by Anita Mills
"Oh."
"I don't like anything with mine, not even water," he admitted ruefully. "I guess it's all in what you get used to."
"I don't know. If you put every drop of spirits I ever drank in a cup, it wouldn't be full. If it doesn't have water and honey or sugar to go with it, I can't get it down."
"Fool thing to do, you know."
Somehow she knew he wasn't speaking of hot toddies. "Yes, well, I think everybody shares that opinion. I know you think I ought to have let them put him in jail, but I couldn't."
"There you go again."
"What?"
"Thinking for me."
"Well, it's pretty obvious. Look, I'm freezing. Why don't you come in, whether you want the toddy or not?"
"I would, but I'm coming for supper, so I reckon I'd better get myself a razor somewhere first."
"Oh. Then I guess I'll see you there, Captain."
He waited until she was about fifteen feet away. "I guess you read the wrong mind," he said then.
She half turned back. "I beg your pardon?"
"I was thinking after what the Comanches did to you, it took a lot of goodness—and a lot of guts—to stand up for old Bull Calf. Most folks in your place wouldn't have lifted a finger to help him, whether he was guilty or not. I'm not even sure I would have, and I don't have nearly as much at risk as you do."
"I couldn't have lived with myself," she said simply.
"No, I reckon not. My ma would've said you had character. She admired that in a person—and so do I."
She found herself actually smiling. "Well, thank you, sir. It's quite kind of you to say that."
Bracing his crutch under his arm, he reached to lift the front of his battered hat. "See you at supper, ma'am."
This time he watched her all the way into the house. Character. Yeah, that's what she had, all right. And it was going to cost her. Now the unpleasant speculation would pass for the God's truth everywhere anybody heard about her and Bull Calf.
As the door closed behind her, he adjusted the crutches beneath already sore arms and hopped on one foot toward the post store. Yeah, he was in bad need of that shave, and a bath, too, not to mention that he could sure use a pint of good whiskey right now. But the whiskey'd have to wait until after supper. Cora Sprenger didn't seem like the sort to tolerate a drunk at her table.
When he finally made it to the store, all the talk was about Annie Bryce, and it was as bad as he'd expected. As he opened the door, he heard the post sutler declare, "Now we know why she wasn't messed up like the Purvis woman. She was keeping old Bull Calf warm at night and liking it."
Those around him nodded. "Yeah," somebody said, "it must've plumb broke her heart when he traded her for food."
"Here now, no way to talk about a white woman," one brave soul protested.
"Ain't much of a white woman now."
"Gone three years, way I heard it," another offered. "Kinda makes you wonder how many papooses they got on her, don't it?"
"Yeah. Mebbe that kid she's wanting back is half-red."
"No."
The sutler turned around at the sound of his voice. "Damned if it ain't Hap Walker!" he called out. "If you ain't a sight for sore eyes—damn, but I head you were nearly done for, Hap!"
"Can't believe everything you hear now, can you?" Hap swung his frame between the crutches and groped for the counter, pulling himself along it until he faced the small knot of men standing with the trader. "I'd take it real kindly if you'd lay off lying about Mrs. Bryce," he said evenly. "It makes me want to horsewhip the lot of you."
A low murmur spread through the room, and then a curious silence descended as they stared at him. Finally, one fellow found his voice. "Now, dammit, Hap, you saw her out there with the Comanche!"
"Talking to him like she was one of em!" someone shouted from behind him.
"I reckon in three years a body'd learn the language," Hap retorted. "Be downright stupid not to."
"All that stuff she told old Black Jack, 'bout how—"
"He let her live," Hap cut in curtly.
"And we all know why, don't we?"
"No, you don't know a damned thing about it." Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a silver dollar and tossed it to the sutler. "Still renting out the back room?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I'll take it, along with a razor and some soap. And there's another one just like it for anybody that's got a clean pair of pants my size. No holes in em." He looked at the trader again. "Yeah—and I'll be needing a bath."
"All I got's a tin tub and a bucket."
