by Gordon, Rose
And that confirmed it. Anything that might be taken as a genuine compliment or an indication that he’d like her to stay was always countered with a statement such as that. And blessedly so. It wouldn’t do any good to return to Nicholas still in love with Wes. She nearly snorted again. It was already too late for that. She was helplessly in love with him, but it would make it much easier to go when the time came, knowing that he didn’t return the feeling.
Swallowing, she shoved her feet into her shoes. “I suppose we’d better go eat so I can get to Mrs. Lewis’. I need to ask her to help me learn to cook a thing or two, so I’m not a bag of bones, or worse, food for the crows, by the time Nicholas gets here.”
He gave his head a slight nod. “Right. Well, do you think you might perish if you have to go one more day picking at cold beans and eating jerky? I promise to buy you more this afternoon.”
“No,” she said slowly. “I guess not. Why?”
“Today I don’t have to work, so I thought you might like to spend some time outside of Mrs. Lewis’ parlor. But if you’d rather sew and cook—” he gave a half shrug— “I certainly understand.”
“Hmm.” She tapped her index finger against her cheek. “That’s a hard decision. On one hand I could spend the day wishing I was somewhere—anywhere—else, or I could—”
“Well, if you’re going to spend the day with me wishing you were somewhere else, then you’d best just go to Mrs. Lewis’ right now,” Wes teased with an overdone frown.
“No, I think I shall torture my husband and his friends with my annoying presence today.”
“I don’t find you annoying—nor will today be torture. At least not for me and you. I can think of a few privates who will be tortured.”
“Oh?”
“Oh.” He returned, grinning. “Come along. You’ll have a good time, I promise. And if you don’t, I shall return you to Mrs. Lewis’ care post haste.”
That won’t be necessary. She had no idea what Wes planned to do with her today, but short of making her touch a dead animal or forcing her to eat all the food on her plate, nothing could make her want to spend time away from him if she didn’t have to. Not that she disliked Mrs. Lewis and Sarah’s company, she didn’t; but she liked being around Wes more.
Wes reached for her hand. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t you need your coat and hat?”
“No. Today I don’t have to wear the coatee or shako.”
She nodded then followed him from the room to the dining room, where she ate her toast and his for breakfast.
“So...?” Jack said, drawing the word out and turning to look at Allison, who was sitting across from him.
Allison cast him a quizzical look at the same time that Wes said, “She’ll be there.”
Jack grinned and slapped the table with such force all of the plates and cups on the table clattered.
“This morning, not tonight,” Wes stated flatly.
Jack’s grin faded, then he shrugged. “The day is still young. You might change your mind.”
Allison looked to Wes to explain what they were talking about, but he seemed to have formed an unusual fascination with his plate.
“Say, Allison, have you ever volunteered at a hospital or clinic?” Gray asked, lifting his tin cup of coffee to his lips and taking a sip.
“No. Why?”
“No reason,” Gray said, his lips twitching.
“No, there has to be a reason,” she argued.
“Oh, there is,” Jack agreed, not bothering to hide his smile. “A few months ago— Ouch!” Jack abruptly scooted his chair back with a screech.
“Sorry, Jack, didn’t know your foot was there,” Wes said with all the innocence of a four-year-old found sneaking treats from the kitchen.
Gray, who was seated on the other side of Allison, thus too far out of reach of Wes’ wayward foot, set his tin cup down on the table and spun it twice. “I asked only because you might need to brush up on your nursing skills this afternoon.”
On the other side of her, Wes seemed to be choking on a piece of food—or at least that’s what he’d like her to believe. She’d been in his company long enough to know exactly what he was about. “And why would such skills be needed?”
“Now, nobody said, you’d have to exercise your medical knowledge,” Gray said easily. “It just might be a good idea if you know how to tend to a man in pain that you start devising a plan.”
Allison chanced a glance at Wes who wore a resigned expression, even though his cheeks were as red as her skirt. “Is this a story you’d prefer to tell me—in private, perhaps?”
“No.” He waved his hand through the air. “They can tell you; then I can correct their errors later.”
Gray’s sharp bark of laughter stole her attention. “Wes here hasn’t been allowed on the field since May, when he spilled his blood all over the dust and subjected us all to have to see his bare backside.”
Allison whipped her head around to see Wes. She tried not to laugh at the mental image Gray’s words had conjured up as she lifted her eyebrows and said, “Which part would you care to elaborate on?”
“Neither,” he grumbled. He sighed and ran his large open palm across the table in front of him. “Jack, do you have anything to add?”
“Other than some of us weren’t fortunate enough to only see your bare arse? No.”
“You’re the one who volunteered to help stitch him up,” Gray pointed out. “I told you not to, but you volunteered.”
Stitches?
“You only warned me of that because you get ill at the sight of blood. And there was no denying that there was a lot of blood.”
Blood? Allison turned her eyes back to Wes, this time not on the verge of laughter. “Will you elaborate now?”
Wes’ gaze locked with hers. “I don’t think I need to.” He shrugged. “They’ve told you all of the crucial parts.”
