by Sharon Ihle
Buoyed in spirit as she plotted her revenge, Dominique straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was determined to join the ladies and gentlemen in the other room, and equally set on giving them the cheerful young woman they'd become accustomed to. Walking stiff-legged, she marched toward the drawing room.
Just before she stepped into view, Dominique manufactured the biggest smile she could. Then she brought her fingertip to the corner of her eye and wiped away a tear.
Chapter Seven
"Stoltz? You in here?"
Jacob stepped out of the feed room carrying a bucket of flax and molasses. At the sight of his ranking officer, he paused and touched the brim of his hat. "Morning, Captain."
"At ease, Private." Edgar Ruffing pulled a cheroot, the last one in the package, from his shirt pocket and slowly drew it across his upper lip. Closing his eyes, he indulged himself with several deep breaths of the rich tobacco, then struck a match and lit the small cigar. Through a long stream of smoke, he finally said, "Got a real plum of an assignment, if you're interested, Private."
Barely keeping a hot glare of loathing from his eyes, Jacob studied the haughty officer. This was a man the other soldiers described as "full of himself." They said his hands were callused from patting himself on the back. When Jacob had looked for calluses and found the captain's hands smooth and soft like those of a white woman, he understood the joke the other men made of their commanding officer.
He also came to understand the deep respect Ed Ruffing had for General Custer and recognized that his life was a poor imitation of the Long Hair's. Since their commander's departure, Ed had allowed his yellow hair to grow long, down to his shoulders. On Custer, whose red-gold hair was thick and curly, the effect was dramatic. On Captain Ruffing, the imitation was laughable. Pale almost to the point of whiteness, his hair hung in long, unkempt strands and made him look like the backside of a mare after a long, fly-ridden summer.
To Jacob, the captain's personality, or lack of it, showed most when he walked. His gait, alive with exaggerated hip movements, made him look as if some invisible string tied to his man parts tugged at him as he walked, led him, as it were, to his destination. Jacob's smile was genuine when he suddenly realized the major role he would play in determining that destination.
"I am interested in anything that will help the Seventh, sir," he said with a bright grin.
Ed took a deep drag of the cheroot, inclined his head, and blew out six perfect circles of blue smoke. Then, even though he was approximately the same height as Jacob, he managed to look down on him. "That's the attitude to have, Private. How'd you like to go to town?"
"To Bismarck, sir?"
"All those muscles, and brains, too. Of course to Bismarck, soldier—where else?"
In spite of his vow to hide his true feelings, his purpose, Jacob's eyes dulled. "Of course," he echoed, "where else but Bismarck?"
Did he have a choice, and if so, should he accept? He hadn't been to one of these places called towns since he was a very small boy. Only in the past few days had he become comfortable with cavalry life, confident that his identity would continue to be a secret. Would it remain so in Bismarck? He thought back to his youth, to the few visits his family had made to the towns dotting the wild country on their ill-fated journey west. He remembered best the large buildings called stores. Jars of candy, child-sized crackers, and cookies came to mind, filled his senses with the ghosts of their inviting aroma and sweet, comforting taste. Going to town held only good memories, drew no disturbing reminders from his past. Was it worth taking a chance to find out if Bismarck would reward him as the towns of the past had? Was it worth the risk of declining the invitation and finding he'd insulted his commanding officer?
Jacob considered the captain's proposal and recognized the generosity behind the invitation. The officer acted as if he'd offered Jacob his freedom, his very life. As much as he hated to think of the obstacles he might face in town, he knew he'd be a fool not to accept.
Calling up some of the English phrases he'd been practicing, Jacob kicked the soft ground with the toe of his boot, and said, "Golly, Captain, I am truly obliged to you, sir. Thank you kindly."
Ed's brows rose, then knotted as Jacob spoke. After a thoughtful drag on the cheroot, he snapped, "It's time you got busy, then. We'll be using the buckboard. Make sure it's clean, and pad all the seats with blankets. There'll be a couple of women along."
Women? The invitation was yet another foolish waste of his valuable time. This assignment would not help him to learn of the soldiers' plans or reveal the date of Custer's expected return. This trip could only serve to lower his status among the recruits. But how could he decline now that he'd accepted the Captain's invitation? Or was it an order?
Loosening his collar, Jacob grimaced and said, "Women, sir?"
"Women, you know? They're the ones with the high-pitched voices, round little behinds that wiggle when they walk, and big round titties just made to fit in these." Ed stuck the cheroot in his mouth, then cupped his hands and drove them toward Jacob's face. Oblivious of the murderous thoughts behind the private's blank stare, he puffed out his thin chest and went on, "I'll be escorting the general's niece to town."
"Dominique?" Jacob blurted out, his fingers instinctively going to his shirt pocket and the ridges of the envelope it concealed.
Ed's smug grin reversed itself. "That's Miss DuBois to you, Private. And yes, the pretty lady has chosen me to accompany her." He flipped his cheroot over near Jacob's boot, then rubbed his hands together. "That lucky little gal doesn't know what a treat she's in for, assuming I can find a way to get rid of her homely old chaperon and Lieutenant Woodhouse, that is."
