“Mara!” Her voice choked; the raspy words burned like fire.

She searched the scene on hands and knees in the silver moonlight. Lord, not Mara. Where is she? She’s just a girl...please!

Footsteps crunched on the gravel-filled dirt. Nowhere to hide, RuthAnne willed herself invisible. Her hand closed around a fist-sized rock. The bandit wouldn’t take her without a fight.

He knelt down beside her. A large, rough hand cupped her cheek in an all too familiar way. “You’re awake. Thank God.”

With a ragged battle cry, RuthAnne lunged at her would-be attacker with the stone, cracking him just above the shoulder. He shied away from the blow, and the lump of granite glanced off him. With little effort, he peeled it from her fingers. “You’re coming with me, whether you like it or not.”

The brigand picked her up like a child and marched her off to her doom. Terrified, she fought and bucked while he carried her. Tears of frustration streamed down her face; her hair, a mass of golden curls, tumbled loose about her as she thrashed in his arms. RuthAnne hammered at him with ineffectual fists. He carried her so easily, as if she were feather light, though he did pin her arms close against her body.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

Praise for ALL OR NOTHING

“Reading a novel by Ashley Ludwig is a delicious treat. Her characters and scenery come alive to feel like long-lost friends. This book is a must-read for my book club!”

~Kay Rather, Tucson, AZ

“I was on pins and needles waiting to see what would happen with RuthAnne and Bowen. Great story! Very suspenseful ending.”

~Denise Harmer, Fallbrook, CA

“I would recommend ALL OR NOTHING to lovers of historical romance and inspirational fiction alike… [ALL OR NOTHING] has a great story line…that will appeal to a wide variety of readers.”

~Robina Shultz, Golder Ranch, AZ

“ALL OR NOTHING has rich characters, vivid historical detail, and an intriguing mystery! All in all, a fun and exciting read.”

~Suzanne Radcliff, Tucson, AZ

“Ashley Ludwig has a rich writing style, and a lovely tone. Readers will fall in love with the characters and setting alike.”

~Paige Day, Tucson, AZ

“Watch for cactus thorns. Ashley Ludwig masterfully paints the Arizona desert with such passion, you’ll feel the heat.”

~Dan Harmer, first time romance novel reader, Fallbrook, CA

“Ludwig’s description of 1800’s Arizona captured my imagination in a romantic story that, amid the cactus and coyote, slowly warms like the sun rising over the morning desert.”

~Beverly Nault, Temecula, CA

“I connected with so many of the strong, feminine and real characters in ALL OR NOTHING. Thinking about them now, I want to read the story all over again.” ~Wendy Nield, LA, CA

All or Nothing

by

Ashley Ludwig

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

All or Nothing

COPYRIGHT Ó 2008 by Ashley Ludwig

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press

PO Box 706

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First White Rose Edition, 2008

Print ISBN 1-60154-561-4

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To Mom and Dad,

for always believing in my dreams

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank the people who helped with the creation of this work. To the fellow writers in my critique circle, I thank you for your candor, your support, and your prayers—specifically: Rebecca Farnbach, Beverly Nault, and Dan and Denise Harmer.

I’d also like to thank my friends and family for reading endless revisions of everything I put to paper. Wendy, Paige, you are the best.

Thanks to my husband, Perry, for his endless support of my writing ventures. I really couldn’t do it without you.

Thanks, also, to the Arizona Historical Society, and a meeting spent with David Faust years ago that made Fort Lowell, and its laundresses, come alive in my mind. I’ve never forgotten your kindness or your enthusiasm. This story is peppered with characters that you introduced me to—and any creative license I took, or errors that were made in the telling of this story, lie squarely on my shoulders.

Finally, thank you to my wonderful editor, Elizabeth West, who took this story under her wing and made it fly.

Chapter 1

Arizona Territory, 1876

It’s too steep!

RuthAnne Newcomb’s mind raced as she clung to the rattling stagecoach door.

“Easy! Steady!” Their driver hollered at the horses from up above. There was nothing easy or steady about the twisty pass over the rugged mountain or the sheer drop into the jagged canyon below. Suddenly, at the bend, the road vanished into a wall of tumbling boulders and clouds of dust.

Wind whipped RuthAnne’s honey-blonde hair into her eyes and stung her cheeks, burned from exposure to the desert sun. Fear gripped her heart as she stared ahead in disbelief. Debris buried the road by half. Rocks and pebbles flowed down the mountainside in an insane torrent that rained onto the carriage roof and pelted her forehead through the open window. Her quick touch yielded fingertips flecked with blood. Still, the horses showed no signs of slowing. She could do nothing but hang on and pray for herself and her sister, trapped and at the mercy of the out-of-control stagecoach.

We’ll never make it around that curve ahead. We’re going too fast. The stage can’t possibly take it. A loud splintering crack interrupted her thoughts. The angry shriek of metal assaulted her ears as it tore loose from wood. RuthAnne’s back struck the cabin wall as the horses increased their efforts, their hooves thundering even faster. The stagecoach shuddered and groaned as she and her younger sister were flung around the hard wooden seats.

Mara clutched the family Bible close to her chest and clung desperately to RuthAnne, alternately squeezing her eyes shut and praying to her Father in Heaven, hallowed be His name. Her midnight black hair, loosened by their harrowing journey, flew about her face.

“Hang on, Mara, we’re gonna make it,” RuthAnne promised.

“Do you really think so, Ruthie?” Mara’s voice trembled. Panic filled her dark eyes, soulful beyond her sixteen years.

“Just hold tight. And pray.” RuthAnne felt none of the reassurance she offered. Above, the driver cursed a blue streak, his terror palpable as a horse whinnied in protest. She knew as they did: the stage would never make it around the rockslide.

RuthAnne swallowed a spear of fright and reached out for the peace that passes understanding only to be jarred back into the world. Another shudder rocked the cabin as a wheel spun off into oblivion. The stagecoach careened around the bend at an impossible angle.

“Mara! We’re going over.”

The axle snapped. RuthAnne watched in horror as the horizon disappeared. White-hot desert sky and billowing monsoon clouds filled the window. A hawk hung in midair, eyeing them watchfully as the coach teetered on the brink of madness. The horses cried almost human wails of panic. Reins snapped.

“Ruthie!” Mara screamed.

The once bright, new stage slid. Tumbled. Filled with dirt and rocks. It fought once again to stay upright and failed, finally tumbling over the edge. RuthAnne saw stars as her head struck the cabin wall, and then the world went dark.

****

Pebbles and fist-sized stones rained down on wood. RuthAnne dimly heard the preacher in the distance, saying words over the departed, “Ashes to ashes...”

Her eyes were swollen from tears and refused to open. Mara sobbed quietly at her side.

This is a memory. RuthAnne fought against the nightmare, but in her mind, they were standing once again by the gravesite of her husband, Evan. How impossible, to relive this moment of agony. Over a year and the pain still so vivid. Almost two years now. But that would mean...

RuthAnne fought to open her eyes, crusted from the debris. It wasn’t the pine box holding the remains of her precious husband, but the cabin of the coach they’d hired to take them to Tucson filling with earth.

“Mara.” She choked and spat through the dust and filth. “Can you reach the door handle?”

They were a tangle of arms, legs, petticoats, and calico. The grungy soil encrusted their skin, covering their faces. The floor had become the ceiling, and RuthAnne fought to make sense of this new reality.

“I think so. Can you give me a boost?”

RuthAnne positioned her hands for Mara to step in with a buttoned gray boot. They heaved together. RuthAnne watched as Mara pulled her torso up through the window and clambered onto the top of the upside-down coach, yanking at her eyelet petticoats that caught on splintered boards.

“Dear Lord, in heaven. Ruthie. Come quick.”

Within a moment, the two stood on the stagecoach undercarriage. They were precariously perched, having tumbled off the road and down into what seemed to be a dry waterfall between two craggy ridges. The road looked impossibly high up the rocky slope. RuthAnne gaped at the enormity of the canyon that yawned out on either side.

The stagecoach shifted terrifyingly with their weight; the boards splintered and cracked. One wheel turned aimlessly; the other three were gone. Their driver was nowhere in sight. RuthAnne craned her neck to see up the ravine. The wreckage from the crash littered the mountainside.

“Oh, Ruthie. Our things...” Mara choked.

The sight of their mother’s trunk and the few belongings brought with them left RuthAnne breathless. It had been so loaded with heirlooms that she had refused to leave it behind with the rest of their cargo when forced to transfer from rail to stage. High overhead and hopelessly out of reach, it gaped open, bleeding her memories.

RuthAnne’s lip quivered as loose pages of her father’s books whipped about in the wind. Bits of shattered crystal caught glints of sunlight. Spilled perfume and powdery dust filled the humid air.

Tears pricked her eyes at the thought of the Limoges bone china tea set that had been carefully wrapped inside. How Nana Rose had painted each teacup by hand when she had been a young bride. Handmade lace curtains were caught among the boulders. They had been part of her trousseau when she married Evan. She had thought them something to set aside for Mara. Now they were lost. Ruined. Her heart broke with the thought. Almost in answer, the shredded, dirty lace began to snap in the hot wind that blew up the ravine. A silent surrender.

Then the stagecoach shifted with a screech of wood on stone. RuthAnne held her breath, steadying herself as the cabin tilted back to rest. It wouldn’t be long before it tumbled to the canyon floor, the two of them along with it, if they didn’t do something fast.

RuthAnne reached out for the nearest boulder, scrabbling for handholds as the coach found its balance. The perilous rocky slope waited above, steep and rugged with crumbling red boulders and scattered groves of waist-high underbrush. Evil-looking manzanita bushes with razors for branches and drab gray leaves reached for the sun. Was it possible to scale the mountain and reach the road from here? Did they have another choice?

“Where are the horses? Where’s Mr. Bingham?” Mara’s voice caught.

RuthAnne surveyed their position, her heart aching for the man, now surely dead. No time for grief. She saw that they couldn’t climb down, eyeing the nasty hundred-foot drop into the canyon below. Lip trembling, she made out the forms of the gray horses, laid out on the rocks at the bottom.

Press on, Ruthie. Press on, ever forward...The voice of her sweet Evan resounded in her mind.

“We have to get out of here.” RuthAnne stepped off the stage and onto the rock ridge, perhaps six feet across with level ground impossibly far below. She hauled up her skirts and tucked them into her wide leather belt, freeing her legs for the climb.

“Where are we going?” Mara gasped, though she began wrestling with her own skirts.

RuthAnne noticed a thin trail of blood streaming from her sister’s temple. A large, purple bruise showed at the edge of her hairline. Mara’s hollow look was the beginning of shock. An icicle of fear and love for her sister pierced her heart.

Rumbling thunder echoed from the top of the mountain. Gray, heavy-laden storm clouds billowed into the afternoon sky. They had to get moving and fast.

“Do you see that?” RuthAnne pointed down the ravine. “On either side of this drainage is a sheer drop. This probably becomes a waterfall when the rains come. The road’s just above us, up the ridgeline there.”

Mara’s jaw dropped with RuthAnne’s impossible proposal. Climbing up the sheer rock and manzanita-covered slope was madness.

“There’s nothing but death for us if we climb down, Mara.” They viewed the vast openness of the rocky canyon below. “The only way off of this mountain is to go up.”

Chapter 2

“It’s nothing, Mara. Just like the hill behind Daddy’s barn. We’ll race to the top like when we were little!” RuthAnne held out a hand, abraded with injury but still strong.

Her sister took it, gingerly at first, then tight enough to grind RuthAnne’s finger bones. Mara followed as RuthAnne began climbing up the crumbling granite incline. They carefully avoided the sharp branches that tore at flesh and anything else that fell within their reach.

Within minutes, RuthAnne discovered the decomposing rock slipped and slid under the leather soles of her boots. The going was slow and unsure as small boulders loosened and tumbled from her grasp.

Checking her grip, she heaved herself up a boulder with all of her strength. A wobbling stone beneath her fingers gave way. Small pebbles pattered down. Her frantic hands and feet scrambled for solid surface; she watched as the stone she’d held tumbled down the drainage and into open air.

“Mara! Careful, the rocks are loose.”

“Just like back home, right? Just lean forward and crawl our way to the top!” Mara braved a smile. She cried out as a rock tumbled away from her grasp. RuthAnne gasped, reaching desperately for her flailing sister.

“Ruthie! I’m slipping!” Mara yelped. She fought to regain her footing and failed. A wave of rock and rubble slid underneath her shoes.

RuthAnne forced her foot into a tangle of the brambly bushes for solid footing and grabbed her sister’s skirts, hauling with all of her might. The seams ripped at the waistline with a sickening sound. Mara’s eyes were wide, her fingertips bloodied with effort as she scrambled for purchase and found none.

RuthAnne pulled, found her sister’s hand, and dragged her closer. Mara tumbled into her, legs scratched and bleeding. They clutched each other tightly.

Mara’s voice quivered. “Not quite like home. I don’t recall cactus in Alabama.” She wiped her arm against her forehead, dripping with sweat from exertion, and plucked a thorn from her thumb.

“We can’t trust this slope, it just crumbles underfoot. These bushes have deep roots.” RuthAnne yanked at one, proving her point. “They’re not going anywhere. We’ll have to climb up through them.”

She moved them up through the tangle of manzanita, gritting her teeth as she climbed through the small forest. Branches tore at her calves above her traveling boots, scratching the leather, while brambles snagged and loosened her hair, now tangled with leaves and broken twigs.

RuthAnne prayed as she trudged up the slope, Mara close behind. Her thoughts went out to Evan. To God. But there were no answers. The impossibility of their situation ripped at her like the brushwood grabbing at her skirts. Her breath hitched when her boot soles slipped and skidded over unstable ground.

Pebbles rained down, gathering speed. She heard them plunk almost musically against the hollow stagecoach and bounce into oblivion.

“We’re almost there. Just need to rest a moment.” RuthAnne’s heart thundered. She gulped the thick, midday air while Mara sank next to her on a solid ledge.

They clasped scraped hands, eyes full of the void below, RuthAnne’s throat tight with their loss.

They had reached the debris from the wreck. Their gray and black steamer trunks were splintered to ruin; all of their worldly goods had scattered to the four winds. She spied the black dress she’d worn to Evan’s funeral and, being the best wife she knew how to be, for what had seemed like an age afterwards. Why had she even kept it? Faded to charcoal gray, it baked in the sun along with petticoats and sensible work skirts. They were shredded, dirty, and useless now.

Mara’s trousseau, carefully packed with the dreams of a sixteen-year-old girl with hopes for the future, lay scattered about the mountainside. Hand-embroidered linens and lace were tattered to ruin and whipping in the growing wind. Almost nothing looked salvageable, and anything that could have been saved was too dangerous to retrieve. Things could be replaced. Their lives could not.

RuthAnne looked upslope, and she estimated one or two more places to rest until they could make the flat of the road. Her thoughts turned to the accident.

Why? Why had this happened? Why had they been driving so fast? So out of control? What had caused the rockslide that blocked their way? She’d trusted stagecoach driver Ed Bingham, who’d met them at the end of the line in La Junta, Colorado. He’d seen them safely through the mountains of New Mexico to Arizona. They’d managed to avoid the Apaches she had been so fearful of. They were now less than a day’s ride from Tucson, where the two sisters planned to wait for the army wagons to transport the remainder of their belongings.

Our belongings...The claim checks! Do I still have them? Her stomach dropped. She clapped a hand to her inside breast pocket and breathed a sigh of relief. The metal tabs remained safely nestled where she’d placed them; one for each waiting crate. Something had told her to keep them close to her at all times. Without them, she and Mara would be destitute. Thank You, Lord, she prayed and then turned her thoughts back to the accident.

The falling rocks must have spooked the horses. But what had caused the slide? RuthAnne thought she recalled a loud noise of some sort. Perhaps thunder? A low, deep rumble from above answered her question.

“Let’s get going.” RuthAnne rose to her feet.

“Ruthie...I can’t. I don’t think I can make it up there.” Mara rested against a boulder, her head between her knees, gasping.

RuthAnne sank to Mara’s side. The humid, hot desert air seared with each ragged breath. Sweat dampened her shirt, rolled down her back. Her mouth parched, throat screaming for water.

In awe, RuthAnne shaded her eyes, watching enormous storm clouds roiling from behind the mountain. Thunder echoed, and then answered itself with fervor. The white-hot sun disappeared behind the churning, blue-black sky.

The sisters fell into shadow, and the temperature dropped sharply. Fat droplets of rain began to fall. Thunder growled overhead. A ripple of lightning set the clouds aglow as the floodgates opened.

“Just a few more steps, Mara. We can make it.” RuthAnne grabbed her sister’s elbow as she helped her to stand. Together, they scrambled up boulders in the near vertical drainage and into the dark and pounding rain.

Water trickled at their feet as they pushed and pulled each other. The torrential downpour steamed the heated earth. Soon, the water ran freely around their ankles in rivulets that threatened to wash them over and into the void below. Lightning ripped at the sky with greedy fingers. Thunder cracked directly overhead. RuthAnne dragged herself up onto another ledge; she rubbed feeling back into her numb, scratched, and muddied hands.

Wind-driven rain plastered her traveling shirt to her body. Her brown skirt—now soaked, torn, and muddy—hung heavily about her legs. When they finally reached the flat surface of the roadway, the two sisters collapsed into a heap. RuthAnne focused on their survival as she hauled them up and set to moving once again.

Looking left through the driving rain, she saw nothing but the sharp curve that had finally done them in with the out-of-control stagecoach. It was all too easy to see why they had gone over the edge, with the sheer cliff on one side and the pile of rocks that had once been the mountain slope on the other. The rockslide blocked more than half of the narrow road.

RuthAnne’s heart sank for Mr. Bingham, who had tried so hard to save them, now lost to the world. Down the road in the other direction, muddy water ran a river that cut rills into the rough-hewn trail. No one would be traveling through this way for some time. The wind drove sheets of rain that stung and slashed with broad strokes. Making progress in this weather would be impossible

“How can it be so cold?” Mara’s teeth chattered. With thin arms wrapped around her body, she looked more like a child than a young woman of sixteen. Rainwater slicked Mara’s ebony hair, obscuring her pale face.

RuthAnne knew she’d pushed her little sister to the very limit just getting her this far. “We have to find somewhere to wait out the storm...somehow.”

With no help in sight, they trudged down the flooded path in search of shelter.

Chapter 3

“What’s that up ahead?” Mara pointed at a ledge to their left and a deep shadow obscured by a waterfall.

“I think it’s a cave. Come on, let’s find out.” RuthAnne dragged her stumbling sister. Hand in hand they trudged on through the mud. Through the rain, the scent of a bonfire filled RuthAnne’s nose. Perhaps lightning had struck further down the mountain. But what could burn in a torrential summer monsoon?

The waterfall poured freely in front of the odd opening in the rocks. They picked their way behind the curtain of water and out of the driving storm to dry ground.

RuthAnne trailed her fingers along the rough-hewn opening. Someone had carved out this passageway, its edges too even and too angular to be a natural formation. The narrow tunnel led through to a dimly lit chamber within. Fine dust powdered underfoot and turned to pools of mud where water dripped from their long and tattered skirts.

Mara leaned against the wall of the cave; her fingers trailed along a vein of white quartz in the granite rock face. “What is this place?”

RuthAnne blinked as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. “We’re inside a mine...maybe gold or silver.”

“It’s dry. Thank God.” Mara shivered, sinking to the tunnel floor.

RuthAnne fell next to her and wrapped her little sister up in her arms. Chilled and exhausted, they drew warmth from one another as the rain pounded and the wind wailed outside. A low growl of thunder spoke in answer, and RuthAnne fell into a restless sleep.

****

Evan leaned against the wall of the cave, wearing the same herringbone suit RuthAnne had last seen him in. He fidgeted with the pocket watch in his breast pocket and smoked his pipe thoughtfully in that manner he thought made him appear older than his thirty years.

RuthAnne smiled sleepily. “You know, smoking doesn’t make you distinguished, Evan. It just makes you smell like my father’s office.”

“Your father isn’t anywhere near here, Ruthie.” He took another puff of the rich tobacco. She breathed it in, like coming home.

“No. We didn’t go back to him. You knew we wouldn’t.”

He was proud of her decision, she could tell; proud, but melancholy.

“Why are you sad, Evan?”

His eyes were tender but concerned as he faded from view. “It’s time to wake up, Ruthie...”

“Evan! Wait!” she called, but he was gone.

****

Gray light filtered through the cave entrance. Mara still slept heavily, head upon RuthAnne’s lap. RuthAnne stroked the girl’s dark hair and pale forehead. She thought about Evan, the dream, and why they had left Kansas City.

There had been no earthly reason to remain in Missouri after Evan’s untimely passing. With no money and only the one prospect of completing their military contract, she and Mara were forced to finish their obligations with the Army Supplier.

RuthAnne had seen to it that their crates full of army uniforms, dress blues, trousers, and gray work shirts were checked through to the end of the line in La Junta, Colorado. The weight of responsibility was now up to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe station; she held the handful of metal claim checks to prove it. If all went well, the army would claim her wares within a week, and she and Mara would be free to follow their own aspirations.

First, she would do what was necessary to build a life, so that they would be well settled when the railroad finally reached Tucson. She and Mara could have a shop for ladies, much like she had seen in the garment district of Kansas City. RuthAnne could envision every part of it and often had while slaving away long into the night, eyes straining by kerosene light. Fingertips raw from pushing fabric through the machine, RuthAnne dreamed of a store with wide open doors, where sunlight streamed in. Ladies would come and have tea. Discuss the latest fashions. She would sketch for them, measure and smile as she traded money for the dresses of their dreams. But things had gone wrong ever since they’d crossed into the mountains of Arizona. Her carefully laid plans had tumbled into oblivion with rocks down the mountain slope.

A loud crack echoed from deeper in the cave, snapping RuthAnne out of her reverie and into the present. Another pop was followed by a clatter of stones. Now fully alert, the girls jumped in unison.

“What was that?” Mara whispered, wide eyes peering into the darkness.

“I think there might be someone back there,” RuthAnne whispered back, a shot of adrenaline racing in her veins as she rose.

“Where are you going?”

“Stay put. I’ll be right back.” RuthAnne straightened her brown travel skirts out of habit more than vanity, considering their disheveled state.

“Hello?” Her own echo answered. RuthAnne shoved her uneasiness aside and let curiosity get the better of her. With renewed vigor, she squeezed through the tunnel, and she found herself inside a large cathedral-high chamber.

A light drizzle of rain dripped through a seam in the ceiling and trailed down the wall, forming a small pool in the rock floor. Dim, gray light filtered into the cavernous space and lit the surrounding stones and boulders from above. A small opening in the back wall led deeper into the mine and the utter blackness beyond.

“Hello! Is there anyone back there?” There was no response.

Only then did she begin to truly survey her surroundings. A small, well-used fire ring sat in the center of the floor; a long stick leaned nearby. She used it to poke the smoldering coals. White smoke lifted toward the ceiling through the crevasse above that acted as a chimney.

On the edge of the fire ring, a battered tin coffeepot held coffee; a matching mug rested, unused, nearby. A quick touch found the pot still warm. Necessity overtook nerves, and she quickly restarted the fire from the stack of branches left for kindling. Her skin drank in the warmth from the licking yellow flames. The roomy cave quickly filled with firelight and dancing shadows.

“Mara! It’s all right. Come and get warm.” Moments later, the two huddled around the campfire.

RuthAnne observed the crates and trunks stacked along the wall. There were no picks or shovels. This obviously was no longer a working mine.

“Who left this fire? Where did they go? Do you suppose that they’re looking for us?” Mara’s hopeful question hung in the dank and dusty air.

RuthAnne stood and stretched. No time like the present to investigate their situation. She pulled a canvas tarp away from the haphazardly stacked boxes, barrels, and trunks. They each had names she didn’t recognize emblazoned upon them. Pickney Tulley, Incorporated. Ochoa Markets, the location stamp read Tucson, Arizona Territory. Her stomach tightened with trepidation.

A dark wood steamer trunk was wedged into a corner, its lock twisted and bent. RuthAnne lifted the lid; the broken fastening fell from the latch. One look at the contents told her all she needed to know. Someone had rifled through a woman’s carefully packed belongings. Clothing. Pictures. Broken china. Opened letters, scattered. Someone’s future, forever lost to them and now existing in a stone cavern.

The next crate over caught her eye, its lid at an angle, pried open with packing spilling out. She peeked inside to see red cylinders, green fuses, and the black lettering warning: Dynamite.

She dropped the canvas and backpedaled.

“What is it?” Mara rose, but RuthAnne waved her back.

This was no mine...

RuthAnne realized she and Mara had inadvertently stumbled into something worse than they could have imagined. They were in a hideout for thieves, people who were willing to use force to get what they wanted.

“The rain has stopped. We’re leaving.”

“Ruthie, can’t we wait here? What if they have horses? We could ride down the mountain. I don’t think I can walk another foot.”

“I’m not asking, Mara.” Her gaze darted to each entrance to make sure they were alone. But it was too late.

A shadow fell across the entrance to the tunnel. RuthAnne quietly closed the trunk lid and backed away from her discovery toward the fire. There would be no running. She would have to meet this threat head-on.

Chapter 4

RuthAnne watched the silhouette of a man as he dragged a wooden strongbox and muttered a curse under his breath. Her heart pounded a fury. She instinctively stepped in front of Mara, as if her body could shield her sister from whatever evil lurked at the cave entrance. They were cornered.

She dared not take them farther into the cave; when he saw that the fire had been stoked, he would just search them out. Better to tell the truth and shame the devil, as her mother always said. RuthAnne said a quick, silent prayer for protection from whatever lay ahead.

“Hello! Is someone there?” she called out.

The figure stopped, his shadow long against the wall. He hesitated as she called out again.

“Thank heaven, Mara! Someone finally came to save us.” RuthAnne let her rich, southern Alabama accent flow forth. She imagined how her mother would have played heavily the part of a damsel in distress, back when she still had her mind. Such a dramatic display was foreign to RuthAnne’s nature. Mara’s jaw dropped, obviously confused. RuthAnne gestured for her to play along.

“Please, sir. Can you help us?” Mara gave a half smile and shrug as she joined the charade.

The shadow hesitated a moment, then reached behind and pulled something from his back pocket. He placed some sort of a hood over his head, almost ceremonially. The man stepped out of the darkness and into the flickering firelight.

RuthAnne’s breath hitched. Her blood went cold at the looming figure walking toward them. He wore a white sackcloth mask over his head. Rough-cut holes revealed his glittering black eyes. An angry slash of red marked where his mouth should have been. Such a disguise did more than conceal his identity; it was intended to breed fear into the hearts of all who saw him. And it worked. RuthAnne knew at that moment playing a southern belle in distress had been the wrong tactic.

He set the wooden crate down with a hefty chink as its heavy contents came to rest inside. A solid metal lock secured it closed. RuthAnne knew she had seen the same strongbox under the feet of their driver, Mr. Bingham. His brother’s delivery of silver ingots from their Leadville, Colorado test shaft was locked inside, bound for the bank in Tucson.

His voice echoed in her mind, how silver was the new gold! He had boasted about it quite proudly while stowing their trunks at the station. He’d reached up, patting the locker, as if to reassure himself it was still underneath the driver’s seat. But, there was something else. Something he’d said low, for her ears only; in case of bandits, there was a secret compartment with a shiny Smith and Wesson .38 revolver with a custom shortened barrel hidden on the underside. He had counted on a robbery, just not one as elaborate as this. Now, he was dead, with his precious cargo being gone over like pirate’s treasure. Righteous indignation for this travesty filled her chest. She must do something—but what?

“Well, now. What do we have here?” The bandit’s rich, gravelly voice held a hint of a Hispanic accent that sounded off somehow. Could it be fake? Part of his disguise, somehow? RuthAnne tried to focus on the ambiguity of it. Her heart hammered and blood rushed a waterfall in her ears.

“We’re lost, cold, and hungry, sir. Our stage went over the edge because of the rockslide...we only sought shelter from the rain.” RuthAnne cringed at the shrillness of her voice.

“Is that right? Amazing two little bits like you could survive such a tumble.”

His coarse, guttural laugh bounced off the rocky walls. “I watched you go over the side. You almost ended up at the bottom, didn’t you? You and your sister are very lucky. If I’d waited one minute later, you would have been buried under all of those rocks...”

“You did this? You spooked the horses. Caused the rockslide that almost killed us? Just so you could rob the stage?”

He held his hands out as he hunkered down on the other side of the fire ring. His mask eerily caught the firelight. “Rockslides happen all of the time, señorita. But, if one should occur when a stage loaded with silver happens to be driving through, the better for me.”

“You stole that from our stage...” RuthAnne gulped.

“Your driver had a big mouth and a false sense of security.” He gave the strongbox a good pat. “This will make me a very wealthy man.”

RuthAnne did her best not to shy away from the outlaw. Her thoughts swept to Mr. Bingham and the horses. “You’re nothing but a murderer.” She spat out the words, disgusted.

He moved to strike her, arm cocked, palm open and ready. RuthAnne cowered instinctively. After a moment’s hesitation, he lowered his arm and nodded, then he walked to his cache of stolen goods, as if taking inventory.

Anger grew in her breast as she watched him casually lean his double-barreled shotgun against the black hole at the back of the cave by his prize. So, he’d evaluated them and merely considered them helpless women warming themselves in his hideout? He had already underestimated them. Her resolve solidified along with a plan for escape.

Once she was sure her voice wouldn’t waiver, RuthAnne spoke. “You can let us go, you know. We haven’t seen your face. We’ve no idea who you are or where we are. Your secret is safe.”

RuthAnne rose to her feet, her head held high, a hand to Mara. But she didn’t make it one step toward the mouth of the cave. A pistol appeared out of nowhere and filled his hand in a flash. He aimed it solidly at her breast, and she stifled a shriek.

“Sit back down while I decide what to do with you.”

Slowly, with an appearance of calm, she lowered herself to the cave floor. The sisters clasped each other’s hands tightly. RuthAnne’s eyes never left his. Slowly, deliberately, he holstered his weapon.

He went back to unlocking the strongbox, his voice low and guttural. “I remember you two from the train, the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe out of Kansas City. You had already charmed the whole car by the time I slipped on. Don’t waste your time trying to place me. I have many disguises. Many names. By the time we got to the Colorado border, I was well aware of your...predicament. All of that cargo to care for. I overheard your enthusiastic driver begging you to go with him. He said it would be a benefit to him to have you along. No one would suspect a stage carrying a widow and her sister would also be carrying a fortune in silver. No one that is, except for me.”

“Please, you’ve got what you wanted,” Mara said, her voice quivering. “We’re hardly worth your trouble, mister. Ruthie and I don’t have anything worth stealing.”

RuthAnne knew better. Mara offered her plea out of innocence. She’d never had reason to fear.

He snorted a laugh and strode the length of the cave to where they sat. The bandit leaned forward to trail a menacing, well-manicured finger down Mara’s exposed throat. “I can think of a few things you have that I want. And I always get what I want.”

She shrank back, moaning in fear, finally understanding his intention. RuthAnne attempted to shield Mara with her body, but the bandit quickly shoved her aside and into the dirt.

“Todo o nada, ladies. I get all of you or I’ll leave you with nothing.” His words were thick as his cold black eyes slid over them.

RuthAnne crossed her arms protectively in front of her. He didn’t see their injuries. Their torn and dirty clothing. Or if he noticed, he didn’t care. She fought back the bile that filled her throat. Unlike Mara, RuthAnne knew the world to be full of scoundrels. They wouldn’t survive this.

RuthAnne closed her eyes and prayed for protection, but she knew the answer even before she finished. The good Lord helps those who help themselves. Words were not going to be enough to stop this outlaw. Her eyes found the shotgun, leaning by the opening into the tunnel beyond. There had to be a way to reach it. She had gotten them into this; now she was going to have to get them out. She needed to act, but how?

A small tumble of pebbles rained down from the opening above. She thought she heard a man’s voice. She opened her mouth to scream, but pain stifled her as the cold steel of the pistol pressed viciously under her jaw.

Her life hung in the balance as he whispered in her ear, his breath hot on her neck. “Flinch and you both die.”

He moved with catlike grace; his eyes focused on the narrow fissure in the rocky ceiling. A world away, horses picked their way through the desert. RuthAnne could make out a hoof and long leg of a fine bay, a black boot in a silver stirrup, a call to those behind, and the laughter of camaraderie.

Her captor placed a finger to the slash of red across the mouth of his mask and crept toward the mine entrance. Muffled words dripped down like rain from above.

“Hey, Cap! Do you smell that smoke?”

“Lightning must’ve started a brush fire. Better get a move on before we run into it.” The boot solidly dug into horseflesh, urging the animal forward. With the utmost feeling of isolation, RuthAnne watched them proceed onward.

She could sense her kidnapper’s glee as they rode on. He glanced back to where she and Mara remained huddled by the fire. She caught the satisfaction glinting in his eyes, behind his disguise, before he slunk out of the shaft. Was he making sure the riders went on their way? Perhaps he intended to murder them. RuthAnne had no way of knowing or warning the men above without jeopardizing her sweet sister. She watched his shadow as it lengthened, rounded a corner to the entrance, and vanished. But he would be back. He wasn’t going to let them walk away now.

“Come on.” RuthAnne hurried to the shaft entrance, cast one nervous glance over her shoulder to prove the coast was clear, and firmly clasped the shotgun the bandit had forgotten about. She gauged the weight of it; scents of oil and gunpowder filled her nose. She checked and found it loaded.

Mara gulped. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

“Well enough. We’re getting out of here.” RuthAnne led Mara through the gash in the wall, deeper into the mine.

In no time, they were entombed—encased in the sheer darkness of the mineshaft. She felt her way along the rock wall and heard Mara struggling to keep up, but there would be no slowing down. Their footsteps echoed, and her blood pounded in her ears, a raging river with rapids of adrenaline.

Through cobwebs, spiderwebs, and worse they ran. She knew they only had a few moments before he realized they were gone. With any luck, he would search for them first under the tarps, wasting precious seconds so they could find somewhere to hide. It only delayed the inevitable. There would be no respite until he found them. She held the double-barrels out before her like a shield, her palm slick with sweat on the wooden stock.

The tunnel twisted and turned, taking sharp curves down as it traveled into the heart of the mountain. RuthAnne heard sounds from behind and knew they could only mean one thing. He followed. She would rather die lost and trapped below the surface of the earth than be accosted by such a monster. Perhaps she could get a shot off first. Do some damage? She wasn’t sure of her aim or her skill with a weapon, but she had it in her to try.

They increased their pace, arms outstretched as they went down the tunnel in an endless maze. The darkness pressed against RuthAnne, closing in along with the shrinking tunnel. The air had gotten so thin. So dusty and dry. If they did lose him, the possibility that they would suffocate and die somewhere in the bowels of this mountain increased with every step. But, after a moment, the air changed from stagnant to fresh. Was that rain? Could that be a breeze on her face?

“Ruthie! I see a light!” Mara whispered.

Before them, a tumble of boulders blocked the way. Weak daylight pointed the way out through a narrow gap in the dirt and stones above. If only they could scramble up, the two of them could make it through the slight opening. Not so sure about the large man who pursued them. Might as well have a camel go through the eye of a needle. RuthAnne nodded.

“Go!” she ordered, and Mara hastily scaled the loose rock. “Be mindful where you step! It’s a cave-in!”

One wrong move would send them into the arms of their attacker. One misstep could break an ankle or a leg, and they’d be done for. RuthAnne pushed while Mara pulled, and they made it up and out into the twilight air.

The storm had passed. A quick survey of their surroundings revealed they were on the downward grade of the mountain—the long, sloping terrace that led to the valley beyond. Creosote bushes filled the air with their piney scent, wet and drying in the rapidly warming desert air.

They were in the middle of a parade of ancient giant saguaro cactus that dotted the foothills to the desert floor and as far as the eye could see. Some stood impossibly tall, lone and straight; others reached out dramatically, arms twisted in every direction.

The moist evening air was a blessing on RuthAnne’s face. Scattered thunderheads were the only evidence of the torrential storm. The sun reappeared only to arc its final descent over another range of rugged mountains.

The desert sunset took her breath away. Bright orange, amethyst, and crimson clouds spanned the length of the sky. The crystal clear view spread to the west with rolling foothills and flat desert plains laid out as far as the eye could see. Water caught the light in a gilded ribbon that snaked its way through scrubby wooded wetlands. The setting sun became a blindingly bright slash of white behind the lavender mountains. The eastern sky darkened into twilight, quickly spreading its fingers of night. Unfortunately for them, they had no time to revel in the good Lord’s handiwork.

“Where are we?” Mara asked.

RuthAnne scanned the mountainside, regaining her bearings.

“We’re south of the road down the pass. Look there.” She pointed below the sloping plain where the dirt road snaked into view at the bottom of the mountain. “We’ll get back to that. Keep walking until it gets too dark to see, then we’ll find somewhere to wait until morning.”

“It looks like you can see forever from here.”

RuthAnne couldn’t disagree. She knew Tucson lay to the west, toward the fading light of day. That was the direction they would head. Stepping away from the cave, they began their descent. They picked their way around rocks and stands of cholla and saguaro cactus.

“Do you think he’ll follow us, Ruthie?”

In answer, a shot echoed from the ridge behind, across the open desert.

“What was that?” RuthAnne spun on her heel but not before hearing another crack! She caught sight of someone leveling aim on them from the opening in the rocks. “Get down!” She dragged the air for her sister. Too late.

Mara’s breath came out in a whoosh, as if punched, her hand clutched at her side. “Ruthie...?”

Crimson bloomed across her white blouse from beneath her hand. Mara’s beautiful face turned marble-white as she drew away her dripping hand and gasped at the rapidly growing patch of blood. Mara sank to her knees. Her dark eyes rolled up to heaven as she collapsed.

“Mara!” RuthAnne rushed to her sister’s limp and bleeding body. “Someone help us!”

RuthAnne risked a look back over her shoulder at their attacker. The shotgun she had clung to would be useless at this range; she let it fall to the desert floor. She couldn’t see anyone to shoot at.

The rifle cracked again and again. A round ricocheted off of the rocks. A sting at her temple and RuthAnne’s head struck the ground with force; consciousness blurred with pain. Reaching for Mara, she faded into blackness.

Chapter 5

RuthAnne awoke disoriented, her head throbbing. She blinked into the darkness that enfolded her in a blanket of diamond stars as her vision adjusted. A band of brilliant white light appeared behind the jagged mountain peaks. The rising moon’s glow set the night sky ablaze. Her eyes stung. Her bruised body ached. Every movement caused ribbons of pain to shoot through her ribs, neck, and head.

She pressed a hand to her temple, her skin caked with dried blood that represented her brush with death. The scoundrel had simply grazed her. At the thought of him, she scurried away from an unseen force on her back like a crab. No sign of her attacker. She could have cried with relief, right there in the moonlight. But where was her sister?

“Mara!” Her voice choked; the raspy words burned like fire.

She searched the scene on hands and knees in the silver moonlight. Lord, not Mara. Where is she? She’s just a girl...please!

Footsteps crunched on the gravel-filled dirt. Nowhere to hide, RuthAnne willed herself invisible. Her hand closed around a fist-sized rock. The bandit wouldn’t take her without a fight.

He knelt down beside her. A large, rough hand cupped her cheek in an all too familiar way. “You’re awake. Thank God.”

With a ragged battle cry, RuthAnne lunged at her would-be attacker with the stone, cracking him just above the shoulder. He shied away from the blow, and the lump of granite glanced off him. With little effort, he peeled it from her fingers. “You’re coming with me, whether you like it or not.”

The brigand picked her up like a child and marched her off to her doom. Terrified, she fought and bucked while he carried her. Tears of frustration streamed down her face; her hair, a mass of golden curls, tumbled loose about her as she thrashed in his arms. RuthAnne hammered at him with ineffectual fists. He carried her so easily, as if she were feather light, though he did pin her arms close against her body.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

His gentle tone stalled her efforts as she opened her eyes and looked at him. He didn’t wear a mask over the rugged planes of his face, days past needing a shave, his eyes glinting like shiny coins in the light of the moon. Could that be a look of concern?

He shook out his dark, curling hair as he looked down at her with worry-filled eyes. She noted in her confusion that his hair needed cutting, as it fell past his ears and brushed the collar of his army issue shirt. A soldier? She blinked and ceased her struggle, a vain attempt to conserve her strength, though it left her nonetheless. She allowed herself to drift, helpless in his arms.

The next thing she knew, the soldier carried her through a carved wooden gate guarded by a fence of thorny branches and into an adobe-walled courtyard. He moved toward a low structure, one of several buildings within the outer wall.

Hammered tin lanterns hung from wrought iron hooks embedded in the mud brick walls. They glowed steadily against the darkness, their flames flickering in the slight breeze. Someone shut heavy, carved wooden doors behind them, and she pulled her head off the man’s shoulder with a start.

“Put me down. Please.” Her raspy voice held strength.

“If you’re certain you can walk, ma’am.” He lowered her to her feet, holding her waist as she found her balance, his touch feather-light. She read his concern with her condition in the furrow of his brow. He kept her elbow cupped with his strong hand.

“I can walk, sir.” RuthAnne swallowed, wincing at the pain in her throat.

He took a long look at her before turning to walk into the adobe casita. He didn’t glance back to see if she followed. After only a moment’s hesitation, she entered the dimly-lit room.

Mara lay on a cot, a white blanket drawn up to her chin. An egg-sized bruise rose at her hairline. Her breath drew steady and even. She slept the deep sleep of one who might not wake again. RuthAnne fell to her knees, hands searching her sister’s body. Feeling blessed warmth in her skin. Too much warmth. A fever. “The gunshot wound?”

A dark-haired, dark-skinned woman stepped forward out of the shadows, rosary beads clacking in her hands. “This is not a fatal wound, though loss of blood may be. We removed the bullet, cleaned her. She hasn’t woken since the captain brought her to me. Her bleeding has slowed, which is a good sign. Time and prayers are what she needs now.”

RuthAnne noticed the native woman chose her words carefully as she explained Mara’s condition.

The woman’s slender fingers absently stroked and then moved on to the next bead on the strand, each one a prayer. The action mesmerized RuthAnne, along with the gravity of all that had transpired.

“Oh, merciful Father...” She buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

“She is your...sister?” the woman said.

“Yes. Her name is Mara. I’m RuthAnne Newcomb. We came from Kansas City, on our way to Tucson, when...” A fist of emotion welled in her throat, making it hard to breathe.

“Ah. I am Mariposa Cruz. You’ve been delivered to our chapel. Misión Rincon Del Sol.”

“A chapel. Here. In the middle of nowhere?” RuthAnne’s mouth dropped. First the soldiers above, and now this place? Words escaped her at the miracles. She let the tears openly fall down her cheeks, gratefully clasping the tanned and gentle hands of Mariposa Cruz.

The woman’s profile suggested a heritage of mixed descent; both Mexican and Indian, with her thick braid of ink-black hair streaked with gray and her strong but lovely profile lined with age and sun. She moved to cool Mara’s forehead with a damp cloth and crooned to her in a language RuthAnne didn’t understand.

“You and your sister were attacked, on your way to Tucson.”

RuthAnne jumped at the deep voice that shattered the mystery and commanded immediate attention.

She turned for a better view of the soldier who had brought her to this place. His hazel eyes were heavy-lidded, his face lined and tanned with the sun. He loomed larger than life as he stepped toward her. His military issue gray shirt and blue trousers were dusty and worn from days of use; in need of a bath, from the scent of him. Grief welled in her throat as she realized how closely death had touched her, and this man saved their lives. He seemed uncomfortable with her scrutiny, shifting his weight before he spoke.

“You were far from the road. It’s lucky we heard you.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it, sir. You were an answer to prayer. I’m very grateful.”

He frowned. “I’m not looking for your gratitude. Someone shot your sister, almost mortally wounded you, as well. I need to know what happened.”

He towered above her in a resolute stance. His boots shoulder width apart, his expression grim and official. RuthAnne wanted to pummel him again for his lack of understanding.

“An explosion caused the rockslide. Dynamite. The stage went over the side, all to cover up a robbery. We lost everything we had to that animal. We barely escaped with our lives. Is that enough information for you, sir?” She shook with anger. How dare he interrogate her at a time like this?

“Would you recognize him again?” His voice boomed. His hands flexed into fists, as if he already knew the answers to his questions.

“He wore a mask. Some foul thing he made himself out of sackcloth. Holes for eyes, a red slash for a mouth. I didn’t see his face.”

“Did he say anything, do anything to you before...?”

Mariposa shot him a look of warning. RuthAnne caught the significance. If he didn’t stop soon, the woman would surely force him out the door.

“Do you remember anything he said, before you got away?”

“I don’t...”

“Think!” he commanded.

“That’s quite enough for tonight, Captain.” Mariposa stood, dark eyes flashing with disapproval.

