The Unlikely Wife

by Cassandra Austin

  “I understand you sell what your family can’t eat. I was wondering if there was anything I might do for you in exchange for some meat” Saying it aloud suddenly made it sound foolish. Surely this boy’s efficient mother could provide anything he might want.

  Still the boy looked thoughtful. He glanced at his mother, shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “Might you know how to dance, Mrs. Forrester?”

  “Dance?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the boy replied in a rush. “When the rest of the families get here there’ll be dances. I know a couple of the officers have daughters and there might be some settlers with girls, too. I don’t want to step on their toes or nothin’ but I don’t want to stand in the back and watch like when I was a kid, neither.”

  “Dancing lessons,” Rebecca said, nodding. “I think I can do that.” She tried to picture the tall boy leading her around a dance floor. Then she tried to imagine Clark’s reaction. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

  But the boy was already beaming. “Gee, thanks, ma’am. I’ll try to bag ya something every day. I shot lots of quail this morning. You could have two or even three, maybe, after Ma picks what she wants.” He shuffled his feet again, pointed behind himself, added, “I’ll go dress ‘em,” and left the tent.

  Rebecca turned to find Opal grinning at her. “I could teach the boy to dance. Do you think he’s ever mentioned this to me? Not on your life.”

  Rebecca laughed. “I’m glad. I was afraid I was going to be taking on more sewing.”

  With Opal’s instructions for roasting quail tucked in her bodice, Rebecca set out to find Private Malone. Opal said he had four chickens in a cage behind his tent. He claimed to have bought them from a passing settler, though Opal was dubious. Whatever their origin, he took good care of them and sold the eggs at a dear price.

  Recall from fatigue had already sounded, and she knew the men would have approximately two hours before they were called back to duty. In a normal fort, she would never have dreamed of invading their mess hall, but camp rules still applied and Malone would be assigned with three messmates to share meal responsibilities however they chose.

  Opal’s directions were better than Jennifer’s, but even if they hadn’t been the gentle clucking of the hens would have led her to Malone’s tent once she got close.

  She approached a group of soldiers intent on building a fire. “Is Private Malone here?”

  “Aye, lass.” One of the men stood. Evidence of several fights decorated a hard face. “Be ye an angel come to save this poor sinner?”

  His companions laughed.

  Rebecca smiled. “I came to barter for some eggs and if preaching’s your price, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “She’s a shrewd one, Paddy,” one of the soldiers said. “You best watch yourself.”

  Paddy didn’t look near as tough when he was smiling. “Let’s be discussing this in private, miss,” he said, stepping away from the others. “It is miss, isn’t it?”

  “Mrs. Forrester,” she said, not making a move to follow him.

  His companions murmured their concern for the life of poor Paddy after joking with an officer’s wife.

  Paddy turned toward Rebecca and gave a gallant little bow. “I prefer to do me negotiatin’ in private, if you would be so kind as to step out o’ the hearin’ of these rascals. They be jealous o’ me hens, truth be known.”

  After a moment of hesitation, Rebecca followed the private around the side of his tent She was barely out of the other soldiers’ sight and not out of earshot if she raised her voice. Still the situation made her nervous.

  “Ye said barter, ma’am,” Paddy began in a low voice. “I reckon ye be sayin’ there’s no money for Paddy. What service might ye want to offer me?”

  It came to Rebecca suddenly exactly what service the man could be thinking of. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that this could be dangerous. “Sewing, perhaps,” she said quickly.

  “I can stitch a seam as fine as any woman,” he whispered. “I’ve somethin’ else in mind.”

  “Mr. Malone,” she began, but he cut her off with a wave and a grin.

  “Can ye read, ma’am? And write?”

  “Of course. Do you want me to teach you?” She wasn’t sure she was up to the task, but if that was what this man wanted, she’d do her best, with or without the eggs. Everyone should be able to read.

