Laura Abbot (7 page)

Her eyes were heavy, but she managed brief prayers. The last word on her lips before she fell asleep was
Caleb.

* * *

The ride had been long and hot. Columns of dust billowed behind the hooves of their many horses. Early on in the mission, Caleb had felt reinvigorated. Action was welcome after weeks of routine drilling, but the constant glare of the sun and the wind cutting across their faces had made parts of their trek unrelieved misery. Maddeningly, the marauding Indians had been canny in their efforts to elude the troops. Even when the army scouts located them, often by the time the column of riders arrived at the rendezvous point, the enemy had vanished into the endless rolling prairie. The high point, thus far, had been searching for and finding a five-year-old boy who had wandered away from his wagon train encampment.

Despite the heat and the lack of success in fighting the Indians, it was a comfort to be back in the saddle, performing familiar functions and sleeping under the stars. The final night’s bivouac was a scant ten miles from Fort Larned. After making a routine sweep among his men, most of whom were already asleep, he bedded down shortly before midnight.

He had barely closed his eyes when he was awakened by a sentry. “Horse thieves,” he muttered. Caleb struggled into his boots, grabbed his rifle and took off at a lope toward the perimeter where the horses were tethered.

The sentry whispered hoarsely, “Indians. They’re hiding among the horses.”

Caleb whistled for Bucephalus, then fired a warning shot in the air. Several more troops staggered toward them. “Rout them out before they steal our horses.”

Led by Caleb, several of the men plunged into the mass of horseflesh. With only a sliver of a moon for light, it was difficult to distinguish between horses and Indians, especially when they were adept at straddling an animal, clinging to the mane and dropping over the side so as to be undetectable.

Caleb leaped on Bucephalus, clutched his mane with one hand and prodded him forward. In the distance he could barely make out a group of eight horses slowly detaching from the herd. He galloped after them as they began moving more swiftly toward a nearby hill. To his right he noticed one of his cavalrymen. “Follow me!” he shouted. They charged into the open prairie fifty yards or so from the group of stolen horses. The Indians, slowed by the horses they were leading, tried to escape. By then a few more mounted cavalrymen had joined the hunt. When they narrowed the gap, Caleb yelled, “Spare the horses, but fire on the riders.”

In the ensuing fray, three cavalry horses broke loose and galloped off, but five still remained in enemy hands. Every time Caleb thought he had a clear aim, the Indians changed direction. Finally he drew a bead on the leader. With one shot, he succeeded in bringing him down. Almost simultaneously, other deafening shots rang out, felling two more thieves. One pinto tore for the hills, its rider bent low.

The remaining horses were rounded up by morning. Thankfully, no cavalry mounts had been lost. The three dead Indians would either teach their fellows a lesson or incite them to retribution. Yet Caleb took no satisfaction in killing. This was a war without rules and little way to distinguish peaceable Indians from their more hostile numbers.

After burying the dead and packing their gear, the troop made its way toward the fort. Even considering the excitement and danger of the night, Caleb, instead of feeling spent, was energized. They had foiled the horse thieves and were headed home at last. The steady rhythm of horses’ hooves and the creak-crack of saddle leather provided accompaniment for the mental exercise of preparing his report for the colonel. Before he knew it, they had crested the rise just beyond the fort. Something clenched within him, and he knew, despite Will Creekmore’s remarks about courting, he had been counting the hours until he would see Lily again. As they trotted into the fort, it was all he could do to keep his eyes forward instead of sweeping the scene for her slight figure.

After securing the horses and checking in at headquarters, he and Will headed for their home and the welcome bath that awaited them. Will unpacked quickly, bathed first and then strode toward the sutler’s to collect their mail.

Caleb had just finished shaving when Will burst through the door with a loud huzzah, waving a letter over his head. “She’s coming! My Fannie’s coming!” He danced a jig before stopping in his tracks, a large smile wreathing his face. “Cap’n,” he said in a wondering tone, “my Fannie is going to marry me.”

“You’re a lucky man, Will.”

“A blessed man,” the lieutenant corrected him. “Blessed beyond all measure.” He stared at the letter before slowly folding it and stowing it in his pocket. As if speaking only to himself, he said, “I am half a man without my Fannie.”

