Holding the Fort

by Regina Jennings

  “Giddyup!” he encouraged. The horse’s ears pricked. It reached a gallop again. Daniel’s bare toes curled around the edges of the saddle. Riding while standing up wasn’t as tricky as he’d thought. He wished he could perform the feat for his troopers, because all they’d talked about for days was how amazing Private Willis was. If only they could see their commander. He knew more about horses—

  The horse had nearly reached Turkey Creek. The last thing Daniel needed was to run beneath a tree. Could he turn the horse from here, or would he need to sit first? Ever so gently, he tightened the left rein. The horse responded, and he felt the satisfaction of exceeding his own expectations about his performance.

  But then he heard something strange. A woman’s voice. Singing. He didn’t know where it was coming from until he was barreling toward her. A gorgeous apparition in blue standing directly in his path.

  He hadn’t reckoned on this complication.

  Daniel always held that a well-trained horse could read its rider’s mind. This horse was well trained, and whether it knew instinctively that Daniel wanted to stop, or if Daniel unconsciously pulled on the reins, the horse did what it had been trained to do. It stopped.

  But Daniel did not.

  Instead, he went flying over the head of the horse. His last thought was that he hoped he didn’t die barefoot, but if he did, he prayed that someone would put his boots on his feet before they carried him back to the fort in front of his men.

  Chapter Four

  Hubert was happily situated at a bubbling brook, and he didn’t appreciate Louisa’s singing. He said it scared the fish away. She had to laugh at that. Tim-Bob had always said her singing drew men into the saloon like stink bait. She guessed men and fish hankered after different lures.

  Before she’d set out down the creek bank, Louisa had promised Hubert that she’d keep her eye on the sun and not let it get too late. The wind was strong, hot, and rarely let up, but in the shady protection of the trees, it didn’t overly provoke her. Once she’d walked far enough that she wouldn’t offend Hubert’s fish, she started singing again. First she ran her scales to strengthen her range. After she did a full warm-up—something she’d missed in the three days since she’d left home—she began a maudlin song of unrequited love that never failed to bring tears to the eyes of her intoxicated customers.

  O don fatale, o don crudel

  che in suo furor mi fece il cielo!

  Tu che ci fai sì vane, altere,

  ti maledico, ti maledico, o mia beltà!

  She was approaching the apex, the stanza where she allowed her voice to soar to its zenith. Rawbone always grabbed his handkerchief during this portion. In dramatic fashion, she stepped into the sunlight and extended her arms to either side. Eyes closed, she was awash with music, with the warmth of the sun on her face, her neck, her arms. The emotion of Princess Eboli had never been as strong, and neither had her voice. Louisa had found a piece of heaven.

  But it was the earth that was vibrating beneath her feet. Despite the distraction, she wasn’t ready to let go of the moment. Dropping her voice, she repeated the final couplet, weaker now, more tenderly, so those poor sots would buy another round to drown their sorrows in. Eyes still closed, she clasped her hands at her breast.

  The vibration increased, jarring her out of the song. What was that noise? More than a little irritated to be interrupted, Louisa opened her eyes.

  A man was standing—standing!—on a horse that was running toward her. She was too stunned by the spectacle to be scared. With his white shirt open at the neck and his bare feet—bare!—he wasn’t dressed as a cowboy. Who was he, and what in tarnation was he doing?

  Uh-oh. He’d seen her. His face filled with alarm, even more alarm than a man standing on a saddle should show. He wobbled, swayed. The horse tossed its head. He pulled on the reins to steady himself, but that was the wrong thing to do. The horse stopped. Louisa covered her mouth as he pitched headlong over the horse and landed in a pile on the ground.

  “Great Saturn’s rings!” she breathed, then took off in a run for the crumpled figure in the grass. His blue pants were easily spotted. A stripe of yellow ran along the seam. A cavalry uniform. Probably a ruffian like her brother.

