The Men of Pride County: The Rebel

by West, Rosalyn

  “Private, why aren’t you preparing to march?”

  The solider glanced up indolently and drawled, “I ain’t heard no order given, sir.”

  “Have you some hearing problem, soldier?”

  “Nossir. My hearing’s jus’ fine.”

  “Then hear me when I tell you that if you aren’t off that ground and saddled up in thirty seconds, you’ll be walking the rest of the way to Fort Blair—in your socks. Did you hear me that time?”

  “Yes, sir.” The private jumped to his feet but made no immediate move toward his horse. Instead, he stood frozen, his expression one of infinite surprise.

  “Private?”

  Crowley caught the boy as he toppled forward, the shaft of an Apache arrow jutting out from between his thin shoulder blades.

  “Indians!”

  The cry brought Juliet to her feet, terror shooting up her spine in a stiffening bolt. For a moment, her mind was blank to all but the horrible memories of a girl of nine—to the vivid images of faces bright with menacing paint thrusting between the flaps of their wagon. To the sounds of her mother’s screams. Even though her hands flew up to cover her ears, those anguished cries echoed through her head—cries that sounded like her own….

  A sudden impact sent her sprawling headlong to the ground, her cheek grinding against hard-packed sand, her breath knocked from her by the force of a man’s covering weight. Her first thought was to struggle, but the wind-sapping fall had disconnected mind from body.

  “Stay down.”

  There was no mistaking the source of the curt command. It was Noble Banning’s prostrated form pinning her to the desert floor. For a moment, her awareness of him swallowed up all else. She could hear the harsh intake of his breath as it fanned her face, could feel the powerful drum of his heartbeats, could smell the hot wool of his uniform jacket and see the blueing of his Navy Colt next to her head as its barrel sought out targets. The reality of him helped push the other, darker memories back into perspective, allowing her to get a grip upon her fear.

  And suddenly the danger of the man holding her close, the man who’d witnessed her weakness, was greater than the threat she couldn’t see.

  “Get off me,” she wheezed.

  “We’re under attack.”

  His words were direct, punctuated by the bark of carbines, yet the softness of his tone held a purposeful comfort, relaying a message that she had nothing to fear. An empty comfort. Because she knew better. And she knew how to defend herself.

  “I have a gun in the wagon.”

  Her no-nonsense reply told him that she’d recovered from the momentary shock. His embrace loosened and she was able to wriggle free. Without so much as a thank-you or a second glance at her savior, she started running. Staying low to the ground, she scrambled for the safety of the wagon, refusing to pause even when clods of dirt spit up in front of her from bursts of enemy rifle fire.

  Maisy and Colleen clung together in the belly of the wagon, squealing in terror. Their petrified features rose up when Juliet tossed back the canvas, giving her another shock of remembrance. She shook off the image of a woman and her child, then hurriedly climbed inside.

  “Stay low,” she warned the frightened pair as she reached under her seat for the solid feel of her Spencer repeater. At the sight of the rifle, the two women quieted to an anxious whimpering. After checking the chambers, Juliet turned back the canvas side just far enough to give her an unrestricted view of their surroundings.

  There was nothing to see. The Apache knew how to make themselves invisible amongst the mesquite and thorny shrubs that didn’t look as though they would hide so much as a feather. From their concealment, the Indians fired at their leisure, using single-shot rifles and the more deadly bow and arrow to pick off any careless soldier who made himself a target. Maisy screamed as an arrowhead thudded into the side of the ambulance, but Juliet didn’t flinch. Then Colleen edged up beside her with a huge dragoon pistol braced in both trembling hands.

  “I’ll not make it easy for them unholy savages to make off with me hair.”

  Juliet praised her bravado with a tight smile, then continued to scan the thickets. Panic beat in her breast when she thought of her father out in the open. She’d seen several men fall. Had he been among them? She didn’t dare to seek him out.

  A taut silence settled over those lying belly down in the dirt and those hunching down in the wagon as minutes crept by without the fateful twang of the bowstring sounding.