Wishing the captain's head was beneath his heel instead, Jacob ground the cigar into the soft earth. "And if you get rid of the others?" he asked, his jaw tight.
Breaking into a burst of obscene laughter, Ed cupped his hands again and leered. "I'll be filling these and maybe a whole lot more."
Jacob stood rigid, his fists clenched, as the captain laughed and enjoyed his carnal fantasies. Only one thought kept his hands from circling the man's throat. When the day of reckoning occurred between the soldiers and the Lakota—and more and more it looked as if the confrontation couldn't be avoided—he would find a way to make certain this Long Knife was the first to die.
Ed straightened his jacket. "Now get busy, Private. Finish feeding the stock, then put the lead team on the buckboard. When you're done with that, pick out a couple of good mounts—one for you and another for one of the Indian scouts. You two will ride shotgun. Now get to it," he ordered as he spun on his boot heel and marched toward the barn door. "Miss DuBois wants to leave on the hour."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." Anything you say, you dog whom I will cut into so many pieces the spirits will never find enough of you to take you to your final rest. Only slightly mollified by the thought, Jacob finished his chores. Then he hitched the horses to the buckboard and adjusted the plank on which the women would ride.
As he went to gather the other supplies, he tried to find some positive thoughts about his forced trip into town. Dominique. He hadn't seen or heard from her in nearly two weeks. Not since he'd received the note. Jacob took the envelope from his pocket. The scent of lilacs lingered, drawing his mind to thoughts best left to one such as the arrogant captain. The crazy one was trouble. She could mean the difference between success and failure for him, between life and death. Yet thoughts of her had filled his lonely hours and tortured his restless nights. Was there no way for him to get her out of his mind? With something akin to anger, he jammed the letter back into his pocket and began smoothing a blanket across the plank.
Ed Ruffing returned then, stepping out of the morning light and into the stable. Brushing Jacob aside with a wave of his hand, he began an inspection of the rig to make certain it met his specifications. "At ease, Private."
Jacob clasped his hands behind his back and spread his legs. He noticed the captain had c
hanged into civilian clothing, dark blue trousers and jacket, and strutted about like a young warrior wearing the symbol of his first coup. He doubted the shiny medals the captain usually wore could be as significant. A few of the ribbons may have been earned, but the balance were most likely given on the field of battle during the War between the States. It was said a man had only to show up on the battlefield to win a medal at that time. The honors were more of a courtesy—not unlike the courtesy title of general bestowed on Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer in that very same war.
Amused by this, Jacob shook his head and looked away. White soldiers had very strange ways. To a Lakota, a chief was a chief, a warrior, a warrior. Never was a warrior called chief simply because he'd done a good job or shown extraordinary bravery. He fought the urge to sneer and turned back to the captain. "Shall I drive the buggy to the Custer house, sir?"
"No. I'll pick up the ladies myself. Everything looks in order here. Take the extra mount and ride on over to the Ree camp. Pick up Long Back, then head on down to the river. Wait for us there, Oh, and don't bother changing into your uniform. We have the ladies' reputations to think about."
Although he didn't understand what the captain meant, he said, "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
With counterfeit exuberance, Jacob wheeled around and marched to the other end of the barn where the horses stood waiting. He mounted the large sorrel gelding he'd chosen for himself, then wrapped the reins of the smaller roan mare around his hand. He rode out one end of the barn, all military precision, as Captain Ruffing cracked the whip and drove his team of horses out the other.
Jacob headed up the long hill between the cavalry and infantry posts, consumed by the reality of his newest task. At the top of the hill, he would have to confront the Arikaree scouts in their own quarters—an encounter he'd managed to avoid until now.
Although he'd never actually seen a member of the hated Arikaree tribe before, on many occasions, the main topic of conversation during the Lakota council fires had been these same Indians. The discussion always centered on ways in which to spill their blood.
Grumbling to himself, but feeling no malice, Jacob wondered if Gall had any idea of the trials he would put his son through when he'd conceived this mission. Had he known that Jacob would have to face not one but two of the Lakota's most despised enemies? Or that his son would have to act like a friend to these mangy dogs?
Compelled to do no less, Jacob wore a smile as he approached the log buildings of the Ree camp. He slid down off the sorrel, hampered only slightly by the leather seat he was forced to use, then tied the animals to a log railing. Walking directly to the largest structure, a long, low building, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"I come for Long Back," he announced, his senses assaulted by the pungent odor of smoked venison and tanning hides.
Illuminated only by huge logs burning in the center fireplace, several shadowed figures stirred. One stepped forward. "I am Long Back."
Heavily jowled and broad of cheek, the scout was neither Indian nor white, warrior nor soldier. He wore buckskin breeches with heavy fringe sprouting out from the sides. Around his neck hung a string of bear claws, their points denting the gray flannel of his regulation army shirt. The leather straps of the scabbard for his government-issue rifle crossed over his chest, but then, so did his waist-length plaits.
