CHAPTER SIX
After dinner, a group of enlisted men cleared the furniture from the parlor and rolled out a large square of heavily waxed canvas to serve as a dance floor. A tall private tuned up a fiddle and began to play a quadrille. "Will you do me the honor, Mrs. Bright?" Sergeant Peterson asked, bowing low.
"I haven't danced in years," she said. Will had never been a dancer.
"All the more reason to dance now.” Peterson grinned and offered his hand.
She took it and he swept her into the complicated steps of the dance. "Mrs. Major Finch is a curious woman," he observed after a moment.
"She. . . she seems very nice," Tessa said, determined to make only bland comments to a self-professed gossip. "And very lovely."
"Yes, very lovely. I wager she'll bring our poor major plenty of grief."
"Why do you say that?"
"When Finch had her back east, he didn't care for some of the rumors that made their way to him about how she spent her time. At least out here, he can keep an eye on her, and the threat of court-martial hangs over any man who'd take a chance on conduct unbecoming an officer."
"I'm sure you're wrong. I believe she loves him very much."
Peterson shrugged. "Maybe so. But a woman like her, so beautiful and full of life, needs attention, like some exotic flower. An Army officer has precious little time for that, so it's understandable if she were to choose to. . . amuse herself in other ways. It happens all the time, I assure you."
"I. . . I really don't think we should discuss our hostess this way," Tessa said primly.
"All right," he said pleasantly. "We could talk about you. What made you decide to hire a breed to work for you?"
She faltered in the steps of the dance. Peterson grasped her hand more firmly, steadying her. "Has my question upset you then? I apologize."
"Of course not," she protested, even as she felt a heated blush race up her neck. She turned her eyes from the sergeant's searching gaze. "I needed help. He was available. I didn't set out to hire him. He was just there."
"Just a word of caution.” Peterson squeezed her hand, drawing her gaze to him again. "I'd be careful if I were you."
She gave him a withering look. "Afraid he might scalp me in my bed one night? Really, Sergeant Peterson."
He laughed. "More likely you'll simply wake up one morning and he'll have left. His kind are wanderers. It's bred in them. They're undependable. You heard what Hamilton said about that tracker he knew -- Fox. He left in the middle of the night. Your Fox is likely to do the same. And no telling what valuable things he'll take with him when he goes."
"I don't believe Mr. Fox is like that."
Peterson shrugged and released her as the last strains of the quadrille died. "Suit yourself. Just trying to be friendly."
A young lieutenant was waiting for the next dance, but Tessa pleaded a need for air and fled to the front porch. She leaned her head against the post and closed her eyes. What had ever made her think she wanted to be a part of this group of gossiping busybodies?
"The parlor is terribly stuffy, don't you think, not to mention some of the guests.” She turned and saw Margery Finch seated on the porch swing at the end of the gallery. Margery wafted an ostrich feather fan in front of her face. "Come down here with me and we can visit."
Tessa walked to the end of the porch and leaned against the railing.
"Please, sit down.” Margery patted the space beside her in the swing.
"Thank you, but I prefer to stand.” She felt too restless to sit still. Instead, she half-turned to look out across the empty parade ground. A single lantern glowed in the guardhouse across the way, while more lights showed from the enlisted men's tents in the distance, like a cluster of overgrown fireflies. The faint scent of tobacco smoke drifted on the warm breeze and the lilting strains of My Old Kentucky Home filtered from inside the house. Tessa sighed and felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders.
"Tell me more about this helper of yours, Mrs. Bright. This half-breed.” Margery's voice broke through the evening stillness.
Tessa flinched, remembering Peterson's words. "He's just a hired hand," she said. "I don't know a lot about him. He hasn't worked for me very long."
Margery smiled, the fan tracing a lazy path in the air. "I shall have to come and visit one day, to see your ranch. And perhaps you can introduce me."
Tessa tried not to show her shock at this odd request. Certainly none of the town women she knew would have dreamed of asking for an introduction to a half-breed ranch hand. She was beginning to believe Margery Finch enjoyed flaunting convention. And though she knew the 'proper' reaction to such behavior should be disapproval, she found herself admiring her hostess' ability to carry it off.
"Oh, there you are, Dear.” Major Finch walked out on the porch. Tessa thought he looked relieved to see them. She wondered if he'd thought his wife had become too occupied with one of the young men.
"Mrs. Bright and I needed some fresh air.” She reached up and caressed the Major's neck. A soft look came into his eyes. It was an intimate gesture, but Tessa thought it calculated to reassure the nervous newlywed of his wife's loyalties.
