Courting the Corporal

by Heather McCorkle

  “Good news, you won’t have to say good-bye. Sean brought him as a gift to me. He’ll be traveling with us,” Fergusson said.

  As if he knew exactly what Fergusson’s words meant, Lincoln’s fluffy tail curled up into a half moon and wagged furiously as he trotted to catch up.

  Instead of the smile he expected, a scowl greeted him as she rose. “That hardly seems wise. The journey surely cannot be safe for a pup.”

  Laughing, Fergusson turned the bend in the aisle. “Ma’am, the journey isn’t safe for us.” No sense in sugarcoating it.

  She made a soft grunt that he could only interpret as defiance.

  The big crème-colored nose of his buckskin gelding came over the stall door as he approached. The horse’s eyes slid closed as he scratched beneath its long black forelock.

  “You expect me to ride that big brute? It looks to me as though he is more interested in sleeping than crossing America,” Catriona’s amused voice came from behind him.

  At that, he had to laugh. “He sleeps when given the opportunity because he knows the amount of work that will be asked of him when he is awake. Unlike your thoroughbred there who would lose its wind in the morning and not be able to run from the wolves nipping at her heels in the afternoon.”

  Ignoring the gasp she let out, he moved to the next stall and clucked at the horse within to draw it to him. A gelding with a dark red head broken up by a long white blaze down its face poked its nose over the door. Unlike his own horse, this one’s coat was a patchwork of white, black, and dark red.

  “A painted mustang?” Catriona exclaimed. Her tone wasn’t derisive as he had thought it would be. Instead, it sounded almost fearful. Peering from the horse to him through narrowed eyes, she placed her hands on her hips. “You expect me to ride an Indian pony? Aren’t those things as savage as the people they come from?” Interest hid behind the words; he could see it in her eyes.

  Eyebrows rising at her, he absently stroked the horse’s forehead. “It seems you have much to learn about both.”

  He opened the stall door and stepped inside.

  “Pardon me?” she demanded.

  He almost bowled her over as he led the horse out into the aisle. “Not until such pardon has been earned, ma’am.”

  Huffing, she stepped aside, shying back from the horse who noted her presence only with a lazy sideways glance.

  “Mustangs are the most sure-footed horses I’ve ever come across, and they have the good sense most of your ‘acceptable’ breeds lack.”

  Delicate red brows drew low over her eyes as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and watched him walk to the tack room. Though her collar buttoned all the way to her neck, the clinging fabric of her top outlined the swell of her breasts nicely enough to distract him. Shaking the effects of her body off, he entered the room and lit the lamp waiting on a table beside the door. A few moments later her soft footsteps sounded on the wooden floor behind him.

  He handed her a bridle that looked like it would fit the horse. Drawing back, she scoffed at it. “A snaffle bit for a mustang? Do you really think that will do?”

  This time it was he who glared at her. “Aye, ’tis all he needs. And you still need to have soft hands with him.”

  The look of indignation faded a bit and behind it he saw what he thought might be pain. “My hands are always soft on the bit. I’m gentle with horses,” she said quietly.

  Something about the way she said the words made him look harder at her. Yes, it was definitely pain peeking through her guarded eyes. The mortar in the walls around his heart lost some of its solidity, and he hated it. “I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t. Me apologies.” He turned back to the tack and steeled himself. “I recommend taking a saddle you don’t mind parting with. We’ll have to trade it at the leather shop in Omaha for a suitable Spanish saddle.”

  She groaned. “Must I really ride in one of those ungainly looking things?”

  “English saddles are designed to carry only you. The ones used out West are designed to carry much more.”

  Her gaze flitted to the right, landing on one of her saddles. She moved to pick it up, but he grabbed it before she could and started out the door, leaving her to get the saddle pad. On one hip he balanced the saddle while patting a large red patch on the mustang’s neck. As she positioned the saddle pad, he did his best not to watch how her coat pulled up, revealing the snug breeches hugging her rear. He failed utterly.

