by Sharon Ihle
Anxious to know what she had sent him, he carefully peeled open the seal. Inside he found more paper. His enthusiasm turned to despair when he unfolded the parchment and found a scribbled message inside. She'd written him a note. In English. The language he'd never really had the time to learn to read, with an alphabet he'd hadn't seen in nearly twenty winters.
Not knowing what to do, afraid to show the Long Knives yet another of their customs and rituals with which he was unfamiliar, Jacob blew out a heavy sigh. Why had she written to him? To thank him for a job not yet completed? Or was this some kind of summons, an order relieving him of his duties where she was concerned? If it was the latter, he could hardly blame her or the men in command. The soldier who taught an important woman like Dominique DuBois should at least have some idea what kind of saddle she would prefer. Jacob laughed as he recalled the odd leather seat with not one but two horns, and the strange unnatural way a lady was expected to sit upon it. Then he looked down at the note again. What was he to do?
He folded the paper and put it back in the envelope. Then he slipped the fragrant pink note inside the shirt pocket nearest his heart.
* * *
She'd floated down the stairs one hour ago. Her frock was second in elegance only to the gown she'd worn to the Saint Patrick's Day ball. Made of white gauze of an incredibly silky texture, the dress was trimmed in rich grass-green satin and accented with a wide sash of the same material. Even her shoes, fashionable to the point of having the newest high heel, were lined in green silk and woven in shades of green and black on a creamy background. Dominique tapped one of these shoes against the mahogany rocker of her aunt's favorite chair, and peered out the window.
Jacob was late. Etiquette demanded he arrive over an hour ago, as the invitation instructed. It wasn't every private who was invited to the general's quarters, so where was he? Dominique turned toward the sounds of high-pitched laughter and managed a wan smile. The honored guests were enjoying themselves tremendously—or at least pretending they were. Libbie was seated at her precious piano, turning the pages of a music book. Her dress, a respectable black silk, was set off by black jet beading on the basque and around the hem of the polonaise. The ensemble, several stylish levels above the costumes of muslin and gingham her guests wore, represented Libbie's set of stripes and brass, an identifying uniform of sorts for the wife of the post commander.
Again irritated by the conventions of the military hierarchy, the distinct separations between social levels, Dominique turned back toward the window. The scenery remained unchanged. By the gentle, sleepy glow of dusk, she could look out over the kitchens and mess hall to the stables. Beyond that, the Missouri raged past, tamed enough now by the spring thaw for reasonably safe navigation. The muddy waters pushed onward, twisting as they collided with the mouth of the Heart River, and drove toward their final goal, the great Mississippi. All was as it should be—as far as nature was concerned, anyway.
Averting her gaze, ignoring what ought to have been a tranquilizing scene, Dominique stabbed the needle through the sampler she'd been trying to embroider since her arrival at the fort. She hated needlework of any kind, especially when it was done only as busy work. She looked down at the material and regarded the message she was trying to embellish with lengths of colored thread: "Home is where the heart is." For some maybe, she thought with an inward grumble. But what about her heart? Would it ever be stolen, fulfilled—broken? For tonight, it didn't seem likely that any of those things would ever happen to her.
Even though she realized she ought to be mingling with her aunt's other guests, Dominique continued to stab the innocent square of yard goods. This time her aim was off, and the needle pierced her tender flesh. "Ouch," she cried, bringing the injured fingertip to her mouth.
Boston Custer chose just that moment to join her. "Why are you off in the corner poking holes in yourself instead of singing with the rest of us, Nikki? We miss your sparkling smile and infectious laughter."
Dominique stared up at him, her finger still in the care of her soothing mouth, and shrugged.
"Let me have a look at that." He reached over and took her by the wrist.
Twisting away, Dominique shook her head. "I'm all right, Uncle Bos, really I am."
"Then join in the gaiety. Our guests look to fun-lovers like you and me to set the pace. I believe if Millie Huffman doesn't find something to laugh about soon, she'll shrivel up and fall down inside that stiff collar she has hugging her righteous neck."
