The Pride of Hannah Wade (34 page)

“An’ I’m tellin’ you, woman, leave me alone if’n you don’t want me,” he repeated.

“Who’d want you?” A toss of her head dismissed his appeal as she took a step away.

His hand grasped her arm and roughly jerked her back, and he caught hold of her other arm. “Don’t be walkin’ away from me. I ain’t through.”

She struggled against his hold, resisting him and the sudden shift of power. She no longer had control, something she’d always exercised over men. He shook her hard, but still she fought him, kicking and pushing. He hauled her against him, pinning her arms to her sides and holding her face in the grip of his hand. His mouth seared across her lips, driving against them and demanding. But she went still, totally unresponsive to this fierce attempt at sexual dominance. The absence of any response, passion or resistance, angered him.

“Have it yore way this time.” He drew back, breathing roughly, but she looked at him blankly, giving him nothing, no reaction. “But yore wrong about me, Cimmy Lou. I’m different. I could wear you out.”

When he released her, she felt as if she’d lost something instead of winning the battle. While she resented his manhandling tactics, her interest was highly piqued by him, and by the appetite so strong within her.

“Yore like all the rest,” Cimmy Lou taunted him as she adjusted the shawl around her shoulders, and studied him with a considering glance. “Nothin’ but brag.”

But Bitterman merely smiled, the thin mustache a dark line on his upper lips. “Every man what looks at you wants you, Cimmy Lou. That sergeant of yores keeps ’em from doin’ anything but lookin’ and wishin’. You love a-teasin’ ’em. But you ain’t gonna tease me. I’m gonna have you—Wait an’ see.”

Her low, soft laugh mocked him, but her expression was thoughtful and reflective as she moved away again in the direction of the one-room canvas shanty.

S
LEEPY GURGLED WITH LAUGHTER, WAVING HIS SMALL
fists excitedly in the air when he saw Hannah. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but the sight of the Apache prisoners crowded together in the bed of the army wagon quickly froze it. The men among them were shackled with ankle-irons, the rattle of a chain making itself heard now and then. She stood about six feet from the wagon. A black trooper from, the guard escort eyed her with misgiving, but he didn’t order her back.

It was difficult to summon any hatred for these people. Hannah knew of the stealings and depradations they’d committed—and she had not forgotten the brutal way she had initially been treated by them. Yet when she looked at them, she remembered also Angry Dog’s skill as a hunter and how he’d always managed to provide them with some game during that long flight from Mexico, or Loco, the group’s clown, who always made his wife laugh.

Few on the post would understand her reasoning if she tried to explain it, least of all Stephen. Five days ago he’d brought his detail back before daylight; there had been no survivors from the supply wagons that had been ambushed by another band of Apaches. The bodies had been mutilated. There was no forgiveness in his heart.

The Apaches in the wagon, the remnants of Lutero’s band, were being transported to the agency at Ojo Caliente in northern New Mexico. They were a silent and sullen group, except for Sleepy, and Gatita turned his cradleboard away so that her son couldn’t see Hannah. She wasn’t one of them anymore, and they no longer trusted her.

Still, Hannah said to them in Spanish, “Ojo Caliente is a good place.” The area of the hot springs was a favorite stopping place for the tribe.

Gatita looked at her. “If place is good, then let the yellow legs take
pindahs
there and leave this land to us.”

Saddened by the words, Hannah stepped back. She knew that the fate of the Apaches was already sealed. Their nomadic life of raiding, foraging, and warring might continue for a time, but it couldn’t last. They would either be confined to reservations or vanish from the earth, as so many of the eastern tribes had. The two cultures, white and Apache, were too different to coexist. The Apaches would have to be assimilated or die.

There was a stir of activity along the forming escort detail. Stephen cantered up and dismounted beside her, suspicion and displeasure darkening his expression at finding her by the prisoners. He caught her arm and drew her away from the wagon.

“Were you talking to them?”

“Yes.” Hannah bridled at the censure in his tone.