“No. It’s all right.” RuthAnne waved the native woman off and stared the soldier down. “He said something in Spanish. Words that translated vicious and cruel, just like the man who spoke them. Todo o nada.”

“El Tejano...” Mariposa’s grave eyes locked on the soldier’s.

“He intended to rape and murder us, Captain. Thank God he didn’t get the chance to do either. Does that answer your question?” RuthAnne’s voice shook, whether from anger at this man before her or in awe that they had survived such a horror, she wasn’t sure.

Just then, a man who could only be the priest came into the room through the paneled door. Short of stature but portly enough to fill the brown, coarse robes. His steel gray hair tumbled over his round, kind face. He reassured her with warm and rich brown eyes. “My dear child. Praise the good Lord that you were not injured worse in this horrible attack.”

“Thank you...”

“Father Acuña is the priest of this chapel,” Mariposa said.

RuthAnne’s throat tightened again as the kind priest squeezed her hand, tenderly, in introduction. Mariposa apprised him of RuthAnne’s harrowing experience as the captain stepped back into shadow.

“Our driver...” RuthAnne could imagine his broken body at the bottom of the chasm. “We’ll need to see to it he gets a proper burial, Father. He was a good man. A God-fearing man.” Suddenly, it seemed very important that they go back and find his broken body.

“It’s already been done, my dear. Captain Shepherd’s men have taken care of it. He’s a rare man, this soldier.” Mariposa took her hands again, holding them gently.

“But, I only just told him...” He ran me through the wringer, and he already knew the truth? RuthAnne’s head went swimmy, her breath whooshed out with the violation.

“You only confirmed what he already suspected.”

RuthAnne looked up sharply, but the captain had left as silently as he’d entered.

“You are welcome to stay here as long as you desire,” Father Acuña said. She nodded in thanks as he took his leave.

Exhausted beyond belief, she accepted Mariposa’s hand and allowed the woman to lead her behind a screen to a wooden stool where a full washbasin and a rough-looking yellow sea sponge waited. A clean muslin nightdress hung from a wrought iron hook on the wall, and a thin towel lay draped over the tri-fold privacy screen.

“It isn’t much, señorita, but it will help you feel better.”

“It would be señora, wouldn’t it? I’m a widow...”

Mariposa’s eyes widened then filled with kind understanding. She helped unfasten the buttons on RuthAnne’s boots, released the hooks and eyes at the back of RuthAnne’s bodice, and folded the torn and ruined traveling garments, stained with her sister’s lifeblood. RuthAnne knew she would never wear them again.

She carefully finished undressing and discreetly wrapped the thin towel around her waist to perch on the stool. She slipped her feet into the metal tub and wrung warm water from the darkening sea-sponge. At that moment, the magnitude of what had happened hit her full force. The trunks full of clothing that were on the stage, her mother’s silver hairbrush and hand mirror, Evan’s cufflinks and epaulets from his Confederate uniform, her father’s books...lost. Forever.

But they had their lives, thanks to a soldier who did not know them. RuthAnne momentarily closed her eyes, letting the sponge drip cleansing water down her neck. She focused on the beeswax candle as it burned from the rough-hewn side table. Its flame flickered and filled the room with an amber glow.

Mariposa’s shadow filled the screen. “It was a blessing the captain found you, as far from the road as you were.”

“I’d all but lost hope when we heard them above us...” Despite the warm water, gooseflesh erupted over RuthAnne’s bare skin at the memory.

with the

“Bowen Shepherd and his men were on their way out to meet with a band of Apache. My people.”

“Aren’t the army and the Apache at war?”

“Not all of us. My familia...my tribe remains in supplication to the army. They have exchanged peace for food, shelter, and information, of course. They trust Shepherd. And only Shepherd.” She spoke it as simple fact.

RuthAnne couldn’t help but wonder. What kind of a life did this captain lead? A soldier who made peace with enemies? A man who’d abandoned her at this small mission church without even saying goodbye?

She swallowed hard as she washed the dried blood from her arms and between her fingers. RuthAnne finally stumbled across the tears that had been so long in coming. Tears for a man she barely knew. For a sister who would live only by the grace of God. For Evan. She missed him now more than she’d dreamed possible. She closed her eyes and prayed.

Chapter 6

The crow of a bantam rooster broke the morning silence. RuthAnne attempted to roll to her side in the small cot, and every muscle in her body screamed in protest. She examined her side and arms, eyeing the bruises in their full glory where there had been only shadows the night before. Turning, she groaned at the ache deep in her right side, but she didn’t think any ribs were broken.

She noticed the pottery cup on the table beside her bed and sat up to take a drink. The lemony water cooled her parched throat. Mariposa...She knew the native woman must have delivered the soothing liquid in the night, and she took another long swallow.

Catching her reflection in the tin-framed mirror, RuthAnne winced. She was a ghost of herself. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Her tangled blonde curls fell loose about her shoulders. Injury seemed to abrade every inch of her skin, but she would survive the cuts and bruises. She rubbed her stiff, sore neck as best she could, the memory of El Tejano’s gun at her throat as vivid as the purple crescent bruise it left behind. But that was yesterday. Today, she was alive. Time to figure out exactly where they’d ended up.

The drink must have had restorative qualities, she decided, noticing that her muscles were loose and the soreness waned within moments. She dressed carefully in the light cotton blouse and faded blue tiered skirt left at the foot of her bed.

Standing in front of the mirror, RuthAnne fidgeted with the shoulders of the rose-embroidered blouse, a vain attempt to hide her milk-white skin. Heat already seeped through the deep open windows, making her appreciate the airy fabric of her new clothes all the more.

In the courtyard beyond, she noticed a well with a hand pump, and chickens roamed free within the confines of the chapel grounds. They clucked and scratched at their breakfast on the hard-packed dirt of the open court.

Following memory, she traced her steps to Mara’s room. She did not hesitate before entering.

Cool air met her face as she stepped through the door. She suspected the thick, white-painted adobe walls would keep most of the extreme desert heat at bay. A small, curtainless window showed a view into the courtyard and the mountains beyond that towered above them. While ordinarily she would have stood in awe of the foothills and peaks with their great stone edifices and evidence of trees and waterfalls above, she only had eyes for the slight girl on the white bed.

Mara’s even breath filled the small room. Her onyx hair still damp from a broken fever, now brushed and lovingly arranged around her face. The welt on her forehead remained purple and large, but her eyes looked peaceful. The furrow in her brow had relaxed.

RuthAnne knelt beside the bed and took the girl’s hands in her own.

“Oh, Lord, please let it be Your will for my sister’s healing...I thank You for the aid of Your servants. Of that beautiful Indian woman, Mariposa, and even of that gruff soldier who manhandled me here...”

“I don’t suppose you enjoyed it much, ma’am, but I did the best I could under the circumstances.” Captain Shepherd stood from where he had rested in a carved wooden chair.

“Captain!” RuthAnne immediately crossed her arms in front of her, uncomfortable in the unfettered blouse. He did not look away for a long moment, holding her eyes captive with his own of smoky green.

She’d seen that look on Evan’s face a time or two, right before he started courting her. RuthAnne’s cheeks flushed with heat. Her heart skipped, mid-beat. She’d not had a man look at her like that since Evan. She wrenched her gaze from his and grabbed a colorful tablecloth to wrap around her bare shoulders.

He took a step back in understanding. “I have no intention to dishonor you, ma’am. I stayed with her so Mariposa could sleep. I’m on my way back to the fort this morning.”

“You owe me no explanation, Captain. Thank you for your efforts in seeing us to safety. We’ll be getting on to Tucson ourselves as soon as...Well, as soon as Mara is well enough.”

“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you, ma’am.” His deep voice resonated with a decidedly Midwestern accent. His people were probably farmers, but she couldn’t see this towering, dark-haired, hazel-eyed man in anything but the army blues. She didn’t care for the thoughts that flickered to her mind, being a woman alone for so long.

He shifted his weight. “After El Tejano...after yesterday, I know you are in dire straits. Do you have any means? Anyone we could telegraph back east to come fetch you?”

Heartache filled her bruised throat. True, she could reach out to her remaining family in Somerville, Alabama, but they had all lost so much in the War Between the States. Her father had barely recovered himself.

Besides, she had chosen a different path when she had married Evan. They took Mara in following Mother’s passing, promising to love and look out for her little sister until she grew up enough to marry and start her own life. Evan’s only living relative consisted of an aunt in San Francisco whom RuthAnne had never met. They had nowhere else to turn. For now, Mara was all that mattered. In a week, the army wagons would return with their goods, and they would have means. That would have to do. She attempted to clear her throat and found it very hard to swallow.

“Mara and I are completely on our own.” She softened toward him, seeing his pained expression. “Not to worry, sir. The bandit didn’t take everything from us. They’ll ship the bulk of our belongings from La Junta as soon as I call for them. The army said it’d take about a week.”

“I see.” He scratched the stubble on his chin and smiled. “So, you’re the seamstress?” He shook his head and laughed. “Well, doesn’t that beat all? My apologies for not reaching you sooner, ma’am.” With a bow, he strode off across the courtyard.

RuthAnne drew the cloth tighter around her shoulders as she watched him walk away. His laughter was cold, and she couldn’t shake the notion that she had just been slighted. Fine, she thought, kicking her foot at the ground. At least he knew where to find her when her wares arrived.

****

RuthAnne rejoiced at every incoherent mumble that fell from Mara’s lips and died a little each time the pain sent her sister back into a restless slumber. Her thoughts flicked to her mother and how she’d soothed their fevers when she and Mara were small children. RuthAnne now tended her sister in the same fashion, loving on her, praying for her while placing cool cloths on her forehead and wrists, soaking them in a blend of water and pungent herbs that Mariposa had prepared for that purpose.

Time stood still on the chapel grounds. RuthAnne stayed by her sister’s side. She changed the dressing with freshly boiled and dried linen bandages, observed the blood clotting. Mara’s wounds would heal, and she’d never been more grateful.

RuthAnne spent her days praying in the chapel and at her sister’s bedside and long nights in the room she’d begun to think of as her own. Soon, Mara would be well enough to travel to the city. RuthAnne could meet with the new quartermaster, and they could rebuild their lives in this strange new place. So many unknowns left her worried and kept her sleepless on the lonely summer nights.

Finally, three days after her arrival, Father Acuña found her sitting in the shade of the ramada porch. His hands were folded in front of him, and his eyes were grave. Her first thought went to Mara’s condition, and a cold stab of fear sliced through her heart.

“What is it, Father?” Springing to her feet, she steeled herself for the worst, tears pricking her eyes. She vaguely noticed a bright red cardinal darting from the mesquite tree to the rafter beam, eyeing them before flying off again. A fat gamble quail puttered along the adobe fence, its topknot bobbing.

“My dear, sweet girl. You’ve had more than your share of bad news lately. I’m so sorry, but I must tell you...”

“Please, Father. Not Mara. God can’t have Mara yet...” She sank to her knees, and he clasped her hands, apologetically, helping her stand.

“She is resting comfortably. I’m so sorry to worry you. That is not why I’ve come.” RuthAnne squeezed her eyes shut with relief as he continued. “It is the army wagons. I have just gotten news. There is more trouble with the Indians at the New Mexico and Arizona border. Nothing will be transported from La Junta, or through New Mexico, for at least another month.”

RuthAnne nodded dimly. Another setback. And she couldn’t rely on the kindness of these good people for another month, not while they cared for Mara and asked nothing in return.

She knew what she must do, as much as it killed her to admit it. She needed help.

“Where might I find Captain Shepherd?”

Chapter 7

The ragtag group of soldiers stayed camped for two days at the edge of lower Tanque Verde Creek, just off the chapel grounds, where clear water trickled along the rocky riverbed. Captain Bowen Shepherd ordered his men to saddle their mounts. The time had come to return to the fort.

The monsoon storm clouds were building. Voluminous, they massed into a darkening curtain, even as the morning sun broke over the valley. Bowen wiped the sweat from his brow, replaced his army issue hat, and frowned at the jagged claws of white lighting that streaked across the darkening eastern sky. They were too far away to hear the thunder. Yet.

On the other side of the smoldering campfire, Bowen eyed Sergeant Ross MacEvoy rolling up his thin bedroll. He hefted it behind his saddle with a thump. Reggie Thompson, of late a demoted Private First Class, muttered an unheard comment that had Ross giving a hearty guffaw. Bowen hid a smile at the idle banter between Ross and Reggie as they broke camp. Though he was their commanding officer, Bowen didn’t feel inclined to stop them from hounding each other.

The three men had known each other for seven years. In that time, Bowen had seen Reggie both promoted and demoted in rank. The boy had a streak of temper a mile wide and tended to lose it in the wrong company. Though Reggie seemed threatening with his towering frame, his ice blue eyes were prone to dancing with humor, often at the expense of his compatriot and childhood friend, Ross MacEvoy.

Where Reggie was dark and as unkempt as the army would allow, Ross was fair, with a wide, easy smile and curling blonde mustache; equally broad shouldered as Reggie, and a full head shorter. The two soldiers were inseparable. Blood brothers. And, even more important than friendship, Bowen knew he could trust both men with his life and had on many occasions. Whether orders came to scout the roads for bandits and rogue natives or to clean up the messes made by the often-intolerant citizens of growing Tucson, Arizona, there were no other soldiers he’d rather ride out with.

Unlike Bowen, they had both grown up in the territory. Ross had built a home for his new wife and growing family further east, beyond the Dragoon Pass out between Fort Bowie and that fool copper mine of DeWitt Bisbee’s. Reggie and Bowen both remained unmarried. Reggie by choice; Bowen by circumstance.

A rumble of thunder echoed from the canyons above. The deep gray, ballooning clouds were a warning sign. The torrential rains and flash floods that followed could be devastating to the unaware. Every year, they scraped up the remains of some hapless traveler who’d been washed away in a flash flood out of the mountains. They would need to be exceedingly cautious, Bowen noted as he stowed his canteen in his carefully maintained saddle bags. He would keep an eye to the Rincon Mountains behind them, where the clouds gathered, looming dark and purple. Rain in the mountains above meant floods down the long slopes of the bajada into the arroyos below.

After taking advantage of a brief furlough, hunting and giving aid to Padre Acuña around the chapel grounds, they would make their way back to the fort today. If his men suspected he was keeping an eye on the two young women currently housed at the mission, neither Ross nor Reggie brought it up to his face. Bowen frowned and rubbed oil over his army issue black leather boots in slow, concentric circles. Besides, he’d found the girls and brought them to safety. The state in which that rogue El Tejano left them should see him hang for sure, regardless of the fact he was a thief and a murderer. If and when they caught him, that was. No person, Christian or otherwise, should be abandoned in such a way. Especially not a woman like RuthAnne Newcomb...

Bowen saw her image every time he closed his eyes. Soft skin, silken blonde hair swept from her graceful neck, a willowy frame still a good six inches shorter than he. But above all, her eyes seemed etched on his soul. As clear and blue as the desert sky on a summer morning, the look behind her steady, challenging gaze speared his soul and told him everything he needed to know.

That’s what worried him.

Always look a woman in the eye, Bowen, his mother had advised him quite seriously. You’ll recognize your soul mate in an instant. He knew his mama to be romantic to the core. It’s why she’d never remarried after Pa died. Her heartfelt words filled his head in memory. Are you the one? His thoughts shifted to RuthAnne before he pushed them as far as from east to west.

He remembered laughing at his mother for such a notion. He teased, calling her a sentimental fool. Still, he always wondered at her simple statement. Could there really be a girl out there that the Lord had made just for him? He’d been so trusting. So innocent. And now, it seemed so impossible.

His mother had raised him alone after his father passed when he was a boy of twelve; she guided him into manhood on her own. She wanted a full and happy life for him: a practical wife who would look after him and a family to share it with. Once upon a time, he’d wanted so much more. An equal partner. Someone to dream and plan with, to build a life around.

But Bowen had long since stopped searching. When he was young and foolish, he believed his mother. That there was a woman out there made for him, to be his other half. The truth of the choices he’d made knifed his heart. He knew his guilty conscience and stained soul dictated that he must live out this life alone. In spite of knowing, he found reasons to linger just off the chapel grounds. He found himself looking toward the fence line, hoping for a glimpse of the tall, lean woman. Remembering how his heart pounded when he held her in his arms. That’s precisely why they needed to leave.

Bowen turned toward the small Mexican church. He wasn’t comfortable encroaching on the padre’s land. Not since he began fighting the Indian campaigns for the government. He’d done more than his share of killing. It weighed heavy on his heart, seeing how the natives were treated, but it hadn’t stopped him from following orders. And when the citizens of the town decided stirring up trouble was the best way to get more attention to this Indian Problem of theirs out at Camp Grant, he’d had enough.

The pit of his stomach soured as he dropped his rag and oil tin to the rocky ground. He drew up a chunk of white quartz and heaved it into the distance. Watched it clatter off a boulder and startle a small covey of quail. They squawked in displeasure, flying a short distance with beating wings as they relocated themselves. Camp Grant wasn’t a problem. It was a massacre. The bloodiest battle seen in the valley’s recorded history; the whole mess covered up by the army and a group of powerful citizens. And he had been left to pick up the pieces.

The camp lay just up the mountain from where he’d found RuthAnne. The irony of saving someone where so many had died had not evaded him. RuthAnne and Mara made three he’d rescued from that bitter patch of earth. Three lives out of hundreds...

He rubbed his side, where he still bore the scar left by a terrified, grief stricken Mariposa, whose life he had spared against orders. She had attacked him out of fear. Out of grief. How could he blame her? Bowen tore his thoughts away from the grim memory, taking a last swig of cold coffee. With a flick of his wrist, he dumped the dregs out on their fire. A hiss of steam and the scent of burnt grounds filled the air. He did his best to turn his thoughts away from that awful day. Try as he may, they just kept coming back to haunt him.

Tucson, Arizona had been briefly declared the capital of the territory struggling toward statehood. Its citizens proclaimed loudly that with Cochise dead and buried, they were safe from Indians. Geronimo had other ideas about that from his safe haven in the Chiricahua Mountains on the border between the Arizona and New Mexico territories. He fought back by stopping incoming wagon trains, stealing and killing and reminding those good citizens that public safety was still very much an issue.

Let them pretend to be law abiding and civilized, while hiding behind their guns and saloons. Arizona tried its hardest to hide its true colors and become a state. Bowen didn’t anticipate that happening in his lifetime, not that he expected to live much longer anyway. He did his level best to do his job and get out, taking risks and chances that had his fellow soldiers calling him fearless. A hero.

The truth was nowhere near as romantic. He had lost his faith in what they were fighting for and had nothing left to lose. Bowen watched from afar as they sang their hymns on Sunday morning, the hypocrites. But he wouldn’t pay an affront to God by stepping foot in His church. He knew he was no better than those citizens for what he had done. At least the padre respected his wishes and didn’t ask him to services anymore.

Bowen kicked dirt over the smoldering campfire coals as his eyes slid to the chapel compound, his thoughts swirling with the dark gray clouds overhead.

“Hey, Cap! Let’s get a move on. That pretty little girl ain’t coming to see you today.” Reggie winked good-naturedly, leading his dappled gray mount over to his tack. The sturdy, strong cavalry horse gave a snort and flicked her well-combed tail. Bowen watched as Reggie lined up next to Ross, whose lips twitched in good humor.

“You got something to say, too, Sergeant?” Bowen barked without a bite.

Ross angled his head east, absently twisting his mustache. “Not to rush you, but my wife would like to see me at least for a few hours before the commander sends us back to scout the Chiricahuas.”

“Your wife don’t even remember what you look like, MacEvoy.” Reggie held up an arm to deflect Ross’ friendly punch.

“At least I have a woman waiting for me. What’s back at the barracks waiting for you, besides a scorpion or two?”

Reggie seemed about to give another retort, and Bowen rose to his full commanding height, shoulders back, fists clenched around his saddlebags. “That’s it. We’re moving on.”

Bowen settled his saddlebags in place and stowed his rifle in its long leather scabbard. A dark gray cloud billowed in front of the sun, reminding them all that the monsoons were coming. It amazed him how the clouds could spring up from behind any of the mountains that circled the valley. It seemed the storms were set to ambush them again, just as sure as Sunday. Bowen had learned as a young recruit that when the heat and humidity came early, torrential rain was sure to follow, so completely unlike the flatlands of the farm where he grew up. They’d better be beyond the lower Tanque Verde when it hit.

“Move out, gentlemen. And I do use that term loosely.” Bowen had finished tightening the girth of his mount and taken a boot to the stirrup when a female voice called from the direction of the chapel. He went stock still, halfway onto his eighteen-hand high horse.

Reggie chuckled but immediately went stone-faced at Bowen’s glare. No matter that they were friends. The captain would have no disrespect when they were in uniform.

“I said, move out.” Bowen’s low, stern voice commanded an instant reaction from his men. He unseated his foot from the stirrup.

He watched RuthAnne pick her way gingerly but quickly up the path. She narrowly avoided the jumping cholla cactus, round and thick with spines that clawed for and threatened her skirts. She strode into the clearing, breathing hard from her trek, her face flushed. Her loose hair curled around her shoulders, bare in the traditional Mexican embroidered blouse. It was hard not to admire the woman who stormed toward him, jaw set, eyes sparkling, looking full of fire and ready for a fight.

****

RuthAnne kept her eye on the tower of a man as her belly churned. Obviously, she’d stumbled into a private conversation. She passed the blonde soldier as he guided his mount down the slope and offered her a tip of his dark blue hat in greeting.

“Ma’am.”

Uphill, standing next to the captain, a dark-haired soldier of lesser rank smiled winningly in her direction. She caught him shooting a sidelong glance at his commanding officer before returning his attention to adjusting the girth of his saddle.

“You finished, there, Private?”

“Not quite.” The private gave a sharp yank and then retied the strap. “Don’t mind me, Cap. You all just pretend like I’m not here.” He blinked innocently.

“Reggie, if you don’t...”

“I’m done. I’m done.” The soldier mounted his horse and rode directly across RuthAnne’s path, pulling his reins short. “Pardon me. PFC Reggie Thompson, at your service, ma’am.”

“Private.” She nodded with a half smile and turned her attention back to the rise of the hill. The captain stood with his eyes closed, face tilted toward the heavens as if praying. She gathered her skirt and made her way directly toward him; he’d soon find out there would be no escaping her.

“Thanks for waiting, Captain Shepherd,” RuthAnne said, catching her breath.

He blinked at her arrival, face stoic and unsmiling. “Good morning to you, Mrs. Newcomb.”