  He shook his head and laughed. “I be way too old, ma’am. But there’s folks back home what I’d like to be writin’ to. Could you do it for me?”

  Rebecca nodded slowly.

  “See, me friends there, they don’t know I canna read. You’ll keep me secret?”

  “Of course,” she whispered.

  “I got no eggs today,” he said, “but I’ll bring ‘em by in a day or two.”

  He held out a hand to close the deal and Rebecca shook it. With a nod she turned to leave. Behind her one of the other soldiers asked, “Did you get a deal, Paddy?”

  “Come Sunday, the angel’s gonna save me soul.”

  “I’m a sinner, too, ma’am,” the other soldier called.

  Rebecca was thoughtful as she walked back to her tent. So far she had promised to do one man’s mending, write letters for another and teach a boy to dance. That didn’t seem like too much to do, especially considering that housecleaning only took ten minutes. No, it was all going very well, as long as she didn’t run out of skills to barter.

  The tent seemed lonely when she entered it, not at all like a home. She sat down on one of the chairs and looked around critically. What was missing?

  Memories, she decided. If it looked like Clark’s tent on the march, with his cot at one side, and the folding desk with the chess set in the center, it wouldn’t seem lonely. She smiled to herself. They needed to make some new memories.

  She felt her smile fade as worries invaded her mind. She brushed them away. Tonight’s dinner might make the difference.

  And in the meantime, there were lots of things to do. She needed to go to the quartermaster, find out if Clark had collected all the food issued to him, and determine the size of his current debt at the commissary.

  She wrinkled her nose. Running a tab at the commissary was really something she should discuss with Clark. She was reluctant to do so because she wanted to manage everything herself. How would she prove she was a perfect wife if she had to ask his permission to purchase every little thing?

  With a sigh, she stood and walked to the crate that stored the foodstuffs. She would think of something. Though what, she couldn’t imagine. The quartermaster could read, or he wouldn’t have that job. He no doubt knew how to dance as well and probably had some arrangement for mending. At least in the case of the last, she hoped so. She truly hated to sew.

  Clark caught the smell of roasting fowl as he made his way toward his tent. The scent wasn’t especially surprising on the prairie, but finding his wife tending the birds over an open fire was.

  He paused to study her profile. She was crouched near the fire, her skirts tucked carefully beneath her knees. Little wisps of dark hair danced in the heat A bead of sweat trickled down her flushed cheek, and she brushed it away with a rolled-up sleeve.

  She lifted a pan from the edge of the fire with only a folded towel to protect her fingers, and held it beneath a bird. With a small paintbrush she basted it, catching the excess back in the pan.

  Fear that she would burn herself propelled him forward. He had his gloves on before he reached her. He knelt, closer to her than was necessary, and took the pan from her.

  “You startled me,” she said, drawing a little away from the fire, bringing her shoulder up against his.

  “I didn’t want to do that,” he said. His free arm went around her, steadying her unnecessarily. Her face was turned up toward his and for a moment he forgot about their dinner sizzling in front of them. What would those flushed lips taste like?

  “Do you think they look good?” she asked just above a whisper.

  Clark
blinked then pulled his eyes away from her face. She was speaking of the birds, of course. “They look wonderful. Let me help you finish.”

  He held the pan while she basted each bird. “This is quite a surprise,” he said as they worked. “Don’t tell me you can hunt, too?”

  She smiled. “As a matter of fact, I can. Or at least I used to. But I got these from Hank, Major Raymond’s son.”

  He didn’t want to know how she talked the boy out of them. A dimpled smile would probably do it. Just how old was the major’s son, anyway?

  Clark helped Rebecca remove the meat from the spit and carried the platter into the tent. She went ahead of him with a bowl of rice she had kept warm near the fire. The table was set with a jar of wildflowers in the center.

  “It’s impossible to find any fresh vegetables,” she said, “except onions. There are some canned goods at the commissary.”

  “Buy what you want. They’ll keep a tab of it.”