Caleb turned away, lest he reveal too much of himself. Thanks to Rebecca, he knew that feeling of being half a man. Yet he, too, had a restless urge to complete himself, to know the kind of love Will celebrated.

That evening after supper, he sat rocking on the porch with Will, who smoked a cigar, its pungent aroma perfuming the night air. Mourning doves cooed in the distance. From the enlisted men’s barracks came the sound of singing, the rich harmonies a plaintive reminder of so many nights around campfires.

Suddenly, his breath quickened. Lily came out of the library and stood for a moment, a small book clutched in her hand, scanning the officers’ quarters. She must have seen him then, for she raised her hand in greeting.

He nodded, incapable of speech even if it had been called for.

Then she picked up her skirt and walked toward her home.

Caleb leaned back in the rocker, the sounds and the smells of the fort a comfort to him amid his questions. Had Lily been looking for him as he had been looking for her? And why, despite the need to exercise reason, had the sight of her filled him with such spontaneous joy?

Chapter Seven

N
ot for the first time Caleb wondered why he had agreed to take part in the poetry reading. It was one thing to find personal enjoyment in the genre, but quite another to expose himself to possible ridicule by his men. At least his selection—Milton’s description of Satan’s fall from Heaven—had teeth in it. He stood at the back of the commissary, listening to the others rehearse. Major Hurlburt did a fine Longfellow, but the wife of a junior officer massacred her assigned Shakespearean sonnet.

Effie Hurlburt, self-appointed director of the production, positioned the readers on the makeshift stage, then hurried to the back of the room to be certain each could be heard.

Caleb was surprised by Lily’s absence. With her love of poetry, she, of all people, should be involved. As if anticipating his unvoiced question, Effie returned to the front and reviewed the program. “You will begin, Sergeant.” She nodded at a barrel-chested man with oratorical skill who had selected “No More Words,” a Civil War poem. “Then we will follow in the order by which we practiced, ending with Miss Kellogg’s reading. Alas, duties at the hospital prevented her from joining us for rehearsal, but I assure you she will provide a fitting conclusion for our evening’s entertainment.” She paused, eyeing them in the manner of a strict schoolmarm. “Now then, are there any questions?”

“Do you think anyone will come?” asked a jittery company clerk.

“If I have anything to say about it.” Effie glanced smugly at the major. “And if I have to pull rank, I will.” She smiled encouragingly at the clerk. “Listen to me, son. This is fine entertainment. Afterward, the others will all wish they could so commandingly declaim poetry.”

Caleb mentally rolled his eyes. It would take more than that to impress some of the more jaded fellows, but even poetry trumped boredom.

As the group dispersed, Effie Hurlburt approached him. “Captain, would you kindly help me hang streamers from the walls? A bit of bunting will add a festive air to the proceedings.”

As they went about their work, Effie chattered about the weather and offered tidbits of fort gossip. Caleb couldn’t help wondering why she had selected him, rather than an enlisted man for this duty, but the answer soon came. When they finished, she turned to him. “For your labors, you deserve a reward. Escort me home for tea cakes and a spot of lemonade.” From the brisk way she began walking toward her house, he had little choice but to follow.

At her door, she led him in and urged him to sit in what was clearly the major’s armchair. When Caleb raised his eyebrows in question, she anticipated his concern. “You stay right there. Hurly’s in his office working on a dispatch, so we won’t be disturbed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will see to our refreshments.” She bustled from the room, leaving him to study the lacy antimacassars on the sofa and the Chinese vase on the fringed scarf atop the piano. It was almost as if Mrs. Hurlburt had lured him to her parlor for some purpose.

“Here we are.” She set a tray on a nearby table. After she had served him his lemonade, she took her own drink and sat on the sofa facing him. Without preliminary, she said, “I understand you will be leaving the army late this summer.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s just the two of us, dear. You don’t need to ‘ma’am’ me. I’m Effie. Besides, we’re just two friends having a cozy tête-à-tête.” She paused to sip from her lemonade. “What are your plans after you muster out?”

He told her about working with his father and brother on the ranch.

“Then you should not be too far from here.”

“About one hundred-fifty miles as the crow flies.”

“Do you plan to marry and start a family?”

“Eventually, but that’s down the road a long ways.”

