The Lieutenant's Bargain

by Regina Jennings

  By the time Jack got to the second floor, the door to Hattie’s room was closed. He hoped she would finally be able to sleep soundly. He couldn’t stand the thought of her suffering when he could do nothing about it.

  He went into his room and undressed with the door open before he realized his mistake, but by that time all he had to do was slip under the covers, put on his glasses, and take up another book.

  Actually, it wasn’t a book as much as a collection of writings left for him by the previous Darlington agent’s wife, Mrs. Ida Dyer. As she’d traveled with her husband from post to post, she’d become a student of the different tribes. Her insights from the Quapaw, Shawnee, and Modoc Indians were helpful in contrasting what he was learning with the Arapaho. Together with the missionaries, he hoped the tribes would be able to retain their culture while still learning how to operate in the new world they were faced with.

  So engrossing were the essays that Jack dismissed the first noise he heard as the wind howling. The pane in the back bedroom always vibrated when the wind hit it just right, and the wind was blowing now. But the second time he heard it, he recognized it for what it was: a sob.

  Jack lowered the book. Hattie was crying again. It wouldn’t be right to go to her. It wouldn’t be proper, but how many nights could she endure this? He couldn’t ignore her pain any longer. Getting out of bed, he set his glasses on the washstand and reached for his trousers.

  Just then a door opened down the hall. Jack froze with his pants up around one leg. Hattie was leaving her room. Quick as a territorial cyclone, he blew out his lamp and dove into bed. Pulling the covers up, he lay on his side and waited, praying that she’d assume he was asleep.

  The house was so silent that he wondered if he’d imagined the creaking hinges, but then she appeared. Her white nightgown glowed in the dark hall. Her hair fell down her back in a long braid. The only noise was the rasping of her blanket against the ground as she dragged it behind her. Then came a soft pouf as she dropped her pillow on the floor in the hall, right in sight of him. Could she tell that he was awake? Should he let her know? She arranged her blanket as well as the extra blanket that he’d lent her the night before, then lay down in the hall, curled up beneath the covers.

  She wanted to be where she could see him. Jack wished it meant more than it did, but after her ordeal, he knew she didn’t want to be alone. In fact, her presence in his office earlier was probably more on account of her fear than any desire for his company.

  Hattie shivered as she clutched at the edges of her blanket. Was she not warm enough, or was she trembling from something other than the temperature? Jack couldn’t be silent any longer.

  “Hattie?” he whispered from the safety of his bed. His pants were still caught around one ankle, so he’d play it safe and not move.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.” From her voice there was no doubt she’d been crying. The blanket tightened beneath her chin. “I haven’t been sleeping at all. It’s horrid. And tonight . . . I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’ll go back to my room—”

  “Wait,” he said. “My coat is hanging there on the balustrade.”

  Jack closed his eyes and grimaced. Why had he said that? Why would she want his coat? But instead of laughing, she sat up and snagged it off the rail. She gathered the fabric in her arms and buried her face in its folds. She lay tense, as if ready to bolt.

  “Jack, do you think they’ll ever catch the man who robbed us?”

  He rose up on his elbow. “The marshals in Indian Territory are a fearsome bunch. I can guarantee they are already on his trail.”

  “But they might not catch him, and if they don’t, will I ever be safe?”

  Something inside him melted. No, she wouldn’t be safe. As a witness to a crime like that, she would spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. Jack could offer protection, but what he wanted to give would interfere with her plans.

  “You’re safe here, and we’ll have that good-for-nothing caught by the time my transfer is approved and you go to Denver. Until then . . .”

  Until then he’d stand guard over her fearful moments in the safest spot in the nations—his house on Fort Reno. Jack could spend all night detailing how he would fight to the death for her, but he’d said enough.

  Her arms seemed to relax, and her breathing grew deeper. She wasn’t going back to her room. His not-wife couldn’t sleep unless he was in view.