"Throw in hot water, and you got yourself a deal."
"Cost you twenty-five cents."
"I got it. Oh, and when I get back from supper, I'll take a bottle of the best whiskey you've got on that shelf," Hap added. The corners of his mouth turned down, forming a wry smile. "Don't suppose you carry any eau de cologne, do you?"
"Ain't much call for it out here," the man allowed. "Got some fair-smelling liniment, but that's about it. 'Less I was to count the lilac water I keep for the ladies," he amended, remembering it suddenly. "Say, you ain't taken to stinking yourself up, have you?"
"A man gets tired of smelling like his horse sometimes. Yeah, I'd take some lilac water in my bath, I guess. My ma was always liking lilacs," Hap decided. "Anybody want to say anything about it?"
"Damned if it don't sound like you're going courtin', Cap'n."
"No."
"I might have some pants as would fit you," a man in the back of the room offered.
"Clean?"
"Never been worn," he assured Hap. "My ma sent 'em for Christmas."
"Jack, your ma's been dead five years!" somebody yelled out.
"Well, the pants is still good. Like I said, I ain't never worn 'em! I was a mite heavier than she remembered me when I got em," he explained, looking at Hap. "You can try 'em, and if a dollar's too much—-"
"Thanks."
"Bring the razor and soap back to you, Hap," the sutler offered. "Might take awhile to heat the water."
"Better bring the bottle, too, in case you're closed up when I get back from supper."
"I wouldn't eat in the enlisted men's mess. Half a dozen of 'em are down with the runs," the man with the pants advised him.
"I'm not."
"Naw, he's Hap Walker. They'll let him eat with the officers," somebody said.
"Well, it ain't much better. I heard last night all they had was boiled potatoes and cabbage with a little salt pork. Supply wagons are late this month. Better get Captain Harrison or Lieutenant Hughes to take you home with 'em. They got wives, you know."
"You all right, Hap?" the sutler asked suddenly. "You look a mite peaked. Maybe you better go on back."
"Yeah, I'm all right."
As he struggled with the hated crutches, he heard somebody murmur, "Never thought I'd see Hap Walker crippled up like that." Gritting his teeth, he kept going.
Later, as he sat in the tub, soaking in tepid water, his eyes strayed to the bottle on the table. For two cents he'd forget the Sprengers and drink his supper. But then he thought of Annie Bryce, the way she'd stood there, smiling for that brief moment in the yard. The image faded as quickly as it had come, and he was standing on that porch, looking at those wet bedsheets flapping on that laundry line.
CHAPTER 8
It was only five-thirty, and he knew it. But it was a matter of either coming on over or staying in the room he'd rented, staring at a full bottle of whiskey, wanting to drink all of it. Still, as he knocked on the Sprenger door, he was so ill at ease he wished he was almost anywhere else.
After years of living in buckskin pants and open-necked shirts, he was standing there looking like a cross between a preacher and an undertaker in new black serge trousers and a borrowed frock coat, reeking of the lilac water. He probably smelled like a whore from the Hog Station. And to make matters even worse, the woman who'd washed his shirt had starched it as stiff as paperboard. When he moved, he swore he could
hear it.
He took off his hat and smoothed his hair back with his hand. That was the only thing he'd gotten from his mother he'd ever regretted. The unruly waves looked a whole lot better on a woman than on a man. And the hell of it was nobody on either side of his family had ever gone bald, so he was probably stuck with every last dip and flip for as long as he breathed.
Wiping flour from her hands onto her apron, the major's wife finally answered. The smell of fried chicken wafted out to greet him.
"Captain! Oh, dear, Will's not home yet."
"I reckon I'm a mite early," he murmured apologetically, maneuvering the crutches inside.
"Actually, you are. But that's quite all right," she added hastily. "Here, let me take your hat."
As it was the only thing that felt like it belonged to him, he yielded it almost reluctantly. Again he tried to smooth his hair. "Mrs. Bryce about?" he asked casually.
"She's about done peeling potatoes."
"Oh."
