Only in My Arms (15 page)

Florence nodded. "He was brooding about it tonight at supper. I think he's fearful that the Chiricahua will try to rescue you."

It was interesting, Ryder thought, that the Army had so little understanding of its enemy and made so little attempt to come by any. "There's not going to be any rescue," he said. "The Chiricahua aren't going to attack the fort. They don't have the numbers to do it, and they don't have the weapons."

"You forget that almost everyone here believes the Apache were able to buy weapons after the Colter Canyon massacre."

Ryder didn't argue. Instead he said, "The Chiricahua won't mount a rescue. It's not their way. Even if I were highly regarded by them—which I'm not—they would only seek retribution."

"So the fighting will come later," she said heavily. "After you're—"

He finished the sentence she couldn't. "After I'm hanged."

Florence gripped her cane more tightly. Unable to look at him, she stared at her hand, at the knuckles that were thickened by a touch of rheumatism, at the thin parchment-like skin that made her veins so visible. She should be contemplating her own death, she thought. Instead she was contemplating his. "I could help you escape," she said.

Ryder came lightly to his feet and approached the bars. "Listen to me, Florence." He waited until she raised her face, hardening his heart against her tears. She had made the offer before, and he had turned it down on every occasion. She didn't fully comprehend the wreck she would make of her son's military reputation and career. While Florence blamed her son for not looking beyond the evidence, Ryder did not. Presented with the testimony of the survivors of Colter Canyon, General Gardner was acting in the only way he could. "Don't think about it again, and don't act on it if you do."

"But—"

He reached through the bars and laid a hand over hers. "No."

Florence acquiesced with little grace. "Very well," she said sourly. "But I can tell you when it's my time, I'm not going without a fight."

Ryder went to the far side of his cell and stood beside the small window. The evening air was cool, and he appreciated the fragrance of the desert washing over his face. "Is that what you think, Florence? That I'm going without a fight?"

"Aren't you?"

"I told them I was innocent. No one believed me." He corrected himself. "No one save you."

"That's not true. Your uncle lent his support, and General Halstead came down from Flagstaff to speak in your favor."

Ryder was silent for several moments. He looked past the bars of his cell to the garrison. Just at the periphery of his vision he could see the officers' quarters. "You should be going," he said. "Before the general realizes you're not reading in your room."

She waved aside his concern. "I told him I was visiting the Sullivans. Mrs. Sullivan's sister and mother arrived this afternoon, and I made their acquaintance at dinner. Mrs. Worth was quite pleasant, though I don't know what to make of the other one. Most times she looked a thousand miles away. Hardly said a word."

Ryder was barely listening. Even before his incarceration he hadn't been particularly curious about the people who came and went from the fort. Now his interest in them was even less. He couldn't recall who Florence had told him the Sullivans were or what business they had at Fort Union. "Is that so?"

Florence sniffed. "You're putting me in mind of her this very minute," she said sharply, tapping her cane for attention. "You could at least pretend some regard for my conversation. Miss Dennehy perked right up when your name was mentioned, so I think you could—" Florence broke off mid sentence, not because Ryder interrupted but because she realized that she finally
did
have his full attention. His entire posture was alert now, his frostlike eyes narrowed. She had the vaguely unsettling notion that he intended to pounce on her and the fleeting thought that she was actually glad for the bars that separated them. "Why ever are you looking at me that way?"

His expression didn't change. "Did you say Dennehy?"

"Well, yes," she said slowly, in some confusion. "She said I could call her Mary, but I thought in conversation it was only polite to—"

"Mary Dennehy?" he asked. "Mary
Francis
Dennehy?"

"I believe so."

"Sister Mary Francis?"

Florence wasn't certain what he was asking, but she said, "Yes. Rennie's sister."

He said the name almost under his breath. "Rennie." Then, "Why didn't you tell me Mrs. Sullivan was Rennie?"

Exasperated, Florence threw up her hands. Her cane clattered against the bars as it fell. "I told you she was here with her husband. I went on and on about her darling little girls. I said they were connected to the railroad." She wagged an accusing finger. "And you never showed the slightest recognition."

That's because he hadn't known the most important thing. It didn't matter now. He walked swiftly to the bars, reached through, and pulled Florence to her feet. She was close enough that he could have kissed her forehead. He didn't. It wasn't thankfulness he felt right now, but urgency. "I want to see her," he said.

His grip was tight, but Florence didn't wince. She was grateful for whatever had stirred him to life. "Mrs. Sullivan?"

"No. Not her. The sister. Mary Francis."

"She won't be allowed in here, even if you request it. I told you Joshua has said only officers and—"

"The clergy. She'll be allowed in." And it would be his way out. Ryder released Florence but kept his face close to the bars. "Listen to me, Flo, if you still want to help, I have a plan."

* * *

Florence Gardner wasted no time. She called on Mary the following morning after breakfast, ostensibly for the purpose of having company on her daily walk. She extended her invitation to everyone and hoped for the best. Rennie excused herself because of her work. Moira wanted to be with her grandchildren. Florence sensed that Mary would have refused if it had not been left to her.

"It's good of you to humor an old lady," she said, as they left the shaded porch of the officers' quarters. "I know you really didn't want to come."