She hesitated. Had she shared with him her last name or mentioned her marital state? Her cheeks flamed with the heat of her blush as she considered her lack of proper dress. The concept of petticoats was lost on Mariposa, and RuthAnne had stopped trying to explain. She had to admit a growing fondness for the breezy clothes and soft leather shoes that Mariposa provided. The light cotton blouse and tiered skirt, sans petticoat, were incredibly comfortable. She hadn’t given much thought to it before, just enjoying the sensation after days in her heavy traveling suit. Now, feeling the weight of the captain’s scrutinizing stare, RuthAnne longed for her own garments, regardless of their state.

He tapped his riding crop agitatedly in his gloved hand, as if he wanted to completely unnerve her. “We’re heading out, back to the fort. What can I do for you?”

“You can take me with you.”

“But...your sister. I understand she can’t be moved,” Bowen stammered. Obviously, her asking to go with him was the last thing he had anticipated.

“The good Father’s been most kind. They offer us everything and ask nothing in return. I’m not injured. I’m a hard worker and can make my own way, if you would guide me in that regard.”

“You want me to find you a job?” Bowen’s mouth twitched at the corners.

RuthAnne set her jaw. Couldn’t he see that she was serious? That even asking him ate her up inside?

“Ma’am, you must be aware that the city of Tucson is ripe with gambling saloons and houses of ill repute. There aren’t many...opportunities for a lady such as yourself.”

Head high, she refused to be chastised by the likes of him, or the private who lingered, obviously eavesdropping, while he secured his hands around his reins.

“I’m a seamstress by trade. I can only assume that you know of someone with needs for a tailor.”

“Does she cook, too?” Reggie said and kicked his horse into action at the look Bowen threw in his direction.

RuthAnne fumed with embarrassment as the private rode off down the hill. She found herself in foreign territory now, having to ask this man for assistance. Still. It didn’t matter. The Lord had brought her to this low point so that she could scramble her way back to level ground. Pride didn’t keep her from admitting she needed help, regardless of what this Captain Shepherd thought of her for doing so. Who did he think he was, with his stubborn chin and smoky-green eyes all but laughing behind his stoic expression?

“I can drop you off somewhere where they’ll pay for an honest day’s work. T’won’t be an easy one, I can assure you.”

RuthAnne nodded. “That’ll be fine.”

“Three square meals, a roof over your head, and a place to sleep. Not much of a place, at that,” he warned.

“I assure you, Captain, I won’t shirk at hard work. And I need to pay my own way. To do something with my hands until Mara gets better and our shipment arrives for the new quartermaster at Fort Lowell. Father Acuña told me this morning it might not be for another month.”

“That could be overly generous. You see, General Geronimo has other ideas about what he wants the army to bring into the Arizona territory.”

She couldn’t help it; as he spoke, her eyes welled with tears. She bit her lip until blood tinged her tongue.

He continued, seemingly unaware. “In the meantime, I have an idea for you. You’ve met Private Thompson. That there’s Corporal Ross MacEvoy. We’re heading back to Fort Lowell right now. If you’re coming, mount up.”

Bowen stepped easily into the stirrup and, with a move as natural as breathing, settled into the black leather saddle. He reached a hand to her, offering a place behind his saddle on the impossibly enormous animal.

She opened and then closed her mouth. Her mind told her she should go and gather her belongings to take with her, and then her heart broke as she remembered she had nothing to return for.

Very well, then, Lord. If this is what You mean for me to do, let’s have at it. If he’s waiting for me to balk and run back to the safety of this poor chapel and their charity, he has another think coming.

RuthAnne would not take what did not belong to her, not as long as she had hands to work and a mind to think clearly.

She hitched up her skirt. Stepping her moccasin-clad foot a bit too hard on the captain’s boot, she swung herself into place behind the saddle and settled on the striped blanket across the animal’s wide rump.

The feel of her bare legs on the wool blanket made her think of her girlhood on her father’s farm. For a moment, in her mind’s eye, she was riding bareback with her brothers across grassy plains and feeding the horses apples and sugar cane after a long, lazy ride...

And then Bowen called the enormous stallion to action. RuthAnne forgot her daydream of days long since passed and clung to his waist for dear life.

Chapter 8

“The fort’s just over that rise, across the creek,” Bowen said, motioning with the reins as the horse continued its breakneck pace.

RuthAnne gritted her teeth, knowing that he maintained such a speed not to make her profoundly uncomfortable but to beat the building storm. She could feel the thunder’s rumble with each thud of her heart. The sky above now blistered with gray-black clouds; large raindrops spattered the ground, her legs, and the leather of the saddle she attempted to cling to.

Fingers slipping, she adjusted her grip around his waist. He flinched as if her touch scorched like the lightning that flashed all around them. Wordlessly, Bowen grasped her hand and placed it firmly on his wide leather belt, his meaning clear. RuthAnne’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. How dare he worry about propriety at a time like this!

His horse plunged down a rocky slope and darted across the creek; water splashed beneath the animal’s heavy hooves. Her mind wandered as the thundering horse raced on. What had this soldier planned for her? At times she thought he’d relaxed to her presence, only to have his body go rigid at her touch. If only she could read his thoughts. Perhaps he had no interest in a widow. Still, she had no reason to apologize. She’d been the best wife to Evan she knew how to be, and he’d loved her best as he could. She devoted over a year of her life to remembering him after his passing and never even considered getting married again. With Mara to care for, there wasn’t time to think on herself.

True, she found Bowen Shepherd extraordinarily handsome, in spite of his gruff manner. With his impressive form, chiseled jaw, eyes that reflected his stormy disposition, and rich, dark hair, the girls probably all went weak in his presence. But she was a flesh and blood woman. Having been married, she knew what happened between a man and a woman in the night. There was no denying it filled an empty place in her soul to have her arms wrapped around this mountain of a man, if only for a short while. He was solid. Real. And for a moment, she could imagine she was still a wife.

Lightning struck the impossibly tall saguaro cactus to their right. It exploded in a crescendo of flame. RuthAnne yelped and clung to Bowen all the more tightly. With the bolt came a shockwave that seemed to solidify the air around them. Then the rain began to fall in earnest. Great ice-cold drops plastered her hair to her head and face and saturated her clothing in an instant. Visibility dropped to mere feet. Still, the horses pressed on as if by memory.

When she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the rain turned into the hardest hail she had ever encountered. Ice balls the size of large peas bounced and pinged off the rocks, flying as if of their own volition until they whitened the ground. She buried her head in his shoulder as they were pummeled.

Bowen spurred the horse on, and before she knew it, they entered a compound of buildings. Scattered lightning reached with greedy fingers; it set the sky alight and cast an eerie glow behind rows of trees that sprang from the desert floor. The three horses galloped across a field, past squat, single-story structures built from native adobe bricks. Tin roofs clanged with an uneven cacophony of sound as the hail ended and the rain renewed its torrents.

Bowen angled them through the stable gate at the end of the compound. He slung her to the ground in a sopping wet heap.

“Get inside!”

RuthAnne did as he ordered and stumbled down the muddy path into the tack room. Inside, the air was dank, musty, and dark; a kerosene lantern spilled oily light across a carved wood table and a chair. RuthAnne heaved a sigh of relief, her first sign that she’d been all but holding her breath since the storm began. Gooseflesh broke out over her arms, and she shook with cold.

Listening to the voices outside, she came to grips with her sorry condition. Her drenched blonde hair had gone brown with mud; her thin clothes were plastered to her body in a most unladylike fashion. A US Army horse blanket hung within reach, and it took all of her strength to drag it off the wall peg and over her shoulders before the soldiers made their way inside. She shrugged deeper into it, grateful for the warmth, even though it bristled with horsehair and reeked of sweat.

She waited a beat, but the soldiers didn’t barge into the tack room after all. They saw to their horses ahead of their own needs. She watched them through the open door, Bowen still shouting orders over the din of the storm, his men obeying without question. They made sure the horses’ hooves were clear of the water and picked free of mud and rocks, a trick considering the swirling flood that swelled into the stable.

The man she had been introduced to as Reggie busily stacked sandbags to divert the streaming flow from the spouts on the flat roof; the other man, Ross, led their steeds up a slight rise to the back of the barn. Another soldier laid out fresh hay and oats for the exhausted animals’ consumption. They focused on their tasks, and for the first time, she saw Bowen not as a brooding soldier or a stern opponent, but as a man in his element. RuthAnne couldn’t help but be impressed.

She watched and waited, but it seemed he had forgotten all about her. Staying out of the mud at the door, she backed into the dusty cane chair and sat against the painted adobe wall by the lantern. Her backside remained numb from the ride, and her whole body seemed to thrum with a growing soreness. She rested her elbow on the teetering table, chin in hand. The even pounding of the rain and the muffled voices beyond lulled her to sleep.

****

Bowen mucked out the stall, mud and grime spattering his boots. He’d made every excuse possible not to seek shelter until the rain finally stopped. Looking up, he saw Reggie wrestling the last of the saddles from their mounts and stacking them on top of the others.

“Where do you want me to store these, Captain?” Reggie wiped the sweat from his forehead, smearing a line of mud across his face.

Their gear was a mess from the rain. The horse blankets were sopping wet, and the mud seemed to cake everything it touched. Their boots, bridles, saddles, and other tack would have to be scrubbed and rubbed before the drying water cracked the leather. Ordinarily, they’d set to it right away. But tonight, all the rules had changed.

Dim light filtered through the open tack room door. Reggie, Ross, and Stable Master Alex McDole were following his strict orders not to disturb the woman inside. Now, all three looked to him for what to do about it.

Bowen sensed their eyes like hot pokers in his back. He turned to face them. “The sun will bake the mud enough to flake it off in the morning. It’ll be fine until then.”

“I could get started cleaning, if you let me in the danged tack room,” Reggie said.

Bowen stepped between him and the door. “Not an option, Thompson. Stow it in the barn. I’ll see to other business in the morning.”

Bowen’s upper lip curled in annoyance at the look Reggie shot Ross.

“Yes, sir, Cap.” Reggie looked like he was fighting a grin. He pushed his hat back on his head and sighed heavily before relocating everything for a second time. The lean and lanky Alex hurried off to help.

Bowen turned his scowl toward Ross, but his friend wasn’t so easily intimidated. “You got something to say, MacEvoy?”

Ross stretched his back. “She’s not business, Bow. She’s a woman. And right now, she’s cold and scared.”

He knew his bluff had been called. “She’s gotten herself in quite a mess, hasn’t she?”

“She trusts you, Bowen. Lord only knows why.” Ross clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll have to warn her about the post commander.”

“RuthAnne can hold her own against that mongrel. She got away from El Tejano, didn’t she?” He edged closer to the tack room door for a better view.

RuthAnne slept slumped in a chair, a blanket clutched under her chin like a child. Her damp hair dripped a puddle on the floor, obscuring her face.

“Like it or not, Cap, she’s your responsibility now.” Ross’ voice echoed in his soul.

Bowen eyed the straw tick cot in the corner of the room where he’d spent many a night waiting for a mare to foal. She should be sleeping there. Why was she still sitting upright? Did she expect him to wake her? “That doesn’t look comfortable...we should move her.”

“You asking me? Or telling?”

“You’re the married one, Ross. You know how to treat a woman...”

Ross let loose a hard laugh in answer. “So it’s better if I do it? If Josie found out, she’d have my hide. You know how pregnant women are, Bowen. She’s liable to shoot me.”

Bowen raked a hand through his dark, curling hair, his voice gruff. “Just see to it RuthAnne’s comfortable and stand guard, too.”

Ross gave a mock salute. “Yes sir, Captain Shepherd. Oh, and, Bow? You can bet Josie’s gonna hear about this. That way she’ll make you sleep out on the porch with the dogs next time you visit, ’stead’a me.”

Bowen couldn’t help but laugh as he watched Ross duck through the tack room door and out of sight.

Chapter 9

The bugle call startled RuthAnne awake. “Reveille.” It took a moment for her to remember where she was. Though she had fallen asleep huddled on the chair and wrapped in the horse blanket, someone had moved her onto a soft bed of straw and covered her with a clean gray coverlet.

Groggy and damp, she surveyed her surroundings. Dust motes danced in the morning light that streamed through the window. Bridles, halters, and ropes hung from pegs along the wall. Well-oiled black leather saddles rested on wooden stands. A pile of gray, horsehair-covered woolen saddle blankets sat next to the door. She noted “US Army” in block letters stamped on each one. The kerosene lamp, now dark, stood on the table beside her, and the cane chair where she’d waited for the captain sat empty right beside it.

A man’s throat cleared from the open door, and RuthAnne nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Good morning, Mrs. Newcomb.”

Speechless, a common side effect of being in the same room with this hulking man, she could only choke out his name. “Captain Shepherd!”

Bowen held up his hands in defense of whatever objection she was preparing. “You fell sound asleep while we were seeing to the horses. It didn’t seem right to drag you across the compound in such a storm, so I left you here with a guard at the door in case you woke up. Before you ask, no, it wasn’t me.”

“Well, then...”

RuthAnne stood, bedding straw clinging to her hair and skirt, and she realized her white blouse was still fairly transparent with dampness. She blushed to the roots of her hair but stood proudly before him. Toe to toe, she had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. He freed a strand of straw from her hair, barely hiding a smile.

Her eyes locked on his. Angry, she attempted to figure out some reason he had for making a fool of her.

Reggie ducked through the door. He tipped his hat to RuthAnne as if she were a fine lady and not standing in a grubby tack room with muddy skirts and wild hair. “We got a problem here, Captain?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with. Get to it, Private.”

RuthAnne smiled weakly after Reggie who exited to set about his tasks in the yard. She gathered her wits about her.

“I’ve had quite enough of your hospitality, Captain. I think I’ll find my own way to town after all, thank you.”

She pushed her way toward the door, but he simply placed his hands on her shoulders, an immovable force.

“Why not let me and Reggie rustle you up breakfast? That is, unless you want to go marching those seventeen miles back to civilization on an empty stomach. We’ll just be outside and head to the mess when you’re ready.” With a nod, he slipped outside.

Left alone in the tack room, RuthAnne realized she had no other option. Trapped! She stomped her foot and clasped her hands together, reaching for the peace that seemed to evade her every time she came within fifty feet of that man. With an exasperated breath, she followed the men outside and around the corner toward the camp kitchen with Reggie leading the way.

Heavenly aromas of baking bread and succulent roasting beef filled the morning air. The canteen, as Reggie referred to it, was a large, open space filled with long tables and benches; the soldiers shoveled in their hearty breakfast of beef, gravy, potatoes, biscuits, and butter. The welcome scent of real food cooking made her stomach realize what it missed. How long had it been since she had eaten?

Reggie led her around the back of the adobe building, to a canvas tent addition filled with women. There were ten of them, and about twice as many children running around, chasing chickens, each other, or hanging on their mothers’ skirts. A few babies were squalling. The women looked up and said easy good mornings to Private First Class Thompson.

“You see, Mrs. Newcomb, it’s only on the rare occasion any more that I get to go out with Captain Shepherd,” he said as he guided her to an empty spot at the long, rugged, wooden table and bench seat. “I lost a bit of rank after an argument with the good commander’s son, Marcus Carington. Seems we didn’t see eye to eye, so I blackened his and he did mine. At any rate, I am relegated to commissary duty for our fort laundresses. Word is he’s gotten himself promoted. Don’t that beat all.” He rolled his eyes with a grin. “Time to go to work.”

Reggie cleared his throat and after a moment of fanfare, all eyes turned to him, and he spoke. “Good laundresses of Fort Lowell. This here’s Mrs. RuthAnne Newcomb. She’s from back east and has the good fortune to be here with us for a spell. She had a bad turn—”

“Recently lost her husband,” Bowen interrupted. All whispering ceased. Even the children stopped playing to pay him attention.

He was an impressive sight, all buttoned with brass and crisply outfitted in his dark blue uniform. RuthAnne considered him a fine specimen of man, and quite clearly, so did the rest of the women in the room. His tall black boots shone with polish, and his thick, dark hair neatly slicked back from his forehead. He bore no trace of whiskers on his chiseled chin. Bowen’s suntanned face and rich hazel-green eyes obviously entranced most of the ladies. RuthAnne doubted that they actually listened to more than every other word he uttered.

They sat at the bench tables, drinking coffee from tin cups while the remains from their breakfast were cleared away by a KP soldier. The group looked more a quilting club than a bunch of hired women. RuthAnne observed their garments in comparison to her own ensemble and wanted to slink behind her guardian. The younger ladies wore sensible calico, cotton, and checked gingham cut into loose fitting dresses. One in particular wore a dress of white and light blue gingham checks in a slim-lined cut, a white apron tied neatly over her skirts. Her strawberry blonde hair was piled up off her neck, loosely pinned up as if in afterthought. She sat next to a serious little girl with curling blonde hair and wide eyes that focused on Bowen as she absorbed his every word.

An older woman of indeterminate age wore a dress of gunmetal gray linen, starched to perfection. Her heavily lined face had the look of old leather, and her severely pinned back hair matched the color of her clothing. Piercing blue eyes glinted in the morning light like ice chips; a thin-set mouth seemed not to have smiled for an age. RuthAnne found it hard not to shiver at the frosty glare that turned in her direction. She attempted a smile that must have come off more like a grimace as Bowen continued.

“Mrs. Newcomb needs our help. Her stage crashed on the mountain road, destroying everything she owns. I came across her after the storm.”

General gasps and words of pity peppered the group. RuthAnne’s mouth snapped open, but Bowen’s hand on her shoulder halted her protest. She could read his intention. But lying? She wouldn’t abide with being deceitful and aimed to say so. “I’m not looking for charity, ladies. I’m a hard worker and mean to do my share.”

Bowen’s gaze flashed to RuthAnne’s in silent warning. His hand squeezed her shoulder a bit too firmly. Fine. She allowed him to speak for her. How she needed the basic sundry items as well as clothing. They’d pass the basket for her, a camp ritual for those in need. RuthAnne held her head high as he explained that she needed work and asylum at least for another month before heading on west.

Though she barely followed his carefully woven story, there was one thing she did catch. Bowen had not lied. He had knitted two tales together and left out some of the middle, but he had not lied about it. Interesting. She would have to ask him why he didn’t mention the robbery, El Tejano, or her sister for that matter. However, he must have his reasons. Taking his cue, she would be careful how much information she divulged while staying here.

“We’re off for a fort tour. Ladies.” He tipped his hat, and they tittered once again. Bowen’s hazel eyes caught those of the lady in the blue gingham dress. “Miss Jewel, I’ll trust you to show her the ropes at the laundry. You can see to it she gets her rations and bunk.”

The woman nodded, winking at RuthAnne with a wry smile. The little girl squirmed on the bench beside her. All of five or six years old, she looked solemnly at Bowen with huge eyes that were mirrors of her mother’s.

“Thank you for your attention, ladies. Enjoy your meal.” Reggie gave a playful salute and left with a flourish. A murmur filled the mess tent, and RuthAnne’s ears all but burned with gossip.

Bowen’s voice rose above the din once again. “Miss Jewel? Dolly. A moment, please, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Bowen eased RuthAnne forward. The young woman in her late twenties to early thirties stood up and fluffed out her pale blue skirts. Her face was suntanned and smooth skinned, with bright green eyes and an upturned nose. Her full, wide lips parted easily into a smile. Dolly Jewel stood almost as tall as RuthAnne and had a similar build. Their hands clasped in greeting, and Dolly held on, empathizing with RuthAnne’s story.

“Don’t worry yourself, Captain. Katie and I’ll see to it your Mrs. Newcomb finds everything she needs. Another pair of hands is always welcome, with all of this fort’s dirty laundry.”

The young woman shooed off her daughter, who pressed a quick hug and kiss against her mother’s apron and set off running. Bowen laughed in a rare, unguarded moment. A look of genuine affection, and if she was not mistaken, mutual respect passed between the soldier and the laundress.

RuthAnne inspected a loose string on her blouse, averting her eyes from the intimate moment.

So there is something to love in this gruff soldier, after all. And this must be the woman who loves him. Could that be his child? She closed her eyes and prayed for strength to get through this day.

“You coming?” The soft look that graced Bowen’s chiseled features had vanished. His eyes shone like sun-struck emeralds and were just as hard.

“Of course. Nice to meet you, Miss Jewel.” RuthAnne gave a nod and hurried to follow Bowen who had retreated into the compound. She hesitated, hearing Dolly call out to her.

“Wait one minute, Miz Newcomb. Here. Take this. He won’t think to feed you. And you call me Dolly, y’hear?” She shoved a cloth napkin hastily filled with some hard biscuits and bacon into RuthAnne’s grateful hands. “Be seein’ you.” With a wink, Dolly returned to the animated conversation at the table.

RuthAnne gratefully nibbled her breakfast and followed the captain’s footsteps out into the open air.

Chapter 10

RuthAnne squinted at the bright blue, cloudless sky as she hustled to keep up with Bowen. She fell into a quick step behind his lunging gait as he gave the nickel tour of the new Fort Lowell.

“The laundresses’ quarters are around the other side of the mess. You’ve already seen the stables.” He gestured toward the split rail fence that served as a corral and yet another adobe brick structure ever-present throughout the fort. The buildings were all low and squat, constructed from dried mud brick and framed with split-beamed open windows. The creek and dense mesquite forest lay beyond, thickening the fort’s borders. Miles away to the north, the sheer rock face of the Santa Catalina Mountains towered above the foothills and sloping floodplains in silent majesty.

Already, the heat of the day pricked RuthAnne’s skin with sweat, her cheeks flushed. Bowen seemed undaunted by the weather as he marched her around the fort. He answered hasty salutes as they passed startled infantrymen performing their morning duties.

“We keep the horses for the whole regiment and any who visit. Alex McDole’s in charge of the stables. You probably saw him last night. He keeps a flock of chickens, a rooster, even has some turkeys out in the back; tends a small garden there, toward the bosque on the edge of the creek. Grows beans, corn, onions, carrots, squash, whatever seeds he can manage.”

“Bosque?”

“It’s a Spanish word for forest.”

She turned her gaze toward where he pointed and drew to a halt, wondering at the thought of calling that scrubby stand of trees a forest, but even more at the thought of growing fresh vegetables out here in the middle of the godforsaken desert.

“We don’t have all day now. Let’s keep moving.”

She turned as a throng of brass instruments blasted the still morning. Bugle, horn, and drums played together in a cacophony of mismatched sounds.

“That building over to the left is the band barracks, the pride of the 7th Cavalry. They’re practicing for the dance this week.” He grimaced at an off note. “Sounds like they need it.”

