Ladies of Intrigue

by Michelle Griep

  “Look closer, Doctor,” she called over her shoulder. “It’s measles.”

  A growl rumbled in his chest. “Then you’ve exposed yourself to—”

  “Nothing. I’ve already had it.”

  Ought he rejoice or admonish? He settled for a sigh. “I’ll have an attendant remove these bodies. There’s no more we can do for the woman and her babe but let time heal and set up a quarantine around this tent.”

  Miss Nelson rose, skirting the small fire. “Clearly this woman can’t care for the babe. Maybe I ought stay and—”

  “While your concern does you justice, truly, you will be of more help by coming with me.” He pocketed his notes and held the flap aside. “After you.”

  She hesitated, her brow creasing a disagreement. After the space of a few breaths, she swept past him. He ducked out after her, expecting a fight.

  Instead, she huddled next to his side, pale faced and silent. What the devil?

  In front of them, one of the few native men strode by, neither addressing nor even looking at them. Why would a passing captive cause her skirts to quiver so?

  He guided her aside, into the harbor between two tent walls. “Is there something I should know, Miss Nelson?”

  She averted her gaze, focusing on tugging her coat sleeves well past her wrists. “It’s nothing. I’m fine, Doctor.”

  He frowned. “Yet you tremble.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “It’s more than that.” Setting down his bag, he lifted her chin with a finger, forcing her to quit fussing with her sleeves. “Tell me.”

  A sigh deflated her. Around them, the sounds of fires being stoked and waking children increased.

  Lifting an eyebrow, he cocked his head, an effect that ofttimes worked like a charm. “Either you tell me now, or I suspect we’ll have an audience very soon.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Very well. If you must know, I was betrothed once. Daniel was a surveyor, the best, really. Which is why the government sought him out. He was on a project west of here. Pawnee country.”

  Her words slowed like the winding down of a clock, the last coming out on a ragged whisper. “He never came back.”

  Pain twisted her face, the kind of agony he witnessed when imparting the news of a loved one’s death. But this time, a distinct urge settled deep in his bones to gather her in his arms and hold her until the pain went away. He clenched his hands, once again feeling helpless—and dug his nails into his palms.

  “Perhaps he will come back.” He regretted the platitude as soon as it left his lips.

  Her pain disappeared, replaced with a dark scowl. “You do not understand the Pawnee, Doctor.”

  Morning sun angled between the tents, lighting the complex woman in front of him. No wonder she took the suffering of others to heart, for it was a familiar companion.

  He reached for her then lowered his hand, suddenly ashamed. “I am discovering, Miss Nelson, there is much I do not understand.”

  Chapter Four

  Emmy paced at the front gate, working a rut into the dirt. Overhead, the late-November sun was lethargic, the entire world washed of autumn’s brilliance. It was the brown time, the dead … as if color packed up its bags and fled before winter arrived.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she squinted along the parade ground toward the colonel’s quarters, past soldiers scrambling for inspection. The door that’d swallowed Dr. Clark an hour ago remained shut. She lifted her eyes higher, over the roof, where a cloud of smoke rose from the river flats below. She’d dallied too long already.

  Despite the doctor’s instructions to wait for him, she turned to the sentry. “Could you let Dr. Clark know I’ve gone ahead?”

  Morning light caught the fuzz on his chin. The man-boy could hardly be more than sixteen. “Sure, miss. Not like him to be late, eh?”

  Her lips quirked. “Over the past three weeks, I daresay we’ve both learned he’s punctual to a fault.”

  “Truth is”—the sentry’s gaze shifted side to side, then he stepped closer, lowering his voice for her ears only—“I’d rather take a whoopin’ than live through another one of Dr. Clark’s tongue-lashings. But don’t tell him I said so.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.” She mimicked his conspiratorial stance. “For I quite agree.”

  She strolled through the gate—already open for the day—accompanied by the soldier’s laughter.

