He searched her face as she spoke, admiring the smoothness of her cheeks, soft even in the cold air. She seemed set apart from other women he knew.
“Yes, I’d change one thing,” he said. “I wish I’d never told some of the women I’ve known how much I love them.” He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her around to face him. “Because now I’d like to say some things to you, things I feel. I wish I could say those words to you for the first time.”
Faith felt the impulses that ran through him, powerful and demanding. As he pulled her closer, she did not draw back—as one part of her knew she should—and when he kissed her, part of her responded.
But it was only part of her, and Grayson sensed her withdrawal. At once, he pulled away, something he would not have done with another woman. “You see?” he said, making a gesture with his hands. “You don’t think of me as a man you might grow fond of.”
“Spence, you wouldn’t want me,” Faith protested. “We’re as far apart as any two people can be. We don’t want the same things, not at all.”
“I want love, Faith, and so do you. I could tell that much, even from one kiss. If I’ve learned anything from the life I’ve led, it’s that hell is being alone.”
“What a strange thing for you to say!”
“Because I’m outgoing, because I get along with people?” He shook his head. “A man or a woman can be alone in a crowd of a thousand people, Faith.” He turned to her, and his smooth features were carved into sharp planes by the light of the moon. “But with just one person—if it’s the right one—there’s no need for anyone else. The whole world is right there—in that one woman.”
His words disturbed Faith, and she knew it was because she had felt he was too proud to know a thing like that. It made her look at him differently, for she knew he spoke the truth. She took a deep breath, let it out, then said quietly, “Take me home, Spence.”
“All right.”
The hooves of the horses made a steady plopping sound as they drove back to town, and when he pulled up in front of the Owens’ house, she got out at once. He followed her to the steps, pulled off his hat, and said, “Thanks for going with me to the ball.”
“I enjoyed it, Spence.”
“How about riding with me this week?”
Faith hesitated, then said, “I don’t want to, Spence. We shouldn’t see each other.”
“Don’t you think men can change, Faith?”
“Of course!”
“Then you must believe me when I say I’m changing. You’ve affected me as no other woman has. I’ve always had to conquer the woman I was attracted to, no matter what it took; but with you, it’s not like that. Why, I don’t understand, couldn’t explain. It’s . . .well, other women I wanted to take from—you, Faith, I want to give to. That’s love, isn’t it?”
Faith shook her head, and as soberly as she had ever spoken, said, “It can never be, Spence. I’ve given my life to God.”
“Are all Christian women single? None of them have a husband?”
“Of course they do, but if I ever married, I’d want my husband to feel as I do about what’s important in life.”
When he didn’t argue or beg, Faith appreciated that in him. “Good-night, Spence,” she whispered. At the door, she turned and said, “I’ll go riding with you—but that’s all it is. Just a ride.”
Grayson drove back to the fort, sobered by the way the evening had ended—especially by his own behavior. He knew he had little chance with Faith, but he was a man of great confidence and went to bed thinking of her promise. As he lay there, suddenly pictures of Marlene Signourey . . .Winslow flashed into his mind—and a spurt of fear shot through him. Not fear of the physical, for he was no coward, but he became keenly aware that the patterns of a man’s life could haunt him. Would his? He had loved Marlene as he had loved no other woman—at least until now. His mind shifted to Faith, and for a long time he lay there thinking of her, of the moonlight on her face, the innocence in her.
I’ve got to have her! he thought, the desire consuming him with such restlessness his mind became a battleground against the shadows gathering around his bed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Buggy Ride
The flu that had hit Laurence Dutton proved to be more serious than anyone thought, progressing from a cough, to a high fever, to a state of almost complete helplessness. Double pneumonia, the doctor suspected, adding, “You can forget about teaching school, Dutton, for two or three weeks at least. We don’t have a hospital, but you need some nursing care.”
This latter proved to be more difficult than the doctor supposed, for other families were sick as well. For a while women divided their time caring for Dutton, though it was spasmodic at best.
