The Lieutenant's Bargain

by Regina Jennings

  P.S. Mr. and Mrs. Walker, I’m afraid your daughter is not being honest. I’ve been hopelessly in love with her for years and can’t believe that she consented to honor me in this unfathomable manner. I am the most fortunate man alive.

  I only regret that I wasn’t able to ask permission to court her before we were wed, but the situation was quite unique. Be assured she will lack for nothing, most of all the knowledge that she is loved and respected. And I will prevail upon her to write you more often and to tell the truth in her letters.

  Sincerely,

  Lt. Jack Hennessey

  Chapter Thirty

  At the first hint of dawn on the horizon, Jack was usually tuned tighter than a piano string. He woke with new thoughts, new ideas, and a burning desire to see what he could accomplish before the sun disappeared on the opposing side of the vast prairie.

  This morning was different. Those rays coming through the window meant an interruption to the most joyful time of his life. An interruption, but not an end.

  He’d made the coffee himself. The kitchen filled with the thick, rich aroma. It felt strange to be standing in his kitchen, fixing to go back to work, when so much had changed. The bugle sounded outside, calling reveille. Jack gulped hot coffee as he scratched a brief note to his bride, but then he heard her on the stairs and decided his love might be better expressed in person.

  The green boughs of the Christmas decorations swayed as he whisked through the house to meet her before she reached the ground floor. He swept around the corner, snatched her off the steps, and swung her around.

  Hattie squealed and wrapped her arms around his neck. She still carried the bed’s warmth in her nightclothes, but he could also feel her own warmth through the soft fabric.

  “Good morning,” she murmured into his neck. “Is it time to leave already?”

  His arms tightened around her. He grinned as he thought of thirteen-year-old Jack, who would never have believed this possible. “The world didn’t stop turning, even for us,” he said. Leaving her would be torture, but how sweet it would be to think about his return all day.

  “I’ll finish decorating for Christmas, now that we know we’re staying here,” she said.

  “Should I send a guard to protect my books, or will you promise not to throw any out?”

  “You’d better just watch me yourself,” she said as she twisted a brass button on his uniform.

  A shadow passed by the French doors of his office. It looked like Major Adams wasn’t going to wait for him to make an appearance at roll call.

  “Duty calls,” he said. He kissed her ever-so-willing lips. “I’ll carry this with me all day.”

  “As long as you need more by tonight,” she said.

  Major Adams knocked on the door. Had Jack not feared the major would kick it in, he would have followed Hattie back to their room and claimed temporary deafness. He waited until she’d disappeared upstairs before opening the door.

  “Major Adams, sir!” Jack saluted as his commander stepped inside.

  Major Adams sauntered by with his hands clasped behind his back and announced, “You are firmly in my debt. I expect it’ll take the rest of your life to repay me for the good turn I gave you.”

  “What? How do you take the credit for this?”

  “Because I’m the one who insisted that the wedding was binding. Your undying gratitude will be payment enough.”

  Jack leaned against the banister with his arms crossed. “Did you come over for a purpose besides gloating?”

  “Ingrate. Yes. They found a man just like you said. Hiding upstairs in the commissary building on the third floor, and he wasn’t just injured. His leg has more holes in it than a pepper box. Looks like the work of the Cheyenne.”

  “You think they shot up Sloane?”

  “If they knew he stole their payment, they wouldn’t have been so kind, but it’s not Sloane. It’s his partner,” Major Adams said. “Olin Bixby’s the name. The marshal thinks his likeness is similar to the one in Mrs. Hennessey’s painting, but we haven’t accused him yet. As far as he knows, he’s at the Darlington infirmary for his own good. My guess is that he and Mr. Sloane split the money and took out in different directions. Then the Cheyenne caught Bixby alone and worked him over. Naturally he couldn’t go to the doctor, so he holed up in the cellar of the school, waiting to heal and make his getaway.”

  “Or waiting for a chance to dispose of the witness,” Jack said.

  Major Adams placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “She’s secure here. She’ll come to no harm.”

  “Where’s the money?” Hattie came downstairs dressed, and for the first time in two days, her hair was pinned up and her shoes were on. “Wasn’t that the whole purpose of the heist?”