  The trail didn’t seem as long anymore. She might even wager on her ability to trek it in the dark. This was the first time, though, that no strong arm steadied her on the descent. She missed that. And, surprisingly, she also missed the doctor’s banter, stimulating as the black coffee served for breakfast. A frown tugged her mouth as she sniffed. Neither was the air quite as sweet without the hint of his sandalwood shaving tonic. Yes, though this be the same path, this time, everything was different.

  Her balance teetered on some loosened sandstone, as unsettling as her rogue thoughts. She threw out her hands, her father’s bag nearly flying from her grasp. Pausing, she negotiated her next step and the curious attachment she felt to the doctor. Working long days, side by side, it was only natural to grow accustomed to a person’s ways. Surely that’s why she missed Dr. Clark’s presence this morn.

  That settled, she picked her way down the embankment, praying all the way that Private Grainger wouldn’t be on sentry duty today, especially without the doctor at her side. The newly built walls of the encampment towered in front of her, and she smirked at the irony of the timbers. The very people group who attacked whites now needed to be protected from them.

  She scurried ahead, her heart sinking to her stomach when she saw the shock of red hair shooting out from beneath a private’s cap. A feral smile lit his face, one that would surely visit her nightmares. She held out her pass as a buffer.

  Ignoring her paperwork, Grainger looked past her. “Where’s Doc?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be along shortly. And I’m also sure you ought to address him as Doctor Clark, whether he’s present or not.”

  “That so?” His gaze returned to her, touching her in places that ought not be touched. “Why don’t you wait here? Not safe for a lone white woman in there.”

  Hah! As if remaining with the private was any safer. She bit the inside of her cheek, reminding herself to be charitable. “I’ve tended these people the past three weeks, Private Grainger. I know my way around by now.”

  “Snakes, the lot of ’em. Just waitin’ for a chance to strike.” Tobacco juice shot from his mouth and hit the ground. Swiping a hand across his mouth, he winked at her. “And yer mighty fine quarry.”

  She stiffened, taking courage in rigid posture. “Open the gate, or I shall report you.”

  “Your word against mine.”

  Heat crept up her neck. He’d never speak this way if the doctor were with her, and she couldn’t decide what irked her more—that the presence of another man would stave off his remarks, or the way his tongue ran over his lips.

  She gripped her father’s bag so tightly, the strain might rip a seam in her gloves. “Who do you think the colonel will believe, Private? A lecherous good-for-nothing hiding behind a uniform, or a lady?”

  His face darkened, and he lunged.

  But she refused to budge. If he touched her, a court-martial would get him out of here faster than a scream.

  A breath away, he pulled up short, a vulgar laugh rumbling in his chest. “Just playin’ with ya, missy. Soldier’s gotta have a little fun, don’t he?”

  He raised a fist and pounded on the gate. “Open up!”

  She darted inside as soon as it opened far enough for her to pass through sideways.

  Makawee’s tent—the woman she’d saved from a whipping that first day—was the second on the right. The sound of retching broke Emmy’s heart. She never should have waited so long to come.

  Emmy tossed up the flap and stepped inside. This late in the morning, the rest of the tent’s occupants were on their way to line up for rol
l. In front of her, a woman bent over a bucket, emptying her stomach.

  “Oh Makawee, I’m so sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” Emmy opened her father’s bag and produced a small pouch, the scent of lemon balm and peppermint a welcome fragrance.

  Makawee straightened, a weak smile belying the strain on her face. “It will pass, Miss Emmy. It is the way of nature.”

  “Even so, I’ve brought you some different herbs to try instead of ginger.” She held out the pouch. “It’s best for you and the babe if you can keep down food.”

  Across the tent, a little boy crawled out from a buffalo hide and launched himself at her.

  Emmy grinned and swung the lad up in her arms. “Good morning, little Jack. How is this fine fellow today?”

  “Growing as strong as his father.” Makawee’s eyes rested on her son; then she lifted her face to Emmy, pain tightening her jaw. “Have you any news?”

  “Not yet. I’m sure your husband is doing all he can to get here.”

  Makawee’s chest heaved, and then the moment passed like a fall tempest, her brown eyes clear and unblinking. “You speak truth, and I thank you.”

