Merline Lovelace (2 page)

The jumble of buildings that now lay scattered along the flats defined by a bend in the river were a mix of concrete-lime, wood and adobe. In keeping with army tradition, most of the structures surrounded
the rectangular parade ground. A few out-buildings had sprung up where nature best suited the need. The corral and stables were upwind of the main post, the latrine sinks downriver.

This late in the evening the bugler had already sounded first call for tattoo, when all personnel except the guards were expected to be in quarters and preparing for lights-out. Surgeon-Lieutenant Colonel Henry Schnell would already have left the post hospital and retired to his home. It was there Andrew now headed.

A two-story structure of wood and mud-brick, the surgeon’s quarters reflected both his rank and his position as one of the cultural leaders of Fort Laramie’s small community. The neat white picket fence and scraggly rosebush sending out more thorns than blossoms reflected his wife’s determination to carve her own piece of civilization from the windswept wilderness of the Great Plains.

Schnell was a good man, a good soldier and a good surgeon. He’d arrived at Fort Laramie in the fall of ’65, still haunted by the killing fields of Gettysburg and Antietam. Like Andrew and the rest of the regulars who’d breathed the suffocating smoke of cannon and rifle fire during the war years, Henry had found solace in the open skies and clean, biting winds of Wyoming.

Kicking free of the stirrups, Andrew threw a leg over the pommel and slid out of the saddle with the still-lifeless Julia in his arms. The jar when he hit the
ground sent hot lances spearing into his hip. Ignoring the pain he’d long ago learned to live with, he carried his limp burden up the steps and hammered on the surgeon’s door.

The brawny private who served as Henry’s aide answered a moment later. The big, bluff Irishman’s eyes popped when Fort Laramie’s second ranking officer brushed past with a woman held against his chest.

“Is Colonel Schnell in quarters?”

“Yes, soor,” Rafferty answered in his rolling brogue. “But he’n Mrs. Colonel Schnell have gone t’bed.”

“Present my apologies for disturbing them so late, Rafferty, but I have someone who requires his immediate attention.”

“Yes, soor.”

While the private clattered up the stairs to relay the message, Andrew strode into the parlor at the front of the house. The high-ceilinged room contained the usual mix of stark furnishings provided by the Army and the personal memorabilia gathered over a long military career. Crossed swords hung above the mantel. Photographs and tintypes from past assignments decorated the walls. Lace covered a round, claw-footed table next to the humpbacked horsehair sofa.

Andrew had just bent to deposit his burden on the sofa when the post surgeon hurried into the parlor. Henry’s snowy white hair stood out in puffs at either side of his head, almost as thick and bushy as his
muttonchop sideburns and beard. He’d pulled on his uniform pants and stuffed in the tails of his unbleached linen nightshirt. Needlepoint carpet slippers covered his bare feet.

“Rafferty said you’d brought a woman in. Not one of ours, I see.”

With only a handful of officers’ wives, a dozen or so laundresses and one as-yet unmarried housemaid in residence at the post, it didn’t surprise Andrew that Henry would know at a glance his patient wasn’t one of the army dependents.

“She’s from the wagon train camped on the bluffs.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She fainted.”

“Well move aside, man. Let me have a look at her.”

Bending over the sofa, the surgeon lifted Julia’s eyelids, tested her pulse, then bent to listen to the rhythm of her breathing. Finally, he laid the back of his hand against her cheeks.

“No fever or clammy skin. Pupils aren’t glazed. Doesn’t look to me like anything serious.”

Andrew let out a slow breath. The tight knot in his chest eased. Annoyed that one had even formed, he crossed his arms and fought a frown while Henry continued his examination.

The physician encountered layers of thick stiffening and whalebone stays and chuffed in disgust. “Blasted corsets! If women would stop wearing those
abominations, they might not faint so often. Won’t let Mrs. Schnell bring one into the house, much less strap one around her middle.”

Muttering over the follies of female vanity, he shook his head. “What woman would wear a corset in the heat of summer, while traveling across the Plains?”

“This one would.”

The caustic reply earned Andrew a sharp glance. “You know her?”

“Yes.”

“Well, who is she, man?”