  “Is that all right?”

  He had stepped up beside her to set the platter down. He didn’t want to move away to take his seat. She didn’t seem in any hurry either. He wished she would give him some sign that she wanted his touch. “Of course,” he said, answering her question.

  “I’ll try to be careful,” she said, turning a little toward him.

  Her face was closer, but that didn’t mean it was an invitation, only that it was more tempting. There was no smile, no dancing lights in her whiskey-colored eyes. “Rebecca,” he said, fighting his desire with serious conversation, “the life of a soldier’s wife can be difficult. Anything you think of that could make it easier, you’re to tell me.”

  She smiled then, but moved away at the same time. “You forget,” she said, taking a seat at the table, “this is how I grew up. This is the life I want.”

  He took the seat across from her. “I’m glad,” he said, wondering if he really was. Knowing that she had intended to marry an officer and had found him as good as any other should make him feel better than thinking she hadn’t wanted to marry at all.

  She served the food and he ate, savoring the onion in the rice, complimenting her cooking. All the time he tried to decide how much he should take from her simple statement. If marriage to an officer, any officer, had been her plan all along, then he didn’t need to feel she had made a sacrifice for him. She was in fact using him. That being the case, he should be able to use her as well without a twinge of guilt.

  He glanced up at her as she delicately picked the meat from a bone. She noticed his scrutiny and grinned. “It’s delicious, but messy.”

  He nodded in agreement, watching her suck the grease off the tip of a finger. He had kissed her before, and she hadn’t been unwilling. A voice in the back of his mind told him that had been nothing more than a young girl’s flirtation and was a far cry from what he was thinking.

  He tried to ignore the voice. He wanted to believe he could forget yesterday’s vow and demand his marital rights. She was his wife, whatever her reason had been.

  “I was hoping you’d like it,” she said.

  Her face was a combination of eagerness and suspense. She reminded him of nothing so much as a little girl, awaiting praise for some special gift.

  “It was perfect,” he said, watching her face light with a smile that he swore seemed shy.

  He was a fool. It was amazing what a man could talk himself into when the ache got bad enough. All she had meant was that she wanted to make the best of the situation. The meal proved how hard she was willing to work at it.

  She stood to scrape the bones together and clear the table. He remained seated, watching her. Her movements were graceful, efficient. She caught him watching her again and gave him another shy smile.

  He looked away quickly and came to his feet, helping her stack the dishes. He was finding himself as excited by her innocence as he had ever been by her flirting. How much more time could he spend with her before he forgot he was a gentleman? One more evening at least.

  “You don’t need to help,” Rebecca said.

  “I don’t mind.” They had both stopped and were gazing at each other.

  “There aren’t that many. It won’t take me long.”

  “Even less if I help.”

  Her lips curled up in a tentative smile. “Are you afraid I’ll break one of your mother’s dishes?”

  He thought he heard teasing in her voice. Her eyes seemed to hold a hint of a sparkle. But he didn’t trust his perception tonight; he was too willing to believe what he wanted to.

  “They were my mother’s dishes,” he said softly. “They’re yours now.”

  She was still for a long moment. “Thank you,” she murmured finally.

  He had to turn away. “I’ll heat some water,” he said. He filled the kettle from the bucket and took it to the dying fire, scraped the hot coals together and set the kettle directly on them. He stayed outside until it was hot. Inside, he helped her with the dishes, trying not to watch her more than necessary.

  Afterward he sat beside the lamp with his journal trying to forget that she sat near him, stitching a seam with the same light He didn’t look directly at her until she told him she was going to bed. He noticed a sadness about her eyes then that made him sure he had made the right decision.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rebecca sat on a camp chair in the middle of the tent, knowing she should be busy with something, but unable to think of anything that would really matter. Fatigue call sounded, calling the soldiers to their assigned tasks.

  “What are my assigned tasks?” she muttered aloud. She should make the bed, find fresh flowers for the table and make plans for the evening meal.