"Well, do come on in and make yourself at home in the parlor," she offered, seemingly distracted. "Let's see, the chicken's in the skillet, the biscuits are cut, the beans are boiling, and the potatoes are ready to go on when Will gets here," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Yes, I think that's everything." She looked up at him. "Would you care for a glass of something before dinner? Will's got some sherry—or some blackberry wine he made himself last summer. And there's coffee, of course."
"I'm a whiskey man myself."
"Well, there is that," she conceded. "I think Will has some scotch."
"That's all right, coffee'll do just fine," he decided hast-
"I'll send Annie out with it." She paused, then looked up again. "I suppose there's quite a lot of talk, isn't there?"
"Yeah."
"One could have wished she hadn't done it," she said tiredly. "But there's no help for that now. I'd hoped she could be persuaded to stay through Christmas, but she wants to go home. I suppose it's for the best," she added, sighing. "Though how she's to get there, I'm sure I don't know. No matter how much the sun shines now, it is the dead of winter, so there's no telling how long it's going to last. But that's not your concern, so I don't know why I'm bothering you with it."
"No, but I reckon the road'll be downright dry in a couple of days."
"She's a woman alone, Captain. It's not like it is for a man. She cannot just get on a horse and ride there."
"I was telling Doc she ought to go with the mail down to Stockton, then take the stage back over to San Antone."
"I hadn't thought of that. Yes, I suppose it would serve, but it's quite a distance out of her way," she mused. "Well, in any event, she'll do what she wants, I suppose." Seeing that he still stood, she flushed guiltily. "There's no need to play the gentleman for me, Captain," she assured him. "It must be terribly uncomfortable on those crutches."
"Yeah." He didn't need her permission twice. Keeping the sore leg straight out in front, he eased his body down onto the settee. "Thanks."
"I must say you are looking much better than I expected, sir. A little over a week ago, we were all praying for you."
"I'm a pretty tough old bird, I guess. As soon as I can throw these things away, I'll be going back to the Ybarra myself."
"Will tells me you sell cattle now."
"Yeah." She was making an effort to be gracious, but he could see she was busy. Besides, even though he'd brought it up, he didn't want to talk about the Ybarra or the cattle business. "Look, if you need to do something, I don't have to be entertained, ma'am," he told her. "I've spent half a lifetime by myself, so I don't mind it. In fact, it feels good just to sit a spell by the stove."
"Well, Annie ought to have them in the water by now— the potatoes, I mean. I'm sure she'll want to come out and say hello, anyway." With that, she turned toward the kitchen.
"Tell her she doesn't have to."
Yet as he waited, there was a certain anticipation—and a certain dread. It was funny how a man could do a hundred things right and yet remember a single failure. For three years he'd told himself he and Rios had done everything they could, and he'd believed it. But now he'd seen Anne Bryce, and instead of a faceless name, she was flesh and blood. And rain and mud and swollen rivers didn't seem enough of an excuse for what had happened to her baby and that little girl of hers.
"Hello, Captain," she said quietly from the doorway.
He struggled to stand. Even though he'd seen her three times now, he hadn't really taken stock of her beyond the blond hair and the blue eyes. Her height surprised him— she came within three or four inches of being as tall as he was, and her thinness made her seem even taller. Now that he had the time to study her, he felt even more awkward than ever.
She'd fixed her hair, parting it in the middle, twisting it into a coil at the back of her neck. It was both severe and appealing, and the thought crossed his mind that not many women could wear it like that. Only the good-looking ones. Yeah, it was her fine features that let her get away with it. That and the eyes—only a blind man wouldn't notice her expressive eyes. He didn't know how she'd managed to make Bull Calf think her crazy with those eyes.
"Is something the matter?"
"No," he said finally. "I was just thinking you cleaned up really pretty." God, but he sounded ignorant, almost stupid. "Sorry, hope you know I didn't mean it to come out like that," he murmured sheepishly. "Kinda hard to know what to say to a woman when a man gets to be my age without a wife. Guess I haven't been around too many ladies."