  “Why have they stopped?” Maisy asked in a quavering voice, not rising up so much as an inch from her crouched position on the floorboards.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have they run off?” Colleen asked, hopeful yet cautious, too. “We were sitting ducks. Why would they leave?”

  “I don’t know,” Juliet said again. She, too, was wondering. Though she didn’t think they’d been attacked by a force of more than three or four, that was a large enough number to whittle them down to a like-sized group.

  Then Juliet gave a gusty sigh of relief when she heard a beautiful sound wafting on the dusty air.

  The bugle from Fort Blair.

  So that’s Indian-fighting.

  Until that moment, Noble hadn’t realized how truly ignorant he was about the situation he’d committed himself and his men to.

  Cautiously, he lifted himself out of the dirt. His system hummed from the familiar rush of excitement and horror that came after battle, but those sensations were now mixed with a feeling of awe. He and his men had come up against some of the best military forces known to history. They themselves were no strangers to hit-and-run warfare. But he’d never engaged an enemy he couldn’t even see in territory so wild and foreign. All his knowledge of conflict came from set-piece battles fought on wooded terrain against an opponent he could second-guess. Nothing prepared him for this wily enemy, who struck without warning from a seemingly empty wasteland, then disappeared when the fight was no longer to his advantage.

  Holstering his pistol, its chambers still warm, Noble suppressed his uneasiness when presenting his unprotected back to the wasteland, but he allowed himself to slip into the mode of efficient commander. Forgetting that he was not in charge, he called to his second.

  “What are our casualties, Captain?”

  Bartholomew’s count was far from good news. “Privates Washburn, Morgan, Long, and LeRoy. Corporal Stevens.”

  Refusing to let himself feel for those men or even to conjure up their faces until it was safe to do so, Noble ordered, “Have a detail prepare them for travel. We’ll pay our respects to them once we get to the fort.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The fast-approaching dust cloud became an identifiable force of men on the horizon. A company from Fort Blair, no doubt, come to the rescue of raw recruits and Southern fools who were equally scared and ignorant of how to keep themselves safe on the frontier.

  The column of dusty soldiers drew up, and its major dismounted to address Crowley with a sharp salute and a crisp, “We came as fast as we could once we heard gunfire.”

  “I applaud your haste, Major. And I welcome your escort back to Fort Blair.”

  No sooner had the major replied with a “Yes, sir, thank you, sir” than there was a delighted feminine cry.

  “Miles!”

  Juliet Crowley threw herself into the arms of the grinning major, who hugged her up and whirled her about unashamedly. Noble blinked in surprise, the unseen hostiles, the bundled bodies that were once friends momentarily forgotten.

  He’d never thought … He’d never considered …

  When he’d seen Juliet standing in shock, lost in an hysterical daze, an easy target for an Apache arrow, something had snapped inside him. Enough. He’d seen enough innocents die, and he could not bear to see Juliet Crowley’s indomitable spirit added to that number. Without thought to his own safety, he’d raced across open ground to push her out of harm’s way, but that’s where honor aided.

  How good she�
�d felt in his arms. Soft where a woman was meant to be soft, yet strong with the lean, hard muscle of an active life, a combination that sent all sorts of arousing signals through him.

  He’d grown up around and had courted his share of women, the most beautiful, dainty, and refined creatures the Middle States had to offer, women trained to reflect well upon the men they married. He was used to gentle blushes and coquettish manners and had thought that was what he desired in the opposite sex—until he’d met the colonel’s headstrong daughter and she’d knocked all his notions of desirability askew.

  Not that he was in the market for a wife. His life was carefully regimented, meticulously planned down to the slightest detail. Once he got out of this army, he’d return to Pride County and set up his law practice, then he’d pick an appropriate hostess from the neighboring elite. It didn’t really matter which he chose. The why was more important than the who. A woman of breeding and a background of power. A woman who would understand her place in his life and ask no questions. One who would be an asset to his career and his home—in that order.

