“No rest for the weary! We’d better get to work or the day’s washing won’t be dry by “Taps.” Good day, Mr. Baker! You’ll bring the rest out to Suds Row later today, I trust?”
“Always a pleasure for a minute of your company, Miss Jewel.” He tipped an imaginary cap to her and had her giggling. Dolly ushered RuthAnne out the door and into the sunlight.
Chapter 12
Abigail Stevenson brushed her gunmetal gray hair out of her eyes. It was already steaming hot outside, and she had miles of work yet to do. With a huff, she looked up from her washbasin aiming to see the next bag of soiled linens to set to wash. Instead, she noted Captain Bowen Shepherd. His stride was unmistakable as he crossed the parade grounds, passing a company of men with a sound salute. The sight of a man in uniform still made the girl in her tremble, even though her girlhood had long since passed. Shepherd was a sight to behold in his hat trimmed in gold, pressed blue coat, and blue trousers. The leather on his boots didn’t dare hold the dust he tromped over. He was a mountain of a man and a lifer in the army. He was the type who didn’t know how to quit anything. She had known him long enough for that.
“Now, where’s Captain Shepherd going in such an all-fire hurry?” she wondered out loud as she wrung the last of the water from the freshly washed jacket. Her fingers had long since lost their softness from years of lye and water. Washboards and frontier women were anything but soft and feminine. That bit of a girl the captain had dragged out here had a whole heap of worry in front of her that she couldn’t begin to comprehend. Abigail smirked as she hefted her next load of wash to the basin, debating on whether to fill it with fresh water. If it was an officer, then she’d bother for the extra money they paid her, but the tag read Private, so she’d give her poor back a break for one more load.
As she watched Captain Shepherd make his way past the stables, it became clear he was aiming for Suds Row. Her heart seized in her chest. Her first thought went to her husband, Lawrence, a sergeant with the Seventh. When the Indians were flexing their muscles, an officer coming to call always made her nervous. Then again, she’d been responsible for Captain Shepherd’s uniforms and laundry since he transferred to the fort. He was early; that was all, she told herself, crossing herself quick. She ran a cake of soap briskly across the poor Private’s trousers and raked them up and down the washboard with a practiced hand.
Bowen wandered in, looking somber as ever. “Morning, Abigail. I’m too early for my things, I know.”
“No. They’re ready.” She gestured to the stacked and folded uniforms, wrapped in his blanket. She gave him a wink. “I always get to my favorites first.” His smile warmed her to the bones, even though she was twice his age.
“That’s not the only reason I’m here.” He hesitated, but she knew before he even spoke.
“You came to ask me to look out for that fair-haired Southern girl.” She plopped the now-rinsed trousers over a peg. “I’d say you should know better, but you do already, so I figure you’ve got your reasons, Captain. I’ll do it. But I wouldn’t count on her to stay long. She has soft hands. Trim figure. She’ll either get herself back on a stage east or hightail it to California. This here’s no place for a woman like her.”
“And what if she has her own reasons for staying put?” he challenged with a slight smile on his otherwise stern face.
“Reasons like falling for a tall, handsome soldier?” She watched him bristle at her words. Interesting.
“Not likely.”
“Well, if she’s fool enough to stay around this outfit, after she’s been interviewed by our esteemed post commander...”
“Now, Abigail...”
She pooh-poohed him with a laugh, watching him shoulder his laundry sack. “Don’t get your hackles up. He’s up in Prescott and won’t be back for a week or more.”
Their eyes held a mutual understanding that words didn’t even cover. Post Commander Carington had a reputation for greeting the young laundresses in his own special way.
The captain thanked Abigail and set on his way, but she wondered after him. He was worried and more than a little smitten, if she didn’t guess right. Too bad he was too stubborn to do anything about it.
****
Dolly led RuthAnne to the area referred to as Suds Row. The women worked in the open air under a ramada with washbasins set up rank and file. Dirty water was to be dumped into an eroded canal that watered the gardens by the stable. Someone had thought to place wood planks underfoot to keep the mud at bay, but RuthAnne could see baked and dried evidence where basins had been wrestled free from sinking and feet had been sucked in after several days worth of rain and sloshed water.
