The Pride of Hannah Wade (28 page)

“Yes.” Wade paused as his striker, Private Delancy, came onto the porch to bring him a drink. “Whiskey, Captain?”

“Thank you, no, sir.” The whiskey he had in mind Cutter planned to drink with his feet up and a cigar in his mouth, while his striker lathered his face and shaved off the crust.

Wade took the glass half-filled with the amber liquor and dismissed the striker. “That will be all for now, Delancy.” As the enlisted man went back inside the adobe structure, Wade turned and looked across the parade ground at the limp flag hanging from the pole. “Griswald is inside examining my wife.” He gave the impression of being in agitated motion even though he didn’t change position or even lift a hand.

Cutter waited, making no response to the reference to Hannah, and watched Wade take a drink of the whiskey. Then Wade put the glass down and swung around, confronting Cutter with a narrow-eyed look.

“I want a full account of yesterday’s action, Cutter, everything you can tell me.”

Cutter frowned and made a small, vague shrug, troubled by the question. “We learned the location of the
rancheria
from an Apache woman after some interrogation. During the night we climbed Into position, and then attacked at dawn, completely surprising them. It was a small band, led by a subchief named Lutero.”

“Where did you find my wife?”

“When the fighting broke out, she had taken cover. We found her when we were securing the perimeter.”

“What had they done to her?”

Cutter noticed the way the major’s fingers clenched around the whiskey glass, his knuckles whitening, and was careful in the wording of his answer. “From what I could ascertain, she appeared unharmed.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“Maybe you should question your wife about that.” Cutter felt angry, disliking the answers Wade was seeking to obtain.

“Dammit, I’m asking you, Captain,” Wade snapped. “She rode in here looking like an Apache squaw. I want to know whose and where he is now,”

“If you mean Lutero, he got away.” Cutter’s own temper was fraying, the hardness settling into his expression.

“You know damned well who I meant!” Liquor sloshed over the sides of the glass as Wade took an abrupt step toward him, his voice getting louder. “You had Nah-tay question the Apaches you captured. I want to know what they told you. I want to know
what happened to my wife while those savages had her!”

“You’ve got her back, for crissakes! Be happy about that and put the rest behind you!” Cutter flared. “Don’t you know how damned lucky you are?!”

“One more remark out of you, and I’ll have you hauled up on charges of insubordination!” Wade thundered, his hand doubled into a ready fist.

“Stephen.” Concern and confusion were mixed in Hannah’s voice as she stepped out of their quarters and stared at the two men confronting each other in bristling silence. She wore a day dress of cinnamon brown trimmed with white lace, the material smoothed over her corseted waist and drawn into a small bustle at the back. “What is it? We heard you shouting all the way inside.” Her mahogany hair was drawn, into fullness at the back, completing the symmetry of the bustle’s silhouette.

Cutter backed down first, dropping his glance although all his resistance continued to simmer. “Did you wish to receive a full account in writing, Major?” he questioned with deadly quiet.

“Yes.” Wade was not so quick to control his agitation, finally bolting down the rest of the whiskey to wash it away.

“Very good, sir.” Cutter came to attention and held his salute until Wade returned it to dismiss him. He left the
ramada,
barely touching his hat to Hannah as he passed, and briskly walked away from the adobe.

“Why were you shouting at each other?” Hannah eyed Stephen, troubled by something she couldn’t name.

“Shouting? You exaggerate.” He dismissed her description. “Cutter sometimes forgets his place in this company. I was merely reminding him.” He came and
took her arm to escort her back inside. “What did the doctor have to say?”

The question was overheard by Griswald, who was in the act of taking the whiskey glass offered by Wade’s striker. “A little on the thin side, but in damned better shape than you or I, Major.”

S
TAMPING IN THE DOORWAY,
H
ANNAH LEANED AGAINST
the frame, the rough board supporting her spine and her head as she listened to the first clear note of tattoo trumpeted into the night. It was followed by the ritual passing of the sentries’ hourly call from their perimeter posts, the assurance that “All’s well.” The smells were familiar too, the rank odor of the stables and the aromas of freshly baked bread, leather, and water-cooled air from the hanging ollas. Pew lights showed along the quadrangle.

“I’ve missed all this.” She turned her head against the door frame so she could look into the parlor at Stephen. His mouth curved in a smile, but he said nothing. She pushed away from the door and let the lace shawl slide to her elbows as she came into the room. “It was kind of Mrs. Bettendorf and Maude to bring those covered dishes for our dinner this evening.”

Hannah wanted to confide in him the strangeness of
eating again with a full set of silverware and china plates. And she wanted to tell him how natural, yet how odd, it felt to wear so many layers of clothes. This dress, one of her favorites, felt cumbersome and bulky with its voluminous skirts and bustle. Her clothes were suddenly so constricting when she’d grown used to complete freedom of movement. But Stephen’s growing silences were making her reticent, creating an awkwardness Hannah was determined to smooth away.

“You haven’t told me how I look, Stephen,” she prodded, and walked toward him, her head high and her smile set to conceal her unease, His brooding gaze swung to study her.

So many times during her absence, Stephen had summoned her image to his mind, that face with its lively eyes and warm, full lips. He tried to match that remembered image with the face of the woman before him, to lay one atop the other; but there were differences, a blurring of lines that didn’t match, small shadings of change. They’d been apart for only eleven months, yet she was not the same woman.

He had known that such an ordeal would alter her, but it hadn’t done so in the ways he had expected. There was an inordinate amount of pride in the way she carried herself now, a boldness of manner and look. Gone were the soft persuasion of her smile and her gentle, well-bred demeanor, replaced by a frankness of eye and a strength of will. She had not come back to him cowed and ashamed, frightened and needing him. He could see no gratitude in her reaction to him. He didn’t like this new independence—these changes that went deeper than her sun-sullied skin. Instantly he was angry with himself for the thought and sought to make amends.

