The Scout's Bride. Kate Kingsley
warming on the back of the stove. “Brian shot a prairie chicken and I made bean salad and corn muffins. There’s plenty, in case Prissy Porter joins us.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Rebecca responded to the familiar gibe. “His name is Francis.”
“And yours is Rebecca,” Flora answered absently, selecting a dumpling. “Why do you let him call you Becky? I know you hate it.”
“I don’t want to hurt his feelings.” The other woman sighed.
“You’re too kind for your own good. Look at you, bringing food for the picnic when I said you shouldn’t.”
“But I want to. I’m still drawing half rations.”
“In that case, I hope you’re bringing those pickles Brian likes.” Flora’s eyes widened when she turned to face her friend. “Deviled eggs!” she breathed. “Wherever did you get eggs?”
“One of the freighters brought them from town. I had more use for eggs than champagne, so I traded one of Paul’s bottles for a dozen.”
“I love deviled eggs. I love food,” the pretty blonde said around a mouthful of pastry. “Maybe that’s why my new dress is tight already. You’re going to stifle, you know, wearing that heavy black thing.”
“It’s unavoidable unless I stay at home,” Rebecca contended, “and that may not be such a bad idea. At least I wouldn’t have to face Colonel Quiller.”
“Oh, don’t take what he said to heart,” Flora advised airily. “I don’t think he’d really load you onto a wagon himself.”
“Does everyone at Fort Chamberlain know about our disagreement?” Rebecca asked in exasperation.
“When you’ve been in the army as long as I have, my girl, you’ll know there are no secrets on a military post, especially a small one in the middle of nowhere.”
“Then everyone knows I made him so angry that he told me I had no rights here?”
Flora shrugged. “Regulations say civilians have no rights at a fort. As soldiers’ wives, we’re ‘camp followers.’ He would banish all of us, if the army would let him. And small wonder. Did you see—”
“The gazebo?” Rebecca cut in mischievously. “As good as any back east.”
“I’d like to see Quiller try to evict Mrs. Major Little,” Flora giggled. “He thinks he has problems with the Cheyenne and the Sioux.”
Shaking her head, Rebecca chuckled. Flora always made her laugh, even now when she had little reason for joy.
When she had arrived at Fort Chamberlain, Mrs. Captain Flora Mackey had taken her under her wing. Born and bred in the army, she had guided the newcomer through the rigid customs of Officers’ Row. She had rounded up household items for the newlyweds and charmed the quartermaster into giving them a coal-burning stove in this place where wood was so scarce. And she had chattered gaily through all of it.
When Paul died, Flora had stayed by her side. Her friendship had helped the widow through difficult times. Just yesterday, when she had heard of Rebecca’s ranking out, she offered her hospitality. “I fear you must sleep in the parlor, but we’ll make the best of it,” she had said. “It’s only temporary, after all.”
“Mesdames,” the Mackeys’ striker yelled excitedly from the porch where he waited, “it is the bugle call for Guard Mount. You do not want to miss it, non.”
“Then bring the basket, Private St. Jean,” his mistress shouted back.
The striker paced while the women packed the picnic basket. Then, scooping it up, he charged out of the door with Flora on his heels.
“Hurry,” her voice drifted back to Rebecca, “and bring a sunshade. You’re going to need it.”
“Nary a breeze,” Malachi complained, “an’ hot enough to scorch the hide off a Gila monster. Reckon we could find a shady tree?”
“Stake your territory,” Injun Jack answered tersely. “You’ve only got two choices.”
“How ‘bout that big cottonwood by Suds Row? Mebbe a sociable laundress can jolly you out of your mood.”
“Don’t start, Mal,” the scout warned.
The mule skinner paid him no mind. “There ain’t nothin’ you can do, you know. If Quiller says you gotta let that arm heal, that’s what you gotta do.”
“I don’t need my arm to translate,” Jack retorted. “Big Bear is ready to talk peace.”
“I know you worked for this,” Mal granted, “but another scout can handle the parley. You bin on the trail too long, gettin’ by on bad food, no sleep and pure cussedness. You gotta rest.”
“Everybody wants to take care of me…you, Quiller, that Emerson woman. Can’t a man have any peace?”
Wisely, Mal kept silent as they skirted the crowd gathering at the flagstaff. Fort Chamberlain’s new flag drooped in the still air, thick with smoke from pits near the mess halls.
Positioning themselves well away from officers and social obligations, the men watched as wagonloads of visitors rolled in. Some of the arrivals were farm families from nearby homesteads. Most were railroad workers and those who profited from them.
“I should’ve gone to Wolf Robe’s camp,” Jack muttered.
“Mighta bin safer,” Malachi allowed. “There’s that newspaper feller agin, and I reckon he’s lookin’ for you.”
Swearing under his breath, Jack moved to put the tree between him and Derward Anderson. “I wish you’d never brought him here.”
“Ain’t my fault if he wants to make a legend of you.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” the scout asked sourly.
“No, sir,” Mal lied, a grin splitting his homely face. “I think it’s a shame the way that greenhorn follows you around. You can come out now. He’s gone.”
Jack showed himself cautiously. “I hear some reporter went all the way to Fort Hays to tag after poor Cody and write about him.”
Hooting with laughter, Mal cuffed the scout’s good shoulder. “That’s what Derward Anderson aims to do for you, Injun Jack.”
“Not if he intends to go back to New York City in one piece,” Jack growled, his blue eyes sweeping the crowd, alert for the tenacious newspaperman.
His glower faded when he saw Rebecca crossing the parched parade ground with a comely blonde and a private lugging a huge basket. Clad in black, the widow looked prim and proper, but for one jarring detail. She carried the most ridiculous little pink parasol ever made.
“What’re you grinnin’ at?” Craning his neck, Mal grinned, too, when he saw her. “Don’t she beat all creation?”
“She does indeed,” the scout murmured, watching her join the officers’ wives in an open tent near the flagstaff. Clustered in the shade, they observed their husbands with pride. Guard Mount, the only duty on this holiday, was proceeding with rousing music and great pomp. Jack scarcely noticed.
What was it about Rebecca Emerson? he brooded. She was pretty, but no great beauty. She was prissy and stiff, two traits that did not appeal to him. Why, then, was he intrigued by her? And why was he unsettled by faint, improbable fancies… the feel of her trim body molded against his and the taste of her lips?
The moment the companies were dismissed, Flora nudged her friend and whispered, “Look, that man is staring at us.”
Rebecca could not tell whether she was affronted or flattered. “What man?”
“The big, good-looking one under