She stifled a laugh more at the captain’s wry attempt at humor than his joke. The men outside the adobe band barracks picked up where they left off with their instruments shining in the morning sun, leaving thoughts in her head about a beautiful dreamer.

“In the summers, they have dances every week at the post hall. Boosts morale when it’s so danged hot. That’s also the barracks where the enlisted men bunk out.

“Officers’ quarters are beyond that span of cottonwood trees on the other side of the parade ground. You can tell the difference over the enlisted barracks, as they have tin roofs to keep the rain out. Officers’ wives get rather put out when the adobe roofs melt over their heads in a thunderstorm.”

“I can imagine.” Her eyes swept from the swaying, green-leafed, white-trunked grove of cottonwoods to where neat rows of soldiers practiced shouldering and un-shouldering arms in tightly packed groups. They were impressive in their gray and blue, all business though waves of heat already emanated from the dirt parade grounds they marched over.

She followed him into the blissful shade provided by the tunnel of cottonwood trees as he pointed out the post store and the equipage supply office.

“That’s the last of it. The creek runs to the north and east. The city is to the southwest. You’ll find all that you need in the laundresses’ quarters. What you don’t have, Dolly will set you up with from the post store. Anything else’ll have to wait for an ambulance to take you to the city.” He led her to the trunk of a fallen tree.

“I’m sure I’ll be just fine, Captain.” She saw him flinch at her formality as he directed her to sit.

The trees gave more than shelter from the sun; they bred privacy. In the dappled shade, she watched him pace, dark boots crunching the gravel path. She eyed him in a sidelong glance, so he wouldn’t see her staring. He fumbled with a loose button on his coat as he took a swig from his canteen. Was he nervous being alone with her? Should she be nervous being alone with him? He cleared his throat and passed the battered tin jug her way. She drank deeply, keeping a wary eye on her benefactor.

“You’re wondering why I didn’t mention Mara. Or El Tejano.” He waited a beat before he went on. “You’ll have to trust me.”

“Captain Shepherd, I’m most thankful to you for bringing me here and for giving me such a...fine opportunity, but this is starting to feel dishonest, and I can’t abide by that.” There. She’d spit out what had been burning inside.

“It isn’t a lie so much as an omission.” He took off his hat, turning it in his large, work-worn hands before leaning beside her on the moss-covered tree trunk. “The army is all I know, and the laundresses are the best thing the army has ever done for us. Hardworking, decent, and fair. More so than you’ll find in any officer’s quarters. Remember that. I’m not sure what it’s like where you come from, but out here this is still a territory. They’re trying their best to look prim and proper to bid for statehood, but underneath they’re still kicking up their heels and ready for a fight. In Tucson, the law has its own rules, and the walls have eyes and ears. Out here, it ain’t much better.”

He kicked at stones on the ground at her feet. She noticed a long, deep scratch under the polish of his left boot heel, something he’d tried to disguise. He stood on formality, but as he knelt in front of her and ran a hand through his ragged, curling dark hair, he looked so concerned. As if he were trying to take his very heart out and show it to her, but he couldn’t quite get a grasp on the words.

“Please understand, RuthAnne. One mention of a woman being accosted by that bandit and the good citizens would be up in arms. Before you know it, they’d be lynching every Mexican man in the city, just to prove a point and satisfy their blood lust. Military law is the only way we can see justice done. We’ve been searching him out, but he’s smart. I’m getting closer, and he’s getting careless. You see...your driver is the first man he’s killed. And, Mara...well.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat at the mention of Mara. “So, you think I’m better off if I am just Mrs. Newcomb, alone, lost in a storm and needing shelter?”

“For the moment, yes.” His stony gaze held hers like a vice. “The truth comes out, it’s your telling. You’ll be safe here until the army wagons can get through. You’ll get your money, and maybe we’ll get another bead on El Tejano. If you help me find his hideout.”

She thought long and hard about what he said. Sighing heavily, she figured he was right. Still, she yearned for the peace that came from knowing she made the right decision.

“So. You’re stashing us away. Mara at the chapel, and me here on wash duty.” She picked up a smooth, flat stone and skipped it down the dirt path. “I don’t see as how I have much of a choice. It’s a good offer, Captain. And it’s honest work. I thank you for it. If you could just show me where the chapel is, I’d really like a moment to pray on this.”

He cleared his throat. “Fort Lowell hasn’t had much call for one, ma’am. Not yet.”

“No chapel? What do the people do on Sunday?”

“You could go to the Presbyterian church in town. Most of the good citizens are still sleeping off Saturday night.” The humor in his tone didn’t reach his eyes. She suspected that he was more than likely one of them.

“I see. Well. Is that all of our business, then?” She stood and brushed the stray bark off her skirt. He nodded, brusquely. “Then I’d best be getting to work. I’ll be seeing you, Captain Shepherd.” RuthAnne squared her shoulders and set off across the compound to the laundresses’ quarters.

Bowen kept his eyes trained on her back. Though her slight figure and lengthy frame got more than its share of head turns from soldiers at arms across the field, she never broke her stride.

Bowen wondered at this woman, her inner strength, and smiled. They’d see just how strong she was when she realized what she’d be up against as a brand-new army laundress.

Chapter 11

RuthAnne entered the laundresses’ quarters. Her eyes swept the room, noting how the hard-packed dirt floor had been disguised by a wide, threadbare rug. A settee and set of camp chairs appeared silent audience to the guitar leaning on the opposite wall. The sparse furnishings seemed arranged for entertaining and conversation.

She could almost imagine folks gathering to sing songs, tell tales, and enjoy company on long summer evenings.

Dolly waited on the worn, blue velvet settee; her suntanned face beamed into a ready smile at RuthAnne’s entrance. “Well, I see that ol’ Bowen’s finally turned you loose. Did he manage to scare the livin’ daylights out of you yet? Have a seat, and we’ll get ourselves acquainted.” Dolly took her by the hands, talking a mile a minute.

Moments later, RuthAnne perched on the small settee and accepted a tin cup of cool water from the sweet hand of Dolly’s little girl. Dolly shot a proud grin in her daughter’s direction. “Thank you, Katie. This here’s Miss Newcomb.”

“Pleased to meetcha.” Katie gave a wobbly curtsey. RuthAnne couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s skinned knees and loosening braids that were mismatched with her prim outfit. “I’m Katie Jewel, and I’m five.”

“Oh, well, isn’t that nice?” RuthAnne said, hiding a laugh.

“Skedaddle, miss! Time to go do your schooling.” Dolly shooed the girl out the door to fetch her slate and pencil.

Dolly returned to a wicker basket stuffed full of clothes, shoes, and indeterminate items and began sorting through them. RuthAnne spied a small silver and turquoise cross brushing against Dolly’s blue gingham dress. With a long, slow breath, Dolly slipped the necklace inside her bodice and tucked the loose strands of red-gold hair behind her ears. It framed her sweet face and eyes that danced with good humor while she spoke. “It isn’t much, here, these quarters of ours. Not more than a lean-to set up against an old half-built, mud brick barracks, but it’ll do. It’s clean. We managed to finagle a tin roof even before the officers’ wives. Don’t you bet that didn’t beat all!”

She gave a saucy wink while she folded and stacked some worn-looking dresses. “We rate here in the army, you see. We’re paid regular as any enlisted man, and more than some. The officers’ wives, they’re just tagalongs for the most part. There have been some that pulled their own weight. Missy Sutton for one. Her Jack was the old quartermaster before John Cross was assigned here, God rest him. They were a pair, to be sure. Not many like her. Tough as they come, and that’s something, considering he dragged her all the way from Virginia as a young bride. They got reassigned, oh, about two year ago, up to Prescott. Me, I’m from the territories, born and raised. Never even been back east. Heck, never been east of the Rio Grande!”

She waited as if prompting RuthAnne to offer some personal information. Instead, there was a moment of awkward silence while RuthAnne fingered the stack of clothes, took a garment, and started folding.

“Let’s see...” Dolly continued. “There’s a privy right out back. The kids won’t stay underfoot if you shoo them outside like a flock of hens every now and again. That and a day’s work that would terrify the bravest man’s about all there is to tell.”

Dolly helped RuthAnne to her feet and shoved the basket into her arms. “These are yours. Some’ll fit, some’ll have to be fitted, and some are plain trash. Up to you to decide. I have a sewing kit you can borrow and even a Singer treadle table stashed in my room, if you’re handy with a pattern. You ready?”

RuthAnne clutched the basket and blanched, but quickly saw that Dolly was only teasing.

“You gotta have a good sense of humor when you’re faced with our workday in and out. Hope you have a strong stomach. Follow me.”

Sure she was going to be forced to the washbasins immediately, RuthAnne followed Dolly down the dark corridor, passing canvas flaps that served as doors. Behind were the sparsely furnished laundresses’ quarters. Each small room was about a ten-by-ten box, sectioned off by a canvas partition and included a cot, a gray army blanket, and a hard pillow of striped cotton duck cloth.

“Doesn’t matter if there’s just one of you or four or five, we all get the same amount of space. Of course, some of us are better at procuring the comforts of home than others.”

Dolly opened a flap at the end of the room and led RuthAnne into her own personal quarters. A Singer treadle sewing table was stuck neatly in one corner, the only tidy part of Dolly Jewel’s quarters.

A carved wooden wardrobe with a silver-backed mirror perched inside graced one corner. Clothes were stuffed in the drawers and draped over the cane-backed chair at a small secretary desk. Dolly’s cot was mounded with a featherbed ticking, and a hand-stitched quilt was thrown hastily over its mass of pillows. Katie’s small bed stood beside, bedecked in a handmade quilt with butterflies made from purple, pink, and green bits of cloth. A rosy-cheeked, porcelain doll with curling brown hair sat proudly displayed among her pillows.

“This here’s mine and Katie’s spot.” Dolly plopped down on her bed in a heap.

“It’s very...cozy.” RuthAnne barely managed to find something pleasant to say about the jumbled mess.

“Cozy! That’s rich. It’s a mess. I never did take to military styling. Never had the need. My parents dragged us from here to Texas and back again, and I used to drive them crazy, having to crate up all of my belongings! After the Injuns burned everything we owned when I was fourteen, we hooked back up with an army escort. Came back by way of Tucson. I swore I’d never make that trek east again. That’s them, there.”

She pointed to the steamer trunk that served as a table. It sat topped with daguerreotype pictures in leather pocket frames; the faces of people Dolly knew and loved stared stoically out at the room.

“You got family, honey?”

Such an innocent question, and yet RuthAnne’s throat began to seize up. Each breath drew hard and fast, yet no air seemed to fill her lungs. Her thoughts circled around the life she and Mara had left behind in Somerville, Alabama. Her mother, lost to the world. Her father, a mere shadow of his former self. Both of her brothers were buried and gone. Evan...It all seemed very far away.

“My husband...he died...and...” Her breath hitched.

Dolly took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “One thing’s certain in this world. If you come this far west you’re either running from something or running toward it. Me, I’m through with running. It just makes you sick. The army’s got its drawbacks, but it’s good for three squares and a roof over your head. If you’re willing and able, we’ve got the work. Ready to enlist?”

Enlisting meant accepting and depositing the basket of hand-me-down clothes into her empty quarters and being marched to the post store for meager supplies. Dolly’s step was quick and surefooted, and RuthAnne found herself scurrying to keep up. Obviously, Dolly knew where she was going, with a clear angle on all of the shortcuts to get there.

They hot-stepped it through the mess hall, around some irritated KP soldiers: one elbow deep in scrubbing out giant pots, another busy unearthing a burlap bag of pinto beans that RuthAnne assumed would be for supper. Making sure the coast was clear, Dolly pushed her across the parade ground and through a corner of the thickest grove of spiny trees that RuthAnne had ever seen. That bosque of Bowen’s couldn’t mean forest. It must be a Spanish word meaning sharp and angry trees.

Up ahead, Dolly yelped as a spiny thorn pierced her boot. “Watch out for thorns!”

RuthAnne considered the spines that littered the ground, along with the rough, peeling bark clinging to the hem of her skirts. It seemed everything in this corner of the world was dressed to defend itself. She glanced at her own feet and the comfortable, thick leather moccasins Mariposa had given her. They made much better walking shoes than Dolly’s more fashionable button boots.

On the other side of the mesquite thicket stood a stubby adobe building with a low roof and small wooden door. A sign above the rough-hewn ramada claimed that this was the Post Store. Another sign noted that patrons could send and receive mail and telegrams and order from catalogs, as long as they paid in advance. Dolly marched them right inside without as much as a how-do-you-do to the two men sitting on the bench seats in the shade. RuthAnne heard a derogatory comment come from one of them and approved highly of Dolly’s decision to ignore them. Her ears still burned with embarrassment as she stepped inside the dusty, dim establishment.

After a moment, her eyes adjusted to the light. The store was built of the same rich brown adobe brick as present elsewhere in the fort, but this one was unlike the other buildings RuthAnne had seen. The floors were wood plank and echoed hollowly underfoot. She wondered what was below as she followed Dolly to the back counter, eyeing the displayed items along the way and feeling the sharp pang that she had neither money nor the barest of necessities to call her own.

Shelves and barrels were stacked floor to ceiling with goods. Tinware lined one wall with pots, pans, cutlery, and the like for cooking everything from boiled eggs to cakes and muffins. Selections ranged from inexpensive to extravagant. She couldn’t help but notice stacked kegs of coffee, dark brown roasted beans whose aroma seeped into the air. She inhaled its rich scent, feeling instantly invigorated. The burlap sacks of green coffee beans, a flavor she had never acquired, didn’t smell like anything at all.

Gunnysacks of flour, sugar, pinto beans, and other dried goods were out with signs displaying their prices at five, ten, and twenty cents per pound; compared to Kansas City prices, it seemed the post store owner was making himself a fair profit.

Walking further through the store, she identified lye and soda ash for use in making soap, as well as bottles of indigo dye and jars of polish for army boots and brass. Her fingers trailed the items as she dimly heard Dolly tell her she’d be back directly. RuthAnne nodded absently. Moments later, she heard the hollow steps of someone going below, as if to a basement, while she found what she was looking for.

Rolls of yard goods were stacked close to a window in an effort to catch the light, though she clicked her tongue in disapproval. The pretty fabrics should not be displayed where the sun could ruin them so completely! She stretched out a bolt of calico in colors of red, orange, brown, and tan and wrinkled her nose. Too late for that one; the sun had done its work aplenty, as there was a fade line on the bias. She re-folded the fabric and went on to search out what this post store thought was essential to the average Fort Lowell woman.

She was happily cooing over a stretch of Irish linen when Dolly appeared with a man a good three inches shorter than herself. He was stocky of build, with a well-kept black handlebar mustache and thinning salt-and-pepper hair. His chocolate-brown eyes were kind, his face weathered, but his way was easy and light; he and Dolly were obviously quite fond of each other.

Something inside her clicked. Would a man ever look at her that way again? Her thoughts flicked to the captain. The way his brusque manner had dissolved into a quick laugh at the little girl. RuthAnne pushed down the thoughts the handsome soldier brought to her heart. He certainly didn’t view her as anything but a means to an end. That would have to be enough.

“Ruthie, this here’s Whit Baker. He just bought this here post store from the fool who built it.” The two had a good laugh at the inside joke.

“Bought it for a song, but I’m not the one singing it at present.” He stepped forward and held RuthAnne’s hand warmly. “I’m told that you are our newest laundress. Welcome to a long and distinguished army tradition.”

“Thank you, Mr. Baker.”

“Women who keep our boys from wearing rags, what a tradition indeed!” Dolly whispered for RuthAnne’s ears alone. “Our soldiers will never mention it, but the army pays us for each one we tend to, once a month out of their salary. The only good thing Post Commander Carington ever did was see that we’re paid before the men see their money, or we’d be left holding more often than not.”

Dolly happily dug through a crate that Whit had dragged up with him from the cellar below and continued her tirade. “With the troops staying closer to the fort these days, you may have as many as nineteen or twenty to tend to. We’ll see how you do. Oh! Whit, this is why I love you so dearly. Look, Ruthie. It’s that special soap with the lavender scent to it! I just love this soap. Not a drop of lye in it! Oh! And cold cream! And hand cream! Where did you find this? I’d requested this from old what’s-his-name months ago. See, I just knew you were a catch. Isn’t he, though?”

RuthAnne offered a strained smile. She’d never seen a woman so easy to laugh, quick to tease, and able to calculate expenses so rapidly. She watched in awe as Dolly set aside things to purchase immediately and things to wait for later that month.

“I’d buy it all now, if I could. God didn’t give me the sense he gave a mule. I’m trying to be patient and wait, but it all smells so good! Doesn’t it?” She stretched out a length of red and white striped satin ribbons. “Whit, be a dear and throw in a yard of this for Katie’s hair. Won’t those look lovely with her coloring?”

Whit drew out his silver scissors, measured, and cut before Dolly changed her mind. RuthAnne had no time to answer as Dolly launched into a conversation about the torrential rain and the flood that had taken all of RuthAnne’s belongings. “Those flash floods around here are killers.”

“You are lucky that you escaped with your life,” Whit said with genuine concern.

Guilt flushed RuthAnne’s cheeks. Suddenly, she realized it was the truth. She was lucky she had escaped with her life after what that bandit had done to Mr. Bingham and Mara...

“Oh, let’s not talk of such sorrowful things.” Dolly grabbed RuthAnne’s hands, which had gone ice cold, and rubbed them vigorously. “We’ve managed to put together the sorriest batch of dresses, skirts, and whatnots that you’ve ever seen. Now, what can we have on account to set our Miss Newcomb up as a proper fort laundress?”

RuthAnne watched in awe as the two of them began grabbing the soap, dye, and washboard and basin that would be her tools of the trade, but also sundry items that she hadn’t even thought of. A tube of tooth polish; a delicately carved wooden hairbrush; what Whit described as a laundress’ standard ration of coffee, tea, sugar, flour, beans, and packets of salt and pepper. She saw him grin as he shoved in a small canister of cinnamon and even a paper-wrapped bar of chocolate.

“Now, how handy are you with a sewing table?” At Dolly’s grin, she wondered if Bowen hadn’t disclosed her full story to this woman after all. “I saw you eyeing that fabric over there. Whit’s a dear, but if you want to think about making some new clothes, why not wait until the weekend and journey to town. Hernando Ochoa has the best selection of new patterns and fabric south of Prescott.”

“I don’t need anything; really, you all have been more than generous with me. I don’t even know where to begin I’m so grateful.” RuthAnne smiled warmly and couldn’t resist the urge to hug her new friend.

Dolly balked and then laughed, hugging her back. “Honey, you’re going to earn everything Whit shoved in that box for you, ten times over. Truthfully, I’m so grateful for the help I should be the one hugging you!”

Across the parade grounds, the bugles called and soldiers shouted during drills. Sounds of marching, weapons practice, and officers shouting filled the air.

“No rest for the weary! We’d better get to work or the day’s washing won’t be dry by “Taps.” Good day, Mr. Baker! You’ll bring the rest out to Suds Row later today, I trust?”

“Always a pleasure for a minute of your company, Miss Jewel.” He tipped an imaginary cap to her and had her giggling. Dolly ushered RuthAnne out the door and into the sunlight.

Chapter 12

Abigail Stevenson brushed her gunmetal gray hair out of her eyes. It was already steaming hot outside, and she had miles of work yet to do. With a huff, she looked up from her washbasin aiming to see the next bag of soiled linens to set to wash. Instead, she noted Captain Bowen Shepherd. His stride was unmistakable as he crossed the parade grounds, passing a company of men with a sound salute. The sight of a man in uniform still made the girl in her tremble, even though her girlhood had long since passed. Shepherd was a sight to behold in his hat trimmed in gold, pressed blue coat, and blue trousers. The leather on his boots didn’t dare hold the dust he tromped over. He was a mountain of a man and a lifer in the army. He was the type who didn’t know how to quit anything. She had known him long enough for that.

“Now, where’s Captain Shepherd going in such an all-fire hurry?” she wondered out loud as she wrung the last of the water from the freshly washed jacket. Her fingers had long since lost their softness from years of lye and water. Washboards and frontier women were anything but soft and feminine. That bit of a girl the captain had dragged out here had a whole heap of worry in front of her that she couldn’t begin to comprehend. Abigail smirked as she hefted her next load of wash to the basin, debating on whether to fill it with fresh water. If it was an officer, then she’d bother for the extra money they paid her, but the tag read Private, so she’d give her poor back a break for one more load.

As she watched Captain Shepherd make his way past the stables, it became clear he was aiming for Suds Row. Her heart seized in her chest. Her first thought went to her husband, Lawrence, a sergeant with the Seventh. When the Indians were flexing their muscles, an officer coming to call always made her nervous. Then again, she’d been responsible for Captain Shepherd’s uniforms and laundry since he transferred to the fort. He was early; that was all, she told herself, crossing herself quick. She ran a cake of soap briskly across the poor Private’s trousers and raked them up and down the washboard with a practiced hand.

Bowen wandered in, looking somber as ever. “Morning, Abigail. I’m too early for my things, I know.”

“No. They’re ready.” She gestured to the stacked and folded uniforms, wrapped in his blanket. She gave him a wink. “I always get to my favorites first.” His smile warmed her to the bones, even though she was twice his age.

“That’s not the only reason I’m here.” He hesitated, but she knew before he even spoke.

“You came to ask me to look out for that fair-haired Southern girl.” She plopped the now-rinsed trousers over a peg. “I’d say you should know better, but you do already, so I figure you’ve got your reasons, Captain. I’ll do it. But I wouldn’t count on her to stay long. She has soft hands. Trim figure. She’ll either get herself back on a stage east or hightail it to California. This here’s no place for a woman like her.”

“And what if she has her own reasons for staying put?” he challenged with a slight smile on his otherwise stern face.

“Reasons like falling for a tall, handsome soldier?” She watched him bristle at her words. Interesting.

“Not likely.”

“Well, if she’s fool enough to stay around this outfit, after she’s been interviewed by our esteemed post commander...”

“Now, Abigail...”

She pooh-poohed him with a laugh, watching him shoulder his laundry sack. “Don’t get your hackles up. He’s up in Prescott and won’t be back for a week or more.”

Their eyes held a mutual understanding that words didn’t even cover. Post Commander Carington had a reputation for greeting the young laundresses in his own special way.

The captain thanked Abigail and set on his way, but she wondered after him. He was worried and more than a little smitten, if she didn’t guess right. Too bad he was too stubborn to do anything about it.

****

Dolly led RuthAnne to the area referred to as Suds Row. The women worked in the open air under a ramada with washbasins set up rank and file. Dirty water was to be dumped into an eroded canal that watered the gardens by the stable. Someone had thought to place wood planks underfoot to keep the mud at bay, but RuthAnne could see baked and dried evidence where basins had been wrestled free from sinking and feet had been sucked in after several days worth of rain and sloshed water.