His hands caught her shoulders, the pressure of their grip drawing her toward him. “God, how I’ve missed you, Hannah,” he vowed with deep intensity. “Losing
you was like losing a leg. I was always off balance, teetering, without you at my side. I was half out of my mind.” He scanned her upturned face, seeing the trembling of her lips and the ache in her eyes, “Sometimes at night I could feel you lying next to me in bed, but when I’d go to touch you, you wouldn’t be there.”

The depth of his torment made her cry for him as she slid her arms around him and arched her body against his length. His mouth covered her lips in a crushing attempt to blot out all the past misery and sufferings, the memories of anguish and rage. Hannah didn’t care about the physical pain of his fiercely possessive embrace; it was contact. No longer did some ‘unseen thing keep them apart. Stephen was holding her, loving her; everything would be all right.

At last he dragged his mouth from hers, his mustache brushing across her skin. His hand cradled her head against his chest, stroking one smooth cheek. Hannah closed her eyes to listen to the hard drumming of his heart, aware of the quicksilver run of her own pulse.

“I’m so glad to be home, Stephen,” she said in a low and fervid whisper.

“Hannah.” By his tone, the probing edge to it, he attempted to prepare her for his next, hesitant question. “Were you . . . violated?”

“No.” The false denial was startled from her; then she instantly corrected, “Yes.” She was angry with herself for wanting to hide the truth from him; only there was a kind of truth in the denial. She swung out of his arms, turning her back to him, but his hands rested on her shoulders to keep her close. She dreaded this subject, the sense of shame she could never quite shake. “My body was taken, but I never let him touch my mind.”

“Him? Only one?”

“Yes.”

His fingers dug into her shoulders. “Who was he, Hannah? What was his name?”

“He’s an Apache. What difference does his name make?” She didn’t want to tell him, but the very compulsion that insisted that she conceal his identity prompted her to tell Stephen, lest he think she had a reason to keep it from him. “Lutero.” She pulled free of his hands and walked a few steps away, drawing the shawl up higher around her shoulders, fighting a chill that came from inside.

“The leader.” The very flatness of his voice was telling. “He wasn’t caught with the others.” Both comments were statements of fact.

“Yes.” Hannah realized ‘that Stephen knew of him, which probably meant that Cutter had reported this information. Their argument—had it been about her?

“How . . .”

Hannah guessed at the rest of his unfinished sentence, a sense of painful irony twisting through her. “How could I let him do it? Oh, Stephen.” She laughed without humor. “In the beginning, all I could think was that the shots Lieutenant Sloane fired would be heard here at the fort; a detail would be sent to investigate. I was sure you were coming. I kept telling myself that if I could just hold on a little longer, you’d come charging in with the rest of the cavalry to save me.”

“We followed your trail for three days,” he said, insisting that the blame wasn’t his, then added lamely, “A windstorm came up and wiped out all the traces. The patrol had to turn back. We had nowhere to look.”

“Three days,” she recalled with bitter regret. “You wouldn’t have recognized me, Stephen. By then I’d been three days under that sun without any clothes. My whole body was blistered and burned, scabby and bleeding. I’d had no food and hardly any water. That’s how he took me . . . when I was too sore and too weak
to move.” A tightness clutched at her throat, and she arched her neck back, trying to ease the constriction as hot tears scalded her eyes. “Oh, God,” she murmured in prayer at the ugliness of that memory.

“I’m sorry.” Stephen gathered her into his arms and rocked her against his length, his head bent and his mouth moving against her hair. “I’m sorry, darling. It was horrible, I know.” The solid wall of his body radiated solace and comfort. “So many times I was told that the Apaches would kill you when they were finished with you.”

“But he wasn’t finished with me,” Hannah murmured, and pressed closer to him. “He needed a slave. His wife was heavy with child, so I had to do all the lifting and carting and carrying—all the hard labor. During that time, he never came near me. But—“ She hesitated, but recognized that Stephen would only wonder if she didn’t tell him. “The Apaches have a belief that it’s forbidden for a man and woman to have any further contact once it is discovered that she’s going to have a baby. She must abstain and cannot be bedded by her husband until the infant is old enough to stop nursing. Lutero didn’t have another wife, so he married me. Captives make good wives.”

She could feel his resistance to her implication, his body stiffening at the thought. “My God, Hannah.” There was condemnation in his confused mutter.

“You don’t understand, do you? I had no choice, not really.” She pulled back to search his expression, frightened. “I wanted to come back to you, Stephen. As long as there was a chance, I wanted to come back.”

He didn’t answer, he couldn’t answer, because he didn’t know what was right. It was emotion warring with reason, morality with immorality, love with hatred. The conflict seemed irreconcilable.

“You don’t understand,” Hannah realized, and felt the shock of it, Stephen made no attempt to stop her when she moved out of his arms.

“Hannah, I’m trying.” It was the best he could offer, but even that admission brought a rise of bitter gall into his throat. “All I want to do is get my hands on that bloody Apache bastard.” His hands were curled into talons while his lip curled away from his teeth. “I want to kill him. for taking what was mine.”

“But I am still yours—in my heart, in my mind.” That was what she was trying so desperately to make him understand.

“Don’t you think I’m trying to convince myself of that!” He raked his fingers through has sun-streaked brown hair and paced in agitation, then suddenly spun around and moved to trap her with his body against an adobe wall. “I love you, Hannah,” His warm breath fanned her skin while his mouth hovered an inch away. “These months have been hell. A man’s mind can be cruel. Not knowing, one starts imagining all sorts of things.”

“We . . . we both probably need time.” Her head was tipped slightly to avoid his eyes.