There were lines for drying soldiers’ clothing. Once dried, the officer’s uniforms would be pressed with flat irons and packed for delivery. RuthAnne smiled solemnly at the worn garments even now blowing hollow and ghostly in the steady hot breeze. Somewhere in a train depot, their replacements waited and were sorely needed, from the look of things.
“You can work by me today,” Dolly said.
“I’d like that. Thanks.” RuthAnne followed Dolly’s lead and rolled up her sleeves and began filling buckets.
“Now, on Sunday we’ll head into town and see about getting some new fabrics for clothes.” Dolly blew at her bangs while RuthAnne worked the pump handle and filled another bucket. “There’s a new shop there that sells camisoles and pantaloons, as I’m sure you’ll want to rid yourself of hand-me-downs as soon as you can. I wish we could have done more for you.”
RuthAnne was already overwhelmed with the kindness that had been shown to her by her new friend. She had been all but speechless when Dolly showed her back to her quarters to find the basket of donated items deposited in a footlocker and a handmade quilt folded neatly at the foot of the straw-tick bed. She was about to say something about it when an older, gray-haired woman burst upon them at the pump.
“Well, if you two are finished buying out Mr. Baker’s store, there’s a mountain of work to be done. It’s almost ten! Where’ve you been, Jewel? Did you forget you get paid for working?”
Dolly smiled back easily, sloshing a final bucket of water into her wood basin as if she were used to this kind of greeting from the storm of a woman before them. She introduced Abigail Stevens and tossed RuthAnne a scrub brush.
“Any good stories today?” Dolly gave a conspiratorial wink, nudging RuthAnne’s ribs.
Abigail’s face melted from annoyed to gleeful in an instant. She took a quick look around before leaning in to share her bit of news. “Just a word I overheard while helping Reggie collect eggs. You haven’t told her much about our post commander yet, I reckon?”
Dolly cleared her throat. “We haven’t really had the time to get into that.”
“Didn’t think so.” With a huff, Abigail continued. “Dolly can fill you in later. The most important thing to know about that man is he is his own favorite human being. Aside from that, don’t be caught alone with him or tongues will fly faster than a bobcat after a rabbit. The man has a habit of collecting innocent young women like an Apache collects scalps.”
RuthAnne nodded as if she understood. Abigail went on to tell about the arrival of the post commander’s wife. “She’s returning from San Francisco by way of steamer.”
RuthAnne’s eyebrows went up in question as Dolly laughed heartily and said, “Oh, honey. No one takes a steam ship around the Gulf of California in August. Not unless you’re crazy, stupid, or reassigned by the army. You can bet Post Commander Carington didn’t request her presence here.”
“Nope.” Abigail shook her head. “She’s come to do her darndest to make their sham of a marriage look good. Seems her son’s come back to the territories from West Point, and she is determined to play the doting mother once again.”
“I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.” Dolly giggled. “She’s meaner than a whole nest of rattlesnakes and about as attractive. After riding that steamer ship for ten days without a bath, fresh food, or fre
sh water, she’ll be a sight to behold!”
“And the ride up the Gila River won’t have been much better. Those barges get stuck on sandbars and the like, sometimes for days on end. I’d give her a wide berth when she gets back to the fort. Take them words to heart, missy.”
RuthAnne watched Abigail go back to her work. “I don’t think she likes me very much...”
Dolly shook her head. “Aw, she doesn’t really get close to anyone. She’s lost her boys. Lost her purpose in everything but her daughter, Moira. Doesn’t really have much fun save for the chance to gossip. And talking about Clara Carington is one of her favorite things to do.”
“Well, it sounds like Mrs. Carington is going through a lot of trouble to get here. She must be very excited to see her son.”