As always, Boston Custer found a way to untie Dominique's laces and make her laugh. She grinned up at him, giggling under her breath, as she pictured Major Huffman's wife trapped inside her very proper and voluminous dress. Of the three Custer brothers serving their country at Fort Lincoln, Boston was the least military minded. Although Armstrong and Tom were both endowed with a playful sense of humor, Boston made a career of it. All he seemed to think about was the pursuit of fun and beautiful women. He was physically dissimilar as well. Both older brothers had red-blond hair and blue eyes, but the youngest Custer sported a head of coffee-colored locks and looked at life through hazel eyes.
Feeling a kinship and warmth for Boston that was more brotherly than anything, Dominique pushed herself out of the rocker. "All right, you win. First let me stop by the kitchen. I'll join you in a minute."
"The kitchen?" Boston's eyelids popped open, and he brought his palms against his cheeks with a resounding pop. "God almighty, little girl. Haven't you been paying attention to your illustrious uncle, the boy lord general?"
Dominique stood on tiptoe and peered over his shoulder to see if the other guests—or Libbie—had heard. Satisfied Boston's irreverence hadn't crossed the threshold, she released her pent-up laughter.
Pleased to see his niece acting like herself again, Boston added a startlingly accurate imitation of the general's voice to his words as he went on. "He'd say, 'Why, Libbie, you cute little sunbeam in this boy's heart, if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times—I can't stand to see my little girl even pass by the kitchen door. Those sweet hands are much too delicate for such work. Yes, ma'am, they're better suited for brushing my long golden curls and massaging my neck, which has grown weary from carrying my oversized head around, and they're just made for polishing my boots, cleaning my horse's hooves, oh, and digging—'"
"Uncle Bos." Dominique choked the name out through a fit of laughter. "Why, if Uncle Armstrong knew how you spoke of him, he'd have you court-martialed."
Laughing along with her, Boston said, "It would be worth it to see you laugh. A girl as pretty as you should never have cause to frown. Come on, now—let's join the old hens and see if we can't ruffle their feathers."
Dominique bit her lip to keep from laughing as she strolled by the ladies. She gave each of them a short nod, explaining as she passed, "I have something to attend to in the kitchen, but I'll join you all in a moment. Aunt Libbie? I'll be speaking with Mary. Is there anything else you need by way of refreshments?"
Libbie took a fast inventory and shook her head. "We're all right for now, but do ask her to warm the cobbler. Oh," she added as an afterthought, "and don't dawdle too long. You know how Autie feels about his girls going into the kitchen."
Trying to catch Dominique's attention, Millie Huffman waved her hanky and said, "Tell Mary not to fix any cobbler for me. I'm fairly straining against my stays as it is after last night's sweet cake!"
Millie chuckled, but her laughter sounded more like cackles to Dominique who was already strangling on Libbie's words. The sudden image of a great white chicken flapping about in the yard—wearing Millie's dress, no less—tested her mettle and challenged her to keep a sober expression on her journey from the drawing room. Once in the hallway, she leaned against Libbie's new French satin wallpaper and took huge gulps of air. Her fragile control renewed, she continued on her way and found Mary laboring over the business end of a mop.
"Pardon me?"
The servant looked up from her work and dragged the back of
her hand across her brow. "Yes'm?"
"The letter I gave you yesterday—did you make sure Private Stoltz received it?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I give it to my sister Annie. I know she give it to him, 'cause she says he scairt her half to death."
"And she's positive it was Private Stoltz and not some other soldier?"
"Annie is one worthless free gal, all right, her being born after President Lincoln signed them papers and all, but her stories is always wider than they is tall. She asked his name, she did, before he turned and made like he was gonna git her. It was Stoltz, all right."
"Thank you, Mary. Oh, Mrs. Custer wants you to warm the cobbler now."
Her heart heavy, Dominique retraced her steps, stopping at the same spot in the hallway. This time, instead of fighting convulsive laughter, she battled a dull ache within. Unused to the sensation, disliking the feeling intensely, she stabbed a freshly manicured fingernail at the maroon border running along the edges of the buff-colored wallpaper.
