The Unlikely Wife (7 page)

“I suppose it would be cruel to insist that she wear the pants,” Rebecca conceded, trying not to smile. “When I hit on the idea, I didn’t realize she would look on them as torture.”

“Yes, you did,” Alicia said.

Rebecca tried to look hurt. “I know,” she said, brightening. “I’ll ask the lieutenant if he thinks there are Indians watching us yet. If he says no, we can tell your mother it’s safe to wear dresses for a day or so. Perhaps she would roll up the canvas or even ride with the driver part of the day. That would give you some relief as well.”

“And what will be your excuse to continue in the pants?”

“I’ll be riding horseback. Oh, here comes dinner. I’ll get your mother.” She rose quickly and went to the wagon, not wanting to be left alone at the table if Alicia ran the errand. She coaxed her aunt out and walked back to the table with her, grateful that Brooks left a moment after she arrived.

* * *

Clark finished the dinner his striker had brought and moved the dishes to the corner of his field desk. As he opened the box that held his journal, he heard the first smattering of raindrops on the roof of the tent. The flap was propped up with poles forming an awning over the open doorway and letting in the fresh scent of rain.

Under the journal was the leather-bound case his cousin had given him. His fingers caressed it for a second, then he set the journal aside and lifted the case from the box. At his desk, he opened it.

The hand-carved chess set had belonged to his uncle. He hadn’t seen it for years. “You were the only one who ever beat him,” his cousin had said. “He wanted you to have it.”

So he had taken the set and thanked his cousin. With the funeral, the train, and now the Indian uprising, he had nearly forgotten he had it.

The striker appeared at his door, shaking rain from his hat.

“Come in, Powers.” Clark nodded toward the dishes. “These could have waited until morning.”

“I wanted to see if you needed anything else, sir. Besides, I’ve been hot and dry so long I hardly mind the rain.”

At that moment, the sprinkle turned into a downpour, sending torrents of rain against the roof and back wall of the tent “That’s good,” Clark said, “because it sounds like you’re going to get wet”

“May I come in?” a female voice called above the roar.

Clark turned toward the doorway. Miss Huntington had obviously been caught in the deluge. She was soaked from head to foot, her hat drooping with the weight of the rain. Her face, when she removed the hat, bore its usual sunny smile.

Clark stood. “Mr. Powers, fetch a blanket from my cot,” he said with a glance at the man. “You should be in your wagon, Miss Huntington.”

“It’s a little late now.” She shook out the hat and set it on the ground just inside the tent As Powers brought the blanket she shook her head, sending tiny drops of water flying off the tips of her curls. “I’ll get your blanket wet”

“I have another,” he said. “Did you need something, Miss Huntington?”

She let Powers wrap the blanket around her shoulders, offering him a soft, “Thank you,” and a smile. “As a matter of fact, I have a question.” She moved toward him. “Do you play chess?”

“You risked drowning to ask me that?”

She laughed. “Of course not What a lovely set” She lifted a knight from the case on his desk. “My question has to do with Aunt Belle and Indians. Do you play?”

“Yes. Aunt Belle and Indians?” Clark was aware of Powers’ curiosity. He was also aware of the danger of being alone with this woman. News of that would
travel as quickly and do more damage than any gossip Powers might spread about their conversation.

“Aunt Belle wants to know if you think there are Indians watching us.” She put the knight back and picked up a bishop. “Aren’t these hand carved?”

“Yes. No.” He shook his head. This woman could confuse him like no other. “No Indians are watching us, and yes, they’re hand carved.”

“Shall we play a game while I wait for the rain to let up?”

Clark opened his mouth to mention that the rain might not let up before morning. He was afraid that wouldn’t deter her. “All right.”

Powers stepped forward with another folding chair for Miss Huntington, and in a moment she was seated across the desk from Clark. Powers reached for the dishes. “If there’s nothing else…”

“Have you had your own dinner, Mr. Powers?” Clark asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then have a seat.”

“Sir?”

“Until the rain lets up, then you can see Miss Huntington back to her wagon.”

“Yes, sir.” The striker was clearly bewildered, but he did as he was instructed.

Miss Huntington knew exactly what he was doing. She gave him a mischievous grin as she pulled the
four pieces of the game board from under the chessmen and fitted them together.

“So,” she asked, “who carved these pieces?”

“My uncle.” Clark sank into the chair. The devil’s own temptation was sitting across from him, mixing her own image and scent with his older memories of his uncle’s chess set. He should have refused. As he watched her put the pieces on their proper squares he wondered how he thought he could have.

