Only in My Arms

by Jo Goodman

  Mary blinked, startled into awareness by Rennie's raised voice. "Was I?" she asked.

  Rennie's mouth screwed comically to one side, and she shook her head, amused. "Here," she said, holding out a cup of tea. "I made this for us while you were daydreaming."

  Mary accepted the cup and saucer that was thrust into her hands. She was curled comfortably in a large, overstuffed chair, her stockinged feet hidden beneath the full skirt of her hunter green gown. She watched Rennie settle opposite her on the short sofa and draw her legs up in a similar fashion. Rennie's posture was relaxed, yet there was a certain expectancy in her expression. There is no pretense between us, Mary thought. There was something distinctly soothing about this, and especially about Rennie's expression. They could have been children again, preparing to share secrets in their room long after they should have been asleep.

  "So," Rennie prompted, "what have you been thinking?"

  "Straight to the point as usual," said Mary. "And absolutely no respect for the privacy of one's thoughts."

  Rennie's response was cheerful. "That's right." When Mary still hesitated, Rennie asked, "Is it you and Mama? Is nothing changed between you?"

  Mary's head was lowered as she stared at her teacup. That was why her sister didn't catch the relief that passed quickly across her features. When Mary lifted her face it was stamped with its trademark serenity. "Everything's changed between us," she said honestly. "She won't accept my decision, and I can't accept that she won't accept it."

  Rennie nodded, understanding perfectly. "Michael and Maggie couldn't help her see reason?"

  "I didn't ask them to try." She speared her sister with frank, warning eyes. "And I am not asking you to do it either. It's not your place."

  "I wouldn't know where to begin." Not that it would have stopped her, Rennie thought. Mary's vaguely threatening glance, however, was giving her pause. Unconsciously Rennie found one of her hands going to her hair in a protective gesture. When they were growing up together Mary thought nothing of yanking on Rennie's thick auburn braids to keep her in line. Rennie's hand fell away when she saw Mary's look of caution fade and amusement take its place. She stuck out her tongue.

  "Well," Mary said dryly. "That certainly cut me to the quick."

  Rennie ignored her and asked seriously, "Has there been no understanding at all on Mama's part?"

  "I don't know. She won't let me broach the subject."

  "Oh, Mary," Rennie said sadly.

  Mary pushed words past that hard, aching lump that was forming at the back of her throat. "We talked about incidental things on the journey from New York to Denver. The weather. The scenery. The people in the forward cars. We shopped in various cities along the way for gifts for all the grandchildren. If I mentioned my desire to teach I was met with icy silence. If Mama saw me reading my Bible she began to cry."

  Rennie felt tears pressing at her own eyelids. "How awful for you," she whispered.

  "For both of us," Mary said. "I don't believe for a moment that Mama wants it to be this way. She just doesn't know how to change it." Mary raised her cup and sipped. The tea was flavored with honey and it soothed her throat. "I thought we were making some progress when we were at Maggie's. Mama's mood was lighter. She was tolerant of Maggie and me discussing my decision to leave the order." Mary's smile was wry. "Or at least she didn't run from the room when the subject came up."

  "What happened?"

  "Nothing," Mary said. "At least it was nothing that Mama did. I suppose it was my attitude that was altered then." Seeing Rennie's puzzled expression, Mary sighed. "It was while we were preparing to leave the Double H. Mama and Maggie were having a last chat in the kitchen while I was finishing the packing. I found one of Mama's gowns still in the wardrobe so I opened her trunk to put it away." Mary was caught off guard by the sudden welling of tears in her eyes. Trying to compose herself, she ducked her head. The teacup and saucer rattled slightly, and she set them aside. She gave Rennie a watery smile as a handkerchief was pressed into her hands. "Thank you." She swiped at her eyes and then crushed the handkerchief in her fist.

  Rennie knelt in front of the chair where Mary sat and placed her hands over her sister's. "What was in the trunk?" she asked quietly. "Mary? What did you find in Mama's trunk?"

  Mary had to draw a breath before she could answer. "A habit," she said, her voice low. "I found a habit. Mama's been carrying it across the country in her trunk."

