The Lieutenant's Bargain

by Regina Jennings

  They hadn’t gone far from the fort when they met two marshals and their top-heavy tumbleweed wagon. Jack’s jaw tightened. It was good, he reminded himself. As a witness, Hattie needed to talk to them before she could leave. Things were falling into place.

  “That wagon is riding awfully heavy,” Willis said. “Reckon they caught someone?”

  “We’re fixing to find out,” Morris replied.

  One marshal rode ahead of the wagon to meet them and wasted no time in sharing the good news.

  “We might have got the fella who shot up the stagecoach.” Marshal Bass Reeves was a tall, imposing black man. He was respected by the Indians and hated by the outlaws, and you didn’t want to cross him if you knew what was good for you. “We found him out and about the area.”

  Marshal Bud Ledbetter stared steely-eyed into the biting wind as he threw the brake on the wagon. “I have my doubts that this fella could take down three men alone, but I’d be glad to hang him for it if he did.”

  Even after the horses stopped, the wagon swayed in the cold wind. It couldn’t be fun riding along the bumpy plains, but Jack had no pity for someone who waged war against innocent civilians. He rode to the side of the wagon to look through the bars at the man chained to the floor. The feckless-looking gentleman who returned his stare looked more likely to be hounded by a scolding wife than to be a murderer.

  Reeves wrinkled his nose. “Then again, like Ledbetter said, he don’t present as much threat.”

  But such things were hard to judge. A weakling was more likely to feel entitled to others’ belongings. He might also have a motive, something personal, that they didn’t know about.

  “Not only that,” Ledbetter said, “but we found the coach. It was burnt up, and the horses were gone.”

  “What about the last passenger?” Jack asked. “Did you find Mr. Sloane’s body?”

  “My guess is that he’s been consumed by wolves,” Ledbetter said. “We did find some luggage. Not the government’s funds, but clothes and the like that we need to get back to the families of these men.”

  At this, Jack’s ears perked up. “Goods from the stagecoach? Did you recover any women’s items?”

  “We sure did,” Ledbetter said.

  “Excellent. If you don’t mind, I’ll send Private Willis back with you, and he can see that the women’s goods make it to my quarters.”

  “Now that you mention it”—Reeves’s smile flashed wide—“I did hear that you got yourself wed to a mighty fine lady who happened to come across the territory. You don’t waste an opportunity, do you?”

  Not now. Not in front of his men. “Miss Walker and I are old acquaintances,” Jack said.

  “Oh? Is she the gal who broke your heart?” Reeves asked.

  Jack’s men leaned in.

  “She lost a trunk,” Jack said. “A bag, maybe. And some paints. She had paints with her.”

  “They’re in the wagon,” Reeves said. “We’ll haul them to the fort while we go put this sorry animal in the guardhouse.”

  “That’d be dandy. Such things would just slow us down, and we need to move if we’re going to make it back to our warm beds tonight.”

  Judging from the responses of Private Willis and Private Morris, the warm beds comment should have been left unsaid.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hattie had sketched and re-sketched her picture of Tom Broken Arrow until she was pleased with the composition. A dozen times she’d thrown down her pencil and paced the room, asking God why, when she’d found the perfect subject for a career-starting portrait, did she have no paints? Then she’d return to her seat and further perfect what she already knew was her best work yet.

  If only Jack were there to see it.

  He had been besotted with her years ago. Not that Hattie was surprised, but what would cause him to talk about her here, as an adult? If she had realized that she was the only lady he was seeking correspondence from, she might have written back. After all, he wasn’t the same lanky boy she’d known. And with that confession, was he letting her know that he no longer had feelings for her, or was it just the opposite?

  The knock on the door set her heart racing. She pressed her hand against her chest. But Jack wouldn’t knock on his own door, so she might as well simmer down. After a touch to her bare earlobe, she turned the knob.

  It was only Private Willis with his usual confident grin. “Mrs. Hennessey, I have a delivery that you might be interested in.”

