The Lieutenant's Bargain

by Regina Jennings

  A horseman rounded the corner but hesitated at the flock of people headed his way. With his gun, bulging saddlebags, and bedroll, he was outfitted for travel, but he lacked a cowboy’s gear, and he definitely wasn’t a soldier. Not with that hand-tooled saddle and dusty Oxford shoes.

  Hattie narrowed her eyes. She knew him, had seen him before, but he’d looked different then. Seeing him in Darlington wearing frontiersman’s garb didn’t fit. While she couldn’t remember the specifics, her gut told her that she didn’t like him. He had been rude and impatient with her. Was he from Van Buren? She couldn’t place him there. Maybe he’d attended one of her exhibitions in Little Rock? He didn’t look like a connoisseur of art, but . . .

  He was disappearing back around the corner he’d just come from, but he took one last look over his shoulder before guiding his horse into the alley, and with that look, he caught sight of Hattie. The recognition was immediate. She felt the connection, and with an unbelievable chill, she realized that he was supposed to be dead.

  She shoved off the lap robe and stood, but at that moment Jack appeared in the doorway of the agency. His eyebrow rose in confusion as he approached the wagon.

  “Sorry to take so long. Were you coming in to fetch me?”

  Hattie watched the intersection ahead, but the man had turned and left the way he’d come. Was she losing her mind? The marshal had said that all three men had died. Or had he assumed the second passenger had met the same fate as the driver and Agent Gibson? She certainly had. Or did the rude man from Fort Smith have a twin brother?

  “Hattie?” Jack followed her stare up the road. “What’s wrong?”

  “That man,” she said. “I think I know him.”

  Jack climbed into the wagon. “You want to talk to him?”

  Actually, she did. The ride through Indian Territory had changed her, and it was possible it had changed him, as well. Mr. Sloane had undoubtedly witnessed worse than she. He’d fought for his life and endured a harrowing ride while she’d hidden in a gully. Surely surviving such a trial could cause one to reflect on his life and the various insults and indignities he’d inflicted on other good people.

  “He was one of the men on the stagecoach,” she said, “and not a very nice one.”

  Jack bounced the reins against the horse’s back to pick up the pace. “Which leg of your journey?”

  “The last one. The bad one.”

  “He was on that stage?” Now Jack looked worried, and he urged the horse down the street faster. “We didn’t think there were any survivors.”

  “I’m almost sure that was Mr. Sloane from Fort Smith.”

  They’d turned the corner, but the street was deserted. Only an empty flour sack tumbled from one end to the other. Hattie’s eyes darted from building to building. Where was he? Had she made a mistake? But he’d recognized her, too, and had disappeared immediately.

  “I think it was him,” she said, “but when I saw him last, he looked different.”

  Their horse flicked its tail as it waited in the middle of the road. Jack cocked his head as if listening for retreating hooves, but nothing could be heard besides the church members calling good-byes as they headed to their warm kitchens and Sunday dinners.

  “As far as I’ve heard, they never recovered the last body, but everyone was fairly certain that all three men had been killed,” Jack said.

  Fairly certain was Jack’s way of saying that she was making a mistake. He didn’t want to contradict her and have her call him a know-it-all again, but he couldn’t help himself.

  Hattie sighed. He was probably right. Painting the picture had resurrected the memories. Besides, from such a distance, how did she think she could recognize someone?

  The sun had peeked out from behind the clouds and was sharing some warmth with the flat land. Maybe it wasn’t necessary to sit so close to Jack, but Hattie didn’t mind. Hadn’t he agreed it was one of the benefits of being married? Yet he didn’t seem as keen to participate as he had been that morning. Hattie was nearly ready to wish the cold upon them again.

  Once home, Jack didn’t linger over their noonday meal. He complimented her chicken and dumplings, even though to Hattie’s taste they were too salty, and then he excused himself, saying that he had some studying he wanted to do. Instead of going to his office, he took his eyeglasses and set up camp in his chair by the parlor window—the one he declared to be his favored spot for meditation and Bible study.

