Eric Flint: 1824: The Arkansas War

The girl was only thirteen! Cal wasn't any sort of Puritan, sure, but some things a man just didn't contemplate. And he wasn't looking for a wife of any age. Not yet, anyway. Most men didn't get married until they were ten years older than he was. He'd figured to do the same.

He still hadn't come to any conclusions by the time he reached the boardinghouse. Except the dim, growing, horrible sense that things just happened because they did. Whether a man planned them or not, or wanted them or not, they just went right ahead and happened all on their own.

Then he was ushered into the salon by Mrs. Wilson, and Adaline squealed the moment he came in, and the next thing he knew she'd raced over and was hugging him and-sure enough-her mother was fit to be tied.

" Adaline! You come back here right this instant! And stop behaving disgracefully!"

After about three seconds, Adaline obeyed. Cal was pretty sure that had been the most thrilling three seconds of his life.

The dragon's glare now got leveled on him. Tarnation, he hadn't done anything!

"Lieutenant McParland."

But he'd look on the bright side. Might as well, since it was obvious the world would toss him however it would.

"How nice of you to come."

An ice cream parlor had finally opened for business in New Antrim. Wildly popular, of course, with Cal as much as anyone. Whenever it was open, the line went around the block. But it wasn't open very often, because ice was so hard to come by.

"Sit. Here. Please."

Not any longer. Just bottle that voice.

When Adaline put her hand on his shoulder, he liked to fly out of the chair. But, to his astonishment, the dragon didn't say a word.

Of course, if you could bottle the look in its eyes, you could probably freeze the whole chiefdom of Arkansas. And whenever Adaline so much as twitched a finger, the monster's hiss was enough to freeze your blood.

Still. It was an awfully thrilling two hours, with that hand there the whole time. By the end of it, Cal was halfway reconciled to the inescapable chaos of existence.

"Mrs. Johnson," said Sheff, sounding a bit timid.

"Yes, Captain Parker?"

"Ah:If I might ask, what's the-I mean. What are we doing here?"

She bestowed on him a look that was a lot warmer than anything she'd given Cal in at least two months. Just another example of life's essential unfairness.

"Oh, that's simple. I told my husband I'd have a portrait of us made up. Since it may be quite a while before we see him again. Mr. Wiedeman assures me he can have it shipped safely to Kentucky."

"Oh, certainly," said the artist. "Might be a problem a few months from now, of course."

Cal almost choked. He leaned over a bit to get a good look at Sheff.

Sure enough. Amazing that a face that black could manage to look that purple at the same time.

"Ah:am I going to be in the portrait?"

"What a ridiculous question. Of course you are, Captain Parker. Why else would you be sitting here?"

"But:ah:"

" Imogene! I told you! Not so close to the neck! For that matter, the session is over. Remove the hand, please. At once."

All the ice cream you'd need for everyone in New Antrim, dawn to dusk.

"Is Daddy all right? He looks real sick."

Driscol shifted the boy a bit farther into his lap. "He's fine, Andy. A little sick, yes. But he'll be fine by tomorrow. It might happen again, mind. You needn't worry about it though, lad, because we'll take care of it. Your father has many friends."

The boy looked up at him uncertainly. Then, just as uncertainly, swiveled his head to look up at the carving.

"That's Mommy, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

There was silence for a time as the boy settled his head on Driscol's shoulder and stared up at the carving. Houston's gentle snores were the only sound in the church.

Antoinette really had done a splendid job. It was Maria Hester, almost to the flesh.

"Will she go away again?"

"No, lad. She will not." All the weight of the Ozarks and the Ouachitas was in that voice. Ireland, too, and the mountains of Spain.

"Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever."