Merline Lovelace

by Untamed

  Troubled, she stood on the landing until the paddle wheeler pulled away. The harrowing months her brother had spent in the hulks had hardened him but obviously hadn’t crushed his adventurous spirit. He was a buccaneer right down to the toes of his polished boots.

  Barbara had always been a willing participant in his plots and schemes. Now the mere thought of returning to that precarious life filled her with dread.

  She wouldn’t think of it, she decided. Not for the next four months, anyway. She would spend those months nurturing the child swelling her belly and fill the time with the everyday tasks of a lieutenant’s wife.

  And her nights, she thought with a sudden tightening of her throat, with Zach.

  As it turned out, she spent her nights alone.

  Any sudden, jarring movement caused Zach excruciating pain. So did the sagging ropes in the bed frame of the four-poster he’d purchased from Sallie Nicks and had moved into their cramped, two-room quarters. Consequently, Barbara occupied the four-poster while Zach stretched out each night on a bedroll in the front parlor.

  His deep, rumbling breathing wouldn’t quite qualify as a snore but came dangerously close. She found the steady rasp both comforting and disturbing. She lay awake those first nights, listening to him, knowing he was so close and yet so very far away from her.

  By unspoken consent, they didn’t address the future beyond the baby’s birth, but it didn’t take them long to establish a routine similar to that of other married couples on post. Everyone, Barbara soon learned, lived by the same schedule. The clear, piercing notes of a bugle sounded reveille and woke Fort Gibson’s residents at daybreak. Not long after that, a thundering cannon roar echoed through the surrounding hills and the flag was run up the staff. The bugle sounded regularly throughout the day, announcing morning mess call, assembly, attention to orders, work detail, noon and evening mess formations.

  Drums rolled at sunset to sound retreat, and the cannon boomed again during the ceremony of lowering the flag. Fifes accompanied the drums to announce tattoo at nine o’clock. Their shrill notes warned stragglers to return to the fort before the gates closed. Taps signaled lights out and an end to the long day.

  Much to Barbara’s surprise, she adjusted easily to the routine. Without card parties and balls and midnight suppers to tire her out and keep her abed until noon, she began to rise when her husband did. While she tended to her toilette, the private who supplemented his meager army pay by serving as Zach’s batman, cook and general dogsbody helped him shave and struggle into his uniform. Husband and wife took breakfast together, after which the lieutenant attended to his duties.

  These were necessarily restricted. Since he couldn’t march, much less climb into a saddle, Colonel Arbuckle appointed him military adjunct to the federal commission now busily engaged in negotiating with the various tribes. With the arrival of Governor Stokes, the commission’s chairman, activities picked up considerably. Zach spent long hours each day providing both insight and advice.

  While he labored in the stuffy office given over to the commissioners, Barbara slipped into the role of officer’s lady.

  It began with a stream of visits from the other wives on post. Most were eastern-bred, determined to cling to their gentility and refinement despite the primitive surroundings. A good number were Cherokee, Choctaw or Osage. Wives of the senior enlisted personnel also came on duty visits to Lieutenant Morgan’s new bride.

  They were all curious about the Englishwoman who’d snared the dashing lieutenant. The fact that the bride was already increasing didn’t seem to raise any eyebrows. Barbara soon found herself immersed in lively discussions about lying-in gowns, swaddling blankets and christening robes.

  The women also imparted a great many tips on ways to soften the austerity of army quarters. Armed with their advice, she made regular visits to Sallie Nicks’s warehouse to purchase carpets for the hard-packed dirt floors, figured muslin for curtains and such wildly expensive delicacies as tinned peaches and molasses to add variety to the standard army rations of beans and beef.

  A variety of social activities enlivened the non-duty hours. To fight off boredom, the soldiers wrote and staged theatrical performances. The post chaplain conducted religious services in the same building used for Indian councils. The regimental band gave rousing concerts on the parade ground. Amateur pugilists took to the ring. Horse racing was a wildly popular sport, Barbara discovered. Soldiers, Indians and traders ran their mounts against each other and the racehorses brought upriver by owners intent on relieving the soldiers of their pay.