  She sighed. She had worked so hard yesterday, and the dinner had turned out well. Clark enjoyed it; she knew he did. Just not enough to warm his heart toward her. In fact, she had a feeling she made him uncomfortable.

  She had even produced raisins for their oatmeal this morning. He had seemed surprised that they were available at the commissary. She would have liked to tell him that they hadn’t even cost him a cent. She had traded back some of the salt pork for them, a trick she didn’t expect to work a second time. She had fallen back on old habits and the sutler had been taken in by her dimpled smile. She was too ashamed to admit it to Clark.

  Now she faced another day of trying to put together a great meal, knowing it would likely have no effect on her husband. She wouldn’t mind cooking all day if she could anticipate a reward come nightfall. She hadn’t expected yesterday’s plan to fail. She had no alternate plan to fall back on.

  “Mrs. Forrester?”

  She recognized the Irish brogue of Paddy Malone. She stepped out of the tent to meet him.

  “I brung ye three fine eggs today, ma’am,” he said, taking them from various pockets.

  Rebecca made a basket with her apron, and he laid them gently inside.

  “Why aren’t you on duty?” she asked.

  “I’ve been hired as striker for the colonel. Gets me outa everythin’ but guard duty and drill, only we don’t drill on account o’ no bein’ built and all. And o’course, I could get called for actual patrol.”

  Rebecca smiled. “I thought Father already had a striker.”

  “He couldn’t get along with the new lady.”

  Rebecca nodded her understanding. “Well, I hope you last longer,” she said with a smile.

  “I’ll be doin’ me best.” He tipped his hat and left.

  Rebecca laughed softly as she turned back toward the tent.

  “Rebecca.”

  Clark’s voice. She spun around to greet him, mindful of the fragile contents of her apron. He was right behind her.

  “Eggs,” she said, hoping to explain the meeting he had surely witnessed.

  “Step inside,” he said.

  She did as she was told with some trepidation. She hoped he wasn’t angry with her. But then that would mean he was jealous. He couldn’t be jealous if he didn’t care.

  Instead of
turning to speak to her he went to his trunk and began packing some things in a blanket roll. “I’ve been called out on patrol,” he said. “A group of advance surveyors for the railroad came in. They had heard reports of raids in their area. We’re to return them to their camp, leave a small detachment for their protection, and pursue the hostiles.”

  Rebecca stared in silence. He was leaving. Of course. He was a soldier. They were here for a reason. Yet somehow it hadn’t occurred to her that he would leave, at least not so soon.

  He turned and came toward her. “I shouldn’t be gone more than a few days.”

  She couldn’t think of anything to say. Her foolish mind wanted to find an excuse for him to stay.

  He stopped beside her and kissed her cheek. “Save those eggs till I come back.”

  She didn’t have time to react, to turn her head for a proper kiss. He was gone.

  Save the eggs? She had forgotten the eggs. Her fist was frozen in the gathers of her apron. She stood a full minute before she shook off the shock enough to take the eggs to the crate of dishes and make a nest for them in the straw.

  She wandered out of the tent, her mind in turmoil. He could be killed. She didn’t remember ever worrying about her father, at least not like this. Why hadn’t she thought of that? And what difference would it have made? She hadn’t set out to fall in love with a soldier.

  Near the corral she stopped to watch the men saddle their horses. It seemed like an awfully small force to send out She would have liked to see at least two hundred men behind him instead of what? Thirty?

  He had to come back. She hadn’t told him she loved him, yet.. Please, God, don’t let him get anywhere close to the Indians.

  She watched the lines form, watched Clark take his place at the head of the column. He saw her then and gave her a quick salute before he ordered the troops forward. She watched until the last of the line faded into the cloud of dust.

  Hank came by late in the morning. “Rabbits, Mrs. Forrester,” he said, holding the gruesome carcasses up proudly.