“That’s what I enjoy about you so much. You’re sweet. Let’s just see what you think after you’ve had a chance to see her firsthand.” Dolly’s eyes had hardened like clear stones and then softened again when she turned to work. “Now, Ruthie, meet your soldiers. Their names are on the bag they come in. Try and keep them together. Someone will claim you lost something, that’s inevitable. Do your best to make it not true. These boys out here need all that they have and more. Take special care with some of them, they’re all but worn through.”
Dolly took that opportunity to dump the first sack of sweat-smelling, salt-crusted, dusty clothes, and RuthAnne fought the urge to both burst into tears and smile. The last time she’d washed men’s things was when Evan was alive; nearly two years had passed and yet it seemed like only yesterday. Emotions swirled, making her light-headed.
Dolly held out a cake of lye soap and a pitying look. “You don’t have much experience with labor, do you?”
RuthAnne bit her lip and smiled. It was an innocent enough question. It took more than a day with a person to get to know her true self.
“Don’t worry. I can hold my own.” With that, RuthAnne pulled up a sturdy, three-legged stool and set to work.
Chapter 13
The next morning’s “Reveille” came with a shock. RuthAnne found her fingers stiff, sore, chapped, and cracking beyond all recognition. At the foot of her bed, a jar of salve beckoned. A mysterious gift. She gratefully rubbed the viscous liquid over her skin, amazed at how her hands drank in the pungent ointment. When all was said and done, she could flex her fingers without much pain. Tucking the jar into her footlocker for future use, she said a silent prayer for her secret angel. Who had left it? Was it Dolly? Certainly not Mrs. Stevens. She couldn’t imagine anyone else finding his way into the busy laundresses’ quarters or the impropriety it could imply.
She found her pitcher and washbasin filled with fresh water and quickly washed her face. She dressed in a hand-me-down, loose-fitting dress, but she still opted for the light moccasin shoes over the ill-fitting button boots someone had thought to provide. Looking very much the part of disheveled washerwoman, RuthAnne followed the sounds of crying babies and shushing mothers out the door and into the bright August morning.
Her next few days were much of the same. The mountains of garments shrank with each sundown and grew with each sunrise. She and Dolly took to making a game of who could finish their workload first.
Abigail Stevens had a habit of searching for incriminating evidence of a soldier’s misdeeds among his dirty laundry and made a joke of carefully wrapping up the nosegays and hidden cards she found in their pockets.
“God has a special heart for fools and children.” Abigail wrapped up five spare aces she’d discovered hiding neatly in a certain private first class’ shirt pocket.
“You trying to help him face the truth and shame the devil?” Dolly asked sweetly. Abigail retorted with a comment that had RuthAnne studying a tear in the pocket of a pair of pants drying on her line.
Dolly rolled her eyes. “You’d think she’s being pious ’cept she’s probably extorting the poor fellow.”
While Dolly and Abigail exchanged heated words, RuthAnne excused herself and gathered up a basket of sewing notions. Finished with her day’s work, she set to mending and reattaching buttons or securing loose ones.
“You know, you could charge extra for that if you waited ’til your soldier asked for the mending. Darned waste of time to do it aforehand, if’n you ask me,” Abigail chided.
“Who’s to look after these boys, if not us? Aren’t they the ones seeing us safe from Indians?” RuthAnne said, head high.
“We’ll see.” Abigail’s eyes misted then hardened. RuthAnne ignored the obvious disapproval, her back to the women as she completed her mending in silence.
It didn’t take long for RuthAnne to fall into the rhythm of working again. An endless medley of plunge and scrub, rinse and wring, pin and starch, iron and mend. She relished each task, knowing that every day would bring her closer to getting back to Mara.
The days were long and hot, like a blast from an oven. The nights were longer still, sultry under a moonless sky. She thought back to carefree summers as a child in Alabama. Windows left open to catch the barest of breezes. She laughed to herself that the ladies thought Tucson humid. Even though it was a mite uncomfortable, nothing could compare with the buzzing, biting insects and steamy-hot dog days of Somerville, Alabama.
Thoughts zipped round her head like the lightning that danced and flickered in the far off clouds. She watched through the small window as the dark silhouette of the mountains ignited into view. The distant storms clung to the steep slopes like a lover, refusing to let go and bring blessed, cooling rain.