Andrew stared down at the face he’d loved and cursed with equal passion. A muscle ticked in the side of his jaw as he dragged the answer from the dark pit where he’d long ago buried all thoughts of Julia Robichaud.

“She’s my wife.”

J
ulia woke to find herself in a strange room on a strange bed. Someone had removed her outer dress and loosened her stays. They’d also freed her braids of the combs that anchored them to her scalp. She sat up quickly, gasping when her senses swam. Swallowing nausea and panic in big, fast gulps, she searched the shadowy darkness.

“Suzanne?”

“Are you sick, Mama?”

Her daughter’s frightened question snapped Julia’s head around. Suzanne huddled at the edge of the wide bed, her brown eyes huge. Her thumb hovered an inch from her lips, and she clutched the porcelain doll that was her prized possession hard against her chest.

Julia’s choking panic receded. With a sob of relief, she opened her arms. “No,
ma petite papillon,
I was just a little tired. Come, let me hold you.”

The five-year-old needed no further urging. Scrambling over the mattress, she cuddled against her
mother under the goose-down comforter. Julia wrapped her arms around the child and tried to make sense of the confused thoughts swirling through her head.

The attempt started the pounding at the back of her skull that had plagued her for the past few days. Whirling black spots danced in front of her eyes. She squeezed her lids shut, buried her nose in her child’s silky brown hair and gave herself up to the void.

She woke the second time to the piercing call of a bugle and the tantalizing aroma of bacon and coffee. Fresh ground coffee, made from real beans. And bread. Hot, baked bread! A mere whiff was enough to make Julia’s stomach cramp.

Her mouth watering, she listened as the bugle’s last note died away. Her first instinct was to turn on her side, curl into a tight ball and gnaw on her forefinger to keep from calling out and begging for a sip, just one sip, of that tantalizing coffee. Pride forced to her lay stiff and still and take stock of her surroundings.

Where was she? Whose bedroom was this? She recognized neither the oval portraits on the plaster wall nor the fringed shawl covering the table next to the bed. And where was Suzanne? The bed beside her was empty except for the flaxen-haired doll tucked neatly between the sheets.

The sound of footsteps outside the room brought Julia’s head around. Fighting another wave of dizziness, she struggled to sit up in the bed.

“Good, you’re awake.”

A plump, cheerful matron dressed in a black bombazine bustled in, a tray held high in her hands.

“You’ve had a good sleep now, haven’t you? I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you a bite to eat.”

Eat! This stranger was inviting her to eat. Not just bacon, she saw when the woman bent to place the tray on the table beside the bed, but bread, too. Thick slices of white bread, slathered with lard and what looked like gooseberry jelly.

Julia’s stomach spasmed again, so viciously her knees drew up under the downy feather bed. With an effort that put a sheen of perspiration on her brow, she ignored the cramping pains and politely refused the tray.

“I’m…I’m not hungry, thank you. But my daughter…”

“She’s downstairs,” the older woman assured her. “She finished her breakfast earlier, while you were still asleep. What a little trooper that girl is! She cleaned her plate twice, and still had room for the honey cakes the colonel’s striker fried up for her.”

Julia fell back on the pillows, at once confused, grateful and more than a little desperate. She had no idea how she’d come to sleep in a bed, much less how she would pay this woman for food or lodging. She’d sold every piece of jewelry she had left, even her wedding ring, to get Suzanne and herself as far as Omaha by train. What little had remained of her
precious hoard went to secure places for them in the Hottenfelder’s wagon and pay for their share of the supplies.

That share should have been enough, more than enough, to see them to Montana Territory. If summer storms hadn’t swollen the rivers and delayed crossings for days on end… If lightning hadn’t started a prairie fire and sent the wagons fleeing thirty or more miles back the way they’d come… If Julia hadn’t passed her meager share of the remaining rations to Suzanne and become so dizzy and weak…

The “ifs” banged in her head like sticks on a tin drum.

If her father hadn’t died and left Julia in the guardianship of her uncle.

If the Robichaud shipping line hadn’t failed.

If her husband hadn’t deserted her.

Sighing, she shoved aside the useless thoughts. She’d gotten herself and her daughter this far. She’d get them the rest of the way. Somehow.

“I’ll leave this tray with you,” the older woman said with her cheerful smile. “There’s water in the jug on the washstand if you want to wash first.”