  Rennie's shoulders sagged. She didn't know for whom she felt sorrier, Mary or her mother. "Did she expect that you'd change your mind somewhere along the route?" she asked.

  "It's worse than that."

  "Worse?"

  "It isn't my habit."

  Rennie's eyes widened. "Not yours?"

  "Not mine. I think it was made for Mama." Mary noticed that Rennie looked as if she needed to sit down. At a loss to understand herself, Mary shrugged helplessly. "It's hard to say how her life might have been different if she hadn't come to America or met Jay Mac. I don't know what went through her mind when she packed it, but I know what went through mine when I saw it. It was a message meant for me." The tightening of her jaw was imperceptible at first; then, as memory and emotion swept through her, it became so clenched that a muscle worked in her cheek. She had been nearly blind with rage. Even now she could feel her heart accelerating with the fierceness of her anger. Afraid of what she might say, Mary wouldn't give words to it now.

  Rennie understood the reason for Mary's silence. She squeezed her sister's hands gently and remained at her side for a few more minutes. When she got to her feet she said softly, "She hasn't stopped loving you, you know."

  The knot in Mary's stomach was only slightly larger than the one in her throat. She looked away from Rennie's searching, knowing eyes. It only feels that way, she thought. Then again, as if to convince herself, it only feels that way.

  * * *

  Harry Bishop set a chair in the corridor just a foot from the iron bars of Ryder's cell. Florence thanked him curtly and sat down. She used her cane as an extension of her hand to shoo him away. She didn't speak until the door to the guardroom was firmly closed.

  "Don't you have anything to say?" she demanded when Ryder merely sat on his cot facing the opposite wall.

  He turned in her direction slowly. "What are you doing here?"

  "Well, that's a fine greeting." Florence attempted to keep her voice crisp, but anxiety threaded her voice. It had been nearly nine hours since the sentencing had been handed down at noon. Ryder McKay had less than forty-eight hours to live.

  "I mean it, Florence, you shouldn't be here. If General Gardner finds out—"

  "Let me worry about my son."

  "And there's Harry Bishop," Ryder said. "He can't rely on the general's good graces." Ryder knew Florence had resorted to paying off the guard in order to continue her visits to the stockade. The arrangement had worked satisfactorily for months, but there was always the risk of discovery. Over time his protests had become halfhearted but he made them because it was expected. Florence Gardner, he suspected, enjoyed the intrigue and secretly liked pooh-poohing the danger. "I didn't expect you'd come this evening," he said. "I didn't see you after the sentencing."

  Florence had stayed in her room while sentence was being passed. She couldn't join the officers' wives who waited in the courtyard, eager for the final judgment. Her opinion that Ryder McKay was innocent of the charges was an unpopular one, especially since there was no evidence to support it. For Florence, the fact that her son was handing down the sentence made the proceedings intolerable. "I didn't want to be there," she explained. Now she came to the point of her visit. "Your uncle was present, though."

  "I saw him."

  "Oh? He said you didn't glance in his direction."

  Ryder's features settled in a remote mask that shuttered his thoughts. He continued to look at Florence but didn't respond.

  "He wanted to see you this evening," she said. "Joshua permitted it, but the senator told me y
ou didn't want him here."

  "He came, but he left after a few minutes."

  "And you never spoke to him."

  "That's right."

  Florence's lined face was grave, her eyes sad. "Wilson Stillwell believes in you," she said. "He came here because he wanted to help."

  Ryder decided not to disabuse her of the notion. "Is that why you came tonight?" he asked. "To persuade me to see him again?"

  She had enough good sense not to lie. "That was part of it."

  "And the other part?"

  Her throat began to close, but she continued to look at Ryder steadily. His cleanly defined features were calm, but the light gray eyes were penetrating. "To say good-bye. I won't be coming again. No one but officers and clergy will be permitted to see you. Harry warned me about the order. He won't make an exception this time. He says even Senator Stillwell won't get back here."

  Ryder's slight smile was cool. "The general's anticipating an escape attempt."