"I thought you did all right outside."
"Yeah. I'm not real used to sitting down in a parlor, trying to say the right thing. I usually just speak what's on my mind and get it over with. Then I get to regret it."
The corners of her mouth lifted in a faint smile. "I don't think you have much to apologize for. Everybody admires you, Captain." Moving into the room, she set down the tray on the low table. "Cora wasn't sure whether you took cream or sugar in your coffee."
He eased back onto the settee, then looked up. "Just sugar, lots of it. The boy I helped raise can't make a decent pot of the stuff, so I got used to sweetening it to kill the taste. But he turned into a good man except for that, and coffee's not everything."
"Clay McAlester?"
He brightened visibly. "Heard of him?"
"From both sides."
"I reckon the Comanches didn't forget him any more than he forgot them."
"No." She hesitated for a moment before taking the other end of the settee. Leaning forward, she poured the dark, steaming liquid into a delicate china cup, then set it and the sugar bowl in front of him. "You'd better fix this to suit you," she decided.
"Thanks. You're not having any?"
"No. Cora and I have tea steeping."
He dipped three spoons full of sugar into the small cup, then stirred it. When he tasted the coffee, it was like syrup, just the way he wanted it. She watched, seemingly fascinated.
"You could use that on pancakes," she said finally.
"Sometimes I do," he admitted. He took another sip.
"You doing all right?"
"Yes, but I'm ready to go home."
"You can't blame Davidson, you know. It's the damned peace policy. But come summer, that's going to change."
"That's what I'm afraid of. I feel like I'm in a race to do something before it happens. I feel like the hourglass is running out."
"There's not much you can do to stop it," he said quietly. "But maybe when they're pushed onto the reservation, the kid will turn up. That's about the only way anybody could find her."
"I can't wait for that. I can't take the chance that she won't survive, sir. I have to find her first." She stared unseeingly at the stove for a long moment, then shook her head. "I can't wait. When I get home, I'm going to Austin."
"You can't trust politicians, Mrs. Bryce. You'd be better off going to the papers. Believe me, I know. I took a lot of abuse from the politicians—after the papers got wind of things and print
ed 'em up."
"I want to see the governor first. I want to tell him about Susannah, and I want to hear what he says."
"It won't be much."
She turned on him then. "You don't know that—-you can't know that! She's a Texas citizen, Captain Walker. She's a little girl!"
"Look, I'm sorry."
"Sorry? Sorry? Everybody's sorry, Captain, but nobody wants to do anything about it! Well, I'm going to haunt them. I'm going to beg and plead and rant and rave until somebody helps me-—and if nobody will, then I guess I'll just have to help myself. But even if the whole world is deaf, I'm getting my daughter out of there—and I'll do it if I have to go alone, Captain Walker," she told him fiercely.
"Be hard to find her after all this time."
"You sound like Colonel Davidson."
There was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice, and he wished there was something positive he could tell her, but there wasn't. "You know, Mrs. Bryce, the chances of getting that little girl back—well, it's probably not going to come about. I reckon it's harder for a woman, but it'd be a whole lot better for you if you could just go on. You've still got your land and your house, and that's something. You may never see her again. You may never know what happened to her. And it may have happened right in the beginning. Pining for her won't change that. It'll just make you sick."
"No, she's alive. She has to be. He traded a horse for her, so he wanted to keep her."
"Maybe. But even if she was their own kid, there's a lot of things that happen to 'em. That's why you don't see many Comanches who've got more than one or two offspring—but you know that," he reasoned with her. "Even if they took care of her, there's no guaranteeing she survived. Hell, you know how they live."
"I'm telling you she's alive!"
"You've got to look ahead, not behind you. Someday there might be another man come along to help you work the place—you know that too, don't you? You're a fine-looking woman, and—" He stopped, suddenly aware of her stricken face, of her hands twisting the blue cotton skirt in her lap.
She closed her eyes and swallowed. "No," she whispered, "I don't want that ever again. I just want my daughter."
