In the baking heat of midafternoon, eleven wagons rumbled through the gate at Fort Kearny and creaked to a halt on the cottonwood-bordered parade ground. Major Montgomery dismounted and headed for the colonel’s office.
“John!” Colonel Butterworth met him in the open doorway. “You’re looking fit. Better than last time I saw you.” He clapped the major’s shoulder, then stood back to acknowledge the salute John mustered.
“Colonel,” John acknowledged.
“How’s the Duquette party managing?”
“They’re hungry. And tired. Dust storm a day ago took all the starch out of them.”
“Sutler’s coming in tomorrow with a wagon load of supplies. You’ll lay over a few days, of course.”
“Wagon master’s anxious to restock the food supplies and keep rolling.”
“I’ll talk to him.” The colonel waved his arm at the big blue Conestoga. “That his rig?”
“Nope. That’s the Weldon sisters’ wagon.”
Colonel Butterworth shot him a look. “Sisters, eh? Old or young?”
John ignored the question. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Joshua Duquette.”
“’Druther meet the sisters,” the older man said with a wink. “Either of them pretty?”
“Harry, you want me to tell Martha you’re turning mooney over a spinster and her kid sister?”
“Not pretty, eh?”
“Didn’t say that,” John replied. “Anyway, judge for yourself, they’re coming this way.”
The colonel stepped off the porch. “That Duquette behind them?”
John hid a grin. “Something wrong with your eyesight, Harry? That’s Billy West.”
The colonel stopped short and narrowed his gaze. “Nothing wrong with it, just don’t believe what I’m seeing.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Billy West without a beard. What’s the cavalry coming to?”
“It’s going straight to hell, Colonel. He even took a bath in the river last night.”
“And the ladies?” the older man intoned to John beside him as they moved forward.
“Miss Constance Weldon, Miss Henrietta Weldon, may I present Colonel Butterworth?”
Nettie made a little twittering sound and started to curtsy, then changed her mind and extended her hand, little finger crooked. “I am utterly charmed, Colonel.”
“The pleasure is mine, I assure you.” He bowed over her fingers.
Constance stepped forward. “I have extra butter and cream today from our cow. Would you or your officers care for some?”
“Well, now.” The colonel’s face shone with interest. “That is kind of you, Miss Weldon. Isn’t often we get fresh cream out here.” He acknowledged Billy with a nod, then returned his gaze to Constance.
“Supply train is due in tomorrow. I supposed you’d be low on food, so the officers invite you to mess with them this evening. Later, Mrs. Butterworth requests some dancing, that is if we can find a fiddler somewhere.” He sent a questioning look at Billy.
Constance opened her mouth to reply, then heard Nettie’s voice at her side. “Why, how perfectly wonderful! A dance! I’ve always loved military balls. They are so terribly elegant, don’t you think?”
“Nettie, for goodness’ sakes.” She was appalled at her sister’s airs. Where had she learned such nonsense?
“It’s not a ‘ball,’ my dear,” the colonel said kindly. “Out here things are pretty rough-and-tumble. A room full of my officers stomping out a two-step is a long way from ‘elegant.’”
Nettie’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, Colonel Butterworth, I am quite sure you are exaggerating just to tease me.”
Constance met John’s gaze, and when he rolled his eyes she nearly laughed out loud. The corners of his mouth twitched. Well, it was funny. Ridiculous, even. She dropped her head and studied her shoe tops until she could control her voice.
“Nettie, come help me with the milking.”
“Now? You don’t usually milk until supper—”
“Now, Nettie. The colonel has other duties, I’m sure.”
John gestured behind them. “There’s Duquette now, Colonel. You wanted to meet him?”
The two men moved off, and after a moment, Billy West fell into step behind them. Constance couldn’t help noticing how the major towered over Colonel Butterworth.
“Cissy, you’re so mean sometimes. I wanted to engage in a bit of civilized conversation.”
With a sigh, Constance turned her attention to Nettie. “Colonel Butterworth has an entire army post to look after. I would guess conversing with a very forward young woman is not one of his priorities.”
Nettie stuck out her lower lip. “But he was ever so nice to me, didn’t you think? Cissy? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Dear Sister…” How can I say this without being hurtful? “You are so young and pretty and full of life sometimes you might not notice…things. Perhaps it is time you realized the world—the wagon train we travel with, the fort we take shelter in—these things do not revolve around you.”
Nettie’s chin came up. “Of course I realize that. You just don’t want me to have any fun.”
