Chapter Fifteen

She wasn’t used to sitting around, doing nothing. That was why Hattie couldn’t wait for Jack to leave the house that morning. Another day had slipped away. Each day a missed chance to paint for the exhibition, and if she couldn’t make progress on that goal, she wanted to attempt another. The impossible task she’d chosen was none other than the mess of a house she was resigned to live in.

She set beans soaking for the midday meal while Jack loitered, looking for an excuse to stay. After asking for the third time if he could bring her anything and reminding her for the second time that if she needed him, all she had to do was open the door and ask the first trooper she saw to fetch him, Jack reluctantly took his hat and coat and left. Hattie swung the door closed, then collapsed against it, trying to get her bearings.

Wasn’t it something that scrawny Jack was such a bigwig here at the fort? Hattie had enjoyed watching him study the page of numbers the quartermaster had produced. It reminded her of the young boy who had stood in front of the blackboard, studying an impossible arithmetic problem. He’d even chewed on his pencil, just like he used to. What a mess he used to make when he forgot and put the chalk in his mouth. Some things had changed, but others . . .

Jack had been the epitome of generosity and chivalry since she’d been at the fort, but Hattie had the horrible suspicion that his kindness was related to her hysterics every evening. She was more than frustrated with herself. It was humiliating. By morning light, she didn’t want to face him. How could she, after shamelessly crawling right up to his door to sleep? And every night when he offered her his coat, she didn’t know whether to cry in relief or shame. It had been only a week since she was hiding from a murderer in a freezing ditch, she reminded herself. With time, the memories would fade. With time, her need for him would, too.

Until then . . .

Hattie surveyed her new domain. Books stacked beneath the tables, books shelved on windowsills, books scattered across the dining room—every flat surface was covered with them. Her artist’s eye would love to see the pretty, leather-bound volumes adorning his study in clever arrangements and groupings. At the very least, she needed to get some of the dustier tomes hidden away in the upstairs bedroom.

She started in the parlor, sweeping up as many books as she could in her arms. If a particularly handsome volume caught her eye, she left it behind, but the rest were carted up to the vacant room.

No wonder Jack had never had any girlfriends in school. No one who spent so much time looking at words could have anything interesting to say. Or at least he hadn’t back then. Now, well, he was Prince Charming when they were out and about. Back at the house, he was as silent as a portrait.

She trudged up and down the stairs, her footsteps thudding louder with every trip, until she dropped the last armful of books on the bed. The frame squawked, and dust clouded the air, but Hattie wouldn’t be deterred. She had to get that parlor downstairs tidy before Jack returned for the noonday meal. Otherwise the only thing they’d have to discuss would be her embarrassing habit of crying at night until she had his coat in her arms.

Jack didn’t have many decorative objects, but she gathered items that deserved a better placement in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that flanked the fireplace. Candlesticks, a nice platter from the kitchen, a feathered pipe, and a clay pot painted with an Indian pattern were all gathered on her first round.

On her second pass, she spotted an oddly shaped box among the notebooks on the credenza behind his desk. It was a waste for the red leather case to hide in his office where no one could see it. It was the perfect size and would add some color to the shelves in the parlor.

She tucked the leather box beneath her arm and bustled back to the parlor. It rattled as the items inside shifted. Hattie paused. Was this a treasure chest of Jack’s? What could he be hiding? Her earring, perhaps? Carefully, she turned the box over to fiddle with the buckle and remove the lid.

There were some marbles, a gold coin, a small card with a picture of Jesus that she remembered Jack earning in Sunday school for memorizing the most verses in their fourth grade class. Then there was a jack with one prong broken. She’d meant to look for her earring, but she’d forgotten how much of their history they’d shared. This was the broken jack she’d given to him when he’d broken his arm falling out of a tree. Only Jack would have tried to read a book in a tree and gotten so engrossed in the story that he fell out. She’d felt bad for him with his sling in the middle of summer, and when she found the broken jack, she’d thought it was an appropriate gift for the broken Jack she knew. She smiled as she held the memory in her hand. He’d kept the silly thing all this time?

Pieces of his childhood, of their childhoods, lay scattered before her, but for all the treasures there, her earring was not one of them. Hattie was gathering the last of the scraps when one of the papers caught her eye. It looked like an early drawing of hers—before she’d perfected shading and proportion. With a nervous glance at the front door, Hattie unfolded it. If she’d drawn the picture in the first place, it couldn’t be wrong for her to look at it now, could it?

She recognized the landscape immediately. It was the valley outside the schoolhouse. Prone to daydreaming, Hattie was never assigned a seat by the window, so she’d had to draw from memory. Had she not doodled, Hattie might have learned rhetoric better, but she was content with her choices.

The picture was set in autumn. Leaves littered the ground, and a rock house on the other side of the valley was visible through the scantily clad branches. Hattie stared. That was Jack’s house. Every day he’d tossed his strapped books over his shoulder and set out across the valley. No wonder he’d kept this picture. It was of his home.

