by Carla Kelly
Tommy’s eyes were wide. He let out a breath he must have been holding since the fight began. “This is a whole lot more exciting than Carlisle, Pennsylvania,” he declared, which made Joe smile.
They camped that night at Hunton’s roadhouse, so empty without its owner, dead in an Indian raid, even though his employees still carried on. When Tommy was comfortable by the campfire, he continued his story, the part that had been nagging Joe since Nick Martin disappeared.
“How did your father die, Tommy? Can you tell me?”
He nodded, but still took his time. “It was a month after Aaron started walking me to school. He said he did odd jobs around town, and that he watched my house, but I never saw him.” The boy looked at Joe. “Sir, for all his size, he’s hard to spot.”
“He was looking out for you.”
“I think so. That night … that night …” He swallowed, and Joe’s arm went around him. “I was studying at the dining room table and Papa was drinking. He always did that. I can’t remember what I said to him—it never took much—but he started to shout. When he swung his hand out, I ducked and he knocked over a lamp. It fell against the wall and set the curtains on fire.”
He sobbed now, reliving the moment, holding out his arms. Joe grabbed him and held him close as he cried. Tommy made no move to leave Joe’s lap when his tears subsided.
Captain O’Leary had been toasting cheese. Silently he pulled the cheese off the stick with two pieces of hardtack and handed it to Tommy. The boy accepted it with the ghost of a smile and leaned back against Joe as he ate.
“Will you tell me exactly what happened then?” Joe asked quietly. I have to know what Nick did, he thought. I just have to. “Close your eyes and think. I promise I will never ask again.”
Tommy obediently closed his eyes, relaxing in Joe’s arms. When he spoke, his voice was calm. “Papa grabbed his shoulder and rubbed it, and then he grabbed his chest and fell to his knees. The room was on fire.”
“He had a heart attack,” Joe said, more to himself than to the boy in his arms. Nick Martin didn’t murder Frederick Hopkins to save Suzie’s son. He was there to watch, a guardian.
Tommy turned slightly to look at him. “A heart attack? I tried to pull Papa away from the flames, but I couldn’t. I … I thought maybe he would live if I pulled him out.”
“He was probably dead before he hit the floor. It happens. There wasn’t anything you could have done.”
Tommy sobbed and turned his face into Joe’s chest. Joe just held him until he was calm again.
“Did Aaron get you out?”
Tommy nodded. “I heard a window break, and he was there. He picked me up and didn’t stop running until we were out of Carlisle.”
“Did you start working your way west then?” Captain O’Leary asked, to fill in the silence. Joe noticed that all the troopers were seated near the fire now, listening.
“We’d walk, and stop and work, and then maybe hitch a ride, and work some more.”
“What kind of work did you do?” Joe asked, interested.
Tommy grinned. “You name it, we did it! Washed dishes, wrangled horses—I liked that best—painted a church, shined shoes, mucked out a stable or two, slaughtered hogs.” He made a face. “Aaron dug graves once. I got paid to be a mourner at a funeral. One whole dollar.” That must have been a good memory because he looked satisfied. “It was supposed to be fifty cents, but I sang ‘Rock of Ages’ and the old ladies cried.”
“You’re pretty resourceful,” Joe told him. “Your mother will be impressed.”
Tommy chuckled. “Promise me you won’t tell her that I stole a pie once.”
“Cross my heart. Good pie?”
“The best. Aaron was a bit strange. He told me we were visiting the seven churches of Asia. When we passed through Smyrna, Indiana, he wanted to preach there. I talked him out of it. Kind of hurt his feelings. He said I reminded him of unfruitful missionary companions. I don’t know what he meant.”
“I’ll explain it to you someday, son.”
Tommy grew serious then. “Things changed in Omaha, because Aaron was sure we were being followed.”
“You were. Your mother and I hired a detective from the Pinkerton National Detective Agency to find you.”
Tommy stared at him, his eyes wide, very much a little boy again. “Pinkerton? Really?”
“Cross my heart again. I got a letter from William Pinkerton himself, telling me that you and Aaron gave him the slip.”
Tommy’s mouth was a perfect O. “We fooled William Pinkerton?”
“You did. He lost your trail.” He looked at Tommy’s expressive face, so like his mother’s. “What else happened in Omaha? Aaron didn’t come with you to Cheyenne, did he?”
“No. We spent three weeks in Omaha with the army, taking care of mules and wagons. Did you know the army is planning a big expedition against the Indians?”
“We’ve heard rumors,” Joe said mildly as the troopers in the background chuckled. “Did you stow away in a wagon?”
Tommy nodded. “Aaron told me to. He boosted me into a wagon full of rations. Told me he was staying behind to make sure that man on our trail was confused.”
“We received a letter from Mr. Pinkerton, describing someone that had to be Nick Martin. Will thought he might have seen you, which made me pretty sure you were on your way here.” Joe nudged Tommy’s shoulder. “Did you actually make it all the way to Fort Russell without discovery?”