“Except the one about how you started bleeding...oh, and lost your trousers.”
“I didn’t actually lose my trousers. Someone—” he shot a peeved look at Jack— “thought it best to tear them to see the extent of the injury. As for the injury itself, it was minor and not so important,” he said with another shrug.
“Yes, it is,” Jack argued excitedly. “That’s the best part!”
“You’d be the one to think so,” Wes muttered. “You weren’t the one shot in the ass by an incompetent man who supposedly didn’t know his gun was loaded.”
Allison gasped but was stopped from asking any questions when Jack spoke up again. “I’m not incompetent. Private Rucker asked that I look at his gun. He said it was jammed. How was I supposed to know the fool had it loaded?”
“Usually, when a gun is jammed, it’s because the bullet is stuck,” Wes retorted.
“I didn’t know that. He just said the cock wasn’t working.”
“I’m sure his wasn’t,” Gray muttered, garnering a piercing look from Wes. “I was just talking about the man’s gun, Wes. What are you thinking about?”
Allison knit her brow but neither thought to inform her of what they were implying, nor did she care overmuch. “How is your...uh...wound?” she asked, unable to stop herself from letting her eyes wander to the general vicinity of where she suspected he was hit.
“My wound is fine. But Jack here might wish to be careful what he says or he might be the one who ends the day having a bullet pulled from his flesh—and if I have anything to say about it, it won’t be his—”
“All right, boys, let’s go,” Lieutenant McCorkle interrupted, walking up behind them and slapping Wes on the back.
Wes shook his head, then turned his attention to Allison. “Are you ready?”
She cast a glance around at all of the men. “Are you sure I should come. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“You mean you don’t want to get shot?” Lieutenant McCorkle asked, clapping Wes on the back again.
Wes reached up and grabbed the man’s arm. By the look on the y
ounger man’s face, Wes’ grip had to be quite tight. “We’ll meet you outside.” After the younger man left, Wes shot pointed looks at both Gray and Jack.
Neither seemed to pay him any mind.
Wes sighed and turned his body in his chair so he could face her fully. “You have nothing to fear by going out there with us. We’re going to play a game.”
“You got shot playing a game?”
“It was an accident,” Gray said helpfully.
Wes scowled at him. “As Gray said, it was an accident. Guns have nothing to do with this game. The gunshot came from someone who wasn’t even playing at the time.”
“So I’ll be able to play without fearing for my life?” she teased.
“This is more of a game where you watch,” Jack explained, drawing her attention.
“Oh, so it’s more like a race where the jockeys ride and everyone else sits and watches?” she said, praying nobody would detect the disappointment she felt. For it was of little doubt that Wes would also be a spectator, thus she’d have to sit alone. Actually that might be a good thing. A smile pulled on her lips. Watching would give her the perfect opportunity to stare shamelessly at him without anyone thinking anything about it.
***
Wes wanted nothing more than to reach over and smack his friend. And he didn’t know why. Rounders was not a game for those of her sex, but the disappointment he thought he’d glimpsed on Allison’s face made him wonder if this was a good idea after all.
At least she was smiling now.
“We all spend time as spectators,” Gray said a moment later. “In fact, the majority of those playing are spectators in a sense, and we all spend roughly half the game watching others play.”
“That’s true,” Wes agreed, shooting Gray a thankful look for the first time in recent memory. “It’s actually fun being the spectator.”
“Wes, I don’t mind, truly.” Her grin returned. “I’ve already formed a plan for exactly what I plan to ‘spectate’.”
Two sharp whistles rent the air.
“I suspect she’ll see the bullet coming for your arse before it actually makes contact,” Jack said.
Wes expected Allison’s face to turn red and her jaw to drop at his forward statement; but she surprised him yet again when her laughter filled the air, and she said, “Wes has been kind enough to offer me his protection while I’m here. It’s the least I can do to return the favor.”
~Chapter Sixteen~
Allison could hardly believe she’d spoken those words, but the roar of laughter that filled the room around her confirmed she had said such an unladylike thing.
The grin that split Wes’ face and caused the corners of his eyes to wrinkle stole yet another piece of her heart.
She forced herself to stand. “Well, boys, do you plan to play your game or shall I observe you all sitting in here instead?”
Jack jumped to his feet, saluted her, then started toward the door. Gray shook his head and took his time getting up to leave.
Once they were both gone, Wes took to his feet, slipped his hands around hers and pulled her toward him. “I want you to know right now that if you need me for anything—you get hot, you’re not having fun and would rather go sew, you want something to drink or you’d like to eat— all you need to do is call my name and I’ll come right over to you.”
“Do you not want to play?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.
“No, I want to play,” he rushed to say, then squeezed her hand as a strange look came over his face—one that might suggest he was uncertain or torn, perhaps. “I just want you to have a good time.”
“I will.” She squeezed his hands this time. “And if I don’t, I’ll be sure to make you pay handsomely later.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to do whatever I possibly can to make sure you enjoy yourself.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you two coming,” Gray hollered, leaning his head back inside the dining room.
“Yes,” Wes barked at his friend, scowling.