“What did you say?”

A deep bitterness welled in her heart at his question, and she hated Stephen for asking it. More than anything it revealed his loss of faith in her. “What does it matter? You wouldn’t believe me anyway.” She stopped when he did, unable to look at him.

His hand fell away from her arm in a telling gesture. The escort detail was mounted and ready; the driver and the armed guard sat on the wagon seat while the mules dozed in their harness.

“Hannah.” Many things were in his voice, above all a longing for the woman she had been, but the year she’d been away stretched widely between them. There seemed to be no way to bridge it. Stephen could not bring himself to forget the past and build on the present. When Hannah looked at him, she saw the conflict, the wanting and the rejecting of the dirty piece of candy. Finally he spoke. “When we get these Apaches out of here and on the reservation where they belong, things will be better. They won’t be around to remind you of that time. You’ll be able to put it behind you.”

Hannah smiled faintly, finding irony in the assurance that was given to her but needed by him. And she knew that he was still trying to whitewash her. “Of course.”

“I’ll be back in a week.” After a visible hesitation, Stephen bent and brushed a kiss across her cheek, the first physical affection he’d shown her in a week. A moment later, he mounted his horse and rode toward the head of the column.

A slap of the reins awakened the mules and they leaned into their collars, the trace chains jingling. With wheels squeaking, the wagon rumbled out of the yard, surrounded by its cordon of mounted soldiers. Hannah caught one last glimpse of Gatita before the wagon rolled out of sight. When she turned to go back to her
quarters, she saw Cutter watching her from the
ramada
of the post headquarters. She smiled and nodded to him, feeling a fine run of warmth at the interest he showed in her, an interest that held no hint of judgment. He touched his hat to her.

Since her return, Hannah hadn’t taken an active role in post life, mostly because Stephen wanted her to stay in the background, but partly because she hoped that with the passage of time she wouldn’t be treated as such an oddity and looked at askance. With Stephen away, however, her days would drag with nothing to do, so she resolved to begin participating again. She invited the officers’ wives to come to afternoon tea two days later.

As she was going through her wardrobe to find her blue dimity day dress, Hannah noticed that her brown satin gown wasn’t there. She checked the trunk and discovered that her silver shawl was missing. A further search of the rest of her things revealed that more items were gone—a dreadful glass brooch an aunt had given her, a chipped tortoiseshell comb, two old skirts she’d kept for the material, and a few other items. Except for the brown satin, all of them were things she had seldom or never worn or which she disliked.

“Delancy,” Hannah called, and went to the kitchen to question the striker.

Cimmy Lou was with him, hurriedly licking away the crumbs from a ladyfinger. “I brung yore linens, Miz Wade.” She nodded to the stack of serviettes on the table.

“Thank you.” It was an absent acknowledgment as her attention focused on the striker. “Delancy, I can’t find my brown satin gown with the gold threading. There are some other things missing, too. Do you know anything about them?” She caught the look so quickly exchanged between the soldier-servant and the laundress. Her suspicions were immediately roused.

It took him a moment to phrase his answer. “I found it in the garbage one mornin’, all ripped. I mentioned it t’the majuh an’ ... he said he knew ‘bout it.”

“I see.” Hannah frowned. “Thank you, Delancy.” As she turned to leave, she noticed a yellow glitter from beneath one edge of Cimmy Lou Hooker’s shawl. She stopped. “Isn’t that my brooch you’re wearing?”

Cimmy Lou’s hand covered it protectively. “The majuh gave it to me,” she insisted.

“And my shawl, the hair comb, my skirts, and all the rest—did he give you those, too?” Hannah questioned, stunned that Stephen would do that.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But why?” She hadn’t meant to ask; the question just popped out.

A secretive look stole over the laundress’s face, turning her expression very smug and knowing. “I guess he jest wanted t’give me a little somethin’ on the side. Mebbe you should ask him.”

“Yes.”