“Fun!” She stared at her sister. “Nettie, you are three months gone in the family way. You should be thinking of more serious matters.” She laid her arm about Nettie’s shoulders and turned her toward the wagons. “Here comes Cal to unhitch the oxen.”
“Oh, pooh on Cal. All he ever does is look moony-eyes at me, and if I even say boo to him, he stammers. Why, he can’t even read.”
“What does reading have to do with a man’s worth?”
“Cal Ollesen isn’t a man,” Nettie scoffed. “He’s a boy.”
“Cal is the same age you are. Seventeen.”
“He’s never going to amount to anything, Cissy. He and Arvo are, well, they’re immigrants.”
“So they may be, Nettie, but I think Cal and Arvo will prosper. They work hard. Their horses show good care.”
“Oh, well, you know what I mean, Cissy.”
Constance put her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “And when it comes to being immigrants, Sister, what do you think we are? Granny Weldon came from Ireland as a bride. And Great-Aunt Flora on Mama’s side sailed from England with her two babes in a basket and worked three years as a—”
Nettie’s groan stopped her. “Not that again.”
“I am sorry, pet. You are right, such talk is not what is needed at this time.”
“It certainly isn’t,” Nettie snapped. “What I need,” she said in an undertone, “is to talk to Colonel Butterworth. Or maybe the colonel’s wife.”
Constance hurried forward. “Cal.” She waved at the lanky blond youth. “We are all invited to supper tonight and dancing afterward. Tell Arvo and the Ramseys, will you? And I have your clean shirts ready in the wagon.”
Cal bobbed his head and tried to keep his eyes off Nettie. “T’anks, Miss Constance. I unhitch your team now.”
“Thank you, Cal. It—Nettie, where are you going?”
Nettie spun to face her. “I am going to pay a social call on the colonel’s wife.”
“But…”
“It’s important, Cissy. Get Cal to help with the milking.”
“Important? Whatever do you mean?”
“Don’t try to stop me, Cissy. I know exactly what I’m doing.” She turned on her heel and walked off.
Constance stared after her.
“She iss yust like my mare, Ilsa,” Cal said. “Headstrong and…oh, so beautiful. So full of spirit.”
Headstrong. Oh, my yes. Nettie was just like Mama. Just like Great-Aunt Flora. Neither one of them ever gave an inch, and in the end it killed them both.
A bolt of fear ripped through her belly, followed by a fierce surge of protectiveness. Nothing was going to happen to Nettie. Nothing. She would give her life for her sister.
“How do I look, Cissy?” Nettie spread the skirt of her green printed dimity and twirled around for effect.
Constance gazed on her sister’s still-slim form. “You look like an angel, dearest. A beautiful angel with silver hair and lovely blue eyes.”
“I packed this dress at the bottom of the trunk, and it took ever so long to dig it out. I found your yellow striped muslin, too, but I fear it needs pressing.”
She didn’t even remember bringing the dress Nettie spoke of. She’d worn the simply cut plain brown prairie dress and long muslin apron for so long it felt as if they were part of her. Except for an occasional washing, she’d scarcely been out of her clothes. Her underclothes she wore all day and slept in at night; by now, the garments could probably stand up by themselves.
She didn’t feel clean enough to step into the yellow gown, but oh, how she longed to wear something pretty and not worry about the hem dragging in the mud or the sun burning her exposed neck and shoulders.
She lifted the sadiron from its niche next to the coffee mill and set it near the fire. Even half-heated it would press out the creases in the tiered skirt.
Nettie stepped back into the wagon and Constance heard the song her sister always hummed when she brushed her hair. “Beautiful Dreamer.” Unconsciously her hand went to the single dark braid down her back. Was there enough water to take a spit bath and wash her hair?
She peeked into the tin water bucket over the fire. Nettie had used two-thirds of it. She would have to make do with what was left.
Nettie reemerged, a black knitted shawl around her shoulders. “I’m going to help the colonel’s wife set up the supper table,” she announced.
“That is thoughtful of you, Sister. Take the crock of butter and the cream with you.”
Twin spots of color rose on Nettie’s cheeks. “I— I’m not going there directly,” she said. “First I have to…have to stop by the Ramseys,” she added quickly. “And…and tell Essie and Ruth their bedtime story. Isn’t it dear of them to want it so? Mrs. Ramsey says they won’t go to sleep at night without it, and she’s too worn-out by evening.”
Constance caught her sister’s gaze and held it. “Take Mrs. Ramsey the other crock of butter, then,” she said in an even tone.