  A delivery? What was it? More books? She’d just cleaned out the office, and she didn’t want to clutter it up again. But then she looked past the trooper and squealed in delight. “Bring it in. Bring it in.” She threw open the door, then jumped out of the way.

  Private Willis lifted her trunk with a grunt and followed her outstretched finger to drop it at the foot of the stairs. Hattie clapped her hands together and pressed them to her lips as he set a muddy carpetbag on the floor. It looked to be in terrible shape, but it was the most welcome sight she’d seen since Jack had appeared in his cavalry uniform at the village.

  A high-pitched giggle formed somewhere in the roof of her mouth. “Is this all? Was there another box?”

  Willis spun on his heel and bent just outside the door to retrieve the very thing Hattie had been waiting for. She was upon him before he could even turn around.

  “That’s it!” She ripped the box of paints from his hands, then stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  He laughed. “I reckon you’ve been anxious to get this back.”

  “You can’t imagine.” She ran her hands over the new scratches on the wooden box. It didn’t matter, as long as the contents were the same. “Thank you for bringing this. Thank you so much.”

  With a tip of his hat, he was gone.

  Hattie danced around the entryway, swaying with her box of paints like it was Jack on roller skates. Shaking herself out of the celebration, she ran back to her trunk and sat on the second step. She pried the lid open and pulled out handfuls of clothing.

  Dried grass took to the air as she shook out her crumpled wardrobe. A few seams had ripped, and the cloth looked trampled. She shoved her hand through the heavy brocade skirts and warm blouses to sweep the bottom of the trunk with her fingers. When she hit a wooden box, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her funds. Had the robber missed it? But then something rough and uneven caught at her fingers. She tightened her hand on the box and felt the sharp sting of splinters. She pulled it up, snagging it on the fabric, and the wooden box fell apart before her eyes, empty.

  It’s only money, she told herself. It can be replaced. But it was her parents’ money, and they wouldn’t look favorably on her losing it. Even worse, when they heard how she’d lost it, they most likely would call an end to her experiment immediately. Dropping the broken box, she crushed her favorite Sunday dress against her face. The smell of home still lingered in the folds. She recognized the scents of baking day and of oil paints, a mixture that she hadn’t even realized existed until she’d been gone from home long enough to miss it.

  Until now, it was as if she’d been a different person. Living in a strange place, wearing strange clothing, and married to a . . . well, Jack wasn’t a stranger exactly, but he was the last person she’d been thinking of when she packed this trunk.

  Now she was getting her life back together, but just like the dingy dresses, she had to wonder if it would feel different. Accepting her parents’ challenge had been a hasty decision, undertaken before she lost her courage. Somehow, the glory that she was trying to obtain in Denver had lost some of its shine, but the penalty for failure remained the same.

  And that meant the paints could still be her salvation. The outlaw hadn’t appreciated the treasure, and it had worked to her benefit.

  With her gown still held tight, she began to plan her projects. Tom Broken Arrow’s portrait would be first, but after that, she wanted to paint something for Jack, for all he’d done for her. Something that would complemen
t his office and bring together the style she was aiming for.

  Jack! Where was he? For the first time, Hattie wondered how her belongings had been recovered. Had they caught the man who’d robbed her? Had there been a shootout? Was Jack unharmed?

  Hattie raced for the door. How callous she’d been. Jack was more important than her belongings, and she hadn’t thought to ask about him. Wanting to remedy her mistake, she was poised to run to Major Adams’s house when Private Willis stopped her.

  “Is there something you need, Mrs. Hennessey?”

  Hattie clutched her stomach. “Lieutenant Hennessey,” she said. “Is he all right?”

  “I’d imagine he is. When I left him, he was riding toward the settlement. He’s the one who told me to deliver your duds to the house.”

  Her breath came easier. “He isn’t in a shootout with the killer, then?”

  “Naw.” Private Willis smiled. “They got the killer locked up in the guardhouse over there.” While he pointed across the parade grounds, Hattie retreated.