  Emmy reached out her free arm and rested it on the woman’s shoulder. “I admire your strength, my friend.”

  She stifled a gasp. Had that sentiment really come from her lips? What was happening to her emotions? First missing a man she’d hardly known three weeks, and now such respect for a Sioux woman?

  Makawee averted her gaze. “It is God’s grace. Nothing other.”

  Emmy’s admiration grew, for the woman had not only left behind tradition by marrying an Irishman but her religion as well, turning to the “White Christ,” as she called it. Both actions required strength.

  Setting down the boy, Emmy patted his head. “I should check on Old Betts, poor thing. I’ll stop in tomorrow to see how the new herbs work for you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Emmy. God smile on you.”

  “And you.”

  Outside, natives filtered back to their shelters, clogging the small roads between tents. Apparently roll was finished. She’d have to let the lieutenant know Makawee and her little boy were fine, but first, she ought to get laudanum to Old Betts.

  Veering left, she squeezed onto the tight trail sometimes used by the doctor. The dirt path ran along the wall, skirting the tepees.

  She raced ahead but then slowed when a warrior stepped into her path, arms folded, face hardened to flint. There’d be no easy way to pass him. Maybe this shortcut wasn’t the best route after all. She turned.

  And one tent down, another native blocked her route.

  The first ember of fear flared to life in her chest. Surely they didn’t mean to trap her. Perhaps they’d simply had a prearranged meeting here, that’s all—one best not hindered.

  Darting ahead, she veered left, onto the path between two tepees—and nearly collided with the chest of another man.

  Panic burned the back of her throat. Even so, she lifted her chin. “Let me pass.”

  He advanced, forcing her back, until the wall clipped into her shoulder blades. A hare couldn’t have been more cornered.

  Stony faces searched hers. The man to her left pushed back her bonnet and reached for her hair. A flash of morning sun glinted off a knife at his side. These are friendlies, she reminded herself. Still … how had he gotten a knife in the first place? Worse—her mouth dried to ashes—had that blade taken any scalps?

  A tear slid down her cheek. She never should have come here alone. And what would a scream accomplish? Private Grainger would only join in the game.

  “Please.” She trembled, and the tear dripped off her chin. “Let me go.”

  “You let her go—alone?” James grabbed Grainger by the throat and shoved him against the timber wall, the smack of the private’s head satisfying. “You were issued the same warning as I!”

  The private’s lips moved like a fish out of water. Just a little more pressure, and the esophagus would collapse, taking the trachea with it. James closed his eyes, praying for his anger to pass. Was this weasel of a man even worth this much passion? Stifling a growl, he threw Grainger to the ground and pounded on the gate. “Open up! Dr. Clark here!”

  Grainger coughed and choked.

  In the eternity it took for the gate to swing open, James flexed and released his fists, several times over, trying to calm the rage churning in his gut. Blast the colonel for wasting his time on a simple case of food poisoning. Double-blast sentries foolish enough to let a woman walk headlong into danger. And—God, help her—blast Miss Emmaline Nelson for her independent streak. Confidence would surely be the woman’s undoing.

  Clearing the gate, he sprinted to Makawee’s tent first, dodging elders and children. She and Miss Nelson had developed quite a friendship, and hopefully the women yet chattered or played with little Jack.

  He ducked through the tent flap. “Miss Nelson?”

  Inside, the boy played with two sticks and some beads on a nearby fur. Makawee looked up from a pot she stirred over a small fire at the center. But no blond-haired, blue-eyed vixen—or anyone else—was inside.

  Makawee stopped her stirring. “Miss Emmy is gone to Old Betts. Is there a problem, Doctor?”

  “There’d better not be.” He shot back outside, trying to erase the colonel’s warning of unrest in the camp, that recent attacks against native women by imbecile soldiers like Grainger had angered the men.

  That rumblings of revenge ran hot and thick.

  With roll finished and nowhere else to go, women and children filled the camp roads—and Old Betts resided on the opposite side. It would take twice as long to navigate the main route, so he wove his way through tepees and dodged into the thin space between tents and wall.