Hattie flipped the paper over, but the other side was blank. A vague memory danced just out of reach. Someone had asked her to draw the valley. Had it been Jack? She didn’t quite remember, but it was possible. But why had he wanted it? Had he known how far from home he would travel?

Hattie shoved the picture in with the other treasures, then placed the box on a shelf to balance the effect of the platter. Surely after Jack saw the improvement to the parlor, he’d understand the importance of culling down his library. One could never have a parlor that was too fashionable, but one could definitely have too many books.

The last volume was placed just in time for Hattie to rush to the kitchen, wash the brittle book dust off her hands, and drain and rinse the beans before setting them on the stove to simmer. In no time at all, she heard the front door open and Jack’s voice call out, “Honey? Are you here?”

Hattie paused with the wooden spoon in hand. Honey? Why would he say that? No one was watching them here. Was he teasing her? Her eyes narrowed, and just to be on the safe side, she sucked in a deep breath, then answered in a melodious tone, “I’m in the kitchen, darling.”

She wagged her head at the ridiculousness of the situation. Her younger self might have found it fun to play with romance, but grown-up Hattie had learned a lesson or two. The reward was rarely worth the effort.

“Could you come out here, please?” Jack asked.

She gave the beans one last stir, then abandoned the spoon to touch up her hair. She found him waiting by the front door, and her eyes lit up at the sight of the strapping cavalryman. The cold had heightened the color in his face and made his eyes shine. But the man standing next to him was a total surprise.

“Chief Right Hand?” Hattie stopped dead in her tracks. She threw Jack a worried look. He wasn’t going to give her back to the Arapaho, was he? She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking.

Jack noticed immediately. How he got to her so quickly without looking like he was in a hurry was a mystery to her.

Blocking the chief from her view, he took her hand and willed her to face him. “Honeybee, I should have sent word that I was bringing a guest, but I knew you wouldn’t care if the chief eats with us. He’s anxious to see how my bride and I are doing.”

“Your bride?” She knew what he meant, but no other words would come.

“Yes. And we need him to see that you are here and you are taking care of your husband.”

Hattie released a shaky breath. She stiffened her spine as she met Jack’s gaze.

He nodded. “Good girl,” he whispered and released her to meet their guest. “The chief has come for dinner.” With a hand at her back, Jack escorted her forward. “Mrs. Hennessey, you remember Chief Right Hand.”

“Nice to see you again, Chief,” she replied.

The Arapaho man was no less dignified standing here in her parlor than he’d been at the ceremony with his people. His sharp eyes studied her with a directness that a white man wouldn’t have dared. He spoke words to Jack. Jack stumbled in his reply, but was evidently making some headway in the language.

Jack turned to her. “He says that you look a lot better than when they found you.”

She had to smile at that. It had taken hours and several washings to scrub all the prairie from her skin.

The chief added something. Jack nodded. With a finger, the chief motioned for Jack to pass his message on.

This one wasn’t as easy for Jack. “He says that marriage is good for you.” His eyes didn’t meet hers, just stayed focused on her collar. “That he knew I would be a good husband, and he expects I’ll have a son by harvest in the fall.”

Her smile disappeared. “So much for only having to pretend when we’re in public,” she said.

Jack shrugged apologetically. He raised his head and for the first time saw the parlor. He stepped backward as his eyes took in everything from the beautifully balanced display of his artifacts on the shelves to the colorful carpet that probably hadn’t seen daylight for years.

“Doesn’t it look magnificent?” Hattie clasped her hands behind her back.

Chief Right Hand squinted at the room, probably curious what they were looking at.

“Where are my books?” Jack asked.

“Well, there are a lot of them on the shelf, as you see. The extra ones went upstairs so they’d be out of the way.”

“Extra ones?” he repeated.

“There’s not room for all of them.”

“There used to be.” He strode to the wall and examined the shelves. “You’ve put Washington’s biography next to poetry. And what’s this? The Pilgrim’s Progress? It goes in the stack with my devotional books, not with history.”

“Was that the stack that was under the chair, or the stack I tripped on next to the window?” she asked.

“Devotional books are next to the window. That’s where I go in the mornings. Now I don’t know where anything is.”

The chief stepped between them, holding up a hand. Hattie rubbed the back of her neck, pulling a strand of hair loose from her braided bun.

“Peace,” the chief said, before adding more words that only Jack could understand.

“We’ll talk later,” Jack grumbled to Hattie. Then, with artificial lightness, he added, “Dinnertime.”

Hattie had been so convinced that Jack would be thrilled with the progress she’d made that she hadn’t put much effort into the meal. But here he was, unhappy, with a guest, and she only had some beans and cold corn bread.

Taking three china plates, she started toward the dining room, but Jack caught her by the arm.

“He’ll feel more comfortable in the kitchen where the food is made. Don’t worry about the china.”

“It’s what we have,” she said. The dishes clanked against the smaller kitchen table.