  It might be the Sabbath, but thinking about Mr. Sloane left Hattie anxious to work on her picture. The roll of paper crinkled beneath her arm as she picked up her paint box and carried it to his office. Jack shot her a sideways glance as she passed, but he kept his nose resolutely in his book. Just as well. Hattie had an image burning in her memory that needed to be put on paper before anyone could distort it.

  With her brushes within reach, she arranged two candlesticks to hold down the corners of the curling paper. Another gaggle of geese passed overhead, their hoarse voices calling to each other as they sped through the air. Hattie closed her eyes and pulled on her bare earlobe. Slowly their honks were replaced by the angry shouts of the coach driver and the screaming of the frightened horses. Again she could hear the gunshots, could feel the cold red clay in her fingernails as she lifted herself up to peer over the edge of the gully.

  There. That was the moment she needed to paint. A lone rider leaned forward with arm outstretched. He was aiming carefully, one eye closed and looking down the barrel. She didn’t remember noticing his chipped tooth before, but there it was. The puff of smoke meant he’d already fired once when she first saw him. She flinched with every report, knowing that some would find a home in the warm bodies of her traveling companions.

  Quickly, her brush dabbed the paper, staking out space atop the horse that she’d been unable to fill the night before. Now she saw the homemade wooden buttons on the shirt of the killer. She noticed the grim determination on the driver’s face as he fought for his life and the lives of his passengers. Her brush moved lower, where the two men in the coach were fighting, as well. Hattie sketched the government man, Agent Gibson. His nostrils were flared, filling with the gun smoke scent that she’d never forget. To her surprise, she found herself darkening his coat. He’d already been hit once but was still firing.

  And then there was Mr. Sloane in his dust-covered suit. He was behind Agent Gibson, as if trying to get out for an open shot at the outlaw. Now she knew for certain that the man she’d seen in Darlington was Mr. Sloane. The features she drew were identical to that man’s, but she was having trouble getting his posture right. She watched as his face took form on the paper. Mr. Sloane’s eyes weren’t on the attacker. They were on Agent Gibson, which was understandable. The agent had already been shot. But again, Hattie paused when it came to positioning Sloane’s gun. She closed her eyes and summoned the picture.

  In slow motion, the brief moments played out: a puff of smoke, yelling, the awful choreographed dance as they shot, then ducked. Shot, then fell. That was when she’d yelled, but after that, she saw no more. On paper, she had to limit herself to one frozen moment, but that moment was horrifying enough.

  The images on the page told the story, but were they accurate? Was she relying on her memories of the incident or on her recent encounter with a stranger?

  A stool scooted in the parlor. Hattie flexed her tight fingers. Her chest filled with fear, and this time rage. Her hands itched to crush the paper into a wad and throw it into the fire. At the very least, she wanted to turn it over so the cold eyes of the robber couldn’t see her, but instead she hammered her fist against the desk, then stood to pace until the paint dried.

  When it was dry enough to carry, she stomped into the parlor with the paper in hand. Flopping onto the sofa, she propped it against a cushion, crossed her arms, and stared moodily into the fire. Jack lowered his book and pulled off his reading glasses. If she could only stay angry, then maybe she wouldn’t give in to fear. She wouldn’t start thinki
ng how close she’d come to being in that coach when it had been attacked. Had she not drunk three cups of coffee that morning . . .

  Even though the fireplace roared at full strength, Hattie shivered.

  “How are you doing?” Jack asked.

  Her heart was beating like a rabbit’s.

  He placed a bookmark between the pages of his book and smoothed the ribbon before closing the cover. His fingers lingered on the book as he stood, like he was loath to leave it. If Hattie hadn’t already been numb, she would have taken offense. The cushions on the sofa folded as he sat next to her and reached for the roll of paper.

  “I hadn’t realized how vividly I remembered,” she said.

  “What you experienced will always be with you. In time—”

  “I know, I know.” She pressed her hand against the paper. She wasn’t ready yet. “Maybe I’m wrong . . . but I know I’m not. This is exactly what I saw.”