  “A Spanish saddle is also bigger, distributing weight better across the horse’s back for long rides. ’Tis more comfortable for both you and him, trust me,” he said.

  The moment she stepped back, he swung her old English saddle onto the horse’s back, adjusted the pad, and began cinching it up. Much to his surprise, she grinned. “You’re the expert.” Not a bit of sarcasm touched her voice. It made him suspicious. The excitement in her eyes explained it, though.

  “What are their names?” she asked.

  He scratched the nose of the crème-colored gelding as it poked its head out the stall again. “This here is Ayegi.”

  “A unique name to be sure. Not Irish or English. ’Tis native perhaps?” she prodded.

  “Indeed, Cherokee to be exact,” he admitted.

  Her eyes widened with interest. “Truly? What does it mean?”

  The memory made him smile. “Awake.”

  She all but beamed in return, the look transforming her face into a thing of such beauty it brought to mind the faery tales of his childhood again. The way she had of turning his mind to something pleasant disturbed him. It made it hard to keep the walls up that kept her out.

  “An interesting name, to be sure. Why on Earth would he be named that?” she asked.

  With a lift of his chin, he indicated her mount. “Because his name is Galiha. It means asleep in Cherokee.”

  Her brows scrunched together and one rose. While a bit odd, the look transformed her from otherworldly to adorable. “Odder still,” she said.

  He laughed at her expression as much as at the memory. “Aye, but truly, ’tis me fault. That wasn’t really their names, but the way the Cherokee man described them to me when I traded for them.”

  Those alluring blue eyes widened, drawing him in like a moth doomed to get scorched. “You traded with the natives? Why? Aren’t they dangerous?”

  Instinct screamed at him to shut the conversation down. But he couldn’t bring himself to, not when it clearly delighted her so much.

  “During the war I learned how hardy and reliable their horses were. I knew they’d be perfect for escorting people across the territories. As for dangerous…” He shrugged. “All men are dangerous. These particular natives were a lot less so than others.”

  A terrible darkness flashed in her eyes. The look made him want to take the words back more than anything in the world. He scrambled for something, anything to rectify the mistake. “These Cherokee were on a reservation, so they were peaceful, cooperative. They were a sight to see, for certain.”

  He couldn’t get soft and sympathetic now. No matter what she’d been through in her soft high society life, it wouldn’t compare to what she was about to undertake.

  As he took the bridle from her and adjusted it to fit the horse, he shook his head. “This’ll not be a pleasant outing. I hope you understand the hardships that lay ahead,” he said.

  Excitement still shining in her eyes, she met his gaze. “They’re much better than those that lay behind, I assure you.”

  With a shake of his head, he steeled himself for what had to be said. He would not spare her his customary lecture because she was Ashlinn’s sister-in-law. If anything, he owed it to her that much more. Embarking on such a journey unprepared either mentally or physically was what got so many killed.

  “I mean no disrespect for the loss of your husband, ma’am. I’m sure that was terrible beyond measu
re. The hardships I speak of are ones that could cost you your life. Starvation, dysentery, hostile Indians, predators…hell, even a simple fall from your horse.”

  His lecture didn’t even chink the armor of her hardened gaze. “As I said, they’re better than those that lay behind me.”

  Unable to comprehend such stubbornness, he shook his head and started back toward his horse. With the ones like her he knew there was nothing he could say. Experience would teach her soon enough. Lincoln trotted along ahead of them as they led their horses out into the courtyard where a small crowd waited in the carefully groomed pea gravel. Among the people stood Ashlinn and Sean, the feisty black-haired woman, and the free woman who seemed more a friend than a servant of Catriona’s, as well as a slew of servants clothed in black and white finery.

  Sunlight warmed his shoulders as he moved out from beneath the overhang of the carriage house. Above him stretched a clear blue sky, a good omen for the first day of travel. The clack of hooves and grind of wagon wheels drifted to him from beyond the green space beside the O’Brian estate, where too many roads choked through too many buildings. The itch to leave the city behind began to grow into a full-blown burning sensation that made his muscles ache.