She turned over, her mind churning with images of Mara, of the man who had rescued them, of the one who had almost taken their lives. Sleep refused to find her, and she punched her pillow with a frustrated fist. Where could Bowen be? She hadn’t seen him since he had deposited her with the laundresses. She disliked the notion of waiting for his return but couldn’t help jumping whenever she saw a swiftly approaching officer. How he’d so quickly gotten under her skin!
As the dark, lonely hours ticked by, she prayed for Father Acuña and Mariposa; she knew in her heart they were doing everything for her sister. That Mara was healing. Still, she longed to see her sister with her own eyes. To kiss her hands and brush her hair and bring her out of this desert into their own promised land.
Her thoughts slipped to the man who had led them into such dire straits, and she had to pray for another strength altogether. El Tejano, his soulless eyes and featureless mask, his heart as black as the desert night. He took what wasn’t his without remorse and had no care for human life.
She could not find the words to pray for his soul, and even more so, she had to still her tongue before she prayed ill over him. This man, who had almost killed her dear sister; this mystery that threatened to consume her every thought. And all of it jumbled together with thoughts of the secretive soldier who had rescued them.
Each night, she saw Bowen’s face as she wrenched her mind from poisonous thoughts toward the thief.
Todo o nada resounded in her brain. She prayed for relief and dreamed of the mysterious soldier who had rescued them from the darkness.
****
RuthAnne inhaled the scent of warm sunshine from the clothesline. It was her last load of the day, and she could imagine the face of the young soldier who had dropped off his laundry bag that morning; Corporal Perry Finch, with his shock of blonde hair and piercing brown eyes. Though she’d be surprised if he were twenty years old, his face was weathered and tanned. He was gaunt from poor eating. While over six feet tall, the extreme heat and hardtack had its way of wearing a young man down.
She imagined him with a mother who worried over him, sending him letters that he probably responded to immediately. She knew a boy like this needed someone to give him extra care. He was still out on patrol and more than likely wouldn’t be back until late afternoon.
While a bevy of laundresses headed to the mess tent, RuthAnne unclipped Corporal Finch’s army issue shirts and trousers and folded them in her basket. She
had already noted his pants needed patching at the knee and had managed to squirrel away just the right hue of swatch to fix it. Trimming a few loose threads at the cuffs should spiff up his jacket, and he was sure to lose a button or two if she didn’t shore them up. Humming while she sat with her sewing kit and scissors in the shade of a cottonwood tree on the edge of the Row, she set to caring for this soldier.
She could hear the whispers as she pressed his trousers with the iron, heated on the wood stove. Who pressed clothes for an enlisted man? RuthAnne actually found herself anticipating Abigail’s disapproving frown with each patch sewn and button re-secured. Still, when the men picked up their sacks, RuthAnne met them each with a word of kindness. Someone had to love on these boys. If not the women who cared for their worldly needs, then who?
The mess bell was ringing again when she finished her work. She wrapped up Corporal Finch’s worn-out uniforms in brown paper, as if the clothing were brand new, as she had for each of the five soldiers she had minded that day.
When Corporal Finch appeared, she noted a new injury to his knee, the cloth torn and rimmed with dried blood. She estimated the next size of patch he was going to need as she handed him his parcel.
“Thank you, Missus Newcomb.” He spoke with a white-toothed grin.
“Now, Corporal,” RuthAnne scolded, “you need to be more careful when scaling those barbed wire fences. You make sure to see the post surgeon about your knee before it gets worse.”
“Post surgeon’s gone to California for the rest of the summer. It’ll heal.”
“Well, with a bad cut you could lose a leg. You go see Alex McDole at the stable. He tends wounds on the horses. He can give your knee a looking over, too.”
Properly chastised, the young man promised that he would and thanked her when she tucked the jar of healing salve in his hands along with his laundry.
Over the next few days, Dolly and Abigail both mentioned a gleam in the eye and a lighter step in RuthAnne’s soldiers. And they weren’t the only ones who noticed.
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