  Jack couldn’t stop grinning. It took Major Adams’s obnoxious throat clearing to bring him around.

  “Yes, the money. We have to recover it,” Daniel said. “Things will get heated if the tribes have to wait on Congress to approve another payment. But before we can proceed, we need a positive identification.”

  Jack’s smile faded. “I don’t think she’s ready for that.”

  “Are you talking about me?” Hattie asked.

  “It’s essential,” Major Adams said. “Why haul him to Judge Parker when the witness is here? If he’s not the one we’re looking for, we’re wasting time. She can go in with the doctor and pretend to assist him. Just for a moment, so she can get a look at him.”

  “Please, sir.” Jack really hated contradicting his superior, but no one understood the nightly fears that tormented his wife. “Her constitution isn’t strong enough. Not yet.”

  Hattie stepped between them. Her face was so pale it looked translucent. “I’ll do it,” she said. “I owe it to Agent Gibson and the driver.”

  Jack clasped his hands behind his back. He always hated giving his men difficult assignments, but never had he regretted one so much.

  “When Dr. Graff asks for clean bandages, you bring him this.” Jack placed a bundle of white strips in Hattie’s hand, but she could barely feel them with her cold fingers. “Take a look at the man on the cot and leave. That’s all you need to do.”

  The smell of camphor would always remind Hattie of the nauseating feeling she was experiencing right now. She’d nearly died hiding from the outlaw, and now she was going to walk into a small room with him. The smell of gunpowder replaced the camphor in her memory. The driver motioning for her to hide. Her decision to face the killer, and then running for her life as he chased her from above and shot down at her. Darkness falling as she huddled in the cold.

  “Hattie? Hattie?”

  Her eyes cleared. Jack was stooping to catch her gaze.

  “I’ll be on the other side of the door,” he said. “Even if Bixby is the killer, he probably won’t recognize you. Just go in and take a peek. That’s all.”

  Dr. Graff twisted his cravat pin nervously. “I never was much of a performer.”

  “You’re changing his bandages,” Jack said. “You’ve done it several times already. Nothing different.”

  “Except now I know he’s a murderer. That’s a new piece of information. Why don’t you pretend to be the doctor?”

  Even through her distress, Hattie could hear Jack’s frustration. “He’s your patient. Now get in there.” With an outstretched arm, Jack motioned to the hallway that led to the examination rooms.

  The doctor straightened his spine and smoothed his cravat. “See,” he mumbled to Hattie, “nothing to worry about.” And then he disappeared down the hall.

  She dreaded seeing Bixby with every ounce of her strength. Maybe it wouldn’t be him. Maybe it was just a trespasser the Cheyenne had caught. But was that what she wanted? Wouldn’t it be better for the killer to already be caught?

  Jack placed his hand at the base of her neck. He squeezed, and only then did she realize how tight her shoulders were.

  “It’ll only take a second,” Jack said. “You can do this. You’ve been so
brave already.”

  Running away had taken no courage at all. Now she was supposed to go to him on purpose?

  “Nurse. Bandages, please.”

  Hattie’s stomach dropped. That was her cue.

  Jack released her. She took a deep, camphor-filled breath. “Go on,” he whispered.

  She took one step, and then her legs took over. They carried her so quickly that she was inside the room before she was prepared. She had to stay objective, but the injured man’s presence repelled her. Instead she focused on the doctor, who was sawing through bloody bandages with a scalpel. The man’s pant leg had been cut off, exposing a scarlet, infected leg. Hattie tried to look at his face, but she couldn’t lift her eyes. Instead she placed the bandages in the hand of the doctor, bowed her head, and turned to leave.

  The same panic that had propelled her through the frigid canyon drew her into the hallway. But she couldn’t go. Not yet. Hattie grasped the doorframe of the examination room and held on for dear life. She wouldn’t let Agent Gibson down, and she wouldn’t let Jack down, but most of all, she wouldn’t disappoint herself. If she didn’t look this man in the eyes, she would always feel that she hadn’t done her part.