  Forgetting about her elaborate gown, Louisa fell to her knees next to the lifeless figure. Was he dead? His face was buried in the dirt. Frantically she dug the soil away from his nose. He was breathing. At least that was something. But while dusting more dirt away, she hit solid rock. The soil was thin here. With a few swipes of her hand, she laid bare a slab of sandstone. He’d knocked himself out. But what did he expect, standing in a saddle? What kind of immature, reckless—

  He groaned, and she left off listing his failures. He pushed against the ground to raise his head, then wavered dizzily.

  “Shhh,” she said. “Lie down for a spell. You’re not ready to get up.”

  He didn’t seem to understand. He stared stupidly at the ground beneath him. A thin, steady stream of blood was soaking into the soil. He squinted at the pool of blood. His arm shook as if his own weight was too much for him. He was in imminent danger of dropping to the ground and hitting his head again. She had no choice but to act.

  She took him by the shoulders and slowly rotated him so that if he passed out again, his face wouldn’t land in the dirt. He’d land on her. She barely had time to get her legs arranged beneath her before he crashed onto her lap.

  Louisa didn’t know quite what to do. She was no prude—being raised in a bawdy house had numbed her sensibilities—but she wasn’t accustomed to having a man use her as a pillow. And he was a good-enough-looking man. His face looked wholesome and innocent, and she’d known enough guilty men to tell the difference.

  Blood seeped through his light brown hair, sticking it to his forehead. Gingerly she pushed his hair back from the wound. The knot expanded right at his hairline. She dug a hankie out of her reticule. It was extravagant, lacy, and nearly useless, but she used it to mop up the blood and get a better look at the cut. She’d seen a lot worse inflicted when someone interrupted her performance, but how long could she sit here with a cavalry trooper in her lap?

  The trooper’s horse had returned. It bent over him, blowing its hot breath on his face and hers. Louisa brushed it away. Where were the man’s boots? His coat? If her brother got in trouble for a little drinking, what would Major Adams do to this man, caught away from the fort out of uniform and behaving recklessly? Well, she’d just do what she could to make sure Major Adams didn’t find out. She didn’t want this fun-loving young trooper to get the guardhouse.

  Fun-loving and fine looking. But maybe not as young as she’d first thought. She smoothed his hair again. His mouth twitched, bringing the merest hint of a dimple. What if he never woke up? What should she do? She couldn’t let him derail her plans. Or maybe, when he came to, he could help her. Did he have any influence at the fort?

  She looked for any sign of Hubert, but it was useless. He was too far away to summon with a call, as being out of earshot had been her goal when she’d left him and his discriminating perch. “My fate rests in the hands of an eight-year-old,” she murmured.

  Then she grew very still, as she had the distinct impression that she was being watched. Slowly she shifted her gaze downward to meet a pair of honey-colored eyes studying her.

  He was confused, poor thing. She laid her hand against his cheek to calm him. “It’s alright,” she said. “You took a spill.” She brushed back his hair again, enjoying the thick texture of it.

  His horse nudged him. He lifted his hand to the horse’s muzzle and closed his eyes but didn’t get up.

  “Now that you’re feeling better, I can go get help.”

  But that seemed to startle him. He shook his head weakly. Again, he tried to push himself up and managed to reach a sitting position. He pulled his knees up and rested his head against them.

  “Your head is bleeding,” she said. “You have a knot.”

  If only he’d
show some sign of understanding her, but all he was showing was stubbornness. Holding onto the reins, then the horse’s head, he pulled himself upright.

  Louisa scrambled to her feet. “What are you doing? You need to sit down. You’re not ready.”

  But by the strength of his will, he made it into the saddle with her handkerchief still stuck to his face.

  She did not like this. Not one bit. “Where do you think you’re going? You’re in no condition to ride.”

  He stared at her dumbly, as if he couldn’t believe she was real. Slowly his eyes traveled from her plumed hat to her festooned gown, then back to her face, but he was either unable or unwilling to make any kind of response. By its own volition, the horse began to move forward. His bare feet in the stirrups were all that kept him from toppling over again.