He reminded himself that she wasn’t the perfection she appeared. She was spoiled and manipulative. She would watch his honor, his career, his life go up in smoke if it suited her purposes. Just as he thought he had that clear in his mind, she looked up and smiled her captivating smile.

“Shall we flip to see who plays first?” she asked.

“Be my guest, Miss Huntington.”

“Call me Rebecca,” she said, moving her knight. He shook his head, but she persisted. “We want to keep this a friendly game, don’t we, Clark?”

He had already had a taste of her friendly games. The stakes were too high, and the odds were in her favor. He should stick to chess. He moved a pawn and found himself saying, “As you wish, Rebecca.”

She made her move, then taking the ends of the blanket that was still around her shoulders, she rubbed briefly at her hair. She tossed her head and ran her fingers through the short locks, loosening the curls.

“I can’t believe I cut your hair.” The comment seemed to go from his heart to his lips, bypassing his brain.

She laughed, tossing her head again. “I like it.”

“I don’t think that’s what your father will say.” Thinking of the colonel should help him keep his wits about him. He tried to look at the board, but his eyes were drawn back to the dark curls.

She simply shrugged. “He won’t even notice.”

He raised his brows in surprise, causing her to grin. “It’s your move,” she said.

He played. “How could he not notice?”

She bit her lip as she studied the board. It was a habit he had never noticed before. Why should it be at all charming?

With a smile, she moved a piece, then answered, “My hair was shorter than this when I was growing up. Mother was terrified that I would be scalped. Her theory was that cutting my hair decreased its value as a trophy. She trimmed it nearly every week until I was twelve.”

He thought of how his female cousins and their friends would have rejected a girl with shorn locks. Perhaps her flirting stemmed from a desire to prove her beauty. He turned his attention to the board, more from a need to look away from her than from any interest in the game. After he played, he asked, “What happened when you were twelve?”

“My mother died.” He would have liked to have
seen her eyes, but she was bent over the board. “Two years later the war started. So many of the troops were pulled out of the western forts Father didn’t think it was safe for me. I went to live with his sister’s family in Chicago. My uncle died last winter, and now Aunt Belle and Alicia are coming home with me.”

She moved a piece. When she looked up her smile was in place. “There you have my life story.”

He gazed at her a moment A trace of sorrow was visible behind the smile. “I’m surprised you’re so eager to return to life at a frontier fort.”

“Best possible way to grow up.”

He was startled by her conviction. “Poor housing. Virtually no education available. Not to mention the fact that there are dangers in the area or the fort would not be there.”

She shrugged. “Children don’t care about those things. It’s your move.”

He stared at her a moment before turning his attention to the board.

“Children,” she said, “love freedom, and sunshine, and riding, and…having donkeys for pets, and parades every day. And happy parents. That was my childhood.”

“Life will be different now that you’re grown.”

“I know,” she said, the grin returning. “I’ve found other enjoyable activities.”

The sparkle in her eyes left little doubt of what
those activities included. He felt a need to distract her. He hadn’t forgotten about Powers, even if she had—or more likely didn’t care. “You’ll be running your father’s household, managing at least one servant, and directing the social life of the fort.”

She wrinkled her nose, and he held back a smile. “Aunt Belle will be in charge of all that, even if I wanted the job. Especially if I wanted the job.”

Clark gave in and smiled. “What will you do?”

She shrugged, leaning forward to move a piece. “I can teach, improve the deplorable education you mentioned.”

Clark couldn’t resist a soft chuckle.

“What?” She sounded offended, but a smile still graced her lips. “You don’t think I could teach?”

“I’m having trouble picturing it, ma’am.”

“Shows what you know. It’s your move.”

He studied the board but knowing those sparkling eyes and sweet lips were right in front of him made it difficult. He found himself playing as quickly as possible so he could return his attention to her face. Such a mischievous smile had never shone from the face of any schoolteacher he had seen. “So how will you convince anyone to hire you?”

She blinked her eyes with feigned innocence. “You mean, convince Daddy?”

He nodded. “I see your point.”

She tipped her head and a speculative light came
into her eyes. “Your problem, Clark, is that you don’t have enough respect for me.”

Shocked, Clark started to protest, but she raised her hand.

“I don’t mean the courteous respect that a gentleman shows a lady. No one could fault you there. I’m talking about respect for me as a person, respect for my intelligence, for my opinion. I could be a very logical person, Lieutenant, if it mattered. But it never does.”

Clark stared at her. He had a sinking feeling she was right. If he denied it, wouldn’t he be claiming he respected her to win her favor, the same kind of manipulation he believed her guilty of? An apology seemed in order, but he had no idea where to start.