  He gravitated toward Sean and Ashlinn as Catriona spoke with her servants in quiet tones, touching arms or shoulders, even hugging a few. Even here in the North he had never seen a high society lady be so familiar with her servants. It was odd, and a bit refreshing. He shook the notion off, refusing to allow anything about this woman to be “refreshing.”

  Sean clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re having doubts, me friend. I see it in your eyes.”

  Scratching his two-week-old beard, he nodded. “O’ course I am. She means a lot to you both, and that means a lot to me. This trip is hardest on those of high society.”

  The smile on Ashlinn’s face held truths he clearly wasn’t privy to. She hugged him tightly, saying softly to him, “She is more than she seems. Your concern is part of why you are the only one we trust to escort her.”

  At a loss for a reply, he merely nodded. The words intrigued him, but he didn’t want to ask with Catriona within earshot. For one, it was improper, for another, he didn’t want her to think he was actually interested in anything to do with her. The two servants standing not far behind Sean holding the reins of two tall thoroughbreds gave him cause for distraction.

  Thrusting his head in the direction of the horses, he asked, “You’re coming with us to the train station?”

  Ashlinn nodded. “I want to see her off properly.” A bit of a sniffle followed the words.

  Out of respect, Fergusson turned his gaze elsewhere. Like a needle pulled north, his gaze landed on Catriona, where she stood hugging her friends. Though her eyes glistened, not a single tear made tracks down her cheeks and her steady jaw suggested they wouldn’t any time soon. He couldn’t help but overhear their words, or so he told himself. It sounded better than admitting to himself that he was eavesdropping.

  The Negro woman drew back from hugging Catriona and handed her a package. “A brick of my homemade cheddar for your journey. You send a telegram to Miss Ashlinn at every outpost and city that has a device, let her know you’re all right,” she told her.

  Catriona nodded with a solemn look. “I will, and you do the same once you and Deirdre set out.”

  Warmth equal to that of the deepest friendships he had ever seen radiated between the two of them. It was evident in their smiles and the concerned looks they exchanged. Such a breach of propriety both impressed Fergusson and made him curious, neither of which he wanted to allow himself to feel about this woman. Watching her thank her friend and say her good-byes, he had to forcefully remind himself that she was a job, nothing more.

  Not waiting for the two to stop embracing again, the black-haired woman with crème skin and rouge lips wrapped them both in her arms. Deirdre, he thought he recalled her name being.

  “Three months! We have not been apart since my wedding. Whatever will Sadie and I do without you?” Deirdre asked.

  A full-bodied laugh tittering with a touch of nerves sounded from Catriona. Saints help him but that was an appealing sound.

  “Without me? Ha! Sadie has kept me in order as much as my home, and you challenge me each day to be better. The true question is, what shall I do without you two?”

  Those rouged lips curled up into a half-smile as Deirdre handed Catriona a small, sheathed knife and a pistol. Catriona’s eyes widened, and for a moment it looked as though she might drop the items.

  “You will have the adventure of a lifetime. But I will not have you doing so without a way to protect yourself. Please keep these on you, I’ll feel better knowing you have them.” Deep blue eyes shifted to him from beneath a furrowed brow as Deirdre wrapped Catriona’s hands around the weapons. “For protection from all threats,” she finished as if speaking directly to Fergusson.

  Inclining his head in what he hoped came across as respectful acknowledgment, he hid a grin behind his hair. The woman had tenacious friends. Their dedication spoke well of her. To his surprise, Catriona nodded and tucked the weapons into her saddlebags. He wondered if she would ever take them back out.

  The women all hugged again, and just when he thought he was going to have to tear them apart, Catriona swung up into the saddle. Seeing her straddling the horse like a man stirred something in him that was part desire and part respect. He was still stifling it down when her eyes caught on his.