  Another trait that proved she wasn’t flawless, and another problem he didn’t know how to solve.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She wasn’t used to sitting around, doing nothing. That was why Hattie couldn’t wait for Jack to leave the house that morning. Another day had slipped away. Each day a missed chance to paint for the exhibition, and if she couldn’t make progress on that goal, she wanted to attempt another. The impossible task she’d chosen was none other than the mess of a house she was resigned to live in.

  She set beans soaking for the midday meal while Jack loitered, looking for an excuse to stay. After asking for the third time if he could bring her anything and reminding her for the second time that if she needed him, all she had to do was open the door and ask the first trooper she saw to fetch him, Jack reluctantly took his hat and coat and left. Hattie swung the door closed, then collapsed against it, trying to get her bearings.

  Wasn’t it something that scrawny Jack was such a bigwig here at the fort? Hattie had enjoyed watching him study the page of numbers the quartermaster had produced. It reminded her of the young boy who had stood in front of the blackboard, studying an impossible arithmetic problem. He’d even chewed on his pencil, just like he used to. What a mess he used to make when he forgot and put the chalk in his mouth. Some things had changed, but others . . .

  Jack had been the epitome of generosity and chivalry since she’d been at the fort, but Hattie had the horrible suspicion that his kindness was related to her hysterics every evening. She was more than frustrated with herself. It was humiliating. By morning light, she didn’t want to face him. How could she, after shamelessly crawling right up to his door to sleep? And every night when he offered her his coat, she didn’t know whether to cry in relief or shame. It had been only a week since she was hiding from a murderer in a freezing ditch, she reminded herself. With time, the memories would fade. With time, her need for him would, too.

  Until then . . .

  Hattie surveyed her new domain. Books stacked beneath the tables, books shelved on windowsills, books scattered across the dining room—every flat surface was covered with them. Her artist’s eye would love to see the pretty, leather-bound volumes adorning his study in clever arrangements and groupings. At the very least, she needed to get some of the dustier tomes hidden away in the upstairs bedroom.

  She started in the parlor, sweeping up as many books as she could in her arms. If a particularly handsome volume caught her eye, she left it behind, but the rest were carted up to the vacant room.

  No wonder Jack had never had any girlfriends in school. No one who spent so much time looking at words could have anything interesting to say. Or at least he hadn’t back then. Now, well, he was Prince Charming when they were out and about. Back at the house, he was as silent as a portrait.

  She trudged up and down the stairs, her footsteps thudding louder with every trip, until she dropped the last armful of books on the bed. The frame squawked, and dust clouded the air, but Hattie wouldn’t be deterred. She had to get that parlor downstairs tidy before Jack returned for the noonday meal. Otherwise the only thing they’d have to discuss would be her embarrassing habit of crying at night until she had his coat in her arms.

  Jack didn’t have many decorative objects, but she gathered items that deserved a better placement in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that flanked the fireplace. Candlesticks, a nice platter from the kitchen, a feathered pipe, and a clay pot painted with an Indian pattern were all gathered on her first round.

  On her second pass, she spotted an oddly shaped
box among the notebooks on the credenza behind his desk. It was a waste for the red leather case to hide in his office where no one could see it. It was the perfect size and would add some color to the shelves in the parlor.

  She tucked the leather box beneath her arm and bustled back to the parlor. It rattled as the items inside shifted. Hattie paused. Was this a treasure chest of Jack’s? What could he be hiding? Her earring, perhaps? Carefully, she turned the box over to fiddle with the buckle and remove the lid.

  There were some marbles, a gold coin, a small card with a picture of Jesus that she remembered Jack earning in Sunday school for memorizing the most verses in their fourth grade class. Then there was a jack with one prong broken. She’d meant to look for her earring, but she’d forgotten how much of their history they’d shared. This was the broken jack she’d given to him when he’d broken his arm falling out of a tree. Only Jack would have tried to read a book in a tree and gotten so engrossed in the story that he fell out. She’d felt bad for him with his sling in the middle of summer, and when she found the broken jack, she’d thought it was an appropriate gift for the broken Jack she knew. She smiled as she held the memory in her hand. He’d kept the silly thing all this time?