Help came from a most surprising source as Eileen Jennings offered to nurse the schoolmaster; but when his condition worsened, she said as she looked at his feverish face, “This won’t do. You must have better care.”
Dutton’s temperature had shot up, making him light-headed, his eyes glazed, his tongue parched. He licked his lips and whispered hoarsely, “Guess it’s the best we can do—”
Fortunately he was mistaken, for later in the day Eileen returned with two privates from B Company. “Put him in the ambulance,” she commanded with the authority of a sergeant. “Wrap him well in those blankets, and I’ll get his things.”
“What—?”
Eileen put her hand on Dutton’s brow. “It’s all right. I’m taking you to my house where I can care for you properly. The doctor says it’ll be better.”
The soldiers were rough but efficient, wrapping Dutton in blankets until he looked like a thick woolen cocoon, then putting him on a stretcher and carrying him out to place him in an army ambulance. The cold air revived the sick man enough to protest when Eileen came out with his suitcase. “Miss Jennings, I don’t—”
“Don’t talk,” she interrupted firmly, tucking a corner of the blanket under him. He blinked like a sun-stricken owl, but obeyed, and soon the rocking of the ambulance lulled him to sleep.
Eileen sat between the two soldiers, both of them old acquaintances. They had been in her husband’s company and had shown kindness to her after his death. One of them, Micah Singer, with a lantern jaw and tobacco-stained lips, said as they moved along at an easy gait, “Going to do a little nursin’, Miz Jennings?”
“Yes, Micah. He needs good care. You know how dangerous pneumonia can be.”
“Shore do. My little boy died of it,” the trooper nodded. “I shore do miss the little feller.” His black eyes shot a sharp look at her. “I guess you miss the lieutenant like that, ma’am.”
“It gets easier,” Eileen replied. “Losing someone is like losing an arm, I suppose. You’re never whole again, even if the pain leaves. And you always live with the memories.”
Singer nodded. “Yes, ma’am, that’s the way of it.”
The other soldier, a corporal named Al Canseco, shook his head in a doleful gesture. “Reckon there’ll be more widows and orphans when we take off after the Sioux in the spring.” He sighed heavily, shifted his feet on the floorboard, and went on. “We left some good men buried down on the Washita. Now we’re gonna lose some more in them hills over thar.”
“Oh, shet up!” Singer said, his voice edgy. “You’re worse’n an undertaker, Al!”
“I suppose you’re right, Al,” Eileen said thoughtfully. “Everybody talks about the campaign that’s coming.” She swayed as the wheel of the ambulance hit a rut, looked back to see that Dutton was all right, then turned back to the men. “You two be careful when it starts. Don’t try to be heroes.”
“Why, Miz Jennings,” Singer grinned, “me and Al has already put in to be horse-holders. Let them other fellers win all the medals. I jest want to finish out this hitch and get home to my family.” He grew morose then, adding, “Solgering ain’t no job for a family man.”
“No, it isn’t!”
Both men looked at her, for her voi
ce was sharp, almost terse. Singer shook his head slightly at Canseco, and the two began to talk about a riding contest that was going to take place in Bismarck in the spring. Later, Singer said to Canseco, “She looks all tensed up, don’t she, Al? I reckon she needs to get away from the army. It don’t help her none to be around soldiers—especially when the fightin’s about to start up again.”
“I reckon you’re right, Micah,” Al responded. “She ain’t never got over losin’ her man. Don’t think she ever will.”
When they pulled up in front of the house, Eileen led the way in, directing the men to the room she had prepared for Dutton. “Thank you both. Come by tomorrow and you’ll get your reward—some of my cherry pie you like so much.” She saw them out, then went back into the bedroom and began to unpack the suitcase.
Dutton was awake, but when he tried to speak, he went into a spasm of coughing that racked his body terribly. Eileen quickly brought a glass of water and helped him sit up. Holding him till the coughing subsided, she handed him the water. After he had drunk enough, he turned to face her, saying in a raspy voice, “Thanks.” In spite of his critical condition, he was cognizant of the feminine surroundings and whispered, “Shouldn’t . . .be taking your . . .room.”