To his amazement and relief, a smile returned to her lips. “Of course, I’m basing this on my observation of men in general, including my father. I could be wrong about you.”

Clark opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. Was she offering him a lifeline or a noose? He was afraid to respond.

She seemed pleased to have struck him speechless. “I believe it’s my turn,” she said, bending over the board. “Let me see…oh, yes.” She moved a piece. He didn’t know which one; his eyes were on her as they had been since she invaded his tent.

She sat back, satisfied. “Check.”

He looked down at the board, scarcely comprehending.

“Mate.”

His eyes flew back to her face. She wasn’t gloating, at least not as much as he expected. He nodded. “I concede.” He hoped she understood he meant more than the chess game.

“I believe the rain has nearly stopped.”

He hadn’t noticed when the pounding on the canvas had lessened. He came to his feet when she did. “Take the blanket with you in case it’s only a momentary reprieve.”

“Thank you, Clark. A rematch tomorrow?”

He should refuse. Her presence was too upsetting. In the face of her questioning smile, he found himself relenting. “I’m afraid my ego demands it, ma’am.”

“Rebecca,” she corrected softly.

Powers had stepped through the opening and was waiting under the awning, holding her hat. She followed him, readjusting the blanket around her shoulders, smiling sweetly when she took the hat. In a moment she had disappeared into the darkness.

“Rebecca,” he whispered. The girl was full of surprises, but his own behavior was no less baffling. He had barely made it through her visit with his control intact before he consented to a rematch. Was he testing his own willpower? Or had she already destroyed it?

He should be furious with her. She had used blackmail
to win a place on his supply caravan. She used flirtation to win a game of chess. What would she win tomorrow?

And why wasn’t that apprehension he felt curling through his bloodstream?

R
ebecca couldn’t sleep. She stared at the darkness above her and tried not to disturb the others in the wagon. Why had she said those things to Clark? What had she hoped to accomplish by turning serious? Men didn’t like that!

She had intended to flirt with him just a little, then go. But the rain had surprised her, and the chess set had drawn her. And how she loved the way his brows shot up when he was surprised! Clearly that had been her downfall. He refused to show any response to her smiles or quips, refused, in short, to be dazzled. But he couldn’t hide surprise.

Still, she shouldn’t have said he didn’t respect her. And she shouldn’t have beat him at chess. She had momentarily lost sight of her goal. Which was, she reminded herself firmly, simply to enjoy his attention for a time. She knew how to get and keep a man’s attention, or had always thought she did. And turning
serious was
not
the way. He was probably a lost cause now.

The disappointment she felt was inappropriate. He meant no more to her than any of the others. If it was over, she would forget him. Being near him the next few days wouldn’t matter. It never had before. In fact, it was probably better that it was over sooner rather than later. Once before she had made the mistake of continuing a flirtation too long, and the young man had begun to imagine she wanted something permanent.

She rolled to her side and tried to picture Clark asking to marry her. She couldn’t In fact, it was probably the farthest thing from his mind. Another possibility struck her like a blow. Perhaps he didn’t pretend to ignore her; perhaps she didn’t interest him at all.

The pain she felt was merely her stung pride, of course.
He
didn’t matter any more than any of the others. And she would prove it to herself in the morning. She would return his blanket before they left camp and while she was at it, tell him she had changed her mind about the chess game. She would tell him she had something to do, something that would sound boring—like mending. Then he would know how unimportant he was to her. And she would know it, too.

With that resolution in mind, she closed her eyes
but it took some time before her mind gave in to sleep.

The camp was filled with activity when Rebecca made her way to Clark’s tent. She blamed her melancholy mood on all the sleep she had missed while she sorted out her feelings for Clark—or rather her lack of them.

This wouldn’t be difficult, she told herself. She would simply smile and be apologetic. She couldn’t join him for chess this evening. Maybe another time.

She had already pasted on the smile when she came to a sudden stop. Her hands clenched around the folded blanket she held close to her breast. Clark stood outside his tent, more than half turned away from her. His suspenders dangled at his sides and a towel was slung over an otherwise bare shoulder. He had fastened a small mirror to a tent post and was shaving that gorgeous jaw.

Her mouth dropped open and her throat went dry. Her fingers itched to touch his cheek. With each scrape of the razor she felt her knees tremble. He raised his chin to shave his neck, bringing his jawbone into greater prominence. She swallowed a groan.

He shaved above his lip, his chin. She touched her own chin and licked her dry lips. When he went to work on the cheek away from her she considered circling his camp to improve her view.