  The paper crinkled beneath Jack’s thumb. “If you’re wrong, we’ll figure it out, but this could help.” He raised the roll of paper and held her gaze until, with a silent nod, she gave him permission to unroll it.

  She’d seen enough of it, so instead she watched his face. His eyes darted over the painting, lingering on the criminal. His mouth hardened. “This is excellent,” he said. “You are so good, I’d recognize this man if I ran into him on the street.”

  Her throat jogged. “I did. That man today, that’s him.” She pointed at Mr. Sloane.

  “You’re sure now?” He pulled the sketch closer to his face and studied Sloane’s face. “Why hasn’t he come forward to report the crime? How did he get away from the gunman?”

  “I don’t know. Afraid to be a witness?” Like she was. Then again, if Mr. Sloane wanted to find safety, he should have headed out of Indian Territory and never come back.

  “Major Adams needs to see this,” Jack said. “And it needs to be passed around to see if anyone recognizes the outlaw. You did superb work. I’ll be right back.”

  “Right now? You’re going right now?” She turned away from the picture. Even though their faces lived in her memory, she didn’t like seeing them on paper. Her fear was too close to stay ahead of.

  “Yes, right now. We want the marshals to get it before they leave the area.”

  She sat stunned as he rushed out the door with the painting. She might have captured the scene on paper, but the killer was still at large, and she was still terrified.

  But where Jack failed, his commander made amends.

  It was only seconds before she heard the door again and Jack stepped inside the parlor, hands dangling awkwardly at his sides.

  “Major Adams said he’d take care of it, so I don’t have to leave you.” He sat next to her and shifted his feet beneath him. “He’s the commander, after all, and with your picture, they can recognize the men without me.” But his regret was obvious.

  Her teeth started to chatter. The weather wasn’t extreme, but with the killer’s face fresh in her mind, she couldn’t get warm. There was one thing she was willing to try, though.

  “Do you remember when we were driving to church this morning?” she said. “Do you remember me saying that one of the benefits of our marriage arrangement was that we didn’t have to be cold if we didn’t want to be?”

  He sagged into the sofa. His voice was hoarse. “I remember.”

  “If I were cold here, now, don’t you think the same rules should apply?”

  She felt his arm lift to lay across the back of the sofa, but that wasn’t good enough. Ducking her chin, Hattie turned, wrapped her arms around his waist, and buried her face against him. His hesitation surprised her, but when his arms wrapped around her, she didn’t doubt him a lick. Whatever was holding him back wasn’t as strong as his care for her.

  “I could’ve died,” she said. “I try not to think about it, but painting the picture brought it all back. Agent Gibson was just as alive as I am, and then he was just gone. I left him cold and alone in the dark.”

  Jack rested his chin on her head. “After an experience like that, you’ll never be the same. Every trooper on this fort faces those same thoughts and realizes how fragile life is. Death will happen to all of us, but you know that’s not the end.”

  Trust Jack to tell the truth and tell it bluntly. Yet his practical words helped calm her heart. Instead of her fear, she had to focus on the blessings. She squeezed her eyes tight and considered all the good things that she’d gained since coming to the fort—the cozy parlor, the feisty sisters who lived next door, the row of neatly dressed children at the church service. All of those things made her happy, but it was the man holding her that she didn’t want to leave.

  She didn’t want to leave? Hattie felt a stab of fear at the realization. What did it mean? She wasn’t in love with Jack Hennessey, was she? The thought was ridiculous. Sure, she’d always thought him smart—a tad obnoxious, but generally nice—but love him? How did one know? Hattie had been in love with a lot of boys, but usually once she got to know them, she grew bored. Could Jack be the exception?

  The lure of Denver was fading daily. Honestly, Hattie didn’t have a clear picture of what awaited her there. She only wanted to avoid the future that her parents had planned for her back in Van Buren.

  Here in Indian Territory, although geographically isolated, she was at a crossroads of cultures and peoples. She learned something new every day. It was no surprise that she would rather stay with Jack than go back home, but did that mean she was content to give up her other plans, as well?