His face fell. “A teamster found me around Grand Island, but let me stay, since I’m good with mules.” He leaned closer. “I learned a lot of words that I’m never going to tell Mama.”
“Wise of you. How long were you at Fort Russell?”
Tommy’s eyes started to close. “Maybe two weeks. I lived in the stables and worked for the cook.” He settled himself more comfortably in Joe’s lap. “Aaron told me—” he yawned “—told me that I was to wait there for a tall man with a funny accent. He couldn’t remember your name. You know he’s a bit slow.”
“Not where it matters,” Joe said.
Tommy closed his eyes. “He said you’d figure it out.” He chuckled, his eyes closed. “He told me that if you didn’t, I was to figure out how to get to Fort Laramie.” He settled in on Joe’s lap. “He said he knew I could.”
“I know you would have, son,” Joe said, and kissed Tommy’s head.
Tommy slept. Joe held him all night. Once he thought he heard a noise in the brush, just beyond the light from the campfire. He wondered if Nick Martin would always be just out of his vision, a step behind or a step ahead, guarding his dear ones.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tommy rode without complaint to Fort Laramie, taking his turn caring for the horses, and even holding four of them rock-still when Lakota attacked and even Joe joined the troopers on the firing line. Maybe it was good for his image, for Tommy looked at him with real respect when the Indians rode away. Obviously firearms trumped field surgery.
“Your mama’s going to be angry with me for exposing you to danger,” Joe said, and sewed a flap of skin back onto a trooper’s forearm.
Tommy just shrugged. “I’d like to know how we were supposed to get to Fort Laramie without trouble.”
“I’ll sign him on any day,” Captain O’Leary said as the boy walked back to his horse and calmed the still-skittish animal with a few words spoken nose-to-nose.
“He’s only twelve!” Joe protested. “I believe his mother will have different ideas. I will, too.”
Hard riding brought them to Fort Laramie as the shadows of early evening gathered on the parade ground. Tommy had gone completely silent, straining forward as he rode, as though he could urge his tired mount to go faster.
They came first to the cavalry stables, where K Company peeled off, with a salute from Captain O’Leary.
“We must go to the hospital first,” Joe said as he took the reins from the soldier with the wound in his leg. “Private, you will spend the night in the h
ospital so I can look at your leg in the morning. End of the trail, Tommy.”
The boy did as he was asked without question, dismounting and handing the reins of his horse to the bunkie, who saluted Joe and headed back to the stable with the horses. It took only a few minutes to sit the private down on a cot and turn him over to the hospital steward. A few words with Dr. Petteys relieved Joe of night duty.
“Your mother has been waiting for you for months,” Joe said, his hand on Tommy’s thin shoulder.
“Longer, sir,” the boy said. “I haven’t laid eyes on her since … since that night she ran away. It’s been a year and more.” His expression turned wistful, and Joe had an inkling what the time had cost Thomas Hopkins. “I was barely eleven and now I am twelve.” He frowned. “I know I have changed. Has she?”
“Probably, but let me assure you she is wonderful.”
“Then she hasn’t changed.”
They walked slowly down the hill toward the parade ground and Officers Row. More tents had sprouted on the ground between the storehouses and infantry barracks, probably reinforcements for General Crook. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July. Joe knew there was to be a picnic at nearby Deer Creek. He hoped Suzie hadn’t committed herself to anything beyond preparing some food that someone else could take.
It was too much to hope that his dear wife, the keeper of his heart, would be outside, but she was, walking from Emily Reese’s quarters to their own home.
“Your mother, lad,” he whispered to Tommy, and gave him a little push.
Tommy stood still, suddenly shy. “Let’s go together,” he whispered back, which touched Joe to his very core.
“With pleasure.”
They were still not close, walking past the post trader’s store now, and he knew Suzie’s left eye saw only blurry images. Still, she stopped walking and stared. She slowly put her hands to her mouth, then brought them down to pick up her skirts and run. The wind caught her dress and showed off a fine pair of ankles but her arms were open wide now, her hairpins probably escaping with every step. Joe knew her.
“She’s going to grab us both,” Tommy said.
“I believe she is, son.”
Suzie stopped only steps from them, her eyes on her son, adoring him, then on Joe, with an expression so happy that it stunned him. He and Tommy took the last few steps into her arms, both of them holding her close as she cried, her hands first in Tommy’s hair, and then his. She gave Joe as fierce a kiss as any woman had ever given a man, then knelt beside her son, just running her hands from his head to his face to his shoulders and arms, saying his name over and over.
Joe knelt, too, because she was suddenly too far away, this wife who had become everything to him. They stayed that way, arms around each other, Tommy between them, until she looked up at his face. She didn’t say a thing, but her expression burned itself into his soul and heart.
Neighbors came and went all evening, bringing food, heaven knows why. Mrs. Burt visited briefly, left, and returned with two pairs of trousers. “My son outgrew these. I knew I was keeping them for some reason,” she said, pressing them into Suzie’s hands.