There were lines for drying soldiers’ clothing. Once dried, the officer’s uniforms would be pressed with flat irons and packed for delivery. RuthAnne smiled solemnly at the worn garments even now blowing hollow and ghostly in the steady hot breeze. Somewhere in a train depot, their replacements waited and were sorely needed, from the look of things.

“You can work by me today,” Dolly said.

“I’d like that. Thanks.” RuthAnne followed Dolly’s lead and rolled up her sleeves and began filling buckets.

“Now, on Sunday we’ll head into town and see about getting some new fabrics for clothes.” Dolly blew at her bangs while RuthAnne worked the pump handle and filled another bucket. “There’s a new shop there that sells camisoles and pantaloons, as I’m sure you’ll want to rid yourself of hand-me-downs as soon as you can. I wish we could have done more for you.”

RuthAnne was already overwhelmed with the kindness that had been shown to her by her new friend. She had been all but speechless when Dolly showed her back to her quarters to find the basket of donated items deposited in a footlocker and a handmade quilt folded neatly at the foot of the straw-tick bed. She was about to say something about it when an older, gray-haired woman burst upon them at the pump.

“Well, if you two are finished buying out Mr. Baker’s store, there’s a mountain of work to be done. It’s almost ten! Where’ve you been, Jewel? Did you forget you get paid for working?”

Dolly smiled back easily, sloshing a final bucket of water into her wood basin as if she were used to this kind of greeting from the storm of a woman before them. She introduced Abigail Stevens and tossed RuthAnne a scrub brush.

“Any good stories today?” Dolly gave a conspiratorial wink, nudging RuthAnne’s ribs.

Abigail’s face melted from annoyed to gleeful in an instant. She took a quick look around before leaning in to share her bit of news. “Just a word I overheard while helping Reggie collect eggs. You haven’t told her much about our post commander yet, I reckon?”

Dolly cleared her throat. “We haven’t really had the time to get into that.”

“Didn’t think so.” With a huff, Abigail continued. “Dolly can fill you in later. The most important thing to know about that man is he is his own favorite human being. Aside from that, don’t be caught alone with him or tongues will fly faster than a bobcat after a rabbit. The man has a habit of collecting innocent young women like an Apache collects scalps.”

RuthAnne nodded as if she understood. Abigail went on to tell about the arrival of the post commander’s wife. “She’s returning from San Francisco by way of steamer.”

RuthAnne’s eyebrows went up in question as Dolly laughed heartily and said, “Oh, honey. No one takes a steam ship around the Gulf of California in August. Not unless you’re crazy, stupid, or reassigned by the army. You can bet Post Commander Carington didn’t request her presence here.”

“Nope.” Abigail shook her head. “She’s come to do her darndest to make their sham of a marriage look good. Seems her son’s come back to the territories from West Point, and she is determined to play the doting mother once again.”

“I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.” Dolly giggled. “She’s meaner than a whole nest of rattlesnakes and about as attractive. After riding that steamer ship for ten days without a bath, fresh food, or fresh water, she’ll be a sight to behold!”

“And the ride up the Gila River won’t have been much better. Those barges get stuck on sandbars and the like, sometimes for days on end. I’d give her a wide berth when she gets back to the fort. Take them words to heart, missy.”

RuthAnne watched Abigail go back to her work. “I don’t think she likes me very much...”

Dolly shook her head. “Aw, she doesn’t really get close to anyone. She’s lost her boys. Lost her purpose in everything but her daughter, Moira. Doesn’t really have much fun save for the chance to gossip. And talking about Clara Carington is one of her favorite things to do.”

“Well, it sounds like Mrs. Carington is going through a lot of trouble to get here. She must be very excited to see her son.”

“That’s what I enjoy about you so much. You’re sweet. Let’s just see what you think after you’ve had a chance to see her firsthand.” Dolly’s eyes had hardened like clear stones and then softened again when she turned to work. “Now, Ruthie, meet your soldiers. Their names are on the bag they come in. Try and keep them together. Someone will claim you lost something, that’s inevitable. Do your best to make it not true. These boys out here need all that they have and more. Take special care with some of them, they’re all but worn through.”

Dolly took that opportunity to dump the first sack of sweat-smelling, salt-crusted, dusty clothes, and RuthAnne fought the urge to both burst into tears and smile. The last time she’d washed men’s things was when Evan was alive; nearly two years had passed and yet it seemed like only yesterday. Emotions swirled, making her light-headed.

Dolly held out a cake of lye soap and a pitying look. “You don’t have much experience with labor, do you?”

RuthAnne bit her lip and smiled. It was an innocent enough question. It took more than a day with a person to get to know her true self.

“Don’t worry. I can hold my own.” With that, RuthAnne pulled up a sturdy, three-legged stool and set to work.

Chapter 13

The next morning’s “Reveille” came with a shock. RuthAnne found her fingers stiff, sore, chapped, and cracking beyond all recognition. At the foot of her bed, a jar of salve beckoned. A mysterious gift. She gratefully rubbed the viscous liquid over her skin, amazed at how her hands drank in the pungent ointment. When all was said and done, she could flex her fingers without much pain. Tucking the jar into her footlocker for future use, she said a silent prayer for her secret angel. Who had left it? Was it Dolly? Certainly not Mrs. Stevens. She couldn’t imagine anyone else finding his way into the busy laundresses’ quarters or the impropriety it could imply.

She found her pitcher and washbasin filled with fresh water and quickly washed her face. She dressed in a hand-me-down, loose-fitting dress, but she still opted for the light moccasin shoes over the ill-fitting button boots someone had thought to provide. Looking very much the part of disheveled washerwoman, RuthAnne followed the sounds of crying babies and shushing mothers out the door and into the bright August morning.

Her next few days were much of the same. The mountains of garments shrank with each sundown and grew with each sunrise. She and Dolly took to making a game of who could finish their workload first.

Abigail Stevens had a habit of searching for incriminating evidence of a soldier’s misdeeds among his dirty laundry and made a joke of carefully wrapping up the nosegays and hidden cards she found in their pockets.

“God has a special heart for fools and children.” Abigail wrapped up five spare aces she’d discovered hiding neatly in a certain private first class’ shirt pocket.

“You trying to help him face the truth and shame the devil?” Dolly asked sweetly. Abigail retorted with a comment that had RuthAnne studying a tear in the pocket of a pair of pants drying on her line.

Dolly rolled her eyes. “You’d think she’s being pious ’cept she’s probably extorting the poor fellow.”

While Dolly and Abigail exchanged heated words, RuthAnne excused herself and gathered up a basket of sewing notions. Finished with her day’s work, she set to mending and reattaching buttons or securing loose ones.

“You know, you could charge extra for that if you waited ’til your soldier asked for the mending. Darned waste of time to do it aforehand, if’n you ask me,” Abigail chided.

“Who’s to look after these boys, if not us? Aren’t they the ones seeing us safe from Indians?” RuthAnne said, head high.

“We’ll see.” Abigail’s eyes misted then hardened. RuthAnne ignored the obvious disapproval, her back to the women as she completed her mending in silence.

It didn’t take long for RuthAnne to fall into the rhythm of working again. An endless medley of plunge and scrub, rinse and wring, pin and starch, iron and mend. She relished each task, knowing that every day would bring her closer to getting back to Mara.

The days were long and hot, like a blast from an oven. The nights were longer still, sultry under a moonless sky. She thought back to carefree summers as a child in Alabama. Windows left open to catch the barest of breezes. She laughed to herself that the ladies thought Tucson humid. Even though it was a mite uncomfortable, nothing could compare with the buzzing, biting insects and steamy-hot dog days of Somerville, Alabama.

Thoughts zipped round her head like the lightning that danced and flickered in the far off clouds. She watched through the small window as the dark silhouette of the mountains ignited into view. The distant storms clung to the steep slopes like a lover, refusing to let go and bring blessed, cooling rain.

She turned over, her mind churning with images of Mara, of the man who had rescued them, of the one who had almost taken their lives. Sleep refused to find her, and she punched her pillow with a frustrated fist. Where could Bowen be? She hadn’t seen him since he had deposited her with the laundresses. She disliked the notion of waiting for his return but couldn’t help jumping whenever she saw a swiftly approaching officer. How he’d so quickly gotten under her skin!

As the dark, lonely hours ticked by, she prayed for Father Acuña and Mariposa; she knew in her heart they were doing everything for her sister. That Mara was healing. Still, she longed to see her sister with her own eyes. To kiss her hands and brush her hair and bring her out of this desert into their own promised land.

Her thoughts slipped to the man who had led them into such dire straits, and she had to pray for another strength altogether. El Tejano, his soulless eyes and featureless mask, his heart as black as the desert night. He took what wasn’t his without remorse and had no care for human life.

She could not find the words to pray for his soul, and even more so, she had to still her tongue before she prayed ill over him. This man, who had almost killed her dear sister; this mystery that threatened to consume her every thought. And all of it jumbled together with thoughts of the secretive soldier who had rescued them.

Each night, she saw Bowen’s face as she wrenched her mind from poisonous thoughts toward the thief.

Todo o nada resounded in her brain. She prayed for relief and dreamed of the mysterious soldier who had rescued them from the darkness.

****

RuthAnne inhaled the scent of warm sunshine from the clothesline. It was her last load of the day, and she could imagine the face of the young soldier who had dropped off his laundry bag that morning; Corporal Perry Finch, with his shock of blonde hair and piercing brown eyes. Though she’d be surprised if he were twenty years old, his face was weathered and tanned. He was gaunt from poor eating. While over six feet tall, the extreme heat and hardtack had its way of wearing a young man down.

She imagined him with a mother who worried over him, sending him letters that he probably responded to immediately. She knew a boy like this needed someone to give him extra care. He was still out on patrol and more than likely wouldn’t be back until late afternoon.

While a bevy of laundresses headed to the mess tent, RuthAnne unclipped Corporal Finch’s army issue shirts and trousers and folded them in her basket. She had already noted his pants needed patching at the knee and had managed to squirrel away just the right hue of swatch to fix it. Trimming a few loose threads at the cuffs should spiff up his jacket, and he was sure to lose a button or two if she didn’t shore them up. Humming while she sat with her sewing kit and scissors in the shade of a cottonwood tree on the edge of the Row, she set to caring for this soldier.

She could hear the whispers as she pressed his trousers with the iron, heated on the wood stove. Who pressed clothes for an enlisted man? RuthAnne actually found herself anticipating Abigail’s disapproving frown with each patch sewn and button re-secured. Still, when the men picked up their sacks, RuthAnne met them each with a word of kindness. Someone had to love on these boys. If not the women who cared for their worldly needs, then who?

The mess bell was ringing again when she finished her work. She wrapped up Corporal Finch’s worn-out uniforms in brown paper, as if the clothing were brand new, as she had for each of the five soldiers she had minded that day.

When Corporal Finch appeared, she noted a new injury to his knee, the cloth torn and rimmed with dried blood. She estimated the next size of patch he was going to need as she handed him his parcel.

“Thank you, Missus Newcomb.” He spoke with a white-toothed grin.

“Now, Corporal,” RuthAnne scolded, “you need to be more careful when scaling those barbed wire fences. You make sure to see the post surgeon about your knee before it gets worse.”

“Post surgeon’s gone to California for the rest of the summer. It’ll heal.”

“Well, with a bad cut you could lose a leg. You go see Alex McDole at the stable. He tends wounds on the horses. He can give your knee a looking over, too.”

Properly chastised, the young man promised that he would and thanked her when she tucked the jar of healing salve in his hands along with his laundry.

Over the next few days, Dolly and Abigail both mentioned a gleam in the eye and a lighter step in RuthAnne’s soldiers. And they weren’t the only ones who noticed.

Bowen tried to shake his dark mood by heading to the post store. He needed supply rations before their next outing. Whit Baker sat behind the counter, grinning up a storm as the captain found his way back.

“So here’s the man I have to thank for bringing the sweetest single girl to the fort in years.” Baker seemed obviously pleased about something, but whatever he aimed at had gotten Bowen’s hackles raised even higher.

“Careful what you say when you’re speaking of a lady, Whit. It could land someone in a heap of trouble if it falls on the wrong ears.”

Whit’s smile faltered, but then he found his grin again and laughed. “And a fine lady she is, sir. Drives a hard bargain in the store, don’t you know. Had me giving her almost fifteen percent off supplies that were going to be used for her work! I haven’t had to haggle that much since I first sold something to Dolly Jewel.”

“Those two are becoming fast friends.”

The men eased onto stools on opposite sides of the counter. Whit poured tepid lemonade into Mason jar glasses. Bowen swallowed, refreshed from the heat of the afternoon.

“Hard not to be friends with Miss Jewel. She’s a pistol.” Whit ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Bowen set his glass down and leaned forward to clap a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“And just when are you planning on telling her you’re in love with her?” Bowen grinned. It would be a good match once the both of them realized they were made for each other.

Whit looked up, dismayed. “Is it that obvious, then?”

“You mean to anyone but me, you, and the fence post? No. Your secret is safe.”

Whit breathed a sigh of relief before going back to unboxing merchandise from a crate marked Perishable.

He pried open a tin of butter, sighing in annoyance. “Now, for what I have to pay, you expect it to at least be butter-colored. This looks like the desert sky at sunset! I can’t sell this. Well, not to the officers’ wives, anyway.”

Bowen eyed the open tin and the swirl of clear, red, orange, and blue oils inside it. He caught a whiff and wrinkled his nose as Whit replaced the lid.

“Oh, forgot to tell you. Wire came in this morning from Prescott,” Whit spoke over his shoulder while examining the rest of the newly delivered stock.

“Not to your attention, I’m guessing.”

“From the post commander, sent to Kendrick.” Bowen’s interest piqued, he leaned forward over the counter. Baker straightened before continuing. “Mrs. Carington, it seems, is returning posthaste. They’re on their way up from the Gila already by army ambulance. Might even be this afternoon. Kendrick was ordered to get the commander’s quarters ready for her and for two more.”

“Two more? The daughters are coming, then.” He hadn’t seen them since they were sent off to finishing school. If the girls were finished in any way like their mother, the entirety of Fort Lowell was in for a heap of trouble.

“Seems they’ve completed their studies at the finishing academy, and Mrs. Carington didn’t want to leave them unattended.”

“Kendrick’s going to have his hands full, then.” Bowen attempted to hide a smile. Anything that would keep the major from bothering the troops with trivial duties and meaningless inspections was fine with him.

“He’s been to the commander’s quarters three times already. He found Charley wandering through and has put him to work.” Whit leaned in closer, though they were alone in the store. “I hear tell that Charley hightailed it out already.”

Bowen chuckled at the thought. The sight of a nearly seven-foot Yavapai native with braids and a penchant for wearing an army coat over his costume of loin cloth would be quite a sight for two young girls fresh out of finishing school. Needless to say, knowing Charley’s attitude after spending a day with Major Kendrick, he might just disappear into the desert for a month.

At that moment, the door creaked open, and the heavy boots of Major Anthony Kendrick crossed the plank wood floor to the back of the store.

Bowen saluted with his hand though his eyes said otherwise.

“At ease, soldier,” Kendrick huffed. A slight man with a pointed nose like a rat and eyes that sat behind round spectacles, he was red in the face from the heat and full uniform. As Bowen stood up to leave, Kendrick put a hand up to stop him. “Wait just a minute, Shepherd. We need to talk.”

“Be seein’ you, Whit.” Bowen sighed and followed Kendrick out into the midday sun.

“What can I do for you, Anthony?” Bowen intentionally called the man by name rather than referring to him by rank. Smirking, he knew the offense could cost him. Still, it was worth it to see Kendrick puff up like a bantam rooster.

“You can start by respecting your superior officer.” Kendrick waited a beat before continuing. “I need you to help me find that new lady laundress you brought here. Seems she can’t do nothing but right by the men. It’s all I hear about, instead of the usual griping about how much we take out of their pay. They are asking for her by name. Rebecca? Luann? Whatever she calls herself. I need her.”

“Commander isn’t due back till the end of the week. She hasn’t been officially enlisted.”

Kendrick narrowed his eyes at Bowen’s tone. “We’re speeding things along in this case. Mrs. Carington and the twins are arriving on the morning stage. She’s going to get here before Marcus arrives, come hell or high water, and it may just come to that. They’ll need your lady friend as a handmaid for a few days...to get them sorted out.”

“I thought you assigned Charley that particular pleasure.” Bowen fought the urge to crack a smile at the weasel’s obvious discomfort.

“Charley? Well, that heathen’s disappeared back out into the hills. I don’t know why the army insists on hiring those savages anyway. You never do know if they are listening to you or just sizing up how to scalp you.”

Atta boy, Charley, was all he could think as Kendrick rattled on with his gross generalizations about all native people. Bowen had known Charley for years. He was a proud man, an honorable man, and one that had not been broken by men like this one, Bowen was happy to see.

Still, this wasn’t particularly good news for RuthAnne. Clara Carington was a hard woman. He hoped that charm school had helped her daughters become a kinder, gentler sort than their mama; he highly doubted it. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you are the one who’s going to tell her.”

Bowen narrowed his eyes, taking a deep breath before he went and told Kendrick which way was up.

Kendrick raised his hands in defense. “You know her better than anyone else, Captain. You can ease her into the situation gently.”

Now it made sense. Kendrick was afraid of looking weak but wanted RuthAnne to know what to expect; the major was obviously more afraid of Clara Carington than he was of her husband.

“I don’t agree with this, Major, but I’ll pass along the news.” Bowen eyed the man up and down, disgusted. He was a poor excuse for a soldier. They had a history, and it was not one Bowen cared to remember, thinking of the men Kendrick had put in harm’s way to satisfy a whim of the commander or his son, Marcus. Anthony Kendrick had no spine, and now he was passing off orders to save his own skin. Bowen headed off to be the bearer of bad news, leaving the slight man in the dust.

****

“Why, thank you, Private Donnelly. These will really come in handy.” RuthAnne smiled at the lanky young man before her. He stood, hat in hand, sweaty red hair pasted to his head, chin a scruff of beard still trying to grow in. “I’m amazed you remembered!”

She took the package of dried sage and lavender and inhaled the pleasant aroma.

The soldier cleared his throat, voice cracking. “I see it growing on the banks of the Rillito. I can show you where, if you like...”

“That’s mighty kind of you. I’m sure that some of the other ladies would love to know where the wild lavender grows. Especially Moira Stevens. She has a good heart and a strong mind. She’ll keep you on your toes, Private.”

He hazarded a glance in the young woman’s direction. The daughter of Abigail Stevens, Moira, was elbow deep in a vat of suds and laughing at a comment her mother had made. She eyed the soldier and flicked him a soapy wave. His blush matched the color of his hair.

RuthAnne handed him his pack, neatly washed, folded, and starched. “I stitched up some pockets for you, so you won’t lose anything else while marching around. Or dancing. Isn’t there a fort dance on Friday?”

At her question, he gulped, Adam’s apple bouncing up and down. “Why, yes. Yes, ma’am, there is.”

“Moira will be there. Be sure and save the dress blues for the dance, and shine your shoes up real good.” She clapped him on the shoulder, and he stumbled on his way with a thank you.

“That was keenly handled.” The baritone voice of Bowen Shepherd made her jump.

RuthAnne bloomed at his arrival. The sudden urge to throw her arms around his neck startled her. Instead, she opened the packet of herbs to thumb its contents. “He’s a sweet boy, but he needs a girl his own age. Got his work cut out for him, though, seein’ Moira isn’t terribly interested in soldiers.”

Bowen stepped forward and plucked a sprig of sage from RuthAnne’s fingers, sniffing its thick, hearty aroma. “That’s a rather scrubby-looking bouquet.”

“Well, that’s because they’re just scents. Herbs, you know, for adding to laundry soap. I thought it might be nice if we could spiff everyone up a bit around here.”

“You’ve turned this fort on its ear, haven’t you? Scented soaps. Ironing trousers for enlisted men...” He loomed toward her, obviously upset, his voice a decibel too loud. RuthAnne took a quick step back.

He raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. The green flashed in his hazel eyes. His chiseled face was grim as he towered above her.

What could I have done to warrant such an interrogation? she wondered with a hammering heart. “There’s nothing wrong with going the extra mile to make someone else feel special.”

“No, I don’t suppose there is. But you’ve gone and done it now. You’ve gotten yourself noticed.” He sat down heavily on an overturned washbasin, and she noted a hint of concern fill his eyes.

“Noticed?”

“Major Kendrick requested your services for the post commander’s wife and daughters. They’re arriving in the next day or so. They’ll keep you plenty busy, trust me on that one.”

“Well, wherever the army wants me. How much time could a post commander’s wife possibly commandeer?”

Bowen stood abruptly and kicked over the washtub. Water splashed her skirts and suds flew. RuthAnne gasped as he grabbed her by the shoulders. Warmth radiated from his hands, down her spine. His fingers stopped one step short of digging into her flesh as he implored her to pay attention. She sensed Moira and Abigail’s eyes on them, and her cheeks flushed with more than just the heat of the day.

“I’m telling you that I can’t protect you from her or her husband. I’ll try my level best, but he’s not the kind of man you’ll want to be alone with. She’s coming back with her daughters to plan a welcoming party for her son, Marcus. The commander will follow shortly thereafter. It’ll be one big happy family,” he scoffed.

He loosened his grip upon her but did not let her go. She was at his mercy, taking in every imploring word. “Just be careful, Ruth. And if anything happens, you come and find me.”

His words were hot on her neck as he spoke low and even so only she could hear. He dropped his hands in defeat, taking a measured step back. She was breathless. Her shoulders sizzled, as if fire sparked from his very touch. She had no idea what to say to this man, as every time they were near each other her tongue ceased to function.

“Captain...I can take care of myself. Don’t you worry yourself on account of me! I’m just biding my time until Mara’s well, and we can be paid for services rendered to this ridiculous army.”

“The sooner, the better.” He adjusted his hat, pausing at the ramada’s edge. “We’ll be heading out to the Chiricahuas for another meeting with the Apache.”

“When?”

“Friday, after ’Reveille.’ I won’t see you at the dance. With a following like you’ve got going at Fort Lowell, your card will be all filled up anyhow.” His half smile was heartfelt and soulful, eyes deep and rich with feeling. “I would like to see you dance someday, Mrs. Newcomb.”

Fingers to the hollow of her throat, RuthAnne watched him march off toward the stables, amazed at how the man’s words could stir her very soul.