She couldn’t, of course. He might catch her reflection in the mirror. So she watched the play of muscles across his back instead. She tried to swallow and discovered she couldn’t

When he set the razor aside, she turned and fled. As she neared the ambulance, she slowed to a nervous walk. She hadn’t spoken to him because she hadn’t wanted to startle him; he might have cut himself. It wasn’t true that she couldn’t have spoken if she had tried. Besides, she hadn’t wanted to embarrass him. Why, they both would have been mortified if he had seen her while he was without his shirt.

At the wagon, she sank into a camp chair. Her stomach was trembling—from the run, of course. She had barely pulled herself together when she heard Aunt Belle’s voice and Alicia’s murmured reply. She had forgotten about them entirely.

The two ladies appeared around a nearby tent, followed by Brooks bearing their breakfast. “Mr. Brooks and his friends have been showing us how they cook breakfast over a campfire,” Alicia said.

Aunt Belle huffed. “I bought a few eggs from Mrs. Kolchek, and I wanted to see they were cooked properly.”

Rebecca nodded at both explanations. She remained seated, careful not to make eye contact with Brooks. It wasn’t until she tried to move her chair closer to the table that she realized she still held the
blanket. There was nothing to do but rise and put it in the wagon.

“I thought you were returning that,” Aunt Belle said, taking her seat and dismissing Brooks with a careless wave. At the same time Alicia gave the soldier an apologetic smile.

Rebecca thanked him without quite looking at him. “He was busy,” she answered her aunt. “I would have left it anyway, but I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Delicious images flooded her mind accompanied by a sense of anticipation. How foolish! She wasn’t going to go spy on him again, tempting as the thought was. She was going to put him out of her mind.

“Get that driver fellow to return it for you.”

She looked up, startled by her aunt’s suggestion. The blanket being returned by a soldier instead of personally would convey the message quite effectively. Especially since she didn’t trust herself.

“Good idea, Aunt Belle,” Rebecca said, reaching for her coffee cup. “I’ll do that when he returns for the skillet.”

She caught a glimpse of Alicia’s disbelieving look, and tossed her a bright smile. When they had a moment alone, she would have to explain to the girl about ending a flirtation.

“I was kinda hoping the colonel’s daughter would come ride with us again,” Sergeant Whiting commented.

Clark wasn’t sure if he agreed or not. It was midmorning, and he had been practically bracing himself for her appearance since their departure. The sense of disappointment he felt was merely concern, surely. At least when she was with him, he knew she wasn’t causing trouble somewhere else. “Perhaps we bored her yesterday.”

“Speak for yourself, sir.”

Clark cast Whiting a sidelong glance. “I take it I’m boring you this morning, Sergeant.”

“Off the record, sir?”

Clark grinned and nodded.

“You’re not as pretty as she is.”

“I imagined it was something like that.”

“But seriously, sir, do you suppose that gelding of hers coulda thrown her? He’s a spirited horse, and she’s a city girl.”

Clark didn’t think it was likely. He knew she was an experienced rider. Odd that he would treasure a bit of personal information about her that Whiting didn’t share. He shook off the thought

Unless Rebecca had dropped behind the caravan, there would have been someone nearby to help her in the chance she had taken a fall. If she had been injured he would have been alerted. Still, he couldn’t help wondering what she was up to.

“Sergeant, why don’t you ride back and find out?”

“Yes, sir!” The sergeant wheeled his mount away
from the column, kicking up globs of mud, and galloped toward the wagons.

Clark chuckled softly. Even the old sergeant wasn’t immune to the lady’s charms. But there was more to her than dimpled smiles and flashing eyes. He found himself looking forward to another conversation over his uncle’s chessboard.

There wouldn’t be a repeat of last night’s game. He vowed not to be surprised by anything she said. And he would also keep at least part of his mind on the game. He thought of several possible topics of conversation and found himself hoping the sergeant would invite her forward.

After several long minutes, Clark began to wonder if he should have been more specific in his order to the sergeant. He hadn’t stipulated that the man return. He was considering stopping the column and reminding the sergeant that he was still on duty, when the man in question reined in beside him. Alone.

There he rode in silence.

Clark felt his teeth grind together and made a conscious effort to relax his jaw. She was merely a traveler in his protection. The sergeant had checked on her well-being. He evidently had nothing to report. But where was she? What was she doing? With whom was she riding? He’d be damned before he’d ask.

He heard the sergeant chuckle and turned to him,
keeping his face carefully blank. “She’s fine, sir,” Whiting said.

“I assumed as much.” He turned away.

“Any questions, sir?” He sounded as if he was struggling to keep from laughing.

“You said she was fine. I’m no longer worried about her.”