“Don’t worry about that. Just work on getting well.” She helped him lie down, spread the quilts around him, then said, “I’ve got to run an errand. You try to sleep.”
Leaving the house she went at a fast walk to Suds Row, stopping at a shack in the middle of the line where the laundresses lived. When she knocked on the door, she heard a faint voice, and opened it. A Mexican woman was lying on a bed, her face wan. “Why, Delores,” Eileen said, “you’re sick!”
“Sí, señora. Since two days ago. I no can wash for you now.”
Eileen hesitated, then said, “Don’t worry about that. Do you need anything?”
“No, señora Jennings. Juanita—my sister—she take care of me ver’ good.”
Eileen left the shack, her mind on her own situation. It had been her intention to hire Delores to help with Dutton, not so much for the nursing care as for her presence. A widow with a young unmarried man in her house would be a prime target for gossip, she well knew—in spite of the illness. She had acted on impulse, and now the problem of making it look “respectable” became a factor.
“Hello, Eileen.”
Eileen looked up to see Tom Winslow, who was leading a bay horse. “I hear you’re going into the nursing business.”
“Oh, who told you about it?”
“Canseco and Singer. I ran into them when they were returning the ambulance to the stables. How’s Dutton?”
“Not very well.” She bit her lip, obviously upset.
“What’s wrong, Eileen?” he asked.
“Oh, I was counting on Delores coming to stay with me, but she’s sick.” She hesitated, then added, “I can’t be alone with a man in my house, Tom.”
“I guess not.” He slapped the reins in his hands, gave her a thoughtful look. “What about if Laurie stayed with you?”
“Why, that would make it all right, I think.”
He grinned. “Having a little girl for a chaperon makes a difference. People are that way, I guess.”
“I know. Poor Larry can hardly lift his head, but you know how people talk.”
“I’ll send Laurie over. Later I’ll come and sit with the patient myself.”
That was his plan, but he came by later in the afternoon to say, “Eileen, I’ve got to go out on a patrol. Be gone for two days, maybe three. I hate to leave Laurie with you—”
“We’ll make out fine, Tom,” she said quickly. “Laurie can help me a great deal.” She hesitated for a moment. “Is it dangerous . . .this trip?”
“Shouldn’t be too bad. We’re just going out to cut some sign. Try to find out if there’s been any of the southern tribes coming in.” He looked at her more closely. “You shouldn’t worry so much, Eileen.”
“How can anyone manage that?” She was a little embarrassed at letting him see her concern. Always she tried to keep a neutral appearance, not letting people know about her fears. She had never kept it from her husband, and it had made him miserable. He had dreaded leaving her, for she had made him feel as if it were his fault, not the government’s.
In reflection, she realized her attitude had made him feel inadequate—as a husband and a soldier, but he had to obey orders. When he had died, she had determined not to let anyone else get close enough to see her concerns—yet there was something about Winslow that renewed the old fears. She smiled. “I’m sorry to be such an old mope, Tom. You go on and don’t worry about Laurie. When you get back we’ll have a birthday party.”
“Whose?”
“Yours. It’s next Friday. Laurie told me. And she said chocolate is your favorite cake. We’ll see you then.”
****
Having been reared in one of the more austere homes for orphans located in Chicago, Larry Dutton knew almost nothing of the gentle side of life. That he had survived the experience and gone on to educate himself was a tribute to his determination. He was, despite his youthful, almost boyish appearance, a man who possessed an inner tenacity, but the sickness had destroyed some of his self-confidence. He had never been seriously ill, and when pneumonia hit him, he realized for the first time how fragile life really is.
For several days he was too weak to do more than obey Eileen’s simple commands. Yet during that time he was vaguely conscious of a missing element in his life—the woman’s touch. As he gained strength, the fact became more clear.
