The Scout's Bride. Kate Kingsley
Diego shrugged carelessly and called, “Do I have any other takers? I say Injun Jack will win by a length.”
Anticipation was high among the crowd milling at the edges of the racecourse. Flora bounced on her toes when the first competitors emerged from the corral. “Look, they’re coming,” she cried. “I see Francis.”
The yellow plume of his hat bobbing bravely, the adjutant nodded at his friends and guided his gray to the starting line.
“So that’s Boston Clipper,” Rebecca murmured. The horse tossed its head and pranced, seemingly aware of the crowd’s admiration. “He’s magnificent.”
“But what an adjutant needs with such a steed is beyond me,” Doc blustered from nearby, pushing his way toward them. “Good afternoon, young people,” he greeted them. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his brow. “It’s hotter than blue blazes out here, but I couldn’t miss the race. Might I interest you in a small wager, Captain Mackey?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll bet a double eagle that Injun Jack’s gelding leaves his opponents in the dust.”
“Injun Jack is racing? No, thank you, sir,” Brian refused.
“You can’t blame me for trying,” Doc grumbled with a twinkle in his eye. “I backed a loser in the footrace and was ignobly defeated in chess. I wanted one success before the day is over.”
“Is that Ol’ Jo that everybody talks about?” Flora’s face fell when she saw Injun Jack’s roan. “He looks so… ordinary.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Rebecca counseled, studying the horse with a farmer’s eye. “He might run like the wind.”
“Maybe,” Flora murmured dubiously.
Taking his place among the racers, Jack fought the urge to look at Rebecca while he waited for the starting gun. Instead, he tightened his hat cord under his chin, wrapped his reins around his good arm and studiously ignored Derward Anderson sketching nearby.
When the shot sounded, seventeen horses burst down the straightaway, their hooves casting divots of sod behind them. The spectators cheered as Francis and Captain Graham vied at once for the lead, running neck and neck. Company C’s entrant, Smith, was third, trailing them by a length, with Injun Jack close behind.
“Don’t let him catch you, Smitty,” Brian urged as Jack closed the gap between them.
“Come on, Injun Jack!” Doc bawled in encouragement when the scout eased into third place, just past the first stake.
“Come on, Jo, come on,” Rebecca chanted as he overtook Captain Graham and rounded the second stake, gaining on Francis.
Hunched forward, Jack seemed to be talking to his mount. In a blinding burst of speed, Jo passed Clipper and rounded the last stake.
As the horses galloped along homestretch, Injun Jack was a wild sight, leaning low in the saddle, his long black hair streaming out behind him. Tied on, his hat stayed on his head, but the brim was bent back by the wind. His expression on his sun-bronzed face was exuberant as he thundered over the finish line ahead of Francis. Straightening his legs, he stood in the stirrups, threw back his head and emitted a shout, half war whoop and half Rebel yell.
Slowing his horse, the scout rode to the flagstaff, guiding with his knees. Seemingly occupied with adjusting his hat, he darted a glance toward Rebecca, who stood beside Doc Trotter, her face bright with excitement.
Dismounting at the prize table where the major’s apprehensive wife awaited him, Jack bowed. “Good day, Mrs. Little.”
Taken aback by his courteous greeting, she stammered, “How do you do, Mr…er… Jack.” Collecting herself, she indicated the ham and enunciated in round tones, “Your prize, sir.”
“Thank you.” The scout tucked the huge joint under his good arm and shouldered his way through the crowd. “Will you take this for the boys in the ward, Doc?” he asked, handing over his prize.
“With pleasure,” Doc Trotter trumpeted. Juggling the ham awkwardly, he beamed at the hospital’s benefactor. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Jack answered, his eyes on Rebecca. She smiled and it warmed him just as he had imagined. The reality was even more disturbing than his unwelcome daydream.
Tipping his hat, he nodded impersonally. “Afternoon, ma’am.” Then, remounting his horse, he rode away without a backward look.
By the time the flag was lowered at sunset, the breathless heat had been relieved by a hint of a breeze. Rebecca wandered through her sweltering house, unwilling to light a lamp. Voices and laughter floated through open windows as celebrants finished their barbecue dinners and prepared for the dance.
Inspecting each room in the dusk, she tried to decide which of the possessions accumulated during her brief marriage to sell. Flora had explained that most families sold their belongings upon leaving a post, in order to travel light. The idea suited Rebecca. She had no attachment to her meager collection of household items and, though she did not intend to travel far, she certainly needed the money.
The music for the opening Lancers drifted from the blockhouse, distracting her. Giving up on her task, she moved to the porch to enjoy the music and the cool of the evening.
Across the parade ground, the moon rose, round and full, behind the barracks. Children chased fireflies on the parched lawn while their parents danced nearby.
When the music ended, giving way to the song of the cicadas, Rebecca felt sad and alone. She missed Paul and ached for lost opportunities. In time, she might have come to love him. Now she would never know.
The band began to play a lively reel, but the tune did not lift her spirits.
Still dripping, Injun Jack put on his clothes, reckoning by the music that it was safe to return to the fort. It was dark now and everyone would be at the dance.
He had endured the barbecue, surrounded by more people than he had seen in a month, accepting congratulatory slaps on the back that jarred his sore arm. He had strolled on the parade ground, until he realized he studied the face of every female he met, searching for a certain pair of hazel eyes. Disgusted at himself, he had headed toward the river for a swim and some solitude.
Now, as he returned to the fort, the challenge rang out, “Who goes there?”
“Hello, Paris,” Jack called to the picket, but he did not slow his step. He knew the man, a former lieutenant in the Confederate Army. Captured and faced with prison camp, Paris had become a galvanized Yankee, a Rebel recruited for Indian fighting in the West. Jack did not hold it against him, but it did not change the fact he had never liked him.
“Good race today, Major Bellamy,” Paris greeted him. “Reminded me of old times with you ridin’ like you were chased by Satan himself. Can I buy you a drink to celebrate?”
“Maybe sometime when you’re not on duty.”
“How come you’re missing the fun tonight?” the man persisted.
“Because I’ve had about as much fun as I can take,” Jack growled as he angled toward the road around the parade ground.
As he neared Officers’ Row, the scout’s thoughts turned again to the widow. Scanning the unlit line of identical buildings, he wondered which quarters were hers. He almost did not see her on the dark porch.
Rebecca huddled on the bench in the shadows, hoping her black dress would render her invisible as the scout approached. His broad shoulders and long-legged gait were unmistakable even in the darkness.
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