“Oh, Cissy, do I have to? I’ll get grease all over my dress.”
“No butter crock of mine has a spot of grease on the outside, pet. Not even your fingers will be soiled. Now, go.”
It wasn’t what she’d wanted to say. She’d wanted to scream at Nettie, get her to stop shirking. She opened her mouth to call her back, but her sister had slipped around the corner of the wagon and disappeared. In a few moments Constance watched the slim figure in a swirling green skirt march toward the Ramsey wagon, a butter crock in each hand.
“She forgot the jug of cream for Mrs. Butterworth,” she said under her breath.
Or maybe she left it behind on purpose. She remembered how Nettie could always wheedle sweets and grown-up privileges from Papa. From the time she was four years old, Nettie had done things her own way. Even now, she often sneaked an extra biscuit at supper, and just as often pleaded a headache to avoid the washing up.
But, Constance reminded herself, Nettie was carrying a child. She hadn’t known that before; now that she did, she must remember to make allowances.
She hefted the bucket of warm water up into the wagon and climbed in after it, then scrubbed her sun-parched skin with a sliver of the scented soap she’d brought from home. Shivering, she unwound her braid and brushed her hair thoroughly using an extra cup of water she’d saved.
When the sadiron was heated, she spread the yellow muslin on Nettie’s pallet and began smoothing out the wrinkles. She’d accomplished the task a thousand times in the kitchen back home, but working on her knees with a half-heated iron was exhausting. By the time she finished, her wrist ached and her back was stiff.
Why are you going to all this trouble? a voice teased. Nettie is the pretty one. She’ll have half the officers eating out of her hand before supper, and the other half after dessert.
She loved seeing her sister at social gatherings. Nettie was happiest surrounded by admirers. Even the women fussed and cooed over her. Later they would compliment Constance on what a good job she’d done raising her younger sister.
Tonight for some reason, Constance wanted to be pretty, too. She wanted to enjoy herself, wanted to lose herself in the fiddle music and dance until the stars came out. Nettie had chafed under the discipline of their dancing lessons back home, but Constance loved the intricate steps of the Carolina Quadrille and schottisches and waltzes that dipped and looped about the floor. With a start she realized she hadn’t been to a dance since…
Since last Fourth of July. Almost a year ago. She was a different person now. Older. More frightened of what lay ahead now that she’d experienced some of it. But more sure than ever that she was doing the right thing.
The yellow muslin settled over her head, and she buttoned up the bodice with trembling fingers. The sleeves stopped at the elbows with a ribbon tie and a flare of lace. Her exposed forearms were brown as berries from the sun, and her neck…she craned her head toward the mirror on Mama’s dresser. From her chest to her ears the skin was sun-bronzed and the freckles across her nose were more numerous than ever.
She sighed. How did Nettie keep her skin so white?
By walking on the shady side with the children while you drive the wagon straight into the sun all day. Besides Nettie wears a broad-brimmed hat and never rolls up her sleeves.
And so should she, herself. It was high time she took some care with her own appearance. The major would think she had no graces whatever.
Her chest gave a funny little squeeze. She stepped down from the wagon and gazed across the parade ground, now ringed with wagons. A flag snapped on a pole in the center of the square. She gazed beyond it to the row of five unpainted houses that served as officers’ quarters.
Which one did the major occupy? The large two-story one with the wide porch across the front? Probably that was Colonel and Mrs. Butterworth’s.
Oh, the cream! Quickly she gathered her hair at her nape and tied it with a scrap of ribbon. Then she banked the fire, grabbed up the cream jug in one hand and her shawl in the other and set off for the officers’ mess.
The collection of adobe buildings with sod roofs to the right must be the soldiers’ barracks. First Nebraska Cavalry, the weathered sign on the first building read. The second, a two-story structure, had a painted sign that swung between two posts driven into the ground. Seventh Iowa Cavalry.
Which one was the major’s unit? The Iowa Seventh, perhaps. His manners seemed more Eastern in a way. But he wore that buckskin shirt as if he’d been born in it, and he’d had contact with the Indians, so perhaps the First Nebraska? She would ask him tonight.
Her heart lurched at the thought of being close enough to speak to him for the first time in two days. He had kissed her! Not once, but twice.
At the time it felt like the most natural thing in the world, being in his arms, inhaling the scent of his clothes, his skin. His breath.
But now she wondered about it. Why had he kissed her? And held her like that?
And why, Lord help me, did I like it so much?