  Florence nodded. "He was brooding about it tonight at supper. I think he's fearful that the Chiricahua will try to rescue you."

  It was interesting, Ryder thought, that the Army had so little understanding of its enemy and made so little attempt to come by any. "There's not going to be any rescue," he said. "The Chiricahua aren't going to attack the fort. They don't have the numbers to do it, and they don't have the weapons."

  "You forget that almost everyone here believes the Apache were able to buy weapons after the Colter Canyon massacre."

  Ryder didn't argue. Instead he said, "The Chiricahua won't mount a rescue. It's not their way. Even if I were highly regarded by them—which I'm not—they would only seek retribution."

  "So the fighting will come later," she said heavily. "After you're—"

  He finished the sentence she couldn't. "After I'm hanged."

  Florence gripped her cane more tightly. Unable to look at him, she stared at her hand, at the knuckles that were thickened by a touch of rheumatism, at the thin parchment-like skin that made her veins so visible. She should be contemplating her own death, she thought. Instead she was contemplating his. "I could help you escape," she said.

  Ryder came lightly to his feet and approached the bars. "Listen to me, Florence." He waited until she raised her face, hardening his heart against her tears. She had made the offer before, and he had turned it down on every occasion. She didn't fully comprehend the wreck she would make of her son's military reputation and career. While Florence blamed her son for not looking beyond the evidence, Ryder did not. Presented with the testimony of the survivors of Colter Canyon, General Gardner was acting in the only way he could. "Don't think about it again, and don't act on it if you do."

  "But—"

  He reached through the bars and laid a hand over hers. "No."

  Florence acquiesced with little grace. "Very well," she said sourly. "But I can tell you when it's my time, I'm not going without a fight."

  Ryder went to the far side of his cell and stood beside the small window. The evening air was cool, and he appreciated the fragrance of the desert washing over his face. "Is that what you think, Florence? That I'm going without a fight?"

  "Aren't you?"

  "I told them I was innocent. No one believed me." He corrected himself. "No one save you."

  "That's not true. Your uncle lent his support, and General Halstead came down from Flagstaff to speak in your favor."

  Ryder was silent for several moments. He looked past the bars of his cell to the garrison. Just at the periphery of his vision he could see the officers' quarters. "You should be going," he said. "Before the general realizes you're not reading in your room."

  She waved aside his concern. "I told him I was visiting the Sullivans. Mrs. Sullivan's sister and mother arrived this afternoon, and I made their acquaintance at dinner. Mrs. Worth was quite pleasant, though I don't know what to make of the other one. Most times she looked a thousand miles away. Hardly said a word."

  Ryder was barely listening. Even before his incarceration he hadn't been particularly curious about the people who came and went from the fort. Now his interest in them was even less. He couldn't recall who Florence had told him the Sullivans were or what business they had at Fort Union. "Is that so?"

  Florence sniffed. "You're putting me in mind of her this very minute," she said sharply, tapping her cane for attention. "You could at least pretend some regard for my conversation. Miss Dennehy perked right up when your name was mentioned, so I think you could—" Florence broke off mid sentence, not because Ryder interrupted but because she realized that she finally did have his full attention. His entire posture was alert now, his frostlike eyes narrowed. She had the vaguely unsettling notion that he intended to pounce on her and the fleeting thought that she was actually glad for the bars that separated them. "Why ever are you looking at me that way?"

  His expression didn't change. "Did you say Dennehy?"

  "Well, yes," she said slowly, in some confusion. "She said I could call her Mary, but I thought in conversation it was only polite to—"

  "Mary Dennehy?" he asked. "Mary Francis Dennehy?"

  "I believe so."

  "Sister Mary Francis?"

  Florence wasn't certain what he was asking, but she said, "Yes. Rennie's sister."

  He said the name almost under his breath. "Rennie." Then, "Why didn't you tell me Mrs. Sullivan was Rennie?"

  Exasperated, Florence threw up her hands. Her cane clattered against the bars as it fell. "I told you she was here with her husband. I went on and on about her darling little girls. I said they were connected to the railroad." She wagged an accusing finger. "And you never showed the slightest recognition."