Finch glanced at Tessa. "I'm so glad you could come tonight, Mrs. Bright. There aren't very many women here for Margery to make friends with."
"The other wives have been polite, of course, but less than welcoming," Margery said, though she did not look very regretful.
"They're just jealous of your beauty," Finch said. "They'll love you as much as I do when they know you better."
"I don't care if they love me, as long as you do," she said in a throaty voice.
Tessa excused herself, though she doubted if they heard her. Once inside again, she located Sergeant Peterson. "I'd like to go home now," she told him. "Would you find someone to drive me?"
"Not up to post politics, Dear?” He shook his head sympathetically. "You know they'll all talk about you after you leave, don't you?"
She glanced over the small crowd. Many of the men and several of the women were already quite drunk. "Let them talk. I'm a subject easily exhausted, I'm afraid."
Peterson nodded. "Wait here. I'll see what I can do."
A short time later, he escorted her out the door to a waiting ambulance. She sank back against the leather cushions and closed her eyes. She'd been so anxious to come here tonight and now all she could think of was getting back home, to her safe little world and her own familiar things. And to Micah. She smiled and drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders. She'd told him not to wait up, but now she hoped he had. She wanted to tell him about everything that had happened tonight and hear his opinion. He'd help her somehow make sense of all this, she was sure.
#
Things are getting a little out of hand, Will thought as Gabe Emerson pulled a gun on Fox. He'd brought the young man into town tonight to give him a taste of the kind of reception he could expect from the rank and file citizens. He really hadn't expected anything more than garden variety rudeness and stone-faced silence -- just enough to make Fox see that he wasn't welcome here, and if he cared two cents for Tessa, he wouldn't sully her name with any association with him.
But violence -- violence was going a little too far. And how would he ever rest in peace with another man's death on his hands? He moved out of the shadows, over next to Emerson. "No need to trouble yourself, sir. We were just leaving."
Emerson scowled at him, no inkling of recognition on his face. Funny how you could see a man a hundred times in life, but once you died, and he knew you'd died, your ghost was a stranger to him. As if the knowledge of your death cancelled out the evidence right before his eyes. "You stay out of this old man," Emerson growled.
"What's the matter, injun? Are you yellow?” Old Man Thornton moved down from the other end of the bar, apparently not wanting to miss out on the fun. "A yellow-livered polecat, that's what you are!”
Will winced. Thornton always did have a talent for cussing, but Will wouldn't have ca
lled his worst enemy a yellow-livered polecat. Even Fox didn't deserve that.
He had to hand it to Fox, though. He wasn't backing down. He hadn't even flinched when Emerson pulled out that hogleg of his.
"Put that thing away, Gabe," the bartender, Emmett Hardy, barked. He moved down to that end of the bar. "It took two weeks to replace the mirror last time you started something."
"What's the big idea, servin' a redskin?" Emerson asked.
Hardy peered at Micah. "I ain't never seen a redskin with green eyes."
"He's still a redskin.” Emerson leaned closer, pressing the gun into Fox's chest. "Like the redskins that murdered my wife."
"Now you know I'm sorry about your wife, Gabe," Hardy said. "But this ain't the one who killed her."
"Don't matter if it is or not," Emerson said. "They're all the same to me. None of 'em deserve to live."
"I reckon he's a breed.” Jackie Babcock, one of the card players, shoved back his chair and joined the group at the bar. Will rolled his eyes. Everybody had an opinion. Micah regarded them all with a grim look on his face, trapped, but maybe watching for his chance to break.
"I heard old Will Bright's widow hired a breed to help out on her place," Thornton said.
Babcock laughed. "Yeah. That figures."
Will stiffened at the mention of Tessa. So did Micah. Anger flashed in those green eyes and his fingers curled into fists at his sides. Emerson pressed the gun against Micah's chest. "You ought to know better than to be messin' with a white woman," he slurred. "Even an injun lover like Tessa Bright."
"Take it outside," Hardy ordered.
"Damn it, Emmett, quit interruptin' me!" Emerson swiveled toward the bartender.
Will saw his opportunity. He crowned Emerson with a beer bottle at the same time Fox landed a solid punch in the man's gut. Babcock hit Fox, his fist slamming against the half-breed's eye with a smacking sound that made Will wince. Will beaned Babcock with a chair, sending him staggering backwards into a table of card players. By the time Emmett Hardy waded in and started breaking up things with a broom handle, Will grabbed Fox's elbow and dragged him to the door.