  He was good company, she gave him that. A gentleman, even before he was old enough to properly take the title. Considerate to a fault. And as far as the runtiness that had plagued him when he was younger, well, he’d whupped it like a champion. But as a beau, would he know how to give her the attention she craved? Could Jack set her heart racing, or had it only been the roller skates?

  There was one way to find out.

  Nestled against his chest, Hattie slid her hand to his stomach. She smoothed the fabric of his shirt with her palm, leaving her hand pressed against him until she learned the rhythm of his heart. Here she felt safe. Here she felt loved. Here she felt courage enough to explore these new feelings. Waiting for his reaction, she nuzzled her cheek against his chest. When he didn’t resist, she raised until her face was fitted into the base of his neck. His hand dropped away from her back. His heart beat unevenly. She wanted to be closer. After all the time they’d spent together, wasn’t it natural that she would care about him?

  His clean woodsy scent reminded her of the overcoat she still slept with. She tilted her head against the bare skin right above his collar. Was he shocked? Was he annoyed? She couldn’t tell. Only that his breathing had changed. Her fingers tightened on his shirt as she stretched up and laid her lips against his neck. His pulse throbbed beneath her mouth, making her heart race, too.

  What would it take to shake him? How long could he ignore her?

  “Hattie,” he said.

  She smiled, her lips moving against his skin. But then he stood suddenly, breaking her grasp and leaving her to fall against the sofa.

  “I said that you don’t need to pretend our marriage is real unless we’re in public,” he said. If she had thought Jack was fired up about the outlaw, he was downright twitchy now. “I’m not just a pair of shoes you can try on to see if you like the fit.”

  Hattie’s face burned. “Goodness gracious,” she cried. “I barely touch you, and you accuse me of claiming wifely privileges.”

  “Are you my wife, or aren’t you?”

  Any questions about him getting her blood flowing were pointless now. “You said that legally—”

  He turned and stalked to the window, scanning the prairie beyond the fort, probably wishing he had left her alone here and taken out after armed killers instead. “I made a bargain with you that you’d be free to go when I get my reassignment, but there’s a line, and if you cross that . . .” He shook his head. “Don�
��t make this deal any harder to keep than it already is.”

  And with that, he walked out of the room and out of the house, leaving Hattie with more questions than she’d had before.

  Was she mocking him? Tempting him? Testing him?

  The cold air outside was welcome relief after the scorching events in the parlor. Gravel flew as Jack strode down Officers’ Row toward the adjutant’s office. He was angry. Angry that he didn’t understand what had just happened. Angry that he’d hurt her feelings. And angry that he couldn’t stay and see what she was going to do next.

  If he’d stayed . . . Jack’s pulse surged. He would march back home, throw open the door, and snatch Hattie off that sofa. He’d sweep her into his arms, and if she wanted to nibble on his neck, he’d allow it. Right after he kissed her senseless.

  First, he’d kiss her for single-handedly beautifying the Van Buren secondary school. Her cheerful smile and ringing laugh brightened many a dismal study session. Then he’d kiss her for her kind soul and how she always listened to him, even though their interests were so different. But the deepest, most ardent kisses would be for the mature woman she was today—for helping him with his duties to the tribes, for playing with him and the kids, for fighting for justice while battling her fears, and mostly for keeping her end of their bargain.

  If he didn’t do it immediately, he’d explode. Jack spun on his heel to go back to his house and ran smack into Private Willis.

  “Whoa there, Lieutenant Hennessey. Can’t reverse course like that in formation. You’ll cause an accident.” Willis saluted. “Did you forget something?”

  “What?” Jack asked. Then, following Willis’s gaze, he reached up and tapped his own bare head. “Looks like I forgot my hat.”

  “You were in a powerful hurry, but if you have a minute . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “I just came in from patrol. We didn’t find any sign of the man the Cheyenne troubled. Looks like he survived long enough to get off the reservation.” When not attempting breakneck stunts, Willis could be a valuable trooper.