“Why?”

Her bluntness set him back. “I’m not ready yet. I need to get settled.”

“Forgive an old woman’s candor, but I think you’re fooling yourself.”

A trickle of perspiration worked its way down the small of his back. This was more inquisition than polite chat. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. Why are you waiting when golden opportunity is knocking at your door? You’ll be hard-pressed to find the likes of Lily Kellogg again.”

The light dawned. Just as he’d originally deduced, Effie Hurlburt delighted in matchmaking. “I do not dispute that she is a fine young woman. I value our friendship, but a friendship it must remain.”

“Poppycock!” Effie pursed her lips. “I do not understand why you are deluding yourself when you are so clearly in love with Lily.”

He couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d suddenly turned into a lioness. He sputtered, searching for a response. “With all due respect, wouldn’t I know that better than you?”

“Not at all. You young people can be oblivious to what’s right under your nose.” She fixed her eyes on him. “Are you going to sit there and tell me you’ve never thought of Lily as a potential wife?”

There was no satisfactory answer to that question. “No matter, because she would never regard me in that light.”

Ellie’s tinkling laughter unnerved him. “Are you daft, boy? She is crazy about you. She just hasn’t admitted it to herself yet.” She stifled a giggle. “And you? You big galoot. Whatever nonsense you tell yourself, you are in love with Lily Kellogg as all the world can clearly see.”

In love? He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be. Not after Rebecca’s betrayal. “You mock me, ma’am.”

“On the contrary, I’m trying to knock some sense into that thick head of yours. If you let Lily Kellogg get away, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.” She sat back, leaving the idea suspended in the silence. Then in a gentler tone, she said, “Now then, young man. Something is holding you back. What is it?”

He swallowed against the bitterness rising in his chest. “Love? It’s not all poetry and moonlight.” He bit off the words threatening to pour out of him. He’d already said too much.

“I see.” Effie’s expression softened. “So you’ve been hurt.” She nodded in apparent sympathy, gazing at him with such affection that he felt embarrassed. “I understand you don’t want to put yourself in that position again. And, yes, love involves risk. But are you convinced you want to let the woman who hurt you control your destiny?”

He looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“As long as you fail to act when love presents itself, you permit what she did to you to determine how you respond to new women in your life. Women like Lily. Tell me this. Was it Lily who hurt you? Lily who rejected you? No, so why do you make her the scapegoat for your past disappointments?”

Dumbfounded, he could scarcely take it all in. Effie Hurlburt had spared nothing in trying to open his eyes. “I hardly know what to say.”

“No need to say anything. You could, of course, call me a romantic meddler, but I’d prefer you think of me simply as one holding up a mirror to what is already in your heart.”

Desperate to avoid her penetrating gaze, he rose to his feet. “I appreciate your interest, but if you will excuse me, I really must take my leave.” As she stood to usher him out, he relented and took her hand. “I have no mother, but if she were still alive, I know she would like you.”

“That’s a fine compliment, Captain.” She squeezed his hand. “I’d like to think that she would say to you exactly what I’ve just said.”

Over the next hours, he vacillated between irritation at Effie Hurlburt’s interference and an attempt to probe the nature of his feelings for Lily. Could it be that others were seeing what he could not? Certainly Will Creekmore had come to the conclusion he was courting. Every time Caleb saw Lily it was as if his heart outpaced his brain. He was a soldier. Discipline was his stock-in-trade. Where Lily was concerned, though, he’d failed at governing himself. Even admitting his affection for her, could she ever accept a man flawed by the violence of battle? Yes, he had some serious thinking to do. He must face his reservations and come to a conclusion. Either court Lily or break off their friendship. While he would hate to end the latter, perhaps that was best. She could go her way, and he could leave the fort with a clear conscience and no encumbrances.

Once he’d decided that courting was out of the question, he spent the next day filled with relief. He’d made a decision. Now he merely had to act upon it.

That good intention prevailed only until the poetry reading. About half the troops turned out and were generally more attentive than he’d predicted. Some relished the poetry while others listened in bored stupefaction. Caleb had been well received, but he attributed that more to Milton’s magnificent words than his own elocution.