Therefore, it wasn’t strange that this experience would strongly influence him. He was basically a shy person in spite of his rough upbringing; but as Eileen cared for him, the intimacy of the sickroom destroyed the protective wall Dutton had built around himself—not one brick at a time, but the entire wall fell!
So a week after his arrival, he rebelled against having her help him with the breakfast. “I’ve been feeding myself for a long time,” he complained when she sat down to assist him. “You can’t feed me for the rest of my life.”
Eileen’s eyes sparkled with humor. “Well, you’re feeling better, I see. All right, you can feed yourself. I’ll just sit here in case you need something.”
He found he was very hungry and quickly consumed the entire breakfast.
Eileen laughed as she watched him. “There’s plenty more, Larry. And nobody’s going to take it away from you.”
Chagrined, he smiled shyly. “I guess my table manners aren’t the best. But my appetite seems to be coming back.”
“You look better.” She touched his forehead. “No fever.”
The touch of her hand had been gentle, and he said impulsively, “Why did you take all this trouble with me, Eileen?”
His question flustered her. “Oh, I don’t know,” she laughed. “Maybe I was just bored.” Then she smiled wistfully. “I get lonely sometimes. And I’ve felt so useless since Frank died.”
Her answer caught him off guard. She was one of the most attractive women he knew, and he had assumed she would be well supplied with suitors. Then he realized that would have been flaunting the custom since her husband had been dead less than a year. He looked at her, admiring the smooth skin, the clear blue eyes, and the trim figure. “I was in pretty bad shape, Eileen. If you hadn’t taken me in, I might have died.”
She wanted to avoid any overtures of gratitude, so she said lightly, “It was little enough. It gave me a chance to cook and Laurie an opportunity to learn how to do some nursing.”
He wanted to thank her, but he sensed she wished to avoid that. So he said, “She’s a beautiful child, isn’t she? And I like her father.”
“So do I.”
Something in her voice caught at Dutton. He had heard someone say that the widow and Tom Winslow would make a fine couple, and he asked cautiously, “You’ve known him long—Tom, I mean?”
“No, only a short while. He’s done a good job raising his daughter.
” She smoothed her hair, adding, “But it’ll be harder for him from now on. Laurie needs a mother.” Suddenly her face reddened. “I . . .guess that sounds like a man-hungry woman, out to trap a man!”
“Why, a woman like you, Eileen, doesn’t have to worry about that!”
She looked up at him, seeing the kindness in his eyes. He looked like a boy, with his red hair all awry and his round face. The long hours of nursing him had given her a motherly feeling, which had amused her at times, but now she saw this was no child. The honest admiration pleased her. It made her feel good. “Thank you, Larry. A woman needs to be complimented at least once a day.”
“You deserve more than that, Eileen,” he said. “I’ve never known a woman like you!”
“I’m nothing special,” she protested.
From that moment she felt differently about Larry Dutton. As the days passed and he grew stronger, she saw not only his intelligence but the humor that lay just beneath the surface of his mind. He had a sly wit, and to her surprise she discovered she had some of the same qualities. Since there was little to do and he was awake for longer periods, they talked for hours. She learned of his harsh boyhood in the orphanage, and came to appreciate the drive that was in him, his determination to be a lawyer.
“You’ll be a fine attorney, Larry,” she told him. “You have a way of getting to know people.”
“Well,” he grinned, “I’ve gotten to know you pretty well, but I can’t get pneumonia and go live with all my clients, can I, Eileen?”
He had gotten to know her well, she realized, for as he had shared the story of his life, she had told him more about herself than she had anyone else—even Frank.
“That depends on how many clients you have!” she joked. Then she went on. “When you become a lawyer, will you miss being a teacher?”
“I like the children, but I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer.”
“I love children. That’s why I’ve appreciated so much having Laurie.”
“You’ll miss her when Tom marries, won’t you?” he said innocently. He saw the surprise on her face and said hurriedly, “No, I haven’t heard he’s getting married, but a handsome fellow like Winslow is sure to find a wife.”
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