  Stubborn man, she fumed as he rode away. Not willing to admit he needed help. But who knew what the price would be if he were caught in that condition? Obviously Major Adams had put the fear into him. She only hoped his dread of his commander didn’t endanger his life.

  Daniel couldn’t get the vision of the woman out of his head. This wasn’t the first time his life had been in danger, but never had he been sent such an apparition to comfort him. With difficulty, he found his coat. His head pounded as he bent over to pull on his boots. He yanked the handkerchief off his face, stuffed it in his coat pocket, and gathered his gear. That done, he turned his horse toward the fort and did his best to stay in the saddle.

  His thinking was befuddled. He knew he’d lost his faculties the minute he opened his eyes to see a beautiful woman holding him. Being widowed for the past decade, he wasn’t surprised that his dream would take that bent. What was mildly embarrassing was the inappropriate dress of his guardian angel. He would’ve thought his imagination would produce someone more saintly to come to his aid. Not someone arrayed like a fancy woman for hire. He rubbed his forehead. He didn’t even like thinking such thoughts.

  And the singing. Her voice was still in his ears. He knew the song—had heard it performed at the opera house in Galveston when he was courting his wife. But why that song? If he was truly that close to meeting his Maker, he didn’t want Princess Eboli’s plight on his lips. It was obviously the product of his confusion. No one sang that beautifully. Or looked that fetching. Or dressed that sumptuously.

  Oh, Lord, please make it stop. His head was about to explode.

  Come to think of it, was he riding in the right direction? Was he even riding at all? For all Daniel knew, he might still be lying on his back, looking at her sweet face, wondering why he’d ever want to get up.

  But he had gotten up, right? He was going back to the fort because of something important. Yes, his daughters. He would check on them. And there were troopers there, of course—troopers who were his responsibility. They would know if he stayed on the ground and never came back. So he’d go back. And he’d tell them . . . what would he tell them?

  What had been an easy ride out turned into an arduous ride back. Slowly the horse carried him to the fort, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing out here in the first place. Something important. Something concerning Private Willis. Something that he had to figure out.

  The sun had started to set when he saw a handful of troopers riding toward him. They looked like they were floating across the prairie, hooves barely touching the ground. Were they real? They wore blue, but not blue silk. He tried to focus on faces, but everything looked blurry.

  “Major Adams, sir. Do you need assistance?” The cavalryman was a good trooper. Daniel remembered that about him, but little else.

  “No. I’m just headed to Fort Supply. General Custer is going west. He wants to consult with me before he goes.” That made sense. That must be why he was out here. General Custer wanted him.

  But the trooper was acting strangely. Was everyone going to be strange today? “General Custer wants to see you?” Daniel didn’t miss the concern on his face. “Where have you been?”

  Daniel knew where he’d been. He wasn’t crazy. He just couldn’t get the words in his head. Something about Willis and Custer. He waved the question away, but the movement made him dizzy. Next thing he knew, there were horses on either side of his. He heard words like head wound, blood, and possible attack.

  “No,” he said. “It’s not the Indians. It’s Private Willis.”

  “Willis did this to you?” The nice trooper’s brow lowered. “Byrd, go to the fort and alert Lieutenant Hennessey. Tell him to have Dr. Bowen meet us. We’re right behind you.”

  Daniel knew he’d said the wrong thing, but he didn’t know what the right thing was. They weren’t listening to him, and his head hurt with every step of his horse.

  He should’ve stayed on her lap and never left.

  Chapter Five

  Bradley Willis loved the cavalry. Growing up in a tiny room shared by his drunk ma and his bossy sister was like being hog-tied and stuck in a barrel. Out here in Indian Territory, he had space. Space to run. Space to breathe. Space to holler if he had a mind to. Space to get himself in a heap of trouble, which was exactly what he did, and that was why he was out here painting the never-ending fence.

