Drew gave McGarrity a quick half smile. "No danger of that, sir. I'll finish this cigar and go inside."
"Good night, then," the major said and headed toward home.
Drew finished the cigar but didn't move. McGarrity had given him something to chew on, and Drew would just as soon do that out here.
He did need someone to look after Meggie. Lila Wilcox had been a temporary solution at best, and he had to have someone to depend on when he was out campaigning. Meggie needed stability after all these months of turmoil. He'd only need to hire Cassie for a year or two, just until Meggie was old enough to go to school back East.
The biggest problem with hiring her was the expense. A cavalry captain made seventy dollars a month, and that money came to frontier outposts at wildly irregular intervals. Lila's services had been a bargain because as company laundress she received regular army benefits and could charge men for cleaning their clothes.
He would have to give Cassie money enough for housing and food and whatever else she'd need to keep body and soul together. Still, McGarrity's idea had merit.
Before he committed himself, Drew meant to think this through. Nine years ago he'd dedicated himself to avenging his family's death, and he couldn't let anything—or anyone—prevent him from fulfilling his destiny.
* * *
Sally McGarrity seemed stunned to find Hunter standing on her porch just after six o'clock the following morning. She peered at him around the edge of the door, blinking like an owl caught in a beam of lantern light.
"Good morning, ma'am," he prompted her, hoping she'd invite him in out of the cold. "I hope you won't mind that I've stopped by so early. I want to say good-bye to Cassandra, if I can."
"Good-bye?" Sally asked, glancing past him to where his horse stood saddled up for travel. "Are you going somewhere, Mr. Jalbert?"
"I've had orders to Fort Laramie. Colonel Palmer needs a translator and sent for me."
He'd specifically asked for "that half-breed Jalbert," and though Hunter didn't usually respond to the names white men called him, something in the tone of the colonel's telegram rankled him. It was almost as if Palmer were reminding Hunter how separate he was from the rest of the world, and how singular his existence had become. It reminded Hunter of how much all that had begun to chafe him, and Sally McGarrity's reluctance was making him itch again.
"Well, then step inside," Sally invited, clutching at the neck of her dressing gown as she opened the door.
That's why she hasn't let me in, Hunter thought, more than a little relieved. It had to do with modesty, not with who he was.
"I didn't mean to disturb your breakfast," he apologized, removing his hat, "but I need to be on my way if I want to reach the old stage station at Box Elder Creek by nightfall."
"Well, we can't very well have you going off without telling Cassandra good-bye, now can we? Do sit down here in the parlor while I go see if she's finished dressing."
Hunter did as he'd been bidden and heard the murmur of feminine voices from the back of the cabin.
He wished he had been able to leave without saying good-bye. But he was concerned for Cass, worried she wouldn't be able to get on here at the fort without his help. Or at least that's what he'd told himself.
He refused to admit he wanted to see her before he left. No woman should have gotten under his skin as quickly as this. Certainly none of the women he'd smiled at and courted and slept with over the years had touched him the way Cass Morgan had.
But then, none of them understood who he was or his place in the world—at least not the way Cass was coming to understand it. She was as caught between the whites and the Indians as he was. That bound them in a way that went deeper than friendship, deeper than physical attraction. Cass touched something at the core of him, and he responded with both fascination and fear.
Sally bustled back into the room. "Cassandra is nearly ready," she informed him. "Won't you have a cup of coffee while you're waiting?"
"I'd like that very much," he said.
She brought him some from the kitchen. The flowery, gold-rimmed cup and matching saucer seemed out of place between his big rough fingers, though her offer of it made Hunter feel unaccountably welcome in her home.
Sally turned from him with a nod. "Then if you'll excuse me, I'll see to my own toilette."
For all the daintiness of the cup she'd served it in, Sally McGarrity made army coffee, strong and hot. Hunter had drunk most of it when Cass appeared in the doorway from the kitchen.