Wes let go of Allison’s left hand, then intertwined their fingers of their hands that were still touching.
She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, but he gave no sign of noticing how her heart was pounding and her blood was racing at such a sweet, intimate gesture.
Outside, they walked to a little field about five hundred yards north of the barracks to where a large group of men stood. Some were holding long, rounded, thick sticks and others were tossing small balls up into the air—or throwing them at each other.
“Wes!” Colonel Lewis called, making a waving motion with his hand.
“Here,” Wes said. “I want you to sit right here on this barrel.”
Allison read the word painted on the side of the barrel that came way up past her waist. “You want me to sit on a barrel full of ammunition,” she said flatly.
“No. I want you to sit on a barrel that used to have ammunition in it. Now, it holds all of our game equipment when we’re not using it.” Without allowing her a chance to protest further, he placed his strong hands around her waist and hoisted her up onto the barrel, bringing her so high she was nearly eye to eye and nose to nose and lips to lips with Wes.
There was a brush across her lips so quick, so soft, and so perfect it caught her off guard, and she couldn’t reason who’d been the instigator: him or her. Then, she blinked, and all she could see was the broad expanse of Wes’ back as he walked toward Colonel Lewis.
She jerked her eyes away and flushed. Then she cleared her throat and fixed her eyes on the men in front of her.
“I see it’s true,” Gray said with a chuckle.
Allison turned to face Wes’ friend. “What’s true?”
“That Wes puts you up on a pedestal.”
She flushed again. “Actually, I think it’s a barrel.”
“Either way, he seems to fancy you quite a lot.”
Allison couldn’t stop the smile that spread her lips at hearing those words.
Gray walked away to join the other men, who were now dividing up. Some men went out into the large field, while Wes and his friends got in a long line on this side of the field. The other men, the ones who she assumed were spectators like her, sat in the grass off to the left of where a man with a large, wooden club stood.
“Let’s play!” hollered Colonel Lewis.
Lieutenant McCorkle gripped the club in his hand, then turned sideways, squatted, and brought the end of the club back to rest on his right shoulder.
The man with the ball wiped his brow, lifted the ball up over his head and backwards, then brought his arm forward and released the ball, sending it sailing through the air right at the man with the club.
Lieutenant McCorkle swung his weapon, missing the ball entirely.
Laughter from the men watching and yells of encouragement from his team members filled the air.
“Take your time and watch the ball, not your bat,” Wes yelled to him.
Lieutenant McCorkle nodded and the fellow standing behind him tossed the ball back to the man who’d thrown it to start with.
Just like last time, he wiped his brow, brought the ball back, then threw it as hard as he could right at the man with the bat.
Lieutenant McCorkle swung.
Crack!
Cheers filled the air as Lieutenant McCorkle ran to where a man was standing by an old sack, then stayed put.
Jack was up next. He walked out to where Lieutenant McCorkle had been standing just a few moments before, picked up the bat and gave it a practice swing before taking a step forward and resting the bat on his shoulder, assuming a similar stance to what Lieutenant McCorkle had done.
The man on the opposite team threw the ball and Jack swung, knocking it far into the field. He got to the same place Lieutenant McCorkle had and stopped. Lieutenant McCorkle now stood by another bag. If she had to guess, she’d say when Gray hit the ball, they’d all move one.
And just as she’d predicted, that’s ex
actly what happened. Now someone stood on each of the bags and it was Wes who was walking out to pick up the bat.
Groans, partially drowned out by laughing and whistling from the onlookers, could be heard as he took his stance.
Allison considered tearing her eyes away from where they were fixed on his backside, but she had made him a promise hadn’t she?
CRACK!
A sound akin to lightening striking rent the air, followed by loud cheers and clapping. McCorkle ran to the spot where Wes had once been, then a moment later came Jack, followed a few seconds later by Gray, and then came Wes!
There wasn’t a single unsmiling face on his team; but there were plenty from the opposite team as a breathless soldier came running back toward the group with a ball.
Another officer walked up to collect the bat and play his turn. When they’d first taken teams, Allison hadn’t paid much notice to the lack of men on Wes’ team. Now she realized they might have less, but they clearly weren’t lacking talent.
Several more men came up to take their turns. Some made hits on the first time; some didn’t. Some men made it to “base”, as they were calling it; others didn’t. But nobody hit the ball like Wes, and for some reason, she took a little measure of pride in knowing that her husband was the most talented on his team.
After about fifteen minutes, someone called a third out, whatever that was, and the two teams switched places.
The next set of men were just regular men, she assumed by the way the crowd had styled them. When Wes and his group had been up, cheers of captain or lieutenant had been yelled. This time, they were shouting and cheering for the man’s name, not his rank.
The rounds of one team batting the ball and the other trying to catch it or throw it to a teammate who could tag them or the bag with it to get them “out” continued for almost two hours as the men alternated their positions and the score was yelled out.
Allison had never thought of herself as a competitive one, but she loved the idea of Wes’ team winning—if only by one point.
It was Wes’ turn again. He walked over to the bat and, just as he had so many times already, hit the ball for all it was worth, and then ran.