  He slapped a dripping paintbrush of whitewash against the boards and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. At least he hadn’t spent too much time locked up. Watching life go by from behind bars—there wasn’t nothing fun about that. Even if Louisa thought he didn’t have any sense, he had sense enough to know that the cavalry was good for him and that if he didn’t toe the line, he’d be discharged with no pay, no honor, and no future.

  Major Adams wasn’t all that bad. Had Bradley not dulled his wits with rotgut, he wouldn’t have carried on like that. Too late to do anything about it now. He’d enjoyed himself, and the fellas were still talking about his daring jumps and spot-on shooting, so a few nights in the guardhouse had been worth it, after all.

  Bradley squinted toward the fort’s center. Was that Captain Chandler heading his way? Two grunts from the Eighteenth Artillery were walking out with him. Bradley splashed a final swipe on the fence before dropping the brush into the pail of whitewash. He wiped his hands on a rag and waited to see what they were coming out after.

  “Private Willis?” Chandler kept his head high, showing his roughly shaved neck.

  Bradley saluted. “Yes, sir!”

  “You are under arrest.”

  Bradley almost laughed. “Arrested for what? I’ve been out here painting all day.”

  But no one else was laughing. The soldiers took him by the arms.

  “You are accused of attacking Major Adams,” Chandler said.

  Attacking the post commander? Now Bradley wasn’t laughing. Even slopped, he wouldn’t dare lift a hand against the major. He loved the cavalry, and nothing would get you kicked out quicker.

  Louisa was going to kill him.

  Buildings appeared on the horizon ahead. It was Fort Reno, according to the call of the stagecoach driver above her. Louisa tugged at the tight collar of the faded cotton blouse. She wasn’t used to material against her throat. Maybe that was why all the proper ladies were so dour. They’d feel more relaxed with more of their neckline exposed.

  The ride to the fort hadn’t taken as long as the wait for the stagecoach repairs, but her time at the ranch had been more exciting than she’d anticipated. Despite Hubert’s insistence that cavalrymen could take care of themselves, she’d made him walk along the creek for a while in the direction in which the trooper had disappeared before they’d returned to the ranch. The only sign that the soldier had existed was the scar of red earth he’d disturbed and a dried patch of blood.

  “That’s nothing,” Hubert had said. “They tell that a cavalryman can get scalped and still need a haircut the next day.”

  Mr. Collins at the ranch didn’t listen to her concerns, either. Troopers were expected to take care of themselves. The ranchers wouldn’t worry about them.

  Those cowboys mig
ht not be bothered by his plight, but Louisa was determined to check on him once she got to the fort. She couldn’t shake the image of him riding away, hunched over, barely able to stay in the saddle. What if he’d fallen off somewhere and was even now being carried down a hole by a colony of well-coordinated prairie dogs? She couldn’t risk it.

  As they drew nearer the fort, it became clear that she’d had the wrong idea when she’d pictured it. There was no high fence guarding it. Instead, the fort presented itself like a goose on a platter, open for everyone to view. Even though it wasn’t quite dark yet, the wide avenue down the center was lit on both sides by lanterns, although a few were shattered. The stagecoach turned right and drove past rows of long white buildings.

  Louisa reviewed her plan. She had come to deliver the crate of books to Major Adams. That excuse would get her in the door. And once she had his attention, perhaps she could suggest a small concert. Who knew? If worse came to worst, she might could get work as a washerwoman.

  The stagecoach pulled up at an office where a trooper came out to meet them. The stage rocked as the driver hopped down and swung the door open. He offered her his gloved hand, and she stepped down on a white gravel walkway. Two young cavalrymen were passing by. One darted a glance at her, then his head whipped around, and he started walking backward. His companion frowned until he, too, laid eyes on her. She wasn’t on stage, but she’d never had such an attentive audience.

  “Troopers!” The man who had come out to greet them had some golden stripes on his upper arm. The soldiers spun around, and their backs went straight. Under the officer’s watchful eye, they marched away, never looking back.