The thing that caught Jacob's attention, that which interested him the most, was the headband the Ree wore and the feathers protruding from it. The number and color of the feathers combined with the way they were cut told of the warrior's many coups. Long Back had killed and scalped enemies and received many wounds in the bargain. A very impressive display. How many members of the Hunkpapa were represented by these symbols? Jacob wondered. How many killed or wounded by the two-faced Ree standing before him?
Once again calling on all his restraint, Jacob kept his features expressionless and said, "I am Private Stoltz. Captain Ruffing waits for us down by the river."
"I am ready."
The two men mounted their horses and rode down the long hill in silence, each entertaining private thoughts about the other. When they reached the designated meeting spot, they split up without another word between them.
From the background, Captain Ruffing raised his arm in greeting. "Welcome to you, Long Back. How."
"How." The greeting, a universal greeting or toast known to white man and Indian alike, regardless of tribe, was accompanied by the Ree's raised hand.
His required courtesy out of the way, Ed Ruffing got down to business. "Long Back, I want you and Private Stoltz to guard our flanks. Ride about a hundred yards ahead of us and keep a sharp lookout. The entire area is supposed to be free of hostiles, but I don't trust those damn—oh, excuse me, ladies—those Sioux. We don't want to alarm the women in any way, now, do we?" He twisted in his seat, gesturing to the dozen lucky men from Company B who'd been chosen to follow along behind with the supply wagon, and hollered, "Head on out."
Jacob tried to look into Dominique's eyes, but she refused to meet his gaze. What he saw in her expression--indifference mingled with something he couldn't identify—disturbed and hurt him more than he ever could have imagined. He touched the shirt pocket nearest his heart, then coaxed the sorrel into a gentle lope. The note. This sudden change in her attitude had to have something to do with the note she'd sent him. Jacob spent the rest of the morning not looking for hostiles he knew weren't there, but searching for a way to make things right between himself and the crazy one.
She'd felt Jacob's eyes on her, knew he was trying to attract her attention, but Dominique's sense of justice had to be served. Two weeks. Almost two weeks and the ungrateful private hadn't even had sense enough to send his regrets or his apologies. Now he expected her to look at him and pretend the breach of etiquette didn't matter, didn't hurt?
Dominique straightened her shoulders and drew her fur- trimmed pelisse closer to her bosom. She gave Ed Ruffing a sidelong glance and said, "How long before we reach town?"
Shifting the reins from his right hand to his left, Ed said through a broad grin, "Maybe three, four hours. Depends on the river crossing and how often you want to stop. You see something pretty like those flowers over yonder, you just holler and we'll pull up and give a look."
"That's very thoughtful of you." Dominique inched closer to the edge of the wooden seat and peered out across the sun-kissed meadow. A few patches of anemone splattered the new grass, their soft gray petals and bright blue centers contrasting with the spring green. To a bored Dominique, the smattering of flowers looked like a field of tattered army blankets. The last thing she wanted to be reminded of was the army or its officers, and certainly not its enlisted men. "This is a close enough look for me, Captain. I'm in a hurry to get to town."
"Whatever you say, ma’am. I'm here to see to your pleasures."
From behind, Barney cleared his throat and said, "Have you heard from your uncle in the last couple of days, Miss DuBois? When's he due back?"
"I don't know. Aunt Libbie got another letter just yesterday saying he'd been delayed again. It seems that every time he thinks he's ready to return, someone from the Senate summons him and makes him testify against the secretary of war or the Indian traders, or both. I'm not sure. It's all so tiresome. Seems to me he could have simply written a letter to the government stating his observations and been done with it."
Barney opened his mouth to set her straight, but Hazel silenced him with a finger pressed against her lips. "Hush, now," she cautioned in a whisper. "You must remember Dominique's unfortunate childhood, or lack of it, shall I say?" Glancing up to make sure her impetuous charge couldn't hear, Hazel went on. "She lost her mother at a very impressionable age, you know, then spent her growing years in a succession of boarding schools. If she seems a little, well, spoiled, it's only because the schoolmasters felt sorry for such a lovely motherless child. Do be gentle when conversing with her."
"Sure, Hazel. Whatever you say
." But he had no real interest in Dominique's troubled childhood. All Barney's attention was heaped on Hazel and her mesmerizing amber eyes. For nearly forty years he'd managed to stay clear of Cupid's, if not the Sioux's, arrows. Then the indomitable, even-tempered, and highly sensual Hazel Swenson had literally waltzed into his life. She'd been a dream to hold at the ball, a fluffy dumpling of mature womanhood whose capacity for satisfying his appetites he could only imagine.
Vaguely uncomfortable, Barney shifted against the blanket. She was a widow woman, most likely well versed in the ways of lovemaking. The thought sent a delicious shudder slamming into his loins and a spurt of sheer terror up his spine. What if their relationship progressed? What if she actually wanted him—him.
He wouldn't know what to do, how to act—how to touch a woman of her breeding. Crimson wings of shame fluttered along his neck as he realized the full scope of his inexperience. His knowledge of women had never been anything more personal than a business transaction. How could he ever hope to claim a fine woman like Hazel Swenson as his own?