  “Certainly you did not expect me to ride side-saddle all the way to California? Especially considering the saddle I put on your horse,” she said through a wicked smile.

  Of course he hadn’t, but knowing it and seeing it were two entirely different things. He used the excuse of swinging up onto his own mount to delay his response, giving him a chance to steady his voice. “Course not. You just didn’t strike me as the type of lady who’d be willing to.”

  Challenge gleamed in her eyes. “And what type of lady do I strike you as, Mr. Fergusson?”

  Leather creaked as he settled in the saddle. “A proper lady of high society, but o’ course, Mrs. O’Brian,” he said, deciding to play it safe.

  She laughed and shook her head. Her mouth opened but her words halted as hooves clopped against cobblestones. Sometime during their exchange, Ashlinn and Sean had mounted up and Catriona’s friends had retreated to the porch of the house. Saints help him, how had he allowed himself to become that distracted?

  “Shall we?” Sean asked. Though his voice was level and clear of any humor, amusement shone in his eyes.

  Sean’s shortly trimmed mustache rose in the beginnings of a smile and he nodded. Fergusson’s eyebrows rose on seeing his expression, meaning he had been caught. Damn it all. Turning back to the servants and the two women waiting on the porch, Fergusson dipped his head in respect. Both of Catriona’s friends waved and grinned like young lasses watching their friend step onto the dance floor with a handsome man. A word or two muttered in Gaelic passed his lips as he cast his gaze back to the three riders drawing away from him and urged his horse forward. They couldn’t get to the train station soon enough. The ride to Omaha and the end of the tracks would give him time to gain perspective and distance. He was going to need a clear head for the long ride that came after.

  The rounded perfection of Catriona’s cheeks meeting the saddle drew him like an unrelenting magnetic force. Saints help him indeed.

  Chapter 6

  The close-fitted breeches and brown leather chaps over the top of them made Catriona feel as though her legs were virtually bare. She’d had to resort to wearing only drawers beneath the breeches, as a chemise proved completely impractical to tuck in. Only her corset and corset cover lay beneath the long-sleeved tunic that covered her upper body, leaving her feeling terribly underdressed. Already the June morning was warm, but regardless, she donned a knee-length oilskin duster as she step
ped from her hotel room onto the porch. It had a bit of an odd smell to it but right now all she cared about was that it covered her.

  With her long red hair plaited back into a braid and a bowler hat atop her head, she hoped no one would recognize that she was a woman dressed like a man, at least not at first glance. Never in her wildest imaginings had she ever thought of dressing as such. Disconcerting as it was, she had to admit the clothing was quite comfortable. The realization made her a bit envious of the simplicities of men’s wear.

  The first bright yellow rays of the sun cut through a cloudless horizon, slicing their way through the dust of the street. Neither the rolling hills in the distance nor the short buildings lining the rough street rose high enough to challenge the light. Why on Earth the corporal had them out here on the far western edge of town she could not fathom. Last night when their train had pulled into the Omaha station she had been ready to collapse at the nearest hotel, of which there had been plenty.

  Claws clicked out a rapid rhythm against wood, drawing her gaze down the porch to the right. The large gray and white pup of Fergusson’s trotted toward her, fluffy tail arched high over its back, bright pink tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. Lincoln, she had learned his name was on the train from New York to here. A fine name, despite her desire to disagree with everything the aggravating Fergusson said and did.

  The pup’s happy, carefree expression made her smile and eased some of the anxiety twisting her stomach. She bent to pet his head, wincing as the Colt pistol Deirdre had given her bit into her side. Damnable thing. She would have left it in New York if Deirdre hadn’t made her swear upon her mum’s soul that she’d carry it. The fact that it only had a four-inch barrel and was a .31 caliber hardly made it ladylike in her eyes. She felt silly enough wearing men’s clothing, but wearing a pistol as well just seemed daft.

  “Ouch,” she murmured as she adjusted the gun belt.