Instead, he whistled as he returned to his spot on the bed and rested his eyes o
nce more. Except this time, instead of closing them all the way, he just lowered his eyelids and watched Allison as she swallowed convulsively on her way to open the little window above the table. With her back to him, she reached for the coffee bean. Before he could tell her that one bean would only make enough for his single cup and that she could use the rest for any tea she might have had with her in her purse, something had already been dropped into the pot. His coffee would be weaker than he was accustomed to, but that was all right; he would casually inform her next time.

  She scooped up his coatee and shook it in the air to help push the smoke out the window.

  He scrubbed his cheeks with his fingers. He’d need to make a stop at Charles’ tomorrow during lunch and get some supplies for their home. His coatee was not a suitable replacement for a towel.

  “Your coffee is ready,” she murmured a few minutes later, extending a cup to him.

  He sat up and took it from her. “Aren’t you going to have some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He lowered the tin cup toward his lap. It had been so long since he’d been home; he’d nearly forgotten that coffee was not a drink most consumed. Apparently, a decade or so ago, President Andrew Jackson had gotten coffee and sugar added to the soldiers’ rations, thus making it a popular drink among those in uniform but still very rare and often disliked by those without said uniform. While the army gave every soldier a ration of coffee each day, Charles’ was often fresher. Perhaps he’d have to buy some from him tomorrow when he went to see him. “If you’d like, you can dump what’s left in the pot out and boil some water for your tea.”

  She slapped her hands on either side of her face with a resounding pop. “And waste it? I think not.”

  Wes chuckled and took a drink of coffee. Then he slowly lowered the cup from his lips and ran his tongue over his gritty teeth. “You did use the paper, didn’t you?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “The paper?” Her eyes darted over to the table where the thin paper he’d placed the crushed coffee bean on top of was right where he’d left it and her face turned the color of a beet. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize...”