  Though he admired a woman of opinion and brain, he knew the practicality of having a docile and domestic bride who would do nothing to jeopardize his community standing. Nowhere was there room for a distraction like Juliet Crowley, not in his future, not in his present. He had specific goals in mind from which conscience could not be tempted if he meant to succeed within the narrow confines of Pride.

  He knew that.

  He accepted that.

  So why was the sight of her twirling in another man’s embrace enough to make him bristle protectively?

  He’d never considered that Juliet Crowley might have someone waiting.

  But why that should bother him, he didn’t know. And it irritated him almost as much as the Yankee major’s skewering glare when those narrowed eyes rested on him.

  The tension was immediate, man to man, the staking of territory as basic as it was momentarily blatant. She’s mine, hands off, was the message clearly conveyed by that one chill stare.

  Wondering why he was perceived as a threat, Noble returned the look with a cool impassivity. Though he had no designs of his own on the bold Miss Crowley, he’d let the other sweat over his intentions.

  “Miles, see that the dead and wounded are taken care of,” Crowley instructed, apparently unaffected by the sight of his daughter in the major’s arms. That casual acceptance made the situation somehow much more significant. “I’d like to get to the fort as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.” He set Juliet away from him, giving her a quick smile and a softer, “We’ll talk later.”

  And the way she leaned in close to whisper, “We have much to discuss,” did funny things to Noble’s reason.

  It wasn’t Juliet Crowley, he told himself. It was the war. He’d been without female companionship for over three years. Any woman—not just the colonel’s confrontational daughter—would scramble his thinking and excite his imagination.

  He told himself that while his gaze followed her aggressive stride back to the wagon and he thought of her courage in the face of a threat that had his own men cowering in terror. Quite a woman, by any standard, the kind of woman a man would count himself lucky to have at his side in this wilderness—or anywhere else.

  But not as his woman. And he reminded himself, just in case he was tempted to forget, his future had no place for the daughter of his enemy.

  Even if she did present an intriguing challenge.

  Chapter 5

  They reached Fort Blair by midafternoon. Unlike the stockaded posts of the plains, Fort Blair was a collection of loosely assembled adobe buildings crouching low to the earth. The site was picked for strategic location rather than comfort. There was sufficient water to sustain the men, sufficient grass for the animals, enough timber for firewood situated on land level enough to support barracks, officers’ quarters, stables, storehouses, and a parade ground. In the center of the drill ground rose the flag, its colors drooping listlessly, unstirred by the stifling air.

  Juliet had lived in dozens like it.

  Once her father reported and officially took command of the fort, the men were dismissed from ranks and shown to their accommodations. The enlisted men were crowded into barracks, where rows of bunks stood head-in to the walls. Even in the noncommissioned ranks, there was a definite hierarchy, with the senior enlisted men securing the best spots near the windows in summer and the stoves in winter. The sergeants had the luxury of small rooms off the barracks. Any privacy was a luxury. The privies were outside and bathhouses nonexistent, since there was no water to spare. Enlisted men with wives were allowed to live outside the barracks in their own tiny homes, but the best quarters were reserved by seniority of service. But even the best was little more than a small house with two to four rooms.

  Juliet stood in the doorway of her new home and surveyed the interior dispassionately. A sheet-iron stove stood in the middle of the main room surrounded by scant furnishings: several campstools and unpainted chairs, and a dining table composed of three planks stretched across carpenter horses. Gray government blankets held down the dust on the floor, and curtains fashioned from unbleached cotton sheeting hung limply at the windows. A grim and uninviting welcome. She’d seen better. She’d also survived worse. Her mind hummed with possibilities. Some beet juice to dye the curtains. Colorful calico to tack over the packing-crate shelves. She’d crochet rugs for the floor from strips of an old gown. The extra touch of greenery from her plants would almost create the appearance of a real home.

  Almost.