  Pieces of his childhood, of their childhoods, lay scattered before her, but for all the treasures there, her earring was not one of them. Hattie was gathering the last of the scraps when one of the papers caught her eye. It looked like an early drawing of hers—before she’d perfected shading and proportion. With a nervous glance at the front door, Hattie unfolded it. If she’d drawn the picture in the first place, it couldn’t be wrong for her to look at it now, could it?

  She recognized the landscape immediately. It was the valley outside the schoolhouse. Prone to daydreaming, Hattie was never assigned a seat by the window, so she’d had to draw from memory. Had she not doodled, Hattie might have learned rhetoric better, but she was content with her choices.

  The picture was set in autumn. Leaves littered the ground, and a rock house on the other side of the valley was visible through the scantily clad branches. Hattie stared. That was Jack’s house. Every day he’d tossed his strapped books over his shoulder and set out across the valley. No wonder he’d kept this picture. It was of his home.

  Hattie flipped the paper over, but the other side was blank. A vague memory danced just out of reach. Someone had asked her to draw the valley. Had it been Jack? She didn’t quite remember, but it was possible. But why had he wanted it? Had he known how far from home he would travel?

  Hattie shoved the picture in with the other treasures, then placed the box on a shelf to balance the effect of the platter. Surely after Jack saw the improvement to the parlor, he’d understand the importance of culling down his library. One could never have a parlor that was too fashionable, but one could definitely have too many books.

  The last volume was placed just in time for Hattie to rush to the kitchen, wash the brittle book dust off her hands, and drain and rinse the beans before setting them on the stove to simmer. In no time at all, she heard the front door open and Jack’s voice call out, “Honey? Are you here?”

  Hattie paused with the wooden spoon in hand. Honey? Why would he say that? No one was watching them here. Was he teasing her? Her eyes narrowed, and just to be on the safe side, she sucked in a deep breath, then answered in a melodious tone, “I’m in the kitchen, darling.”

  She wagged her head at the ridiculousness of the situation. Her younger self might have found it fun to play with romance, but grown-up Hattie had learned a lesson or two. The reward was rarely worth the effort.

  “Could you come out here, please?” Jack asked.

  She gave the beans one last stir, then abandoned the spoon to touch up her hair. She found him waiting by the front door, and her eyes lit up at the sight of the strapping cavalryman. The cold had heightened the color in his face and made his eyes shine. But the man standing next to him was a total surprise.

  “Chief Right Hand?” Hattie stopped dead in her tracks. She threw Jack a worried look. He wasn’t going to give her back to the Arapaho, was he? She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking.

  Jack noticed immediately. How he got to her so quickly without looking like he was in a hurry was a mystery to her.

  Blocking the chief from her view, he took her hand and willed her to face him. “Honeybee, I should have sent word that I was bringing a guest, but I knew you wouldn’t care if the chief eats with us. He’s anxious to see how my bride and I are doing.”

  “Your bride?” She knew what he meant, but no other words would come.

  “Yes. And we need him to see that you are here and you are taking care of your husband.”

  Hattie released a shaky breath. She stiffened her spine as she met Jack’s gaze.

  He nodded. “Good girl,” he whispered and released her to meet their guest. “The chief has come for dinner.” With a hand at her back, Jack escorted her forward. “Mrs. Hennessey, you remember Chief Right Hand.”

  “Nice to see you again, Chief,” she replied.

  The Arapaho man was no less dignified standing here in her parlor than he’d been at the ceremony with his people. His sharp eyes studied her with a directness that a white man wouldn’t have dared. He spoke words to Jack. Jack stumbled in his reply, but was evidently making some headway in the language.

  Jack turned to her. “He says that you look a lot better than when they found you.”

  She had to smile at that. It had taken hours and several washings to scrub all the prairie from her skin.