Chapter 14

A fine powder of dust kicked under his boots, catching the low light of evening. He walked in the circle of his own footprints finally coming to rest by the wooden trunk he’d wrestled up from the wreck of the stagecoach. El Tejano gave it a solid kick. And then another as his rage swelled. The chest toppled to its side, creaking open. Empty.

Once again, his greed had gotten the better of him, and once again, he was suffering because of it. The strongbox he’d scouted, followed, and killed for was worthless. So promising with its weight and heavily guarded exterior, it contained nothing but a set of silver keys. No ingots. No ore. No hint as to what the keys opened or where the locks might be.

He felt them smooth and cool in his fingers. Four long-cylindered silver keys with jagged tips. They jingled slightly as he grabbed them and reared back to throw them into the bowels of the cave. He hesitated at the last minute. They were a clue, and maybe someday he’d figure out what they unlocked. When his blood wasn’t boiling in his ears.

He had finally been able to return to the crash site and scout the area. The rain had washed much of the wreckage down the perilous mountainside. There was no sign of the promised fortune anywhere. That it had even been on the stage. It seemed the good Lord had a sense of humor after all.

The man who answered to El Tejano—the Texan—sighed heavily and sat on an outcropping of rock. His fire was out, cold. Thin daylight streamed in from a crack in the rocky ceiling above. It brightened the room just enough to see, and the gray hue it cast on everything it touched was perfect for his current mood. This place no longer had his heart. It wasn’t exciting like it had been before. Promise and possibility scattered to the wind like his carefully laid plans.

He removed the Colt .45 revolver from the leather holster at his side and flipped out the cylinder. The scent of gunpowder filled his nose and blackened the tips of his fingers. It was an aroma he loved; a tang of smoke blended with fear. He frowned as he remembered the last time it was fired. It wasn’t like him to go so long without caring for the tools of his trade. He swept a well-oiled cloth over the cool steel frame and long barrel; he pushed a wad through the empty chambers. His mind turned as he polished it. He snapped the cylinder into place; cocked the hammer; aimed into empty space; and slowly, steadily, dry-fired the weapon.

Todo o nada. All or nothing...

His words echoed in his mind with the memory. Rumor had it the stage he’d followed out of La Junta, Colorado was loaded with silver on its way to the bank in Tucson. It was supposed to be a secret, but one that was heavily advertised by the driver. The rockslide had done its job and taken the road out; the doomed stagecoach would be his for the picking as soon as the rain stopped. He had considered himself lucky when the two lovely passengers came to him like castaways in a hurricane.

He enjoyed watching the knowledge and fear cloud their eyes when they realized there was no escape. They had been completely at his mercy. He tightened his grip on the revolver as he thought of it. But he had gotten cocky. They should have been his, both as ripe for the taking as anything else he had stolen. He had let them slip through his fingers when the cavalry came. He should have killed the girls then, but after all, the ladies were his weakness. He had let the riders pass and returned to find his prisoners gone.

They had more spirit than he had given them credit for. Especially the older one. They ran from him, and though he followed, they escaped into the bowels of the spent silver mine. He lagged behind at an easy distance, knowing they would find the cave beyond the hideout. Its cathedral ceilings of empty black would terrify two young girls. They had fled deeper into the earth, where corridors of rock pressed so close that one almost had to crawl through. He half-expected to find them wrapped in each other’s arms, crying and waiting for their doom. Instead, they had scrambled up and out of the slippery, decomposing granite cave-in, more than likely caused by the explosion he created.

He absently rotated the slick metal cylinder of his .45 until the empty chamber snapped into position. The hollow click caused him to smile. The older sister had been cool and calculating, but the young dark-haired girl had been terrified. Her fear was palpable. Thrilling. The chase was often far better than the capture. Once she was his, she would be useless to him. He remembered watching her on the run, slipping away. Anticipation turned to fury as he replayed the event over and over in his mind.

To the west, the sun sank behind the jagged purple peaks of the Tucson Mountains. The air seemed tinged with the burning of the sunset. Clouds were afire in glittering shades of ruby and amethyst, platinum and gold. The sky beyond to the east was deep with twilight and the coming of the moon.

Where did they go? He scanned the growing darkness to see two shapes headed west. Toward town. Toward safety.

One sister clung to his shotgun, and he smirked. It would be useless at this distance. He saw the other girl turn, and his heart skipped. The dark-haired girl, eyes silver in the darkness. How dare they run from him! Didn’t they know who he was? What he represented? He aimed his weapon. The long-barreled pistol was hot in his hand as the shot rang out, deafening in the small space of the cave. She fell to the earth. He had kept firing until they both stopped running.

The memory made his mouth dry, his tongue thick against his teeth. A bitter taste that he couldn’t shake. He raked a hand through his hair, taking a gulp from his canteen. He grimaced from the hot, metallic-tasting water inside. He wondered as he took another slug. What if the women knew where the silver was hidden? The very notion left him cold.

He had waited too long to go and retrieve his victims. He had intended to drag them back, hide them in the cave for the bats and animals to take care of, but the soldiers returned to where his escaped captives lay dead or dying on the mountainside. El Tejano trained his gun sights on the leader. The light was low. A difficult shot, but he could make it. Then the others joined the soldier in gathering up the bodies. He released the hammer slowly, leaning against the cave opening. It was over. All that was left for him to do was cut and run without the money. And that is exactly what he had done.

Now, he knew there would be another day. Soon. With a purpose, El Tejano slipped the long, dangling keys into his pocket. She was still alive. He would find her and make her talk. Either romance it out of her or spill her blood. That would be her choice. She would tell him where the fortune was hidden, or he would make her pay with her very life.

Chapter 15

He came at her through the darkness. A scream lodged in her throat as El Tejano’s gun barrel pressed solidly to her neck. Her arms rose to ward off her attacker but waved through empty space.

RuthAnne woke from her nightmare with a gasp. The night air seeped in; warm, humid, and stifling in her quarters. Perhaps it was just nerves. She knew that day after tomorrow she would go see Mara. Hopefully, her sister’s condition had improved. There had been no word from the chapel. She was reasonably sure Father Acuña would have sent word if Mara’s condition had changed for the worse.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she twisted her thick, sun-streaked blonde hair into a rough braid to get it off her neck in the blasted heat. In the room across the hall, she heard rustling and dragging and, after a moment’s hesitation, set out to investigate the ruckus.

Dolly huffed out her breath as she pulled her folded cot to the door, her rag-tied hair flopping about her head with her efforts. “Land sakes, girl! You gave me a fright. Here. Help me drag this, will you? Then we’ll get yours.”

“Mine?”

“It’s too bloomin’ hot to sleep indoors. A breeze is coming in from the south. Don’t you hear it rustling in the leaves?”

“I do now. I guess it woke me...” RuthAnne was confused, hearing bustling from all rooms. The children were giggling with the activity. “It’s pitch black out, Dolly. What are we doing?”

“Come on. Help me and I’ll show you.” Dolly heaved one end and RuthAnne the other. Together, they ventured out into the night. Quickly, with whispers and groans they set up their cots a fair distance from the cottonwood grove.

RuthAnne looked to the tall, shady giants and wondered at setting the cots out in the wide open space. “Why not sleep under the trees?”

Dolly pointed to Katie’s cot. “Shh. Katie’s already asleep again.”

The girl sat up with a yawn. “Can’t sleep there. The tent caterpillars’ll float down and land on your face, silly!” Katie made a face at the thought.

“And if they don’t fall on you, the mosquitoes will eat you alive,” Dolly said. “They buzz around the tree trunks. Besides, you don’t want to block that view, do you?”

RuthAnne followed Dolly’s gaze upward and gasped at the plethora of white diamonds gleaming in the night sky. No moon was out to stifle their bright light. If she could reach up high enough, she’d bet her fingers could trail through them like water.

All across the fort, people dragged their beds from their quarters into the open air. From the parade grounds to the officers’ row, it seemed the entire population of Fort Lowell now rested beneath the thick blanket of stars.

“Here. Put these under the cot legs,” Dolly said, unearthing an apron full of scrubbed out tin cans and setting one under each bed leg.

RuthAnne inspected one with a frown. “What are these for?”

“We fill ’em with water, to keep the crawling bugs off us. Ants can’t climb up and into bed with you that way. Here. Fill yours up with this.”

RuthAnne took the canteen Dolly offered and dutifully filled each can.

“We don’t want to rough it quite that much.” Dolly hopped into her bed with a whump, dusting off her feet before sliding under her thin sheet. “Ain’t this livin’?”

RuthAnne frowned, doubtful. She hadn’t camped outside since she was a young girl trying to keep up with her brothers. Then the cool breeze kicked up from the south, tree leaves rustling in chorus. The subtle wind caressed her exposed arms and neck. After her stifling quarters, she realized Dolly had been right after all. RuthAnne even left her toes peeking out of the sheet, just to feel the gentle rush over her bare skin.

Whispers, laughter, and low voices faded away as the fort succumbed to sleep. All else was quiet, save the whistling wind in the cottonwood trees and the faint sound of the creek water as it rushed over stones. An owl hooted; a baby whimpered, and its mother soothed. Dolly snored contentedly, an arm draped protectively over her daughter. RuthAnne couldn’t help but glance toward the stables as she turned on her side.

Across the open court, a lone figure leaned against the stable wall. Though she couldn’t see his face, the weight of his attention stirred her soul. She could almost read his thoughts or imagined she could. Could he see her in the darkness? Or was that just her imagination? He would be gone in the morning. Back to the Chiricahuas. Into enemy territory and toward the danger he seemed drawn to. Captain Bowen Shepherd was a man who feared nothing. And yet she had seen the desperation in his eyes, felt his concern in his strong hands as he gripped her shoulders.

So much about him was a mystery. He seemed to care desperately about what would happen to her, to want to get her to where she was going, so why was he completely unable to speak to her without losing his temper?

Bowen Shepherd and Evan Newcomb couldn’t be more polar opposite. Evan had been a dreamer. This man had seen too much pain and suffering to be anything but real. While Evan schemed and planned for the future, Bowen seemed only to care about the moment. Evan could barely fix his collar without assistance, and Bowen seemed not to need help from anyone. Yet Bowen always seemed to be there, watching her. The weight of his current gaze made her wonder at him all the more; the memory of their last exchange echoed in her mind.

I would like to see you dance someday, Mrs. Newcomb...

His words tickled a familiar, girlish feeling she’d thought long since put to rest.

RuthAnne grabbed her pillow and punched at its goose feathers, fluffing it with air, and turned away from the form in the darkness. She was angry with herself for allowing her thoughts to churn so.

Tomorrow she’d be meeting Mrs. Carington. She’d be getting through to the weekend and returning to care for Mara. That soulful captain with hazel-green eyes and the solemn, full mouth that could curve into a blessed smile or startle with its scorn. He could just go have his Indians. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried, unsuccessfully, to shield her mind from his image.

Chapter 16

Bowen watched a shooting star streak the blue-black night sky. He had spent the better part of the night leaning against the stable wall, and dawn now threatened in the east. Sleeping forms of people from all walks across Fort Lowell were tinged with silvery-blue light. A coyote bayed its last mournful call, joined moments later by several of its brothers and sisters. Rabbits rustled in the brush. The day was about to begin.

Ross scratched his sides and yawned. “Morning, Cap.”

“Thought we could make it back by Sunday if we set out early, get you home to Josie before she has my hide.”

Ross smiled under his curling mustache and unearthed his tobacco pouch. “Mighty kind of you, thinking of my family that way.”

Bowen heaved a sigh and stepped into the tack room. The dark leather saddles gleamed in the low lantern light. He collected his tack and saddled up General. The enormous bay horse flicked its black tail and shook its mane out in greeting.

Alex McDole wandered out of his barracks, his ill-fitting long johns loose on his lanky frame. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes as he headed to the blackened tin coffeepot by Bowen’s fire.

“Help yourself,” Bowen said, tying up General to the hitching post.

Alex sniffed the contents and wrinkled his nose. “That yesterday’s coffee you’re serving there, Cap?”

Bowen frowned, returning to the group. “What’s wrong with it?”

Alex shook his head and poured out the thick, black contents. With the efficiency of a camp cook, he added fresh grounds and canteen water and set the coffeepot to brew over freshly stoked coals. “That there’s just tar masquerading as coffee, sir. Takes a good, strong, fresh cup to get me goin’.”

Reggie joined them and reached for Ross’ tobacco pouch, inhaling the sweet scent of the leaves.

Ross struck a match for his freshly rolled cigarette; the flame illuminated eyes filled with good humor. “You know, when I started courtin’ Josie...”

“Here we go again, Cap. Another Josie story...”

“Well, nothing is more rare a treat to hear about than the path to true love.” Bowen laughed and clapped a hand on the tall, skinny Alex’s back.

Ross looked up, wrinkling his forehead. “Now, I categorically resent that, Bowen. You know I don’t talk about such things much.”

“Only once or twice an hour, I reckon.” Reggie picked at his teeth with a stick. “Awful sorry I can’t be joining you all this fine morning, but duty calls.”

“Duty, plus the pride and the joy of serving in this man’s army. Speaking of joy,” Alex said as he poured tin mugs of steaming coffee and passed them out, “rumor has it Mrs. Carington is arriving today.”

Reggie snorted. “She’ll be a real joy to behold after a week on the Gila.”

“Meaner than a mother scorpion, though not nearly as attractive,” Alex said. “Her daughters will want to sashay their way to the party tonight. I suppose someone will have to dance with them...”

“Perhaps that’s why our esteemed captain’s hightailing it out of here so fast. Wasn’t it Megan who had an eye for you, Bow?” Reggie went on to discuss the finer points of Megan Carington. Bowen shuddered at the thought of the now twenty-year-old girl being anywhere in his immediate vicinity.

Ross twitched his mustache. “She’s plenty attractive to look at. Just ain’t so pretty on the inside. She’s like a Gila monster. You know, brightly colored, but she’d just as soon poison you as look at you. Not all women are that way...”

Bowen turned to see his friend looking east toward his home and wondered at how a woman could possess a man so deeply.

“Here we go again.” Reggie rolled his eyes, though a grin caught the corner of his lips.

Ignoring the three men as they bantered, Bowen slipped the bridle over General’s light brown muzzle and eased the metal bit between the animal’s teeth. The horse clicked it around with his tongue, getting the feel of it.

Bowen reached around General’s throat, bridle in hand, keeping a firm hold on the horse’s well-combed dark mane as he fit the leather straps over the animal’s large, velvet ears. He flicked out the forelock from under the strap and gave General’s long neck a rub. The horse shook his withers and nickered. The bond between the two was evident.

“Careful there, Bow. That animal’s like to get jealous next time he’s around RuthAnne.” Ross grinned and had Alex and Reggie laughing into their coffee.

Bowen scoffed. There was nothing to be jealous of. RuthAnne was just a means to an end. A witness to a crime. He paid her no more mind than he would Dolly and had half a mind to say so. Except by saying so, he would give the matter more attention. Instead, he slugged the rest of the scalding coffee from his tin cup and spat out the grounds.

Bowen gave the order to move out, and “Reveille” sounded even as they were riding up the other side of the Rillito. The bugle call echoed from the foothills to the north and the arroyos to the east. Bowen gritted his teeth at the thought of RuthAnne waking in the cool air of morning; he could see her in his mind’s eye, her feet and ankles bare, the curve of her calf, her hair tousled from sleep. He dug his heels in and took the lead. They had a hard ride ahead.

****

The soldiers were already off and running. RuthAnne finished moving her things back inside and returned to give Dolly a hand.

“Is it morning already?” Dolly stretched with a yawn.

“Let’s get you back inside before the day wastes.”

“You’d better go get yourself some breakfast. It’s gonna be a busy day, sweetie. The Carington clan’s a’coming.” Dolly grabbed RuthAnne’s hand and squeezed. “I’m here for you, so you don’t have to be afraid.”

Perhaps it was because she knew she’d be leaving soon or perhaps it was her faith that the good Lord would protect her from evil, but RuthAnne didn’t feel the fear the Carington name seemed to strike in all those around her. “I’ll manage.” She smiled, setting a hand on Dolly’s thin shoulder.

“Be careful. Those girls only have a mind for themselves, and their mother’s no better. Marcus is harmless. He fancies himself a ladies’ man, but he’s about the only one who sees it that way. You should be thankful their papa won’t be here to warm the welcome.”

They shuttled Dolly’s cot back into her room, settling it into place. Dolly plopped down kicking her feet up onto the rail.

RuthAnne hesitated before asking but then jumped right into it. “Dolly, if you don’t mind my prying...what is it about Commander Carington? I get the feeling there’s something you aren’t telling.”

Dolly closed her eyes tightly. “Honey, there aren’t enough hours in the day. Let’s just say I don’t want to prejudice your opinion yet. We’ll talk more after you’ve met the missus.”

Chapter 17

RuthAnne dried her hands on the apron at her waist. Her palms were sweaty from nerves as she stood on the dirt path just outside Clara Carington’s front door. She adjusted the pins keeping her hair out of her face. Mother had always disliked not being able to see her eyes. It’s where you are able to read people’s inner selves, she had always said. With a steadying breath, RuthAnne picked up her skirts and stepped to the front porch.

“And just who might you be?”

The voice from behind made her jump a mile. She turned, heart thundering rapid-fire. “Sorry. You gave me quite a start. I’m RuthAnne Newcomb. I was sent to attend your house...”

“I’m Megan, Post Commander Carington’s daughter...one of them, anyway. Amanda’ll be along shortly.” She smirked. “She’s sending a telegram at the post store. You’ll know her by the sappy in love look on her face.”

“I see.”

“And you must be the help that Major Kendrick told us about.” Megan eyed her up and down with disapproval.

RuthAnne knew she must look a sight. Work-worn hands. Hand-me-down clothing. But she sized Megan up as well. She tried her level best to look beyond what this nineteen- or twenty-year-old girl wanted to show to the world.

Megan obviously took appearance into the highest regard. She had corseted herself in and bustled herself out in all of the right places, her natural plumpness forced into the mold she seemed to think most socially alluring. Still, she was overdressed for the hot day; sweat was already caked on her powdered face at the hairline and trickled a river down her neck. “Mama will need help with the unpacking. Mercy! Have you ever felt such heat? San Francisco was a much nicer place to be than this hellhole.”

“The mountains do look lovely at sunset...” RuthAnne said and produced a small fan from her sleeve. She fluidly slipped it from her wrist and flicked it open. “Here. This might help a bit, Megan.”

“Well, aren’t you the clever one?” She snatched it greedily, eyeing RuthAnne with all of the interest of a rattlesnake after a pocket mouse. RuthAnne heard footsteps tread across the plank floor inside. The rough-hewn casita door opened quickly to reveal the sour face of Clara Carington.

“Kendrick must be joking.” With rolling eyes, Clara turned her back, leaving RuthAnne standing open-mouthed in the doorway. “Well don’t just stand there like a bump on a log. You’re here to work, and there’s plenty to do.”

Clara was a full head shorter than RuthAnne and a fair amount rounder than her daughter, though equally squeezed and pinched. Her expression was cold; the thin line of her mouth showed her displeasure with their current situation. Her taffeta dress, edged with lace and bows, would have been more appropriate on a woman half of her age. The shade of green would have been more becoming to a redhead than the blonde-tinted hair obviously hiding the shock of white underneath. With the blooming beauty of her daughters, she clearly longed for the days when she herself was the object of a man’s affection.

“What should we call you?”

“RuthAnne, ma’am. RuthAnne Newcomb. I’m a laundress here at the fort.”

“A laundress? Well, that’s a first. I thought all of the fort laundresses were too busy herding their fatherless children or chasing soldiers...”

“I don’t have children, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ve heard plenty about your sort. The only soldiers on this side of the fort are officers. Married ones. You’d do well to remember that.”

“I don’t have designs on anyone, Mrs. Carington. I’m a hard worker and will do my best to help however I can.”

“You can help by escorting my daughters in off of the porch and out of view of the common rabble. Megan, really! You’re going to give those poor boys delusions of grandeur.”

Megan tittered as she flounced her way inside. Clara turned. “Where’s Amanda?” She demanded an answer, as if RuthAnne had absconded with her child.

Megan’s warning look was withering. RuthAnne strained a smile and straightened her shoulders. She would not lie for the girl. “I only just met Megan, Mrs. Carington. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Amanda yet.”

Clara turned her disapproving glare to her daughter. “Megan. You need to keep better track of your sister.”

“Here I am, Mama.” Amanda Carington tripped up the stairs with dusty shoes. By her apple-red cheeks and sweat-rimmed face, she’d obviously run the whole way back. A shock of red hair had flown out of its pins and down her back. The girl looked young, bright-eyed, and full of mischief.

“What on earth are you doing flying around the fort? How many times have I warned you about Indians wandering about! That Yavapai scout has it in for me.”

“Charley?” RuthAnne said. “I wouldn’t worry about him, ma’am. He’s on a spirit walk. He won’t be back for some time.”

“What are you, some heathen-lover?” Clara’s words stung like a scorpion.

RuthAnne opened her mouth to answer, but found no retort that would smooth the situation over. “I don’t know him very well, ma’am. I’m only new here at the fort. I’m from back east.”

“East!” Megan grabbed RuthAnne by the hands and hauled her indoors to pepper her with questions. “Where did you come from? When? Do you know anything about the latest fashions? Do you know any gossip from New York? Or Chicago? Tell me everything!”

Megan sat heavily upon the dainty-legged, Victorian Empire sofa, pulling RuthAnne down to answer a barrage of questions; Amanda bookended her sister, adding a question or two of her own. Though the girls were twins, they were nothing alike in appearance. Where Megan was short, blonde, and opinionated, Amanda was demure, redheaded, and slender. Her face was sharp featured and natural as opposed to her sister’s obvious affinity for rouge and lip color. Megan’s complexion would look much lovelier had she strived for accenting rather than changing her appearance. The only thing identical about them was their deep brown eyes. They were like two sides of a coin; different but obviously as close as only sisters can be.

“Did you ride on a real train?” Amanda clasped her hands together in delight.

Megan gave a snort of disgust. “Not like those claptrap trains out of California. What a laugh that was!”

“We, I mean, I rode out on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe line out of Kansas City, Missouri as far west as it would take me,” RuthAnne said. “I hired a stagecoach to bring me here.”

“Did the train seats have real velvet cushions?” Amanda was positively dreamy-eyed.

“They were deep forest green, a crushed velvet. There were hand-painted pictures above all of the windows...”

“What sort of people rode with you?”

“Did they feed you?”

