The Scout's Bride. Kate Kingsley
planned to pass with no more than a nod, but somehow he found himself standing at the foot of her steps, hat in hand. “Good evening, Mrs. Emerson.”
“Good evening, Mr. Bellamy,” she answered quietly.
“Did you enjoy the picnic today?”
“Very much.”
“When I stopped at the hospital this afternoon, Doc said you’d been there. Thanks for checking on Teddy.”
“I was glad to.” She sighed, feeling her reserve melt when he smiled at her. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Bellamy?”
“Thank you.” Positioning himself on the top step, he leaned against a post and turned so he could see her. “You’re not going to Mrs. Little’s fancy cotillion?”
Her lips curved in a wry smile and she shook her head. “A widow puts something of a pall on festivities.”
“Malachi told me you lost your husband a couple of months ago, ma’am,” Jack said gently. “I am sorry.”
She blinked back tears at his unexpected words. “Thank you.”
“Were you married long?”
“Just three months, but I had known him most of my life.”
“So you were childhood sweethearts?”
“No, best friends,” she found herself admitting.
“At least you liked each other,” he chuckled companionably. “That’s more than some old married people can say.”
“Yes.” Searching for a more impersonal topic, Rebecca was relieved when the strains of a polka came to them on the night air. “Why aren’t you at the cotillion, Mr. Bellamy? Don’t you dance?”
“I’ve been known to gallop around a floor now and again,” he drawled.
“And you’ve been known simply to gallop.” He heard unexpected raillery in her voice. “That was a wild ride you took this afternoon.”
“Couldn’t have done it without Ol’ Jo,” he answered with a grin.
“What did you say to him to make him run so fast?”
“I asked how he would hold his head up if he got beat by a persnickety Yankee gray.”
To Rebecca’s amazement, a laugh bubbled inside her and spilled out. “Mr. Bellamy, you are impossible.”
“That may be, ma’am,” he agreed with a pleased grin, “but I have my good points. I don’t dip or chew. Don’t gamble much, except when I have a good chance of winning. I’m charming-—”
“And humble,” she interjected.
“And humble,” he conceded. “And I’m not as dumb as I look.”
“So you say,” she countered with a chuckle, peering through the darkness. “Is that water coming from a wet bandage?”
“It was hard to keep it dry while swimming,” he confessed, his eyes on an incriminating puddle, which inched across the porch.
“Between horse races and river water, that wound may never heal,” she chided, rising. “Come in and I’ll change the bandage.”
“No, thanks.” He remained on the step.
“You’re not going to let it become infected, are you?”
“No,” he answered slowly, searching his memory. Her words had struck a faintly familiar chord.
“Mr. Bellamy, please,” she urged softly from the doorway before she disappeared into the dark house.
On the porch, Jack pursued a provocative wisp of remembrance; a vague, jumbled remnant of memory that began with a soft “Mr. Bellamy, please”… and ended with a kiss. All at once, astonished recollection lit his face and he got to his feet and went into the house.
In the next room, Rebecca lit a lamp and opened the back door to admit a breeze. Then she washed her hands and rummaged in a cupboard, taking out a roll of gauze.
“Can I get you anything? A drink of water, perhaps?” she asked nervously when she saw him in the doorway.
“Nothing, thank you.” Stepping into the room, he towered over her, seeming to fill the tiny kitchen. He smiled down at her as if they shared a private joke.
He was so big, she thought, suddenly uneasy. She knew the power in his sinewy arms, for she had been caught in them. What had she been thinking to invite Injun Jack into her house? She had enjoyed his company out on the porch a few minutes ago, but now she remembered seeing grown men pale at the thought of facing him.
Hiding her misgivings, she pulled out a chair. “Wait here while I get my scissors from the sewing basket.”
Jack prowled the kitchen. Furniture and amenities were few at an army post, but Rebecca had made a comfortable home here. A hardtack crate, nailed to the wall, served as a shelf. The room’s seats, four rough-hewn wooden chairs, were cushioned by colorful braided mats. A length of blue cloth had been sacrificed to cover the table and the tiny window. On the sawbuck table was a vivid bouquet of wildflowers.
When she returned, he sat down and extended his arm so it rested on the table, watching as she positioned herself at his shoulder.
Rebecca prepared to tend to his arm. She tried not to notice that his long hair, still damp from his swim, was drying to a blue-black sheen and that he smelled of fresh air. Her fingers were clumsy when she tried to roll his soggy shirtsleeve. Dexterity would have made no difference. The sleeve would not go past his muscular forearm.
“Allow me,” he suggested considerately when he saw her sheepish expression. Removing his gun belt, he laid it on the table. Then he shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to her. “I’d prefer you didn’t cut this one up.”
She blushed, as he had known she would, and draped the shirt over the back of a chair. Then, careful not to look at him, she pulled the lamp near and knelt beside his chair. “There’s blood on this,” she said accusingly, eyeing the sodden bandage.
“Only a little… from this afternoon.”
Her expression was skeptical as she removed the wrapping and inspected the wound. “What is this? Not more tobacco?”
“Healing herbs, a Kickapoo cure,” Jack murmured, studying her. In the lamp’s glow, her upswept hair seemed a silvery halo. Her delicate face, partly in shadow, was intent as she bent over her task.
“What do you think?” he asked, his breath stirring her hair.
“I think it needs to be cleaned.” Efficiently, she rose and took an exquisite decanter from the shelf.
His blue eyes flickered with interest. “What’s that?”
“Whiskey for medicinal purposes. It belonged to my husband.”
“Well, pour some in a glass before you pour any on my arm. It’s going to sting like holy Ned.”
“You’ll pardon me, Mr. Bellamy,” she objected, “but I’ve been around you when you’ve been drinking and I’d rather not repeat the experience.”
“I wasn’t myself at the hospital the other day,” he defended himself.
“I should hope not.”
“I don’t recall it very well,” he ruminated. “Was I rude?”
“Very.” Her attention was on cutting a piece of gauze for a swab.
He seemed to digest the news. “I knew I was disgraceful and uncivilized.”
Rebecca’s scissors ceased their activity and she stared at him in dread.
“ ‘No better than a savage.’ That is what you said, isn’t