"Let go of me!" Fox struggled to free himself. "I'm not finished with them yet."
"Yes you are," Will said, keeping a firm hold of Fox's arm. "You'll never come out ahead in a fight with that bunch. Even if you win, you lose. They'd as soon shoot you as look at you and the law wouldn't even blink."
Fox glared at him, chest heaving. But he stopped struggling. He was young and hot-headed, but he wasn't stupid. He recognized truth when he heard it. Will let him go.
"Thanks for evening the odds a little," Fox said, rubbing his elbow, which Will knew had to be half-frozen.
"I didn't do it for you. I did it for Tessa. He followed Fox to the hitching post and watched him mount up. "She'd be up a creek without you to help out around the place," he added grudgingly.
Fox turned the horse toward home and Will fell in beside him. The moon was almost full, shining high in the sky like a Spanish silver piece. The horse cast a long shadow as it plodded along and Will moved over to walk in the shadow, so that Fox wouldn't see that Will himself didn't cast one. The mare side-stepped and rolled her eyes, trying to distance herself from him. "I don't know what's gotten into her," Fox said, struggling to keep control of the horse. "She was giving me fits on the way over here, too."
Will smiled to himself. "I reckon you'd best keep a low profile for a few days," he said. "Give Emerson and Babcock a chance to cool down."
"Hmmmph," Fox snorted. "Do you really think a few days will make that much difference? It won't change the fact that I'm half Indian."
"No, it won't.” He fell silent for a while, letting that knowledge sink in. Fox's eye had swollen almost shut; it looked like it probably hurt. For a few days or a week he wouldn't be able to look in the mirror without remembering tonight, and the bar patrons' opinion of him.
Fox didn't say anything else until they were in sight of the ranch gate. "Did you know Tessa's husband?" he asked.
The question startled Will so much he almost disappeared. As it was, he had to concentrate to bring himself up to sufficient brightness. "Yes, I knew him," he said when he'd recovered. He grinned. "A fine man. One of the finest men I've had the pleasure to know."
Was he imagining things, or did Fox slump a little lower in the saddle at this news? "I wondered why anybody would make a gate like that and sit it out here in the middle of nowhere?"
Ahead of them, the lacy ironwork of the gate had a satiny sheen in the moonlight. The figures of the man and woman and animals looked real enough to come to life any moment. Will's chest swelled with pride. That gate was his master work. He'd spent hours laboring over it, not only because he wanted everyone to see his skill, but because he knew it would please Tessa. He couldn't give her diamonds or a fancy house, but he could give her something no one else had: this gate.
"That gate brought in more business than a red light at a whorehouse," Will said. "After they saw it, half the women in the county wanted some fancy ironwork for their house, even if it was just a lampstand or firedogs.” He chuckled. "Trudy Babcock, the wife of the other blacksmith in town, was madder than a wet hen when she heard about it. She nagged at her husband, Jackie, until he made his own fancy gate. But it was a pitiful sight."
"I stopped here that day because of this.” Fox waited while Will raised the latch and swung the gate wide. "I couldn't pass by without finding out about it."
Will frowned to himself. He certainly hadn't made the thing to attract drifters like Fox. "It's a fine gate, all right," he said as he fastened the latch. "And a fine reminder for Tessa of her husband. She was absolutely devoted to the man," he added pointedly.
Fox fell silent. Will followed him down the long drive. "I wonder if Tessa is back from her party yet?" he asked.
Fox grunted. "If it was anything like the post parties I've seen, she'll wish she hadn't gone."
"Oh, so you've attended Army dinner parties, have you?” Will let his disbelief show in every word.
"I said I'd seen them, not attended. Trackers aren't welcome among the officers any more than Indians are welcome in your saloon."
"And if Tessa was with you, she wouldn't be welcome either.” He drove his point home, the reason for the whole evening's exercise.
To his dismay, Fox laughed, a brittle, bitter sound. "As if Tessa Bright would ever take up with the likes of me.” He glanced down at Will, his face all shadows in the moonlight. "You don't have to worry, old man. Tessa's reputation is safe from me."
"Glad to hear it," Will mumbled, confused. Was Fox saying he didn't want Tessa? Was the man addled? "I just assumed a pretty young woman like her would attract your attention."
"I never said I wasn't interested in her. And she's woman enough to feel an attraction to me. But her pride won't let her stoop so low, no matter what her urges."