The biggest surprise was Lavinia Dunklin, still pale from her recent medical ordeal. She had three shirts over her arm, which she handed to Suzie, and left without saying a word.
The news traveled almost as rapidly across the footbridge to Suds Row, which meant Maeve and Maddie, then Mrs. Hanrahan came by to hug Tommy and kiss Suzie, who was starting to resemble a woman on her last legs.
In the kindest way he knew how—it took all his Southern diplomacy—Joe finally closed the door on well-wishers. With a doctor’s eye, he looked at the two patients in his care and sat them both down on the settee.
“We’ve had enough visitors,” he said. “Tomorrow, my prescription is that the only person who leaves this house is me.” Suzie nodded, her eyes never straying far from her son.
He looked at Suzie’s son, the boy he already considered his, and saw exhaustion writ large.
“You will sleep here tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow I will procure a cot from the quartermaster’s clerk and you’ll have a bedroom upstairs.”
“I haven’t had a bedroom in a long time,” Tommy said. He leaned against Suzie’s shoulder, not too tired for the impish humor Joe had come to know on the ride from Fort Russell. “Mama, I’ve been living rough and traveling with Saint Paul.”
Suzie laughed. “This missionary journey is over! I believe I can prevail upon my husband to round me up some sorry cases from the guardhouse to move our bedroom upstairs, too, where it belongs. It’s time we turned the dining room into a dining room, now that we’re …” She stopped as her eyes filled with tears. “Now that we’re a family. Oh, Tommy, how I yearned for you.”
“I know, Mama. Joe told me about the letters,” her son said. He yawned. “I’m so tired.” He looked at Joe seriously, man to man. “You can tell her.”
Joe found a nightshirt of his own and cut off a foot of it using his surgical scissors, while Suzie pointed her son toward the privy. She handed him a candle and stood at the back door, not letting him out of her sight. When he came back in, he went to her and put his arms around her. She held him close as he started to sob. She picked him up and sat with him on the settee, crooning to him like a baby.
Joe watched the boy who had been through so much, and the woman who had suffered so long.
Through his tears, Tommy pleaded with her to understand what had happened. “Mama, I couldn’t save him!” he sobbed.
God bless his wife. She dried her son’s tears with her apron, and put her hands on each side of his head, capturing his attention in her gentle way. “Tommy, I have learned something you need to know. It’s very important, so heed me. Sometimes the only person you can save is yourself. This was one of those times.”
She hugged him, soothed him, sang him to sleep and tucked the covers around him as Joe marveled at the strength of women and the resiliency of children.
When Tommy was asleep, Joe took his wife by the hand and led her to bed. He stretched out and pulled her close, as he always did. It took him an hour, but he told her everything Tommy had told him. “Do you think we will ever see Aaron Belknap again?” she asked, her voice drowsy.
“Nothing would surprise me.” Joe kissed the top of her head.
“We should look for him,” she insisted, then seemed to reconsider. “If Pinkerton couldn’t find him …”
“Nothing would make me happier than to see Nick—Aaron—again. I’d happily employ him in any hospital where the army sends me.” He chuckled. “I have this discretionary fund.”
His sweet wife thumped him where it hurt. “You do not!” She softened the blow by kissing his shoulder. “I think you’re telling me that we’ll only see Aaron again if it suits him.”
“I think I am, dear heart. I do know we’ll never be out of his debt.”
Their talk turned to mundane matters then as she assured him she could find someone else to take her batch of rolls to the picnic tomorrow. He said he was on duty at the hospital, but would come home as soon as he could.
“Go to sleep, Suzie,” he whispered in her ear finally. “You’re starting to mumble.”
“No, I’m not! There is something you should know. There’s a letter for you from France.”
“My God. What does it say?”
“You know I don’t read your mail! Something else—there’s a funny feeling around here. Major Townsend thinks there’s been another battle.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. I wonder if Custer or Gibbon got hit. We know Crook is fly-fishing in the Big Horns. Custer’s tough, though. He’ll pull through.”
“One more thing. I’ve been feeling off this past week. We need to discuss the matter.”
He smiled in the dark; he’d had his suspicions. “It’ll keep, wife. Go to sleep.”
She did, breathing so softly against his chest that he felt himself relax all over and close his eyes, too.
When he woke
, he knew Suzie wouldn’t be lying beside him. He walked into the parlor to see her curled up in his armchair, just watching Tommy sleep. He gestured and she stood up, then sat on his lap when he settled in the chair, their arms around each other. They both watched their son until the inexpert bugler played his version of reveille, which woke the boy.
Tommy rubbed his eyes, sat up, then joined them in the chair, which was big enough for them all. Joe thought about the letter from Paris. If it was non, it was just as well. He knew he was too busy to leave Fort Laramie, especially if more trouble was coming. If it was oui, he knew he didn’t want Suzie traveling this year. Pasteur could wait. Besides, Joe had already promised Tommy a horse, and he needed the West to ride it in.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
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