  Gritting her teeth, Hattie turned—just in time to see Olin Bixby reach for the scalpel.

  Dr. Graff was holding Bixby’s leg up as he wound the fresh bandage around it. Bixby never took his eyes off the doctor, but he was inching his hand toward the forgotten knife barely visible in the sheets. If she didn’t do something . . .

  Hattie rushed forward and grabbed Bixby by the wrist. He dropped the scalpel, and she snatched it up before he could recover.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Bixby growled. He kicked his leg free from the doctor’s grasp as he glared at her.

  Hattie met his gaze—his black, furious gaze. The same narrow face. The same chipped tooth. Then his eyes tightened. He recognized her. He did. And that moment’s hesitation showed what she thought she’d never see on him. Fear.

  Hattie released his arm and stepped away, still clutching the scalpel. “Dr. Graff, you need to be careful where you leave your equipment. We don’t want our patient to hurt himself.” She was walking backward toward the door, not letting Bixby out of her sight. For the first time that day, she felt in control.

  His brow was furrowed as he eased his leg down. His mouth curled into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just trying to help out the doc,” he said. “No reason to get jumpy.”

  He thought he still had a chance. Hattie saw the knowledge in his face. He imagined that she didn’t recognize him.

  She paused in the doorway. As badly as she wanted to scream for Jack’s help and arrest him immediately, she couldn’t predict how the villain would respond. She couldn’t put Dr. Graff’s life in danger.

  “I apologize, Mr. Bixby. I didn’t mean to startle you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more bandages to roll.”

  Her warm smile did the trick. Bixby laid back against the headboard. Dr. Graff stopped spinning his cravat pin and returned to the bandages, while Hattie made her way to the hall.

  She’d faced the fiend, and he hadn’t won. She could beat him. She’d wondered why she had survived the attack, and now she knew. Without her, there would have been no one to look at his face and convict him. It was because she’d survived that justice would be done, but she had to do her part.

  But there was still one man free who could hurt her.

  Sloane.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  With the evil spirit from the basement now identified and under guard, Jack had volunteered to take the happy news to the tribes that the school was safe and the Christmas program could recommence.

  That left Hattie with time on her hands, and she was in the mood for some female companionship, so she gathered her paints and headed next door.

  The Adams ladies were delighted that she’d braved the short, icy trip to visit, and when Daisy spotted her box of paints, she flung her arms around Hattie.

  “I do love to paint. Grandmother brought me scads of shells from Galveston. Let’s paint them.”

  “Painted shells? Who would want those?” Caroline asked, although her disdain for her sister’s idea seemed manufactured.

  “The Indians wear them as jewelry. They’ll love them,” Daisy said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Are you comfortable living next door?” Louisa asked. “When Major Adams and I were courting, he took me to dinner at Lieutenant Hennessey’s a few times. After seeing his parlor, I’ve been worried about your safety. Bump into the wrong stack of books, and we might never find you again.”

  Hattie laughed. “I’ve got a hardy constitution,” she assured her. “And I started setting things aright immediately. He needed my help.”

  “You never know, do you?” Louisa said. “Lieutenant Jack is the most articulate, disciplined man. One would expect his home to be as controlled as he is.”

  Hattie could feel her face warming. Jack wasn’t as in control as he pretended. “Looks are deceiving,” she said. Then, to draw the attention away from her suddenly pink cheeks, she pointed at the girl entering the room. “My, you have a lot of shells, Daisy.”

  Hattie reached into Daisy’s basket and picked a white shell shaped like a fan. She flipped it over and rubbed her thumb on the smooth, flat underside of the shell. “There’s room enough to paint here.”

  “Hurrah! Let’s do them in the kitchen,” Daisy cheered and ran off toward the back of the house.

  “I’m sorry about her.” Louisa ran a hand over the curls that were gathered on her shoulder. “She’s as jumpy as a frog sitting on a firecracker.”

  “Louisa,” Caroline groaned, “where do you come up with these sayings?”

  “This mule driver used to say that. He’d come through the Cat-Eye Saloon every spring on his way delivering supplies here in the nations. He had a temper, but when he was sober, he could tell stories like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Hattie must have misunderstood. Louisa was as beautiful and refined as any lady she’d ever expected to meet in the big cities. What in the world was she talking about?