She was wearing the clothes she'd had on the day before, a dark blue dress that highlighted the gold in her upswept hair and clung like a lover's caress to her every curve.
The cup and saucer rattled a little in Hunter's hands as he came to his feet.
"Sally says you're going away," she said in Cheyenne.
Hunter ducked his head in acknowledgment, needing a moment to set the cup aside and pull his suddenly disordered thoughts together.
"I got orders to Fort Laramie this morning," he told her, and wished like hell he was staying. "I'm sorry I have to go. I know it would be easier for you to get settled if I were here to help. But when the army buys your services, you don't have much more choice about following orders than anyone else."
Cass lowered herself to the settee, and Hunter resumed his seat on the opposite end.
"I know about following orders. It would be better for me if you were here," she said, "but I will manage. I always have."
He heard a soft, almost-reluctant confidence in her voice. It was the kind of confidence that came with having faced the worst and fought her way through. It made him want to help her this time, to do what he could to make her adjustment to this strange, new place easier.
"I'm not sure how long I'll be gone," he went on. "A week, maybe more. By the time I get back you'll probably be all settled and speaking English like you never forgot a word."
Cass nodded.
"Is there anything you need before I go? Did your talk with Captain Reynolds go as you had hoped?" He'd seen enough of her conversation with the captain through the half-open door to know how it went.
An expression passed across her features like a cloud across the moon. "My talk with Drew went well enough. What I would like to know," she said, her mouth bowing a little with confusion, "is why everyone behaved so strangely when I told them I had been at Sand Creek?"
Hunter wondered how he could explain that having been at Sand Creek was like admitting you'd been to hell and back. Right-thinking officers everywhere considered the Indian loss of life a blot on the army's honor.
"The attack on the encampment at Sand Creek represents a very dark day for the army," Hunter began. "Chivington's volunteers should never have ridden into that camp. Lives were needlessly lost in Black Kettle's village, and many hold the army responsible. Ben and Sally McGarrity believe that there is no excuse for that kind of carnage, and so do I."
He didn't say a word about Drew Reynolds. For all Hunter knew, Reynold's sympathies might well lie with Chivington.
"So many women and children were lost," Cass agreed, as if she were conjuring up images of that day two years before. "The soldiers at Fort Lyon had told the chiefs that we would be safe if we camped at Sand Creek, so most of our men were away at hunting camps. There was no one to fight when the soldiers rode in, though Black Kettle did his best to protect us.
"He raised the United States flag the president had given him when he went to Washington. He raised a white flag of surrender, but the soldiers kept killing and killing. His wife was terribly wounded, and my friend's little girl was shot down before our eyes."
"How did you get away?" Hunter asked, not able to help himself.
"Some of us ran into the narrows at the head of the creek. A few of the men who had been left to guard the camp held the soldiers off until nightfall. We stole away in the dark—but had to leave so many behind."
Hunter stared at the woman before him, seeing both the pain in her eyes and the r
esolution that hardened her mouth. This woman had survived more hardship than most people saw in a lifetime. She would adapt to life at the fort with or without his help.
Assured of that, Hunter had no reason to stay—except that he wanted to stare into that remarkable face and savor the unexpected connection he felt with her.
That realization was enough to bring him to his feet. "I—I'm sorry for what you went through at Sand Creek," he stammered, not knowing what else to say. "There are plenty of whites who hate what happened there and want to make certain it won't happen again."
"But it will," she said, an odd resignation in her tone. "In the fight between the whites and the Indians, it is bound to happen."
"Perhaps we will all find a way to live in peace," he suggested, wanting it to be true.
"Have the white and Indian parts inside you found a way to make their peace?"
The question startled him. Cass's perceptiveness was the very thing that attracted him, but it also brought her in too close. She seemed able to see through him in a way that no one ever had, giving her the power to touch him or hurt him or turn him inside out.