Mary considered making a denial, then thought better of it. She appreciated Florence's directness too much to offer one. The other woman would have seen right through it.

Florence raised her parasol and encouraged Mary to do the same. "You don't want to burn that fair skin of yours."

"The sun feels good," Mary said, raising her face to a clear blue sky. "It's hard to believe that Christmas is almost upon us."

"Spoken like a true Yankee," she said. "I'm from Georgia. Come Christmas Day what we got was mostly rain. The air was so humid at times you could feel it like a blanket against your skin. I appreciate these arid climes, I can tell you."

"You've been here long?"

"My son was assigned here five years ago. I came out with my daughter-in-law and my grandchildren about six months later. Joshua wanted to be certain the Indian problem was in hand. When most of the hostiles were placed on reservations, he thought it was safe enough for us."

"And was he right?" asked Mary.

"There's been trouble recently with the Chiricahua. Geronimo led some of his warriors and their families off the San Carlos reservation. They've been raiding ranches and mines in and around Mexico."

"Colter Canyon?"

Florence had led Mary to the outside perimeter of the fort, taking her behind the buildings to where they were seen by the patrolling guards but still had considerable privacy. She nodded politely to one of the guards and then continued on, twirling her parasol with the flair of a coquette. "Colter Canyon," she mused, sparing Mary a swift glance. "That depends on who you ask. Me or everyone else."

"I'm asking you," Mary said bluntly.

"Then I don't know."

It wasn't the answer Mary was expecting. "I don't understand," she said.

"Neither do I," Florence told her. "That's my point. Everyone else here thinks they have the answer. I'm the only one who's certain there are things left unexplained." She noticed that Mary was deep in thought now, mulling over the cryptic reply. A passing guard eyed the younger woman appreciatively and she didn't even notice. Florence waited for him to move out of earshot. She halted Mary's progress by placing a hand on her forearm. "He wants to see you," she whispered. "He's in a better position to explain than I am."

Mary's heart slammed against her chest. Her parasol began to slip through nerveless fingers before she caught it. "Mr. McKay knows I'm here?"

Florence watched her reaction with interest. There was a light flush on Mary's cheeks that hadn't been there a moment earlier. The forest green eyes, so ineffably sad the evening before, were bright now, alive with interest and intelligence. Ryder had been right about her, Florence thought, she would go to him. "He couldn't very well ask to see you if he didn't know you were here, now could he?"

Mary's mouth flattened. She deserved to be taken to task for asking stupid questions, but that didn't make it any easier to bear. "Can you arrange it?" she asked. "Or should I speak to the commander myself?"

"I'll arrange it, dear. But it will have to be tonight. My son's already out in the field, and I don't expect him back until after dark." Florence could see that Mary was disappointed and that pleased her. It was better that way. Mary would be more eager then and perhaps less cautious. Florence was counting on that. "Of course you'll have to wear your habit," she said offhandedly.

Mary was taken aback. "My habit? But why?"

Florence frowned. "Is that a problem? Ryder told me you're a nun. I mentioned that you weren't wearing a habit when I met you, but he said that wasn't unusual."

The rush of heat to Mary's cheeks annoyed her. She had no patience for her own reaction to the memory of her meeting with Ryder. "Did he tell you what I was wearing when I first saw him?" she asked stiffly.

"No," said Florence. "But judging by the very pretty frock you have on, I'd venture that it was quite lovely."

Mary burst out laughing. The hearty, lively sound fairly exploded from her. When she saw Florence take a step back in astonishment, she laughed even harder. The patrolling guards paused in their steps and sought out the source. The sound was infectious, and quite without knowing what was funny, they found themselves caught up in it, smiling widely and chuckling under their breath. Florence discovered her own shoulders were shaking as she was swept up in Mary's laughter.

Across the compound Ryder McKay stood by the window of his cell, poised and patient, all of his senses alert. The very air around him seemed rent by the vibration of Mary's clear voice. He felt the tide of her laughter washing over him. His mouth parted as he sucked it in.

The sound had substance, and where it touched his tongue, he tasted freedom.

Chapter 5

Harry Bishop lost his balance. The stool he was sitting on seemed to slip out from under him when Sister Mary Francis walked into the guardroom. He grabbed it awkwardly before it hit the floor and managed to come to his feet with a minimum of teetering. The apologies that were forming in his mind simply remained there because his gaping mouth was incapable of speech. Harry Bishop was a Boston native and a parochial schoolboy for grades one through eight. He considered the years spent under the tutelage of Father O'Donnell and the Sisters to have been his true introduction to Army discipline. Sister Elizabeth in particular had a way of bringing a classroom to order that would have done any sergeant proud.

"At ease," Mary said calmly. "This uniform doesn't require a salute."

Harry blinked, realized his hand was raised halfway to his head, and let it fall slowly. "Habit," he said.

"Yes," she replied dryly. "That's what I'm wearing."

Harry blinked again, this time collecting his thoughts. "No, I meant it was a habit to—"

She cut him off. "I was pulling your leg, private. I know what you meant."

Shaking his head slowly, Harry rubbed the underside of his chin. "A Sister with a sense of humor," he said almost inaudibly. "If that don't beat all." His hand dropped away and he looked her over from head to toe. "You arrived yesterday with the Sullivans."