Jacob Stoltz would pay dearly for this breach of etiquette. He would rue the day he had chosen to ignore an invitation from Dominique DuBois. She would see to it that Uncle Armstrong gave him the most disgusting, most often avoided jobs in the entire army. She would have him sent into Indian territory on imaginary missions. She would see that his arrogance was rewarded with a thousand arrows to his heart. And a thousand more to his backside.
Buoyed in spirit as she plotted her revenge, Dominique straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was determined to join the ladies and gentlemen in the other room, and equally set on giving them the cheerful young woman they'd become accustomed to. Walking stiff-legged, she marched toward the drawing room.
Just before she stepped into view, Dominique manufactured the biggest smile she could. Then she brought her fingertip to the corner of her eye and wiped away a tear.
Chapter 7
"Stoltz? You in here?"
Jacob stepped out of the feed room carrying a bucket of flax and molasses. At the sight of his ranking officer, he paused and touched the brim of his hat. "Morning, Captain."
"At ease, Private." Edgar Ruffing pulled a cheroot, the last one in the package, from his shirt pocket and slowly drew it across his upper lip. Closing his eyes, he indulged himself with several deep breaths of the rich tobacco, then struck a match and lit the small cigar. Through a long stream of smoke, he finally said, "Got a real plum of an assignment, if you're interested, Private."
Barely keeping a hot glare of loathing from his eyes, Jacob studied the haughty officer. This was a man the other soldiers described as "full of himself." They said his hands were callused from patting himself on the back. When Jacob had looked for calluses and found the captain's hands smooth and soft like those of a white woman, he understood the joke the other men made of their commanding officer.
He also came to understand the deep respect Ed Ruffing had for General Custer and recognized that his life was a poor imitation of the Long Hair's. Since their commander's departure, Ed had allowed his yellow hair to grow long, down to his shoulders. On Custer, whose red-gold hair was thick and curly, the effect was dramatic. On Captain Ruffing, the imitation was laughable. Pale almost to the point of whiteness, his hair hung in long, unkempt strands and made him look like the backside of a mare after a long, fly-ridden summer.
To Jacob, the captain's personality, or lack of it, showed most when he walked. His gait, alive with exaggerated hip movements, made him look as if some invisible string tied to his man parts tugged at him as he walked, led him, as it were, to his destination. Jacob's smile was genuine when he suddenly realized the major role he would play in determining that destination.
"I am interested in anything that will help the Seventh, sir," he said with a bright grin.
Ed took a deep drag of the cheroot, inclined his head, and blew out six perfect circles of blue smoke. Then, even though he was approximately the same height as Jacob, he managed to look down on him. "That's the attitude to have, Private. How'd you like to go to town?"
"To Bismarck, sir?"
"All those muscles, and brains, too. Of course to Bismarck, soldier—where else?"
In spite of his vow to hide his true feelings, his purpose, Jacob's eyes dulled. "Of course," he echoed, "where else but Bismarck?"
Did he have a choice, and if so, should he accept? He hadn't been to one of these places called towns since he was a very small boy. Only in the past few days had he become comfortable with cavalry life, confident that his identity would continue to be a secret. Would it remain so in Bismarck? He thought back to his youth, to the few visits his family had made to the towns dotting the wild country on their ill-fated journey west. He remembered best the large buildings called stores. Jars of candy, child-sized crackers, and cookies came to mind, filled his senses with the ghosts of their inviting aroma and sweet, comforting taste. Going to town held only good memories, drew no disturbing reminders from his past. Was it worth taking a chance to find out if Bismarck would reward him as the towns of the past had? Was it worth the risk of declining the invitation and finding he'd insulted his commanding officer?
Jacob considered the captain's proposal and recognized the generosity behind the invitation. The officer acted as if he'd offered Jacob his freedom, his very life. As much as he hated to think of the obstacles he might face in town, he knew he'd be a fool not to accept.