  In addition, a great many dinners were given and returned. The widow Nicks, Fort Gibson’s unofficial hostess, hosted a lavish entertainment in honor of Governor Stokes and the other members of the federal commission. It was at this dinner that Barbara first understood how essential Zach had become to the delegation.

  “We could not have concluded that agreement with the Seminole delegation from Florida without your husband’s assistance,” the wispy-haired governor confided over a glass of sherry. “Lieutenant Morgan and his father had hunted the land set aside for the Seminole. Zach described every river and stream and drew exact maps for the Seminole delegation to follow. When they returned from their explorations, they agreed to sign a statement indicating they were satisfied with the proposed lands. I’ve forwarded that statement to President Jackson.”

  “I don’t doubt he’ll make good use of it,” Barbara murmured.

  She was familiar enough with the politics of Indian Country now, and her short meeting with the president had convinced her he’d use every possible means to move those eastern tribes that still expressed stubborn reluctance to leave their home-lands. Whether he would do so without more bloodshed remained to be seen.

  Her gaze drifted to her husband, who was helping craft new territories for those tribes. He stood tall and square-shouldered in his dress uniform. Unfortunately, he could only achieve that pose with the aid of a cane. Biting her lip, she returned her attention to Commissioner Stokes.

  “Now if only the soldiers at Fort Gibson could keep these pesky settlers out of Indian Country,” he was saying. “They put at risk all we’re trying to accomplish here, and there certainly seems to be a sudden influx of them in recent weeks.”

  “Yes, there does.”

  Barbara couldn’t help but remember the first day she’d met Zach, when he’d arrived back at the fort with a bruised and battered Hattie in tow. She hadn’t seen her former maid in weeks and could only be glad of it. The woman had made no effort to hide her dislike that day on the landing, and Barbara had no desire to deal with it.

  One by one, the days slipped by. March flowed into a rain-drenched April. The rains gave way to a balmy May. Like a hen going to roost, Barbara took each day as it came and nurtured the life growing inside her belly.

  She received two missives from her brother, both sent from New Orleans. He gave no hint as to his activities other than to state he’d found a wealth of opportunities in that most cosmopolitan of American cities. In each, he reiterated his promise to return for her come July.

  She also received a visit from Zach’s parents. They’d come to Fort Gibson to purchase supplies and check on their son. Some of the animosity Louise Morgan had exhibited during her last meeting with her daughter by marriage faded when she saw the home Barbara had made of their austere quarters, but her eyes were grave as Zach and Daniel saw to the loading of the supplies.

  With a sigh, she turned to Barbara. “He makes light of my questions, so I must ask them of you. Is my son still in great pain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think he will one day walk without a cane?”

  Barbara hesitated. Zach insisted he would toss away the cane one day soon. He insisted, too, that the regimental surgeon would clear him to remain on active service. Yet she’d seen him grit his teeth when he didn’t know she was watching, and heard him grunt each time he tried to turn over at night. Sighing, she answered his mother the onl
y way she could.

  “I don’t know.”

  Louise bit down on her lower lip. She looked as though she wanted to say more, but settled for a brief admonition.

  “Take care of him, and yourself.”

  “I will.”

  Shortly after their visit, the officers assigned to Fort Gibson received word that Colonel Henry Dodge, commander of the new dragoon regiment, had decided to assemble and train his unit at Jefferson Barracks in Missouri Territory. Zach and his fellow rangers voiced bitter disappointment. To a man, they felt the dragoons should train here in Indian Country, where they would be employed.

  Barbara shared their disappointment but had already begun to suspect deep in her heart that her husband would never recover enough to assume the captaincy President Jackson had promised him. Zach confirmed her suspicion one evening in late May.