  That's because he hadn't known the most important thing. It didn't matter now. He walked swiftly to the bars, reached through, and pulled Florence to her feet. She was close enough that he could have kissed her forehead. He didn't. It wasn't thankfulness he felt right now, but urgency. "I want to see her," he said.

  His grip was tight, but Florence didn't wince. She was grateful for whatever had stirred him to life. "Mrs. Sullivan?"

  "No. Not her. The sister. Mary Francis."

  "She won't be allowed in here, even if you request it. I told you Joshua has said only officers and—"

  "The clergy. She'll be allowed in." And it would be his way out. Ryder released Florence but kept his face close to the bars. "Listen to me, Flo, if you still want to help, I have a plan."

  * * *

  Florence Gardner wasted no time. She called on Mary the following morning after breakfast, ostensibly for the purpose of having company on her daily walk. She extended her invitation to everyone and hoped for the best. Rennie excused herself because of her work. Moira wanted to be with her grandchildren. Florence sensed that Mary would have refused if it had not been left to her.

  "It's good of you to humor an old lady," she said, as they left the shaded porch of the officers' quarters. "I know you really didn't want to come."

  Mary considered making a denial, then thought better of it. She appreciated Florence's directness too much to offer one. The other woman would have seen right through it.

  Florence raised her parasol and encouraged Mary to do the same. "You don't want to burn that fair skin of yours."

  "The sun feels good," Mary said, raising her face to a clear blue sky. "It's hard to believe that Christmas is almost upon us."

  "Spoken like a true Yankee," she said. "I'm from Georgia. Come Christmas Day what we got was mostly rain. The air was so humid at times you could feel it like a blanket against your skin. I appreciate these arid climes, I can tell you."

  "You've been here long?"

  "My son was assigned here five years ago. I came out with my daughter-in-law and my grandchildren about six months later. Joshua wanted to be certain the Indian problem was in hand. When most of the hostiles were placed on reservations, he thought it was safe enough for us."

  "And was he right?" asked Mary.

  "There's
been trouble recently with the Chiricahua. Geronimo led some of his warriors and their families off the San Carlos reservation. They've been raiding ranches and mines in and around Mexico."

  "Colter Canyon?"

  Florence had led Mary to the outside perimeter of the fort, taking her behind the buildings to where they were seen by the patrolling guards but still had considerable privacy. She nodded politely to one of the guards and then continued on, twirling her parasol with the flair of a coquette. "Colter Canyon," she mused, sparing Mary a swift glance. "That depends on who you ask. Me or everyone else."

  "I'm asking you," Mary said bluntly.

  "Then I don't know."

  It wasn't the answer Mary was expecting. "I don't understand," she said.

  "Neither do I," Florence told her. "That's my point. Everyone else here thinks they have the answer. I'm the only one who's certain there are things left unexplained." She noticed that Mary was deep in thought now, mulling over the cryptic reply. A passing guard eyed the younger woman appreciatively and she didn't even notice. Florence waited for him to move out of earshot. She halted Mary's progress by placing a hand on her forearm. "He wants to see you," she whispered. "He's in a better position to explain than I am."

  Mary's heart slammed against her chest. Her parasol began to slip through nerveless fingers before she caught it. "Mr. McKay knows I'm here?"

  Florence watched her reaction with interest. There was a light flush on Mary's cheeks that hadn't been there a moment earlier. The forest green eyes, so ineffably sad the evening before, were bright now, alive with interest and intelligence. Ryder had been right about her, Florence thought, she would go to him. "He couldn't very well ask to see you if he didn't know you were here, now could he?"

  Mary's mouth flattened. She deserved to be taken to task for asking stupid questions, but that didn't make it any easier to bear. "Can you arrange it?" she asked. "Or should I speak to the commander myself?"

  "I'll arrange it, dear. But it will have to be tonight. My son's already out in the field, and I don't expect him back until after dark." Florence could see that Mary was disappointed and that pleased her. It was better that way. Mary would be more eager then and perhaps less cautious. Florence was counting on that. "Of course you'll have to wear your habit," she said offhandedly.