  Ahead, a few native men blocked the way, but that was the least of his worries. He dashed forward, sure that his heartbeat wouldn’t resume a normal cadence until he found Miss Nelson. But as he drew closer, blond hair flashed at the center of the trio. His heart missed a beat. Emmaline stood ramrod straight, tears dripping off her jaw, her father’s bag spilled open on the ground. To her left, a man held a handful of her hair to his nose. On her right, a tall warrior bent, burying his face against her neck. And in front, a shirtless brave reached out and trailed his fingers along her collarbone.

  James dropped his bag and pulled out a gun.

  “Touch her again, and you’re dead where you stand.” He fingered the trigger.

  Three pairs of dark eyes locked onto his.

  Only one spoke. “This woman yours?”

  “She is.” The words sank low in his gut. How dare he claim such a thing? Promising the colonel he’d look out for her was one thing, but this? The flare of the warriors’ nostrils, the flash of white in their eyes, told him he’d just announced something far more.

  Yet it accomplished his purpose. They filed away, one by one, disappearing between the tents.

  Emmaline neither turned his way nor collapsed to the ground. She stood, face washed in tears, staring straight ahead.

  Everything in him wanted to race to her side, cradle her close and never let go. But he forced one foot in front of the other, slowly, fluidly, until he stood a few breaths in front of her. “Miss Nelson?”

  She didn’t move. She hovered somewhere beyond his reach, trapped in the terror of the experience. He’d seen patients succumb to shock, and it was never pretty.

  “Emmaline!”

  Her chest fluttered with a shallow breath—then heaved. Great sobs poured out her mouth, and James wrapped his arms around her, praying God would use his embrace to bring peace.

  “Shh. It’s all over. I’m here. I’ve got you.” He rubbed circles on her back, waiting for her weeping to subside. He’d let her go then.

  But as her tears soaked through his shirt and warmed his skin, he realized that was a lie. He might release her, but he’d never let her go.

  And God help the man who tried to take her from him.

  Chapter Five


  Wind lashed like a bullwhip through the few inches of open window, slicing into Emmy’s back. Setting down her pestle, she pivoted and crossed the few steps of the dispensary to wrench the glass closed. Despite the barrier, she shivered. The morning had dawned sunny and carefree, but now pewter clouds hung low, smothering the fort with a threat. They’d been fortunate thus far with no snow, but with December half-spent, that blessing was stretched tight and ready to snap.

  Behind her, the front door blew open, smacking into the wall with a crack. She couldn’t help but jump, for since the awful encounter at the encampment, her nerves balanced on a fine wire.

  She whirled, and her jaw dropped. A woman entered, her dark eyes burning like embers. Her face twisted by fear.

  “Makawee?” Emmy ran to her. How strange it was to see the woman inside wooden walls instead of buffalo hide. “What are you doing here? How did you—”

  “Little Jack is missing.” Her voice was as raw as the chapped skin on her cheeks.

  Emmy stiffened. “What do you mean, missing? How could he possibly get out of camp?”

  “With snow coming, the soldiers led a group to collect wood. I brought Jack. When we were to leave, he was gone. The men would not search, nor let me. I slipped away but could not find him. Please.” Makawee’s fingers dug into Emmy’s sleeve. “Will you and Dr. Clark come?”

  Images of the blue-eyed rascal, alone in the woods, maybe crying—maybe hurt—horrified her. Emmy’s hand shot to her chest. A two-year-old wouldn’t survive long out there.

  “I’ll find the doctor.” She dashed to the sick ward’s door. It was doubtful he’d be there, though, for only one private occupied a bed, having imbibed too much and fallen down some stairs. Served him right to break a leg. The man slept openmouthed on his cot, his snores filling the empty room.

  Emmy darted past Makawee, who stood wringing her hands where she’d left her. Opposite the sick ward was a supply room, but that led to a door kept shut, one she beat with her fist. “Dr. Clark?”

  She listened, willing herself to hear his strong steps on the other side. Nothing but panes of glass chattering like teeth answered her.