  He sent word that he had been detained and not to wait dinner for him. When he hadn’t returned when the fife and drums sounded nine o’clock tattoo, Barbara sent the private who served as Zach’s batman back to his barracks. Trimming the lamps, she settled a soft lawn nightdress over her swollen breasts and belly and sat on the side of the bed to brush out her hair. She was up to seventy-three strokes when the front door crashed open.

  Startled, she jumped to her feet. Her fist closed around the brush handle. Heart thumping, she rushed to the bedroom door and pushed it open.

  “Steady, old man. Steady.”

  Nathaniel Prescott staggered into the front room. His uniform jacket was buttoned all cockeyed and his gait was unsteady as he half carried, half dragged Zach with him. Huffing under his friend’s weight, he made for the one sturdy armchair in the room.

  “Got to get you into a chair before we both go down,” he muttered.

  He dipped his shoulder. Zach dropped into the seat, went rigid and instantly turned the air blue with his curses. A thoroughly crestfallen Prescott quickly apologized.

  “Sorry, old top!”

  Barbara snatched a shawl from the hook behind the bedroom door and threw it over her nightdress. When she rushed into the front parlor, a wave of whiskey fumes hit her like a slap in the face.

  “What goes on here?”

  Both men turned around—Nate unsteadily, Zach stiffly. Her heart clutched when she saw the white lines bracketing her husband’s mouth.

  “Zach, are you all right?”

  “Ha!” He gave a hoot of drunken laughter, but whatever he’d imbibed didn’t impede his speech. “It appears I’m as right as I’ll ever be,” he announced. “According to our esteemed regimental surgeon, at least.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means, wife, I’m no longer fit for military service.”

  “What?”

  Prescott brushed his hand over his mustaches. His brown eyes held both sympathy and misery.

  “Major Parks performed the required sixty-day medical evaluation this afternoon. With that ball lodged in Zach’s spine, Parks had no choice but to declare him unfit for continued service.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes,” Zach countered in a deep, whiskey-roughened baritone.

  Suddenly, he sat straighter. A frown carved deep furrows in his forehead. Barbara hurried forward, thinking the pain was about to take him. He surprised both her and Nate with a gruff dismissal.

  “Take yourself off, Prescott!”

  “You might show a little more gratitude, old man. I did haul your carcass all the way across—”

  “Take yourself off. I can’t have you ogling my wife in her nightdress.”

  That, of course, directed the lieutenant’s immediate attention to Barbara. His glance dropped like a stone to her middle, then to the skirts of her lawn nightdress. From the tide of red that swept into the man’s cheeks, she guessed the sheer lawn provided him an almost unimpeded view of her lower limbs.

  Fumbling at his uniform buttons, he made for the door.

  “Yes, well, we’ll sort this out tomorrow, Zach. Parks isn’t the only army surgeon. Colonel Arbuckle might well decide to send you back to departmental headquarters for a second evaluation.”

  Zach answered with a noncommittal grunt and sat unmoving after the door closed behind his friend.

  Barbara had spent enough time with both men now to know they’d graduated from West Point and served at different posts before being assigned to the frontier. Although Nate never tired of ribbing Zach for throwing in his lot with the ragtag rangers, he’d crowed with delight when he heard Old Hickory had promised a captaincy in the new regiment of dragoons to Lieutenant Zachariah Morgan.

  Now Zach would not only forfeit his promotion, he’d surrender his commission altogether. Crushed by guilt, Barbara laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Your mother was right. This is my fault.”

  “I’ve more than enough whiskey in me to agree with that if I didn’t know it to be nonsense.”

  “It isn’t nonsense,” she said miserably. “I’ve brought you nothing but disaster.”

  Reaching for her hand, he drew her around. Another tug brought her down onto his knee. She perched gingerly, afraid of jarring him.

  “I’m a soldier. Or I was. I’ve taken my share of musket balls and knife wounds. Any one of them could have ended my life or my military career.”

  “You suffered those injuries in the performance of your duty. This one you took aiding a convict to escape his chains.”

  Tears burned behind her lids. Her throat raw and aching, she slid her arms around his neck.

  “I’m sorry, Zach. So very sorry.”