Swallowing, Julia tore her gaze from the thick-slabbed bacon and bread. “Thank you, Mrs…?”

“Gracious, I should have introduced myself, shouldn’t I? I’m Maria Schnell. My husband’s the post surgeon here at Fort Laramie. He tended to you last night after you fainted.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Schnell, but I’m—I’m not hungry.”

“Hungry or not, you’d best eat every bite. We can’t have you swooning again now, can we?”

Pride and shame waged a fierce battle. The only way to vanquish them, Julia had learned these past months, was to pin on a bright smile and admit the galling truth.

“You’re very generous, but I’m afraid I’m temporarily out of funds. I can’t pay for food or for the lodging you gave us last night. I’ll have to write you a draft and send you the money when we—”

“Mercy, child, I’m not expecting payment for a bit of bread and bacon. Go on now, drink your coffee before it gets cold and call me if you want more. I’ll go downstairs and see to Suzanne while you have your breakfast.”

With another smile, she bustled out. Julia stared at the closed door for all of two seconds before she snatched up a slice of bread. Just enough of her tattered dignity remained for her to resist cramming it whole into her mouth. As it was, the first slice disappeared in four ravenous bites, the second slice almost as quickly. The bread’s texture was coarse, the crust soft and soggy, but it constituted the first solid food she’d eaten in three days. No fresh baguette, no flaky brioche or cream-filled pastry from one of New Orleans’s street vendors had ever tasted as wonderful.

She attacked the bacon as well, and had just lifted the china coffee cup when another piercing bugle call
sounded, seemingly right outside her window. Startled, Julia sloshed dark liquid over the cup’s sides and into the saucer. Fearful of staining her hostess’s feather comforter, she quickly replaced the cup on the tray.

The sound of tramping boots and jingling bridles followed the bugle call, vivid reminders that she’d arrived at a military post yesterday. Or was it the day before?

Lifting a shaky hand, Julia pressed it against her temple. She remembered the wagons lumbering to a halt. Remembered feeling her stomach twist inside and out while she and the other women waited for the men to purchase fresh supplies at the trader’s store. She remembered, too, praying fervently that she could convince Hiram Hottenfelder to take a promissory note for supplies to get her and Suzanne through the next stage of their journey.

Peaches!

She remembered Augusta shrieking something about peaches and calling her a slut. Julia had sent Suzanne to the wagon then, knowing the tensions that had been simmering for more than a week were about to burst. And burst they had, in front of the entire camp.

The entire camp…and a stranger.

Julia scrubbed the heel of her hand across her forehead, mortified all over again that an outsider had witnessed the humiliating scene. Not just an outsider. An officer. A Yankee officer.

Her hand dropped. She drew in a swift breath, remembering all too clearly now the major who’d stalked forward, stiff-legged and unsmiling.

A chill pumped through her veins and spread like winter frost into her chest. For a moment, when that savage smile had cut across the major’s face, he’d looked like…

No! Hunger had played tricks with her mind. Cruel, vicious tricks. It was just a look about the eyes. The glint of chestnut in his hair. He bore a passing resemblance to another man, that was all. She hadn’t let herself think about that despicable
bâtard
in years. She would not do so now.

Now, she’d best get dressed, collect Suzanne and go mend her fences with Augusta. The woman wasn’t mean, not down deep, just waspish and absurdly jealous in all matters relating to her thick-necked, plodding husband.

Biting into the last of the bacon, Julia chewed thoughtfully while she straightened her stockings and petticoats, and struggled with the strings of her corset. A quick scrub with soap and a linen cloth made her wish with all her heart for a full bath. Unfortunately, she had neither the time nor the means for such a luxury. Smoothing the errant strands of the braid that reached almost to her waist, she wove it into a coronet atop her head and anchored it back in place. The bone pins dug into her scalp, but she was too used to the annoyance to notice.

Her sadly wrinkled walking dress lay over the foot
of the bed. She’d pulled the dress out of her trunk yesterday afternoon in the mistaken hope that a bright look might make it easier for her to swallow her pride and beg Hiram to take her and Suzanne on to Montana Territory with a promise of payment upon arrival. Instead, she’d succeeded only in fanning Augusta’s jealousy into rage.