Jack disappeared only long enough to pull in an extra chair from the dining room. “I see you cleaned off the dining room table, as well,” he said. “European history and encounters with the Plains tribes, gone.”

“They aren’t gone. They’re upstairs.” She tugged on her unadorned earlobe. “Maybe they’re hidden with my earring.”

Jack motioned the chief to his seat. “I know exactly where your earring is at all times,” he said, “and if you didn’t look so fetching wearing only one, I probably wouldn’t be able to keep my temper right now. Let’s eat.”

Jack had always been head over heels for Hattie, but he’d never imagined how she could disrupt his life. Here he was, feeling like a stranger in his own home. He didn’t want a pretentious house. He didn’t want people to feel ill at ease when they visited. Having books stacked all over wasn’t just convenient, it was also welcoming. At least, it made him feel welcomed.

But he needed to focus on the task at hand. Chief Right Hand had come to talk about his nephew at the school. Judging from his unusual request to join them for a meal, Jack figured the chief had more on his mind than Hattie’s beans. And while Jack never felt adequate conversing without an interpreter, the chief didn’t seem bothered by the lack.

The chief ate slowly, as if savoring each bite. After the first bowl, he removed the blanket from around his shoulders and loosened the leather thong on the neck of his tunic.

“It’s warm?” Jack said in Arapaho. At least that was what he thought he said.

“Yes. The fire is good,” the chief replied.

He didn’t speak again until the second bowl of beans had been consumed. Once Jack saw how little Hattie had prepared, he’d contented himself with pushing his food around in his bowl so there would be enough for their guest. Hattie was doing the same. She’d done everything he’d asked, even welcoming the chief to her table, and Jack had shown her no gratitude. They’d talk about it later. For now, they needed to put on a good show for the chief.

“We heard that the Cheyenne shot an intruder,” Jack said, “but he got away. Have your scouts seen anything?”

“No. No one has been found. If we find a body, we always tell you.”

“And I appreciate your help,” Jack said.

Hattie left the table to go to the pantry. She opened the door and began digging into the middle shelf.

“Need some help?” Jack half rose from his seat.

“No, I got it”—she turned around and waved a can of peaches in his face—“dear.” Then she opened the drawer for the can opener.

Jack dragged his attention back to the chief. “You visited with Tom Broken Arrow?” he asked. “How is he doing in the school?”

The chief politely laid aside his spoon before answering. “The lessons are not hard, but he misses his land. He doesn’t get to ride his horse. He doesn’t get to hunt. He is a slave. The only joy in his day is learning to care for the animals.”

Jack knew plenty of his friends growing up in Arkansas felt the same way about school, but this was a serious issue for the Arapaho.

“It’s hard for strong young men to sit at desks all day,” Jack said, “but that’s how white men pass on their wisdom.”

The chief scoffed. “Marks on pages can’t teach you to be a man.”

Jack thought of his Bible, which was now missing somewhere upstairs. “A boy needs a good man to teach him how to be a man. But a good man can make those marks on a page, and then his lessons can be shared for generations. Think of your wisdom and the lessons you want to pass on to your children. We could write your words down, and then your children’s children could learn from you, even after you have . . .” He couldn’t think of the nice expression, so he went with what he knew. “. . . died.”

The aged chief thought this over. “There can be goodness there. That’s why Tom is at the Darlington school. But I don’t want him to forget the lessons he learned with his hands and with his heart.”

“I understand,” Jack said. He leaned back as Hattie pushed bowls of peaches in front of them. He smiled at her, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“There are other problems at the school,” the chief continued. “The children are frightened. Three from another village have gone home.”

“Frightened?” Jack stabbed a slippery peach. “Frightened of what?”

The chief shrugged. “They say there’s an evil spirit at the school. It rises up from the ground and steals their dreams while they are asleep.”

Jack cast a nervous glance at Hattie. She couldn’t understand a word the chief was saying, and that was for the best. Not all aspects of the Indian culture would be reassuring to her.

“The school is a Christian school,” Jack said. “Evil spirits have no power there, but I’ve heard the stories, too. And things have gone missing. Blankets?”

The chief nodded. “Could be older students telling tales to scare the younger and hiding their things? I don’t know. But three children were troubled. Didn’t eat during the day, couldn’t sleep at night. Their parents took them home.”

Jack’s heart sank. The school couldn’t stay open if they lost many more students. What would that mean for them? For the tribe?

“Just as you say. The older kids must be telling ghost stories. I’ll go and talk to them.”

The chief finished his last peach, then picked up the bowl and drank the sweet syrup out of the bottom. “It’s good if you go,” he said. “If you find there’s nothing to fear, the leaders will listen to you.” His eyes sparked with mischief. “A family man like you has our respect.”

Hattie paused with her spoon halfway to her lips. It wasn’t hard to guess that the chief was talking about her. Jack thought of his missing book collection and responded, “Yes, Chief. And I have you to thank for bringing me such a helpful wife.”