  “Here now!” He managed a crooked grin. “There’s no need for you to sing that song. I’m sorry enough for the both of us right now.”

  The grin broke her heart. The long, slow shudder that rippled through his powerful frame when he buried his face between her breasts loosed the tears Barbara had tried desperately to dam. They spilled down her cheeks, silent testament to his searing loss and the guilt she knew she’d always carry.

  “It’ll be all right,” she murmured. “I know it will.”

  The tears flowed freely while she held him, stroking his hair, soothing him the way a mother would a hurt child.

  “Commissioner Stokes sings your praises every time I get within earshot. He’ll…he’ll want you to continue in your advisory capacity, whether you’re in uniform or out. I know he will.”

  Zach muttered something against her breast. She didn’t catch the words, but the inflection indicated exactly what he thought of his advisory role.

  “It’s not the same,” she said with quiet desperation. “I know it’s not the same. But what you’re doing is so important. Nate says the Cherokee in Georgia and North Carolina are being hunted down like animals and killed for their land. The commission has to negotiate a treaty with their delegation or it will mean the end of them.”

  He drew back then. “What’s this? Are you crying over the plight of the Cherokee?”

  She could hardly admit the tears were for him. He wouldn’t want them. She was searching for an answer, when the baby pushed against her distended belly. “Oh!”

  Her eyes rounded, her hand went to her stomach, and Zach immediately tensed.

  “What is it?”

  “A foot, I think. Or a fist. There! There it is again.”

  He flattened his palm on her belly. She edged it over to the right spot. “Wait a moment. Perhaps he’ll move again.”

  “He?”

  “Or she. Does it matter which?”

  “Not to me.”

  His palm was warm against her skin, his breath an aromatic waft. When the baby stretched again, a smile replaced the desolation she’d glimpsed on his face just moments ago.

  “If it’s a girl, I hope she has her mother’s dainty ankles.”

  Barbara’s ankles were anything but dainty at the moment, but she summoned an answering smile.

  “I thank you, sir.” Dipping her head, she feathered a kiss along his right temple. “If it’s a boy, I h
ope he has his father’s heart.”

  The brush of her lips against his skin stirred something deep in Zach’s gut. Beneath the pain of his back, below the wretchedness of knowing he’d not have any part in the new regiment, he felt a tug of desire. It seeped through the whiskey that hadn’t dulled either ache and roused a new one.

  God, he wanted her. These months of stretching out on his bedroll just yards away from her had all but unmanned him. He went to sleep hurting and woke up feeling like a bear with a sore tooth.

  Her advancing pregnancy and his damn back had kept him from assuaging the constant, nagging ache. But now her mouth hovered just inches from his own and the whiskey he’d swilled still heated his veins. He didn’t so much as try to stop himself. Curling a hand around the soft skin of her nape, he covered her mouth with his.

  After her first start of surprise, she gave a breathless little moan and leaned into the kiss. Her full breasts pressed against his chest, her mounded belly his middle. She was so ripe, so fecund. So incredibly, damnably arousing.

  Cursing, Zach jerked his head back. “I’m sorry.”

  The flush in her cheeks faded. Sadness and regret shadowed her beautiful turquoise eyes.

  “So am I,” she whispered. “Can you ever forgive me for hurting you as I have?”

  He blew out a long breath. “I’m past forgiving,” he admitted ruefully, “and well into wanting.”

  It took her a moment or two to catch his meaning. When she did, her color rose again. Looking embarrassed and more than a little excited, she draped her arms around his neck.

  “As it so happens, I’m well into wanting myself. You wouldn’t think so with this great belly weighing me down, but the other wives said the…the urge often grips a woman at this stage.”

  “Did they?” Zach crooked an eyebrow. “Did they also suggest ways to satisfy this urge?”

  “We didn’t discuss the matter in exact detail,” she replied primly. “But if I were to straddle your lap…like this…and you were to sit very still so you didn’t jar your back, I think… Yes, I’m quite sure we could achieve a certain friction.”