With a shake of her head at her own folly, Julia stepped into the skirt and tied the tapes of the bustle behind her thighs before buttoning on the blouse and silk half jacket. After straightening the bedcovers, she lifted the tray and opened the bedroom door.

A long hall greeted her, decorated with dark-framed hunting prints and family portraits. Rustling past the closed doors of the other rooms, she headed for the stairs. The narrow steps dropped at a steep angle, then cut a sharp right at a landing midway down. Catching her skirts with one hand, Julia balanced the tray with the other and started down. She’d managed only a few of the narrow treads when the sound of male voices slowed her descent.

“No, soor.”

The accent was so thick Julia barely understood the words.

“She ain’t be comin’ down yet. Mrs. Colonel Schnell’s in the kitchen, though.”

“Please tell her I’m here, Rafferty.”

The second voice halted Julia where she stood. Her heart slammed against her whalebone stays and the china on the tray began to shake. She recognized that
deep, smooth voice. She’d heard it recently, at the wagons. And before, so many years before…

“Yes, soor. Will ye be havin’ a seat in the parlor, then?”

“No, I’ll wait in the hall.”

Her pulse pounding, Julia took another step and reached the landing. In the hall below she saw the dark-blue crown of a cavalry officer’s hat. The gold tassels crossed on the wide brim glinted in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

While she watched with wide, disbelieving eyes, he removed his hat and dusted it impatiently against the yellow stripe on his pants leg. As it had last night, the coppery glint hidden deep in his dark-brown hair drew her anguished gaze.

Julia couldn’t breathe, could barely see for the spots that swam in front of her eyes. Her knees gave out. She sat down on the stairs with a thump and a rattle of china.

He looked up then, and her heart stopped in her chest.

For a stunned moment, the years rolled back. To New Orleans in the early weeks of the war, when women still wore wide hoops and lace, and danced gaily at balls given to raise funds for their gallant men in the field. To a mansion on LaFayette Street, its facade a masterpiece of iron grillwork, its tall windows thrown open to the steamy summer night. To the dashing rogue who wooed a silly, feather-headed girl with such consummate, cold-blooded skill.

His eyes, the same steel-blue eyes that had glinted at her in amusement the night they’d met, now looked up at her in cold contempt. Something else followed the contempt, something quickly come and just as quickly gone. Something so close to hate that Julia’s blood chilled.

He had cause to hate her, she acknowledged bitterly.

Almost as much as she had to hate him.

He came up the stairs, taking each one slowly, his hard eyes never leaving her face. She wanted to scream at him. Wanted to throw the tray in his face. Wanted even more to scramble back and scuttle ignominiously away from this lean, dangerous stranger who planted a boot on the step below hers and pinned her to the tread with a glance of withering scorn. Instead, being Julia, she tipped her chin and fought to find her voice.

“I—I thought you were dead.”

His mouth twisted in the same savage smile he’d shown her last night. “I came to wish I was. Many times.”

He was so close, so overpoweringly close. She had to tilt her head back to view his face. The stair’s edge cut into the small of her back.

“I saw you,” she whispered. “That night you came back to New Orleans, I saw you lying in a pool of your own blood.”

“Your uncle’s aim was off. I took the bullet in the hip.”

She could hardly believe the evidence of her own eyes! For so many years, she’d believed him dead. Now he was here, looming over her, a spectre from her past. She’d once loved him with all the passion of her young and foolish heart, and he’d betrayed her. All the pain, all the misery Julia had endured as a shattered sixteen-year-old came rushing back.

“Trître!”
she spit. “I wish you had taken the bullet straight through your heart.”

“I’ve no doubt you do. But just to set matters straight, I was no traitor. I was a soldier then, as I am now.”

The flat assertion roused her fury. Her whole body shook with it. Fearful of breaking the china that rattled like old bones, she shoved the tray aside.

“You were a spy! A Yankee spy! You came to my uncle’s house, you ate his food and drank his wine and you played your games with me, all to gain information about the Robichaud steamships and schedules!”

He leaned down, forcing her head back farther. She saw her own rage reflected in the taut line of his jaw.

“I came to your uncle’s house and drank his wine to gain information. You, my so beautiful and so spoiled Julia, were an unexpected bonus.”