As soon as the readers had presented their offerings, they took their seats in the audience. After a dull rendition of “The Destruction of Sennacherib,” Lily came to the center of the stage for the finale. Lantern light cast an aura around her, creating a halo of her hair. She wore a misty sea-green dress, which made her resemble the beautiful lily for which she was named. Quiet settled over the audience. Then she began.

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.”

Caleb clenched his hands. He was unmanned by her words. By her. Then in a voice that spoke to his soul, she continued.

“I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints—I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.”

Caleb heard neither the hushed silence when she finished, nor the thunderous applause which followed. Stunned, he choked back the sobs threatening to tear from his throat. Pain. Promise. Where did one end and the other begin? He had no answer. All he knew was that, come what may, for good or for ill, he was desperately in love with Lily Kellogg.

* * *

After the poetry reading, Lily was surrounded by well-wishers, eager to comment on her emotional delivery of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnet. She caught a glimpse of Caleb across the room and hoped to find him later to congratulate him on his masterful reading of Milton. Given the fiery nature of the lines he read, she doubted even the most insensitive of his fellows would ever mock him.

“Miss Kellogg?” She’d noticed the private, barely out of his teens, waiting to speak with her and yielding his place to officers and their wives. Finally, the others had dispersed and he approached. “You don’t know me, but I’m Private Sydney Long. I, well...” He ducked his head. “I wanted to tell you how moved I was by your poem.”

“Private—may I call you Sydney?—I’m grateful for the compliment.” The lad looked up, and she was astonished to see tears pooling in his eyes. “Dear me, are you all right?”

He pulled a handkerchief from his coat, turned aside and blew his nose. “I’m sorry, it’s just that—”

“So you have a sweetheart, Sydney? Is that it?”

“
Had,
miss.
Had.
She died of the diphtheria.”

“Mercy, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You already did it, ma’am.” Then, in a mournful tone, he recited, “‘and, if God choose, / I shall but love thee better after death.’”

When he finished, Lily touched him gently on the shoulder. “Your young woman was lucky to have you, even for so short a time.”

When the private moved toward the door, Lily studied the nearly empty room. She caught a glimpse of Caleb in the company of Lieutenant Creekmore. She considered hurrying after him to compliment him, but she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself or give rise to rumors. Just before Caleb left, he turned in her direction, but without raising a hand in greeting or otherwise acknowledging her. On his face was the strangest look—serious, yet detached, and more puzzled than welcoming. Almost as if he were a man she didn’t know.

Thinking about it that night and most of the next day, she felt a prickly sense of uncertainty. Theirs had been an open and pleasant friendship, but that impression had been sorely compromised by his distancing stance at the reading. Had she done something wrong? Had something changed? And why did she permit such questions to plague her throughout the day?

Arriving home from her work at the hospital, the distraction of a letter from Aunt Lavinia pushed all thought of Caleb to the back of her mind.

Rose handed her the envelope, then stood wadding her apron in her hands. “Open it, Lily, or I shall die of curiosity.”

“I’m almost afraid. What if she thinks I’ve been presumptuous to write her and practically invite myself? Maybe I’ve offended her.”

Rose, ever practical, harrumphed. “Quit stalling. No amount of fretting will change by one whit what’s in that letter.”

With a silent plea heavenward, Lily slit the envelope and extracted the letter, written on heavy stationery embossed with Lavinia’s monogram.

My dearest niece,

I received your recent letter and am gratified by your interest in our fair city and your eagerness to visit Mr. Dupree and me. My understanding is that it is only you and, alas, not also your sister, Rose, who entertains the notion of traveling to St. Louis for what I hope can be an extended stay.

At this time, it is impossible for me to offer you firm plans for your trip. For a month this summer we will be traveling to New York City where Mr. Dupree has business and then on to stay with friends in Newport, Rhode Island, a welcome respite from a Missouri summer.

When we return from that trip, I shall have my husband’s secretary investigate suitable means of transportation and establish a travel schedule for you. I regret the uncertainty of my response, but you may tentatively plan to leave Fort Larned sometime in August. It will be my pleasure to attend to the financial arrangements for your trip. We may anticipate September for your possible arrival, which will thankfully give us sufficient time to work with the dressmaker to sew you up a new wardrobe more suitable to the demands of the social events you will attend.