  Seeing her confusion, Caroline said, “My new mother has a very interesting collection of skills. Don’t ever challenge her to a singing competition . . . or a chess match.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.” But Hattie was glad to see that Caroline looked proud of her.

  “Will you be giving painting lessons in Darlington?” Louisa asked. “Assuming the school continues, that is.”

  “I hadn’t really considered that possibility. Perhaps if they’d allow it.”

  Louisa’s smile was stunning. “I think you know the right people to make it happen.” She started toward the kitchen, then turned to Caroline, who was watching listlessly out the window. “Don’t you want to paint some?”

  “Nah.” Caroline flung her red hair over her shoulder. “Let Daisy play at it. My works are more suited to real canvases.”

  “Does Caroline paint?” Hattie asked as the young lady sauntered out of the room.

  Louisa checked over her shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot. “Often and very poorly. Daisy is so much better, but we’re conspiring together to make sure Caroline never realizes it.”

  “Would it crush her?”

  “No.” Louisa laughed. “She’d think we were lying and be furious.”

  They entered the kitchen, where Daisy had dumped the shells on the table. “This is a capital idea, Mrs. Hennessey. Do you think that together we could paint a shell for every student at the school?”

  “What an excellent Christmas gift!” Hattie said. “I’d be honored if you’d let me help.”

  Louisa patted Daisy on the back as she hopped and clapped her hands together. Hattie was suddenly struck with the thought that she herself was a married woman. She had a husband, a house, and could soon start a family. It wasn’t something she’d particularly planned for, but the thought of starting a family with Jack seemed
intrinsically whole. She missed him. He’d only be gone for the afternoon, but already she missed him. What would he say about their prospects for the future? That would be a conversation she might find too sensitive to begin.

  While Daisy and Louisa spread an oilcloth over the table, Hattie held a chalky shell in her hand and tried to think of what a student would want to see—or what a particular student would like. The first one she thought of was Tom. What could she give to help him not feel so far from home? What would he see as special?

  Taking a fine brush, she started with his horse. The black pony he’d ridden from his village hadn’t been stabled in town, and he undoubtedly missed it. When it came time to paint the boy, Hattie hesitated. Should she paint him as she’d first met him on the cold day he’d accompanied them to Fort Reno? That was the past. She’d rather give him a picture of the future. The boy she painted on the Indian pony was Tom, but it was Tom as he looked now. His hair was chopped, and he wore the school’s uniform. Not that he couldn’t do as he wished when he went back home, but she wanted him to remember that the outside appearance wouldn’t change the things he loved.

  Daisy stepped behind her. “Great Saturn’s rings!” she gasped.

  “Daisy,” Louisa said, “didn’t your father tell you not to say that?”

  “But you do.”

  “Not anymore,” she said. “Now what’s the matter?”

  “Look at what Mrs. Hennessey painted. It’s Tom Broken Arrow.”

  Hattie turned the shell for Louisa to see.

  “Great Saturn’s rings,” Louisa said. “That’s amazing.”

  “Do you think he’ll like it?” Hattie asked.

  “He’ll love it!” Daisy said. “Can you teach me how to do that? But I want to paint a tepee for Mirabel. She and I practice drawing them together when I visit.”

  “That sounds perfect.” Just the thing Hattie needed to keep her mind off the slowly passing time until Jack returned.

  The wind carried hard bits of ice that stung like someone was pelting Jack in the face with salt. But his trip had been worth it. The tidings of catching the thief hiding beneath the school both reassured the parents that the cavalry had taken their concerns seriously and proved that the problem had been dealt with. The fact that the outlaw had also been the one the Cheyenne had harassed gave them something to be proud of. It wasn’t often that they were praised for their ill-treatment of guests, but in this case, they had slowed him down long enough for the authorities to catch up with him. Their only regret was that they wished they’d known Olin Bixby was the one responsible for their missing payment from the government. The Cheyenne and Arapaho were confident that Bixby would tell them where the gold was hidden once he’d experienced their arts of persuasion.