When Hannah walked out of the kitchen, her cheeks were flaming at the implication behind the answer. Every army wife knew that if she didn’t accompany her husband to his posted assignment, he would seek out some fallen woman to satisfy his carnal needs. Such straying was never mentioned. Even if Hannah never had real evidence of it, in her heart she knew. Men were lusting creatures; they couldn’t be expected to remain faithful. Hannah knew all that, but to be confronted with it was quite another thing.

By the time the ladies arrived for tea, she had regained her composure. They gathered in the parlor and Hannah poured the tea. The order of service followed the rank of their husbands. Hannah passed the first cup of tea to the colonel’s wife, Ophelia Bettendorf, and the second went to the captain’s wife, Maude Goodson. Since Lieutenant Digby had seniority
over Lieutenant Mitchell, Grace Digby was served before Sadie Mitchell, and, as hostess, the last cup was for herself.

The chatter began with regimental gossip concerning other companies of the Ninth stationed in various New Mexico forts. Some of the names were new to Hannah, so a lot of what was said was meaningless to her.

“I thought he was such a personable man, didn’t you, Mrs. Wade?” At the blank look she received from Hannah, Ophelia Bettendorf prompted, “Surely you remember meeting Lieutenant Austin from Boston?”

“No, I don’t.” Hannah sipped at her tea, holding the fragile cup in one hand and its china saucer in the other.

“That’s true, she wasn’t here. That was after the Apaches had carried her off,” Maude Goodson recalled, and turned to Hannah. “You were with them such a dreadfully long time, my dear.”

“Yes, I was,” she agreed quietly, and set her cup aside to pick up the china teapot. The contrast between her sun-browned hand and the pastel-flowered pot was marked. “More tea, anyone?”

“Please.” Little, doll-like Maude Goodson offered her cup. “I’ve been meaning to suggest that you should bathe your skin in lemon juice. That’s what I do whenever I get too much sun. It whitens your skin really wonderfully.”

“I’ll try it.” But Hannah wondered if the woman realized how many lemons it would take.

“Is it true that they took all your clothes?” Grace Digby stared at her with wide, wondering eyes.

Little shocked sounds came from the others at the temerity of her question, but Hannah noticed that not a single one of them objected as they waited with bated breaths for her answer. She suddenly had a very real sense of why they’d come today—to gamer juicy tidbits to gossip about later, and to voyeuristically experience what had happened, to her and thank God it wasn’t
them. Of them all, Maude Goodson was likely the only one who felt even a modicum of pity and a desire to help.

“A lot of things that happened are too unpleasant to recall.” A stiff politeness masked her bitter anger. “I’d rather put all that behind me.”

Ophelia Bettendorf looked down her long nose and gave Hannah a false smile. “I must say, my dear, I was surprised that Major Wade would leave you so soon after your ordeal. Considering how long you’ve been apart, I should think he would want to spend every minute he can with you.”

Hannah was not surprised that others had noticed how little time Stephen spent with her. He always managed to stay busy at something until after retreat had sounded, thus avoiding her and the problems they were having.

“Duty always comes first with Stephen. That’s what makes him a good officer.” She remembered when she would have said that with pride—the good, understanding wife praising her husband. Now, she was making excuses for his conduct. “After all, Captain Goodson is on patrol and Captain Cutter just came in, so it was Stephen’s turn.”

“But the colonel informed him that, under the circumstances, the major should have the time with you, and Lieutenant Digby would have charge of the detail. But your husband insisted that he go.”

Hannah hadn’t known, and Ophelia Bettendorf had guessed that. More separation was not the answer to their difficulty, yet Stephen had chosen it. Hurt twisted through her, raw and angry. “My husband would never allow his personal life to take precedence over his obligations to the army.” None of them were fooled by her response, and they covertly exchanged snide glances. Hannah saw the looks and raged silently.

Plump Grace Digby reached for another of the
dainty sponge cakes. “These are delicious, Mrs. Wade, I must have your recipe.”