  “The killer? He’s here?”

  “Don’t you worry. There’s no way out of that guardhouse. Believe me, I’ve tried. And even if he could pry off that one rusty bar, I’m posted right here at your door. He’d never get through me.”

  Small comfort. But at least Jack was safe. She thanked Private Willis and went back inside to see about getting her clothes cleaned.

  By the time Hattie had carried armful after armful of her belongings to the kitchen to be washed, the early winter dusk had descended. After giving her clothes a good scrubbing, wringing, and hanging them all over the kitchen to dry, she grabbed a day-old biscuit and took a few bites before the drums of the Indians began.

  Hattie hadn’t lit the lamps yet, and the darkness had gathered. Her newly washed clothes dripped water like the ghosts of drowning victims. She shuddered. Her imagination was getting the better of her. No one was lurking in her house, but the thought made it impossible to look over her shoulder, and how could she sleep when the man who had killed Agent Gibson, Mr. Sloane, and the driver was near?

  She hurried up the staircase to her room. Her shoes sat beneath her little bed. Her hats hung on the bedposts. She had her clothes, she had her paints, and she had her life. Someday, she’d recover everything that had been taken from her.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  The drums got louder, and Hattie knew what was wrong. She had everything that Hattie Walker needed to get along, but Hattie Walker had changed. She’d had experiences that she couldn’t reverse, and as much as she might want to go back, her life had transformed to encompass someone new.

  Staying alone in her room was impossible without Jack home. Instead, she found herself carrying her pillow, dragging her blankets, and searching for a place where she could truly rest. She looked at the empty banister and sighed. No coat for her to hide behind tonight. Having it made all the difference. What it signified, she didn’t want to fathom. And Jack had better not be speculating, either.

  She turned toward his open bedroom door. Every other night, he lay there, eyes closed until she needed something, and then he would answer her. But he wasn’t there now, and the hard floor didn’t have the same allure.

  Dropping the pillow and blankets, Hattie stepped inside his room. She had to stand on her tippy-toes to get a leg up on his bed. The mattress gave beneath her. After her lumpy straw mattress, it felt like a cloud. She dug at the top to find the edge of the blanket and sheets, then wormed her way between the covers. She wanted to know as soon as he got home; that was why she was here. Once she knew he was safe, she would go to her own room.

  There was no coat to calm her, but these blankets, his linens, rested her heart. But where was Jack? Why hadn’t he returned yet?

  Lord, please take care of Jack. He’s out there somewhere in the dark and cold. Be with him. Keep him in Your protection. He’s a good man, God. Please don’t let anything happen to him.

  That was a lot of begging. Feeling like she shouldn’t be so demanding, Hattie thought of a few other things she’d neglected to talk to God about.

  And, God, I never told You thank You for saving me while I was out there in the prairie. You know how scared I was, but now that I look back, I know You never left me. You sent Chief Right Hand’s nice people to find me, then You let Jack be the one who brought me in. I was in a lot of danger, and it could’ve turned out so much worse . . . but You had it planned all along. Her breathing was getting slow, and her mind was drifting, but she wasn’t finished. And if this marriage thing turns out to be binding, well, I guess it’s better than being dead. Even if I’m trapped here forever, help me be thankful for Jack and for all You have done.

  She might not remember half of what she prayed by morning, but a sleep deep enough to erase her memory would be the best sleep she’d had yet. Her final prayers were mumbled into Jack’s warm blanket. Something about him being cold.

  The fort rested motionless. Taps had been played hours ago, and the only stirring was the twinkling of the icy stars above him. Jack’s men followed him to his house on Officers’ Row, where he dismounted, handed off his horse, then waved them on to the stable. He was used to coming home to a dark house, but it felt doubly lonely knowing that Hattie had already gone to sleep and he wouldn’t see her until morning.

  He’d spent the night ride from the village in prayer for Hattie. Praying that God would guide her to whatever success she was looking for. That she would be patient with him as he tried to get her back on track. That her fears would grow smaller as God grew bigger to her.