Hunter jammed his hat on his head and bundled his buffalo coat around him. "Well, then," he told her gruffly, "I need to be on my way. I just wanted you to understand it wasn't my choice to leave you to fend for yourself."
She rose gracefully from the settee and walked him to the door. "Thank you for all you have done to make my way easier here," she said.
He adjusted his hat and nodded. "I've been glad to help."
She smiled at him, a bright, intimate smile that turned him warm inside. It was the first real smile he'd seen her give to anyone. He felt privileged, and absurdly pleased with himself.
Hunter grinned back.
"Have care in your travels to Fort Laramie," she said, opening the door. "Find a warm place to spend the night. There's the scent of snow in the wind."
He sniffed once and realized she was right. "Tell Mrs. McGarrity good-bye for me."
Cass stepped out onto the porch and watched him mount up. She smiled and waved him out of sight. Hunter rode a full ten miles before he was even aware of the cold.
Chapter 8
It took Drew a week to make up his mind about hiring Cassie—seven miserable days of riding patrol in raging blizzards, of relieving half-frozen sentries, of struggling with balky horses, cantankerous men, and surly officers. It was a full seven nights of smoking cigars in the howling wind, of painting until the lamps burned low, of standing and watching his daughter sleep.
McGarrity's idea made perfect sense—if Drew took Cassie on, Meggie would have someone to care for her, and Cassandra could make a living for herself. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why committing to that was proving to be so difficult.
He finally arrived at the major's quarters late in the afternoon of the seventh day. Sally McGarrity fluttered like a schoolgirl when she found him at her door.
"How lovely to see you, Captain Reynolds!" she exclaimed and ushered him in.
Drew stepped gingerly onto the worn rag rug before the door, stomping the snow off his boots before he moved beyond it.
"Goodness me! Hasn't this weather been terrible?" Sally chattered as she went about hanging up his hat and overcoat. "Cassandra and I have been all but housebound. But then, there are piles of mending to do. I'm convinced that every soldier in the fort dropped off something that needs a button or a patch."
"The laundresses or the tailors should be taking care of that, ma'am," Drew offered earnestly.
"Oh, yes, Captain Reynolds, I know. This all belongs to Ben, but I swear he's the most careless man—" She glanced up at Drew and colored prettily. "But then, I don't suppose you came by to talk to me about needlework, now did you, sir?"
Drew smiled and inclined his head. "It's always a pleasure to pass the time with you, ma'am. But I admit I was hoping to have a word with Cassie Morgan."
Sally led the way to the kitchen at the back of the house. Cassie glanced up from her sewing as they came in. At the sight of him, a bloom of pink rose in her cheeks.
She was beautiful sitting there by the fire. She wore a princess-style gown of deep wine red, and the sleek knot of her honey-brown hair shone in the lamplight. With the shadows hiding the tattoo, she might have been some proper young matron from back in the States who had never so much as seen an Indian.
"Good afternoon, Cassie," Drew greeted her.
"Good afternoon, Captain Reynolds."
"How have you been?"
"Mrs. McGarrity and I have been keeping busy."
Drew turned his most charming smile on his hostess. "I wonder, Mrs. McGarrity, if I might have a word with Cassandra in private."
Sally's face immediately brightened. "Why of course you may! I have some letters I've been meaning to write. If you need me, just sing out."
As the older woman disappeared in a flurry of rustling skirts, Drew settled himself in the chair Sally had vacated. Now that the moment to make the proposition was upon him, Drew felt a sharp, inexplicable kick of nervousness.
"I—I was wondering," he began, "if Major McGarrity showed you the answer to the telegram he sent to Kentucky inquiring after your relatives."
"He showed me," Cassie replied, never glancing up from her stitches. "He showed me the one from Philadelphia, too."
So the major had tried to track down Cassie's mother's kin. By the sound of it, he'd had as little luck locating them as he had her Morgan relations.
"I was wondering if you'd made any plans."