  A sudden commotion from outside interrupted her musings. Juliet wasn’t surprised to hear Maisy Bartholomew’s strident tones rising in a shrill crescendo. Though she would have preferred to close her door and leave those troubles to another, as the daughter of the ranking officer, she knew it was her duty to make peace and restore a tenuous harmony.

  “Mrs. Bartholomew,” Miles Dougherty explained reasonably, “Captain Folley has a wife and three children. They would have to move from four rooms to two. Surely you can see how uncomfortable that would be for them, especially when we’re dealing with a matter of only a few months.”

  But Maisy’s jaw was set and her eyes flashed indignantly. “Does or does not my husband’s earlier commission date entitle him to those quarters?”

  “Of course it does,” Pauline Folley answered with a resigned smile. She’d followed her husband from post to post long enough to understand the practice of “ranking out,” which evicted a military family if an officer of superior service wanted the house. It was an often barbaric system, but an officer wouldn’t be respected if he didn’t demand his due. And Maisy Bartholomew was demanding. Loudly. There was nothing the Yankee captain’s wife could do but back down gracefully. “We’ll have our belongings removed immediately.”

  The situation was grossly unfair, but Juliet had no grounds to interfere. The military caste system was rigidly adhered to, regardless of inconvenience or personal sacrifice. It was a case of rank value, not family size, or in this case, a favoritism of North over South. But Maisy Bartholomew’s attitude left a bad taste in the mouths of the occupants of Fort Blair. Juliet could read it in their closed expressions. And she feared subtle repercussions.

  Apparently, she wasn’t alone.

  “Miz Folley?”

  The matronly woman turned toward Noble Banning, probably wondering if she was about to be bumped from those two rooms to a tent.

  “Ma’am, as a bachelor, I’ve no need for the four rooms I’ve been given. I’d gladly surrender them to Captain and Miz Bartholomew so that you and yours don’t have to uproot yourselves to move two doors down. I’m sure Miz Bartholomew will agree to the logic of that, won’t you, ma’am?”

  Put on the spot, Maisy was forced to swallow down her bid for superiority by accepting a show of generosity. “Why that’s fine by me, Major Banning. It wasn’t my desire to put anyone out.”

  A true gentlem
an, Noble didn’t allow his wry smile to escape, though Juliet caught the glint of amusement in his eyes. He waited outside her door until the others dispersed to settle into their appointed lodgings. Only when they were alone did he display a toothsome grin.

  “Very diplomatically done, Major.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Can’t see that it’d do anyone any good to get folks at cross purposes so early in our stay.”

  “And that’s all that motivated your gesture?” She’d hoped there’d be more. The quick downward cant of his gaze said there was.

  “A family shouldn’t be put out on a vain woman’s whim, regardless of rank.”

  “I quite agree.”

  “Then we’ve found some common ground at last.” His words were teasing, but his sudden penetrating stare was not. It conveyed all sorts of deeper meaning, giving Juliet a start of alarm.

  “A small patch, Major,” she conceded gruffly, then turned away. On second thought, she looked over her shoulder. “I should have my books in order by tomorrow. Then consider the library open.”

  His dazzling smile shot a quiver to her soul. “Yes, ma’am. I look forward to looking under your covers.” Again his grin took a devilish twist that both annoyed and aroused her sensibilities with its unspoken subtext.

  “Rogue,” she muttered to herself as she shut the door between them. A rogue and a rebel. She couldn’t afford to forget the latter.

  John Crowley stepped into the small adobe house hours later and felt instantly at home. Familiar touches already filled the stark rooms. A lacy cloth covered the plain pine board tabletop, where two place settings of well-traveled china were laid out for dinner. His wife’s woven shawl was folded over the back of a reassembled rocker set at an inviting angle next to the stove. His pipe and humidor and tattered leather slippers waited there as well. Plain daubed walls were adorned with a portrait of his late wife and the military citations that highlighted his long career. And those ferny green things his daughter insisted on carrying wherever they went leaned toward the harsh light at the windows. In his bedroom, he knew he’d find his shaving mirror on the wall and a tin basin next to his toiletries.