Kate Kingsley - The Scout's Bride

“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.

Each time she had met him, he had been different. One moment he was surly; the next, drunkenly amorous. He had been polite yesterday in front of headquarters, and utterly aloof today. She never knew what to expect, but she would not let him fluster her tonight. She only wished her heart did not pound as he came near.

Jack 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?”