Whiting laughed then. “That’s good, sir. I just thought you might want to know that she’s riding back yonder alongside the ambulance. The sides are rolled up for once, and she’s talking to her aunt and that pretty little cousin of hers. Their driver makes a remark now and then. Oh, and Miss Huntington casts a lotta longing glances toward the front of the line, though she pretends not to.”

“Thank you, Mr. Whiting,” Clark interjected.

“What I can’t figure is, if she wishes she was riding up here, why’s she back there?”

“Thank you, Mr. Whiting,” Clark repeated, more forcefully.

“Just thought you’d like to know, being concerned about her and all.”

Clark clenched his jaw, hoping Whiting would take his silence as a hint to be quiet as well. His hopes were dashed in a second.

“Did you hurt her feelings last night, sir?”

“Mr. Whiting,” Clark said, putting the force of his rank behind his words. “That is none of your business.”

Whiting was undaunted. “I only ask because I know she was friendly yesterday, spent a little time in your tent last night.” At Clark’s glare he hastened to add, “Properly chaperoned, of course, sir.”

“Sergeant—”

“I only mention it, sir, because even if you don’t think you said anything wrong, hell, even if she insulted you, you’re the one who’s gonna have to apologize. I wanted to be sure you understood that, sir.”

“Well, I thank you for the advice, Mr. Whiting, but let me offer some of my own. Don’t get involved in my love life. You’ll be bored to death.”

Whiting chuckled. “You might be right, sir. You see, I know about that little waitress, Annie.”

Clark stifled a groan. Of course, he should have been prepared. Soldiers were worse gossips than a bunch of old ladies.

“You knew she got married shortly after you went East?”

Clark shook his head briefly. He hadn’t known, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. She hadn’t indicated an aversion to marriage, only marriage to a soldier. He felt again a pang of disappointment knowing he would never see her again, but it was more from the loss of something familiar than any deep sorrow.

Whiting brought him out of his reverie. “Now that was one boring love affair, sir. I’d have—”

“Sergeant Whiting.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Shut up. And that’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clark could see Whiting’s grin out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t care. As long as the conversation ended before Whiting found a way to bring it back to speculation about Rebecca Huntington.

The lieutenant sent me back to ask after you and the ladies. The lieutenant…The lieutenant…

Rebecca tried to shake off the sergeant’s statement that kept repeating itself in her mind. She shouldn’t be delighted that the lieutenant was thinking of her. She was supposed to be forgetting about him. It was just that she kept forgetting that.

Riding near Aunt Belle didn’t help anything either. The woman was skilled in every style of complaining; normal conversation was lost on her. Alicia might have been fun, but what could they talk about within earshot of Aunt Belle and Brooks? Trees?

Incredibly enough that was exactly what they had been discussing. She left Alicia and Brooks to carry on without her as she watched the front of the column longingly. Why was she riding back here when she could be alongside the lieutenant? Clark, she reminded herself with a smile. He had been so carefully serious last night, but he had consented to the use of their first names—reluctantly.

It would be nice to have some personal information
to go with that first name. She had told him some of her childhood, but he had said next to nothing about himself. She began speculating on what approach would be most likely to gain her the information she sought, when she remembered it was over. She wouldn’t be coaxing anything out of him ever again.

She shifted in the saddle, feeling a desire to kick the gelding into a run. She had been unusually restless all day. Maybe it was the mud. She was tired of slogging through it. She was tired of watching it coat the wagon’s wheels. She was tired of hearing her aunt complain about how it had ruined her shoes this morning.

Ah, but the rain itself had been a wonderful thing. It had kept her in Clark’s tent. She shook herself. She had decided last night that that had been a mistake. She had ruined any chance of dazzling him again, and she was now determined to forget him.

But even if she couldn’t dazzle him, she could ride with him. Her horse was supposed to set her free, and here she was, as trapped as ever. She glanced at her companions. They were silent now, all staring straight ahead. She should excuse herself and ride up beside the sergeant. She might even succeed in making Clark jealous.

Darn! She had forgotten again! She didn’t want to make him jealous. It was as if part of her brain wasn’t listening to the rest and kept offering foolish suggestions.
And it wasn’t because she needed an alternative to the lieutenant; she had often gone weeks without a beau.

With a sigh, she acknowledged the truth. Clark Forrester was more intriguing than most men. What she felt wasn’t just the usual attraction to a handsome face. She might actually be falling for him.

“What a disaster,” she breathed.

“What’s a disaster, dear?”

Her aunt’s voice made her jump. She hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud. “Ah, I was just thinking about…the Indian uprising.”