Will swallowed hard. He had half a mind to drag Fox down off his horse and punch him in the other eye as punishment for talking about Tessa in such a vulgar way. After all, she was so young and innocent, almost as innocent as she was at seventeen, when they met. She needed a man who was older and wiser, a protector, not some randy young wanderer who talked about her 'urges' but didn't have sense enough to stay out of saloon fights.
He nodded to himself. Yes, he'd been right to eliminate Micah Fox from the running for Tessa's next husband. The sooner Reverend Deering took his place on the ranch, the better.
#
Tessa came awake as the ambulance jolted to a stop in front of her house. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and waited for the driver to open the door. "You're home, ma'am," the private said, leaning in to offer her his hand.
Home. Was there a more comforting word? She looked up at the house, its weathered boards gleaming in the moonlight. Over in the corral, one of her horses stamped and whinnied and an Army mule neighed a reply. She thanked the young private and watched while he piloted the ambulance down her
drive, then she started for the house, and bed.
But before she reached the porch, she turned toward the barn. Her head was too full of images and news and excitement to sleep. If Micah was awake, she'd talk to him awhile.
She pulled open the barn door and called softly in the darkness. "Micah."
A horse stuck its head over the stall and whiffled an answer. Something small scurried in the straw on the floor. Then all fell silent.
She gathered her skirts close around her and stepped into the barn. He's probably asleep, she thought. Feeling foolish, but compelled to know, she started toward the box room at the end of the barn. She'd just listen at the door. If she didn't hear him moving about, she'd go back to the house.
She found the lantern by the door and lit it, casting a circle of yellow light in the pitch blackness. Her skirts rustled loudly with every step, and her slippers scraped against the dirt floor. Halfway across the barn, she bumped against something -- an empty saddle rack. She glanced along the wall and her heart sank as she realized Micah's saddle was missing.
Maybe he put it in his room, she told herself, to. . . to work on it.
Likely you'll simply wake up one morning and he'll have left. His kind are wanderers. It's bred in them. Sergeant Peterson's words echoed in her mind. She knocked at the door of the box room. Once, twice, then a rapid tattoo, a frantic summons to be answered. When no response came, she pressed her cheek to the rough wood and listened. Only an empty, rushing sound greeted her, the murmur of her own blood pulsing in her veins. Choking back a cry, she wrenched open the door and held the lantern aloft.
The single bunk was neatly made, his few belongings arranged around the room -- an extra blanket, a winter coat, some books she had lent him. He would not have left without these, would he?
She crossed to the bed and sank down on it, absently stroking the worn woolen blanket. What would she do if Micah was gone? How would she manage, not just the ranch, but being alone again? In such a short time, she'd grown accustomed to his presence in her life.
The echo of horse's hooves on the drive pulled her to her feet. Grabbing up the lantern, she hurried to the barn door. Relief filled her as she saw Micah riding toward her. "Where have you been?" she asked as he swung down off the mare.
He glanced at her, then busied himself loosening the saddle girth. "You didn't have to wait up for me."
"I just got in," she said. "I decided to check on the horses before I went to bed and I noticed your saddle was missing."
"I went to town with Will."
Will? She glanced behind him, but saw no sign of her husband. Of course not. Will was never around when he might be in trouble. "W. . . what did you do there at this time of night?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice light.
"We went to get drunk."
All the breath went out of her at the words. She looked at him more closely. He didn't appear drunk, or at least not very. "I. . . I didn't know Will drank.” Ghosts couldn't drink, could they?
"I imagine there's a lot of things about him you don't know."
She frowned. That was probably true. Like what the devil he thought he was doing taking Micah into town with him. "So, did you have a good time?"
"Not really.” He led the mare past her into the barn. "How was the party?"
She followed him inside. "I met some interesting people there. Reverend Deering was there. We had a nice meal and afterwards there was some dancing."
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
She opened her mouth to tell him yes. That while he'd been out tying one on in town, she'd had a very good time, thank you. But the lie died in her throat. "Not really. There was too much drinking and gossip. I felt. . . out of place."
He nodded. "I didn't think you'd like it. Fort life is very. . . closed."
She looked at him, trying to read his expression, but he stood with his head down, his face concealed from her by the shadowing hat. "Mrs. Finch is very lovely, though," she said. "She wants to meet you."
He stiffened. "How does she know about me?"
"I believe Reverend Deering mentioned you. There was a Lieutenant Hamilton there who thought he remembered you from Fort Inge. Were you ever stationed there?"
He nodded, slowly this time. "I can't say I remember him, though."
"He said you left in the middle of the night, for no reason."