  And that she had been able to go to sleep without him or his coat.

  He held the door open to borrow the starlight before trying to make it across the room. Just as he’d hoped, the entry was littered with her empty traveling bags. Evidently she’d wasted no time reclaiming her belongings. He was only surprised she hadn’t packed them up again, ready to leave Indian Territory.

  He set the trunk aside so neither of them would trip over it in the morning, and then he went upstairs. The first thing he noticed was that the bundle of blankets in the hallway looked suspiciously flat. He knelt for a better look and flipped the blanket over. Nope, no Hattie. He wouldn’t say he was worried. Not really. She was probably in her room . . . except her pillow and blanket were right here. Jack’s gut tightened. Even in the dark shadows, he could tell her bed was bare.

  He would raise the alarm. Scouts would be sent out. There was a murderer on the loose, and Hattie was the only eyewitness. Had the killer . . . ? The thought was too terrible to contemplate. Jack stomped down the hall, prepared to rouse the troops, but movement caught his eye.

  He screeched to a stop, his foot against the softness of the blanket on the ground. Someone was in his room.

  “Jack?”

  His knees nearly gave way. He couldn’t answer, his mind racing to understand what he was seeing. The bed creaked as Hattie reached a hand toward him.

  “It’s me.” He dropped to his knees next to the bed and took her hand, not believing that she was there. “I couldn’t find you. I thought you were gone.”

  She smiled up at him drowsily, with a sweetness too fragile for daylight hours. “I was worried about you. I thought you’d gotten hurt, or in a fight or something.”

  “No fights tonight, just some talking with our friends. But I was praying for you.” He couldn’t stop himself from brushing her hair back. “Praying that you weren’t afraid here by yourself. Praying that you would be able to rest.”

  “And I was praying for you,” she said. Her eyes closed. “Praying that you’d come back.”

  His throat caught. Her skin was so smooth. The darkness took away her courage, but it doubled his. “Don’t worry about anything,” he said. “Go to sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Mm-hmm . . .” She smiled again. When she pulled his hand, he thought he was going to be reprimanded, but instead she lifted it to her lips and kissed him on the knuckle. Then she snuggle
d down under the covers and fell back asleep.

  It was a long time before Jack could look away. Even longer before he could understand that Hattie Walker—no, Hattie Hennessey—had just kissed him. What had the world come to? But they were both safe, and God had answered both of their prayers that night. He couldn’t ask for more.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was still dark outside, but the bugle had blown at 5:30 that morning, and Jack was already with the troops doing their roll call. Hattie had waited until he’d left the house before slipping out of his room. If called upon to give an account for her shocking behavior, she had no answer, and yet she wasn’t sorry. The discovery—the moments of answered prayer and reunion when Jack had knelt by her last night—left her with a sense of well-being that she hoped would carry her through the day. And she hoped that Jack was thinking of her, as well.

  Hattie dressed quickly, sucking in her breath at the cold cloth against her skin. She scrubbed the morning warmth from her cheeks with icy water from the washbasin, then lugged her painting box downstairs.

  She found the sketches she’d made of Tom Broken Arrow and then began to organize her supplies. The sun was up by the time she’d arranged the canvas and her paints and brushes in Jack’s office—it had the best light. She settled on the edge of the chair, took her brush, looked once at the sketch, and then closed her eyes. Before catching him on paper, she had to feel her subject. She had to share in his emotion. This was a new practice for her. Landscapes didn’t have the same procedure, but it was something she instinctively knew she had to do.

  What had young Tom been feeling? Sadness at being separated from his people? Fear at what lay ahead? Surely some belief that the choice he was making would be good. That was what Hattie hoped, anyway.

  Did she have a choice, or was she doing whatever Jack told her to do? In one breath, he told her that he was trying to get rid of her quickly. In the next, he was confessing that he’d always loved her. If he didn’t know what he wanted from her, how was she supposed to respond?