  The chief added something. Jack nodded. With a finger, the chief motioned for Jack to pass his message on.

  This one wasn’t as easy for Jack. “He says that marriage is good for you.” His eyes didn’t meet hers, just stayed focused on her collar. “That he knew I would be a good husband, and he expects I’ll have a son by harvest in the fall.”

  Her smile disappeared. “So much for only having to pretend when we’re in public,” she said.

  Jack shrugged apologetically. He raised his head and for the first time saw the parlor. He stepped backward as his eyes took in everything from the beautifully balanced display of his artifacts on the shelves to the colorful carpet that probably hadn’t seen daylight for years.

  “Doesn’t it look magnificent?” Hattie clasped her hands behind her back.

  Chief Right Hand squinted at the room, probably curious what they were looking at.

  “Where are my books?” Jack asked.

  “Well, there are a lot of them on the shelf, as you see. The extra ones went upstairs so they’d be out of the way.”

  “Extra ones?” he repeated.

  “There’s not room for all of them.”

  “There used to be.” He strode to the wall and examined the shelves. “You’ve put Washington’s biography next to poetry. And what’s this? The Pilgrim’s Progress? It goes in the stack with my devotional books, not with history.”

  “Was that the stack that was under the chair, or the stack I tripped on next to the window?” she asked.

  “Devotional books are next to the window. That’s where I go in the mornings. Now I don’t know where anything is.”

  The chief stepped between them, holding up a hand. Hattie rubbed the back of her neck, pulling a strand of hair loose from her braided bun.

  “Peace,” the chief said, before adding more words that only Jack could understand.

  “We’ll talk later,” Jack grumbled to Hattie. Then, with artificial lightness, he added, “Dinnertime.”

  Hattie had been so convinced that Jack would be thrilled with the progress she’d made that she hadn’t put much effort into the meal. But here he was, unhappy, with a guest, and she only had some beans and cold corn bread.

  Taking three china plates, she started toward the dining room, but Jack caught her by the arm.

  “He’ll feel more comfortable in the kitchen where the food is made. Don’t worry about the china.”

 
“It’s what we have,” she said. The dishes clanked against the smaller kitchen table.

  Jack disappeared only long enough to pull in an extra chair from the dining room. “I see you cleaned off the dining room table, as well,” he said. “European history and encounters with the Plains tribes, gone.”

  “They aren’t gone. They’re upstairs.” She tugged on her unadorned earlobe. “Maybe they’re hidden with my earring.”

  Jack motioned the chief to his seat. “I know exactly where your earring is at all times,” he said, “and if you didn’t look so fetching wearing only one, I probably wouldn’t be able to keep my temper right now. Let’s eat.”

  Jack had always been head over heels for Hattie, but he’d never imagined how she could disrupt his life. Here he was, feeling like a stranger in his own home. He didn’t want a pretentious house. He didn’t want people to feel ill at ease when they visited. Having books stacked all over wasn’t just convenient, it was also welcoming. At least, it made him feel welcomed.

  But he needed to focus on the task at hand. Chief Right Hand had come to talk about his nephew at the school. Judging from his unusual request to join them for a meal, Jack figured the chief had more on his mind than Hattie’s beans. And while Jack never felt adequate conversing without an interpreter, the chief didn’t seem bothered by the lack.

  The chief ate slowly, as if savoring each bite. After the first bowl, he removed the blanket from around his shoulders and loosened the leather thong on the neck of his tunic.

  “It’s warm?” Jack said in Arapaho. At least that was what he thought he said.

  “Yes. The fire is good,” the chief replied.

  He didn’t speak again until the second bowl of beans had been consumed. Once Jack saw how little Hattie had prepared, he’d contented himself with pushing his food around in his bowl so there would be enough for their guest. Hattie was doing the same. She’d done everything he’d asked, even welcoming the chief to her table, and Jack had shown her no gratitude. They’d talk about it later. For now, they needed to put on a good show for the chief.