Calling up some of the English phrases he'd been practicing, Jacob kicked the soft ground with the toe of his boot, and said, "Golly, Captain, I am truly obliged to you, sir. Thank you kindly."
Ed's brows rose, then knotted as Jacob spoke. After a thoughtful drag on the cheroot, he snapped, "It's time you got busy, then. We'll be using the buckboard. Make sure it's clean, and pad all the seats with blankets. There'll be a couple of women along."
Women? The invitation was yet another foolish waste of his valuable time. This assignment would not help him to learn of the soldiers' plans or reveal the date of Custer's expected return. This trip could only serve to lower his status among the recruits. But how could he decline now that he'd accepted the Captain's invitation? Or was it an order?
Loosening his collar, Jacob grimaced and said, "Women, sir?"
"Women, you know? They're the ones with the high-pitched voices, round little behinds that wiggle when they walk, and big round titties just made to fit in these." Ed stuck the cheroot in his mouth, then cupped his hands and drove them toward Jacob's face. Oblivious of the murderous thoughts behind the private's blank stare, he puffed out his thin chest and went on, "I'll be escorting the general's niece to town."
"Dominique?" Jacob blurted out, his fingers instinctively going to his shirt pocket and the ridges of the envelope it concealed.
Ed's smug grin reversed itself. "That's Miss DuBois to you, Private. And yes, the pretty lady has chosen me to accompany her." He flipped his cheroot over near Jacob's boot, then rubbed his hands together. "That lucky little gal doesn't know what a treat she's in for, assuming I can find a way to get rid of her homely old chaperon and Lieutenant Woodhouse, that is."
Wishing the captain's head was beneath his heel instead, Jacob ground the cigar into the soft earth. "And if you get rid of the others?" he asked, his jaw tight.
Breaking into a burst of obscene laughter, Ed cupped his hands again and leered. "I'll be filling these and maybe a whole lot more."
Jacob stood rigid, his fists clenched, as the captain laughed and enjoyed his carnal fantasies. Only one thought kept his hands from circling the man's throat. When the day of reckoning occurred between the soldiers and the Lakota—and more and more it looked as if the confrontation couldn't be avoided—he would find a way to make certain this Long Knife was the first to die.
Ed straightened his jacket. "Now get busy, Private. Finish feeding the stock, then put the lead team on the buckboard. When you're done with that, pick out a couple of good mounts—one for you and another for one of the Indian scouts. You two will ride shotgun. Now get t
o it," he ordered as he spun on his boot heel and marched toward the barn door. "Miss DuBois wants to leave on the hour."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." Anything you say, you dog whom I will cut into so many pieces the spirits will never find enough of you to take you to your final rest. Only slightly mollified by the thought, Jacob finished his chores. Then he hitched the horses to the buckboard and adjusted the plank on which the women would ride.
As he went to gather the other supplies, he tried to find some positive thoughts about his forced trip into town. Dominique. He hadn't seen or heard from her in nearly two weeks. Not since he'd received the note. Jacob took the envelope from his pocket. The scent of lilacs lingered, drawing his mind to thoughts best left to one such as the arrogant captain. The crazy one was trouble. She could mean the difference between success and failure for him, between life and death. Yet thoughts of her had filled his lonely hours and tortured his restless nights. Was there no way for him to get her out of his mind? With something akin to anger, he jammed the letter back into his pocket and began smoothing a blanket across the plank.
Ed Ruffing returned then, stepping out of the morning light and into the stable. Brushing Jacob aside with a wave of his hand, he began an inspection of the rig to make certain it met his specifications. "At ease, Private."
Jacob clasped his hands behind his back and spread his legs. He noticed the captain had changed into civilian clothing, dark blue trousers and jacket, and strutted about like a young warrior wearing the symbol of his first coup. He doubted the shiny medals the captain usually wore could be as significant. A few of the ribbons may have been earned, but the balance were most likely given on the field of battle during the War between the States. It was said a man had only to show up on the battlefield to win a medal at that time. The honors were more of a courtesy—not unlike the courtesy title of general bestowed on Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer in that very same war.