He pulled the saddle from the mare. "I had my reasons. I don't care to talk about them now."
She looked down, at the sputtering wick of the lantern in her hands. She told herself she should turn and go back into the house, but the desperation she'd been feeling swelled inside her, seeking relief in words that tumbled out of her mouth. "I was afraid, when I came in and you weren't here, that you'd decided to leave me."
He settled the saddle on the rack. "I promised I'd stay until your arm is healed.”
Was that all that kept him here, then? A sense of obligation? "People break promises."
His hand rested on her shoulder, heavy and warm. "I don't."
She suddenly felt foolish, standing here arguing with him this way when she should have been safely tucked in bed, leaving them both free to live their own lives. A drugging weariness settled over her with the force of a blow and she reached out, intending to steady herself for just a moment. But when her hand touched his arm, she gave in to the urge to cling to him, to savor the warmth and strength he offered. She raised her eyes to his, her lips parted to apologize for her momentary weakness. He bent his head and his shadow covered her, then he erased all pleading or protest with his kiss.
His lips were warm, their heat seeping into her, warming some cold space deep within that had been chilled too long. She felt the tingling roughness of his beard scrape her skin, and tasted the malty sweetness of beer that lingered in his mouth. She leaned into him, desperate to prolong this exquisite pleasure. His hand tightened on her shoulder, then slipped down her arm, caressing her, urging her closer still. Her skirts crushed against him, her starched petticoats scratching her legs.
He cradled her injured arm in his hand, caressing the cast as he caressed the rest of her. He kissed her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, always coming back to her mouth. He teased and suckled, tracing the delicate inside of her mouth and stroking her with his tongue until she felt dizzy with arousal. She could have gone on kissing him forever, yet her body trembled with the need for more.
He took the lantern from her -- the lantern she'd forgotten she was holding -- and hung it on a nail overhead. They stood in the circle of its yellow light, their skin burnished amber. Only now, in the light, could she see the purpling bruise around his eye.
The sight shocked her into speech at last. "What happened?" She reached up to feather a touch along the edge of the wound.
He captured her wrist in his hand. "I had a little disagreement with a drunk in a bar."
"A disagreement? Over what?"
"He objected to the bartender serving an Indian."
The words were like a blow to her stomach. Will had done this, had purposely led Micah where he knew he wouldn't be wanted. How dare he!
"There's no sense getting upset over it," Micah said. "I should have known better than to go in there. Just like I should know better than to be standing here with you now.” He took a step back. "Go on to the house, Tessa. If you want me to stay here, we'd both best pretend this never happened."
She stared at him, her lips still burning from his kisses, her body still aching for his touch. The lantern cast harsh shadows on his face, etching his cheekbones, outlining his nose. He looked like an artist's painting of an Indian chief, all pride and anger and honor melded on his face.
Choking back a cry, she whirled and ran toward the house, stumbling across the yard and up the steps, running from temptation, and from the truth: Micah was exactly the kind of man she didn't need in her life. And right now, he was the only man she wanted.
#
Will watched his wife kissing Fox and fought back a murder
ous rage. He'd saved Micah Fox's life tonight and this was the thanks he got. He'd half a mind to take up a pitchfork and -- Truth, cold as ice and valid in any realm, stayed his hand. Tessa wasn't his wife anymore. Not really. And Micah Fox wasn't doing anything Will himself wouldn't have done if given half a chance.
He'd given up a lot to come back to look after Tessa -- a physical form and all that went with it such as eating, sleeping, and sex. But Tessa wasn't a ghost, and though he hated to admit it, she wasn't a girl anymore, either. He studied her as he might have looked at a stranger. The full-skirted dress made her look very elegant, and her high-piled hair elongated her neck. She seemed more buxom, too. And the way she pressed her body against Fox's was definitely not the movement of an inexperienced girl.
Hadn't Will himself taught her everything she knew, and then up and died, leaving her alone? Could he really blame her if she still wanted what he could no longer give her?
Feeling lower than a snake, he turned away. Let her take Micah Fox as her lover if she insisted. It would only be for a little while. She could still marry Reverend Deering, and maybe make him a better wife for it.
He was drifting across the yard toward the house when he heard her footsteps behind him. Across the yard and up the steps, he followed her into the house. Tears streaked her face. If Fox had hurt her, by Jupiter, he'd --
No. This was for the best. He settled into the woodwork outside her bedroom door, trying to stop his ears to the sound of her crying. Of all the things about being a ghost, this was the hardest. He'd never be able to do anything about her tears.