"For my future?"
The discussion was starting out the way their previous one had, only this time Drew didn't intend to get sidetracked. "I know that as accommodating as the McGarritys have been, you'll eventually want to move on from here. I thought if you were ready to make that decision—"
Cassie's fingers stilled over the cloth on her lap, and she slowly looked up. "You made it quite clear the other evening, Drew, that beyond a certain friendly concern, you didn't much care about my future."
He felt the color come up in his face. "I didn't mean to imply that what you do doesn't matter. We've known each other all our lives, and I can't help feeling responsible..."
She let out her breath in a hiss. "You don't need to feel responsible for anything where I'm concerned."
Having her absolve him didn't help. "What I mean to say, Cassie, is that I want you to come and work for me."
She blinked twice in what appeared to be genuine surprise. "Work for you?" she echoed warily. "Just what is it you want me to do for you?"
"I need someone to look after Meggie," he told her. "The officers' wives were wonderful to her when we first arrived, and Lila Wilcox has done her best since then. But I need someone permanent, someone I can count on to care for Meggie for a year or two, until she's old enough to go to school back East."
Cassie looked at him long and hard, then deliberately turned her head so he could see the star-burst tattoo. "And you're willing to entrust your daughter to me?"
Drew stared at her a moment, then averted his eyes. "Is there any reason why I shouldn't?"
Cassie hesitated and flushed. Her chin came up in a gesture of challenge that any fool would recognize. "Well, I did once steal from the sutler's store."
Drew had been appalled when he heard what she had done. He'd been ashamed for her, outraged at how morally corrupt Cass had become after her years with the savages. He'd said as much, and Jalbert had taken him aside to explain how Indian traders put things out for their customers to steal, that what Cassie had done was a natural mistake.
"You don't intend to steal from him again, do you?" Drew finally asked.
She shook her head with such vehemence that her earrings danced.
"I'm not making this offer lightly, Cassie," he went on. "What I want is someone kind and caring to look after Meggie. After all that's happened, she needs security, someone she can count on to be there to feed her and wash her and put her to bed. She nee
ds to have someone to hold her when she cries, someone to play with her and teach her things. I can't be a soldier and do that, too."
"Does soldiering mean so much to you?"
Drew didn't even hesitate. "It means everything."
"More than Meggie?"
"Yes."
"More than anything else in your life?"
"There isn't anything else in my life. There isn't room for it," he answered honestly. "And you know why I feel the way I do."
Her expression darkened.
Drew took a breath and began to lay out his requirements. "I'll be needing you to keep house—do the cleaning and the wash, see to securing our rations, and cook the meals.
"I can't afford to pay you much, but I'll give you room and board. You'll have to stay in my quarters once I leave on maneuvers, anyway, so it seems silly for you to pay rent somewhere else. We can curtain off the kitchen the way the McGarritys have, so you'll have a little privacy."
Drew felt better now that he had it all laid out. "You've always liked children, Cassie. You'd be good at this. Will you accept the position I'm offering?"
Cassie hesitated so long Drew wasn't sure what to think.
"No," she finally answered.
Drew stared at her, heat creeping up his neck. "What do you mean, 'no'? I'm offering you a place to live and a way to earn your keep. It's a hard, cold world out there, Cassie, and jobs are scarce." He didn't say that jobs would be especially scarce for a woman like her.
"I don't want to be your housekeeper."
Drew scowled in exasperation. "Then what in hell do you want?"
She focused those cool, clear eyes on him. "I want to be your wife."
Drew couldn't have been more stunned if she had pulled out a pistol and shot him. "You want to marry me?"
She nodded. "You're willing to hire me to do the things wives do. Wives cook and clean. Wives take care of a man's children—"
"Wives share a man's bed," he countered, and pushed to his feet. "I'm not asking you to do that!"
He filled the silence with his pacing, his bootheels rumbling on the wooden floor.
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