“There was a Harvey Company Restaurant at the stop in Topeka. They served us steak and potatoes, apple pie...it was just delicious.” RuthAnne smiled, as this had impressed Mara, as well. “The Harvey Girls were lovely and sweet. We...I ate with a minister and his wife. He gave a small Sunday service in the back of the car...”

“I don’t want to hear about church!” Megan laughed heartily. “One thing I’m grateful to tears this place doesn’t have...”

“Hallelujah for that!” Clara Carington’s booming voice went from laughing to mumbling in the other room. They heard a bottle set down with a heavy glass clink.

Megan shook her head. Amanda looked concerned. “Mother’s got the laudanum. It’s the heat. It’s too much for her.”

Megan pooh-poohed her sister with a wave. “Now, give me all of the latest gossip.”

“I was working most of the time and didn’t follow the latest news.”

“Well, you obviously didn’t follow fashion.” Megan pouted, fingering RuthAnne’s dress.

Annoyed, RuthAnne was about to point out that she was very in tune with the latest fashion, as she was a highly skilled seamstress. She weighed how to say so without resorting to a childish retort.

“Maybe wearing oversized, faded frocks is the latest rage in Kansas City.” Clara chimed in from the other room, causing her daughters to giggle ruthlessly.

There would be no talking to these young women. Let them think they knew so much more than she with last year’s fabrics and too-long hemlines. Someday they would darken the door of her shop in town, and she would smother them with kindness. For today, there was work to finish so she could get back to waiting on those who really needed her.

RuthAnne gathered herself and took in her surroundings. Her fingers traced the red and white striped velvet fabric that covered the couch. Its length was perfect for a ballroom, to fill with ladies in ball gowns, or to accommodate the elaborate bustled dresses that seemed favored by the Carington girls; highly impractical for a family parlor, in her opinion. The wingback chairs were draped with grime-darkened sheets, as was a kerosene lamp on a spindly-legged round table. The layer of dust showed it had been some time since they had been back to the fort.

The crates and barrels were hardly unpacked yet; packing straw littered the wood floors where the girls had unearthed a few of their belongings. It wouldn’t have taken much for them to put this small space into order. She could see why the women needed some help; they simply were not used to caring for themselves. RuthAnne gritted her teeth, smiled, and set to work.

Hours later, Clara had collapsed onto her hand-carved teester bed with its huge canopy and etched-mirror headboard. Amanda was fanning her, as commanded, though the girl looked equally uncomfortable in the afternoon heat. RuthAnne swished her loose skirt, feeling the air hit her skin, and couldn’t help but grin. Fashionable, no. Functional, absolutely.

With a frown, Megan adjusted her tight bodice and trotted off to the post store. RuthAnne shook her head as she watched the heavily-dressed girl attempt to sashay down the cottonwood lane, across the parade ground directly in front of the soldiers drilling and marching in formation. Delusions of grandeur indeed!

RuthAnne unpacked the remainder of Clara’s clothes and piled her plethora of lacey undergarments, button shoes, skirts, hats, and jackets in the wardrobe of the post commander’s quarters.

Next, she unpacked the daughters’ room. Each had a lovely feather tick mattress over carved wooden beds. She changed sheets and pillows to fresh linen found in the bottom drawer and laid light summer coverlets over the top of each mattress.

The large steamer trunks posed a storage problem, taking up too much space. After some thought, she upended them by each girl’s headboard for them to use as dressers, adjusting the contents to keep hastily packed items from spilling out of the cloth-and-wood drawers. RuthAnne carefully rehung some lovely light fabric dresses on their wide wooden hangers.

As for the remainder of the Carington family’s household goods, she finished putting away purchases from their journey and the fine china and crystal, minus a goblet or two that hadn’t survived the trip. She hauled the packing materials out back to be pulled apart later for stove kindling. The furniture dusted, cobwebs rousted out, rugs batted with the large paddle, floors swept, and freshly polished glass windows left open for circulation, the house was ready at last. It had taken most of the day.

White lace curtains barely trembled in the slight afternoon breeze. RuthAnne busied herself in the kitchen with Whit’s delivery of canned goods, flour, butter, and bacon just sent over from the post store. Her duties complete, she could have left, but these weren’t the type of women to seek out the mess hall. RuthAnne took a deep breath and set to making their dinner.

“I thought she’d never fall asleep.” Amanda appeared and dropped with a hearty sigh into a sturdy kitchen chair and sniffed with approval. “It smells good in here!”

RuthAnne smiled as she checked the biscuits baking in the oven. They filled the air with their heavenly aroma, though they were not quite golden on top. She would watch them for a few more minutes. “You all need a good meal after that trek you took. I’ve heard stories.”

“I wasn’t sure Mama would make it. Well, you know. She doesn’t travel well. Besides, she’s not the easiest person to please. This ought to do it though.” Amanda gestured to the house, everything in its place, neatly swept and sparkling as if they’d lived there for ages.

RuthAnne turned back to the stove, removed the golden biscuits, and gave a quick stir to the pot of cooked pinto beans. She cubed the salt pork and browned it in its own juices before dropping it into the beans for added flavor.

“Where’d you get those?” Amanda joined RuthAnne at the counter, all but drooling over the bowlful of red, plump tomatoes.

“The stable master has a little garden. I traded him some fresh made cakes of soap for the rights to grab some now and then.” She chopped and slid them neatly into the pot before placing the lid over the now-bubbling chili.

“Mr. Baker sent over some apples, along with the rest of your supplies.” She tossed one to Amanda who crunched into it greedily.

RuthAnne picked up a wood-handled paring knife and began peeling and coring the green fruit. “So, it sounds like your mother had a difficult journey to meet you all.”

Amanda had a lovely smile. “Oh, yes. Why she went the long way instead of overland is beyond me. The trip from San Francisco down to Yuma wasn’t awful. Train cars full of miners, you know. No dinner car. Some less-than-desirables on board, but Megan and I stuck together for once.”

“It’s nice to have a sister.” RuthAnne found herself longing to tell Amanda about Mara. How worried she was about her. How tomorrow could hardly get here fast enough so that she could go and see her. Touch her. Hug her. Talk to her! But she had been sworn to keep silent. Bowen Shepherd. The very thought of him was enough to send her into a frenzy. Him and his infernal suspicious mind.

Amanda let out a snorting laugh. “Nice? I don’t know if being Megan’s sister would qualify as nice. She’s a conniving little toad. Watch your back with her.” Then she softened again. “I do appreciate what you’ve done for Mama. The house looks beautiful.”

RuthAnne folded the apples into a mixture of sugar and cinnamon with a squeeze of fresh lemon. She poured the whole batch into a waiting crust.

“This here’s for dessert. Leave it in the oven for about an hour. Then you can let the coals die down to embers.”

“You’re leaving?” Amanda looked disheartened.

“I’ll be back after the weekend.”

“But we’ll see you tonight, won’t we? At the dance?”

“I have a lot to catch up with, and I’m leaving tomorrow. Maybe next time.”

“But all of the soldiers will be there! It’s such a fabulous place to meet men. I mean, from what I’ve heard. I’m not looking to meet anyone, but dancing would be fun. This is the first time I’m allowed to go.”

RuthAnne saw the promise and possibility in the girl’s eyes. She was longing for marriage, for escape. That much was painfully clear.

“Not all of the soldiers. Some are out on patrol.” RuthAnne hated how empty her words sounded. Would she be more inclined to go to the dance if Captain Shepherd would be there? Her heart fluttered at the thought of his hands on her shoulders. Her waist. His fingers entwined in her hair.

Amanda raised her eyebrows in question. “Which soldier are you missing, Ruthie?”

“No one in particular.” RuthAnne bit the inside of her cheek, hoping to quell the rising blush heating her cheeks.

“But you’re in love. It’s all over you.”

“I couldn’t possibly be in love. I’ve only been here a week!”

“A moment’s all it takes.” Her eyes were faraway, dreamy. RuthAnne reached to touch her hand. Amanda blinked, eyes wide, her crimson cheeks betraying her heart. “At least, that’s what they say in the serial novels I hide in my steamer trunk. Mama hates that I read them. Megan just teases, but she reads them, too. I’ve seen her do it.”

“Being in love can be a wonderful thing. To not have to wonder or fret if your love is returned. I used to be married...”

“Where’s your husband? Is he on patrol?”

Megan strode into the room, her presence breaking the blossoming camaraderie. “Is who on patrol?”

“Your sister was just talking about the dance. I’m sure you two will have a lovely time. I ironed the wrinkles from your party dresses; they’re hanging on the back of your door. You do have some lovely clothes.”

“Maybe, but we’ve worn every dress a million times too many. We stick out like sore thumbs every time we go to a backcountry cavalry dance, don’t we, Mandy? We should burn the lot of them and just go simple, like everyone else. Oh, but we don’t have anything simple either, do we?” Megan smirked. Amanda cast her eyes downward.

“Mama had a seamstress from Paris make our cotillion dresses. Megan came out to society last year. This was to be my year...but we came here instead.” Amanda said it matter-of-fact, trying to sound relieved that she was spared the agony, but her large brown eyes told a different story.

“All those beautiful gowns would be wasted on you anyway, Mandy! And I thought you’d already settled on that ridiculous librarian. Mandy loves a bookworm. Isn’t that rich?”

“A cotillion like yours would have been nice, though.”

“Oh, please. Did you really want to parade around and curtsey to San Francisco society?” Megan laughed at the thought. Amanda sat, staring at her fingers.

“Society tends to be overrated,” RuthAnne said. She took off her apron and folded it neatly on the ladder-backed kitchen chair, quite sure that Megan had no care for anyone else’s feelings.

“What would you know about it? You’re just a cavalry laundress. Honestly.” Megan turned her snake-like stare to RuthAnne, measuring her. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Your house is in order. Supper’s on the cook stove. I’d better get, so my soldiers can impress you in their starched and pressed dress blues! Goodbye.” RuthAnne squeezed Amanda’s hand. She could hear the twins squabbling as she hurried on her way.

Outside, she took a deep breath of fresh, unstifled air. What ridiculous girls. Amanda had some sweet qualities, but Megan...she’d never seen such a mean-spirited, selfish creature. Reminding herself that the good Lord had patience for everyone, RuthAnne did her best to find something good about the day she’d spent.

The Caringtons did enjoy a fine view from their porch. RuthAnne paused at the ramada’s edge to drink in the view. The Catalina Mountains were breathtakingly clear in the afternoon air. She loved looking at the many canyons and jagged cliffs, though the thought still brought wretched memories of what they had gone through to get here. A storm was brewing with intensity, the wind picking up from the east.

RuthAnne picked up her skirts and stepped away from the Caringtons’ house, exhausted but elated that the weekend was near. She could see her sister’s sweet face in her mind’s eye. Her thoughts might be full of Mara, but Bowen Shepherd’s deep voice kept tickling her ear. That worried her. She couldn’t have fallen in love with a man such as that, could she? Surely, Amanda was wrong. The very thought was absurd. Evan had courted her a full year before she agreed to marry him. As for Bowen, he was far too absorbed in his quest to find the bandit before anyone else was robbed and murdered to be thinking about anything else. Her feelings were just the result of having the soldier come to her rescue.

A fluttering of lace caught her eye as she rounded the corner past the house on her way toward Suds Row. RuthAnne quickened her pace, feeling twin sets of eyes boring into her back as Megan and Amanda Carington watched her walk away.

Chapter 18

All was aflutter at Suds Row in preparation for the Friday dance. RuthAnne picked and excused her way through a crowd of soldiers waiting for their week’s laundry, more to the point, their dress blues. She had already ironed her fair share the night before but hadn’t realized there would be so many men standing about griping and haranguing the poor women who were trying to help them. RuthAnne nodded and said hello to her soldiers in the growing crowd. On the other side of the room, something looked amiss as a soldier deftly cornered Dolly. Sidestepping closer, RuthAnne leaned in to eavesdrop.

“Now see here, Doll. You knew I needed this early. I told you yesterday. I’ve got me a lady friend I’m going to see, down at the Lane. That is, unless you want to reconsider my offer.” The soldier took Dolly’s wrist in his large, callused hand. She flinched as if burned.

“Isaac Dooley. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Your hands don’t have the right to touch me. Not anymore.” Dolly’s bright eyes were wide and full of fire. RuthAnne elbowed her way to her friend, who stared down the soldier almost twice her size.

Whatever flaws lay in Dolly’s past, her present situation was growing dire. RuthAnne glanced at her fellow laundresses. Some shook their heads, others salted the air with laughter. They were no help. Just as he took a breath to yell at Dolly again, RuthAnne stepped between. She set her hands warmly upon the soldier’s reaching forearms.

“Why, that dance tonight is going to be something else, isn’t that right, Private Dooley?” He blinked at her; his mouth opened then closed without a response. RuthAnne cleared her throat, turning to Dolly. “Why don’t I give you a hand and finish that load you have left? I have a flat iron ready to be used, and you need to get ready anyhow. Go on, Private, and fetch yourself a drink from the spring. We’ll get you out of here in two shakes.”

The private let himself be shooed from the room by Moira and Mrs. Stevens who had freed themselves from their tasks to lend a hand.

Moira returned and wiped her waterlogged hands on her damp apron. “Look who finally decided to come to work today.”

“RuthAnne’s been working all night and day, too, you ninny,” Dolly shot back. “We don’t need your help, thanks.”

With raised eyebrows, Moira and her mother retreated. RuthAnne found it hard to ignore the cold shoulder the other ladies were sending their direction, as if they’d built a wall out of thin air.

Dolly looked back at RuthAnne. Tears pricked her emerald eyes. “Up all night doing your own work, all day waiting hand and foot on those women who don’t know up from down, and now you’re offering to do mine, too?”

RuthAnne glanced at Dolly’s remaining work load. Her laundry had been tossed off of the line and into baskets, and was currently overflowing and teetering like an avalanche. There would be no way she could finish ironing it all by day’s end, and they both knew it. She couldn’t force Dolly to ask for help, so RuthAnne simply squeezed her friend’s shoulder.

“Well, my offer stands, but if you have things here under control...”

Dolly just laughed, sinking to the floor in a pile of pale green gingham, tendrils of tousled hair falling into her defeated eyes. “Oh, Ruthie, I don’t. Gracious, I don’t know what’s gotten into me today. Would you mind helping me out?”

The two fell into an easy rhythm, getting the dried jackets, pants, and shirts flat-ironed, folded, stacked, and packed.

Once she saw her friend had things under control, RuthAnne took a deep breath. “Well, let’s see. This is the most work I’ve seen you leave to the last minute all week. Something must have kept you busy today.”

Dolly shot back a look full of hurt, her face instantly blushing scarlet. RuthAnne’s eyebrows rose, as this wasn’t the reaction she expected from her good-natured friend. Then again, they had only met a few days before. There was much about this woman that she didn’t know.

“I only meant that I could tell something’s got you all aflutter. Care to tell me what it is? One friend to another?”

“I don’t have many friends, Ruthie. I’m not the sort an ordinary good woman like you usually spends company with.”

The other laundresses were busy hurrying the soldiers out the door so that they themselves could get ready for the party.

“Well, who said I was ordinary?” RuthAnne took Dolly’s chapped hand and looked her straight in the eye.

Dolly pulled a trailing hair out of her eyes and smiled. “I haven’t had much call for praying, neither. Not in many a year...Oh, I help Katie say her prayers every night, it’s just...God don’t have much use for a woman who’s done what I’ve done.”

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong. Ever heard of a woman named Rahab? Or Mary Magdalene?”

“I’ve read the Bible a time or two...”

“Yes, time and situation brought them to some low places. But they both were strong and important women. We all have our yesterdays, Dolly.”

They walked together into their quarters, and with a heavy sigh, Dolly clasped the cross at her neck as she pulled back the flap that led to her room.

“Oh, Ruthie. The way you talk I almost believe you. All right, I’ll spill it. I have a bit of a schoolgirl crush on a fellow, but he’s too good for me. Now, before you say anything, I know it to be true. Once he finds out who I am and what I’ve done, all the sweetness he saves for me when I step in his doors, well, that will be long gone.”

“Ah-ha. Our dear friend Mr. Baker. Let me guess. He asked you to the dance?” Dolly nodded glumly as she ducked into her chaotic room. RuthAnne followed, prodding further. “And you said yes?”

Her friend rolled her eyes and sank back into her cot, covered with dresses, tumbled quilts, and petticoats.

“How could I say no? And now, tonight, someone’s sure to tell him the truth, and it will all be over. They’d think twice if Bowen was around. He has a way of curtailing that sort of talk just by his very presence.”

RuthAnne fingered the eyelet ruffle woven through with blue satin ribbon on the edge of one of Dolly’s fine dresses and said nothing.

Dolly crossed her arms and grinned a mile wide. “Well, I’ll be. RuthAnne and Bowen. There’s an unlikely couple.”

This made RuthAnne sit up to attention. “Unlikely?”

“Well, you’re a widow; he’s a self-proclaimed bachelor for life. You’ve loved and lost. He’s just chosen to lose. It’s a match made in heaven.”

“I have bigger things on my mind than falling for a soldier.”

“But why else would you be so bound and determined not to go to the dance tonight? The man you’re pining for is out on patrol.”

“I’m not pining for anyone!” RuthAnne stormed out and into her own room.

Dolly followed her into her meager quarters, like a dog on a bone. “Then come to the dance.”

RuthAnne found it difficult to maintain her composure now that the tables were so readily turned. She threw open her borrowed trunk and flung the contents out onto the bed. Frock after skirt, they tumbled in a heap of ill-fitting, faded, stained, and thinned fabric.

“Use your eyes, Dolly Jewel. I don’t have anything to wear. You of all people should know that.”

“Excuse me, RuthAnne?” A voice from the doorway spoke hesitantly. It was Amanda Carington, looking a bit uncomfortable and out of her element. RuthAnne noticed she wore a painstakingly ironed frock and had already soiled the hemline on the way over. Her hair was windblown, but her face was flushed with heat and excitement.

“Amanda! Does your mother know you’re here?”

“She’s sleeping. I drew Megan a bath and slipped away. RuthAnne, I did some thinking after you left. We have so much and you—well, here.”

She shoved a hastily-wrapped brown paper package at RuthAnne. Inside, a wealth of pale blue taffeta and lace met her eager fingers. RuthAnne couldn’t stop the ooh of excitement that flew to her lips as she hungrily shook out the dress. The style was older, maybe a few seasons, but the lines were neat and it was obviously well-made.

“It was Megan’s, then mine when Megan outgrew it. She says she hates it now, and heaven knows it’ll never fit her again. She hasn’t the fortitude to stay away from food!” Amanda chuckled. “It should come close to fitting you. Please, I want you to have it. Come to the dance tonight. I’ll just die if I have to be a wallflower all by myself. Think about it.” And with a wave, she was gone.

Dolly smirked. “Well, don’t that beat all?”

“It’s a very kind gesture, but I can’t.”

“You have to come now. You simply have to! Do you think you can do something with it?”

RuthAnne continued to investigate the garment, bedecked with lace from every seam, and then she set her eye to the wall clock. “You know, I just might...”

Chapter 19

Music streamed across the parade ground. “Taps” mournfully played out on the bugle as the Stars and Stripes were lowered in the fading daylight. It blended with the strains of “Camptown Races” as the Fort Lowell Dance began in earnest.

Soldiers were dressed in their finery, and ladies showed up in all manner of dress, from simple to elegant. Chinese paper lanterns hung merrily in the cottonwood trees and from the corner of every ramada. They danced like sprites in the breeze, the air moist and cool from the afternoon storm. Flags and colors flapped and waved brightly in decoration, adorning the doorway and the edge of the stage.

At the post store, Whit Baker shined up his boots for the last time and flipped his cloth onto his footlocker. He couldn’t believe his luck. Dolly Jewel had agreed to go with him to the dance, which he knew meant escorting her there and back, with hopefully at least one dance in between. She was a pistol, with her wealth of strawberry blonde hair and lovely smile. She’d make someone a wonderful wife someday, and he wouldn’t mind overmuch if he were the lucky man who won her favor.

Whit sighed and inspected the time on his gold watch then closed the cover with a snap. Absently, he slipped it back into his vest pocket and gave a hard look to his face in the mirror. His chances with Dolly weren’t great. He wasn’t a tremendously handsome fellow, short of stature, graying at the temples and mustache. He didn’t have the glamour of a military uniform to hide behind. What he lacked in looks he made up for with his sense of humor and willingness to take a chance. Lord knew Dolly Jewel was worth that.

Five minutes later, he stood outside the laundresses’ quarters, working up the courage to enter and rustle up his date. She beat him to it and almost knocked him over with her beauty. Tendrils of reddish-blonde hair artfully curled around her heart-shaped face. She wore a full-skirted dress of deep emerald green that matched her eyes, and the barest hint of rouge colored her cheeks. Or was that blush for him? His face heated up in her presence as he cleared his throat.

“Miss Jewel...you’re breathtaking.”

She giggled girlishly. “Oh, aren’t you the sweetest! Whit, I hope you don’t mind escorting two ladies. I managed to twist RuthAnne’s arm at the last minute. She’s coming out directly.”

Before he could utter a response, Dolly had his arm wrapped in her own and was walking him into the sitting area. “You’d never believe what that girl can do with a needle and thread. I had a feeling her dress had promise, but I had no idea she could fit and remake it in but a few hours! Ruthie! He’s here!”

“Coming, Dolly.” RuthAnne’s voice preceded her into the room. She stood before them a moment shaking out the full skirts, a picture in pale blue taffeta. “Do you like it?” She spun, looking over her shoulder at the loose bustle and kick train. Her waist looked tiny, and the bare skin of her neck was pink from a touch of sun. Tiny cap sleeves touched her shoulders in a lace caress.

“Stunning! Well done, Ruthie.” Dolly stepped forward, giving her a friendly hug.

“Well, this couldn’t possibly be the same RuthAnne Newcomb who comes to my store. Not that you aren’t always lovely.” Whit cleared his throat again, though the ladies just laughed.

“Oh, Whit! That’ll do.” Dolly’s lips found his cheek. The room seemed to raise a degree or two as they linked arms. The ladies picked up the hems of their skirts for the trek, setting on their way along with the rest of Fort Lowell.

****

Though ladies from Tucson arrived on wagons and in buggies, the number of men still outnumbered them three to one. The afternoon storm had beaten down the dust but left lakes of potholes and ridges in the road for travelers to navigate with care. The number of people coming to the event amazed RuthAnne as they streamed into the fort in waves. The military band had traded marches for more modern strains of “Crimson Roses in the Heather.” Each woman received a dance card, which waiting soldiers rapidly filled.

RuthAnne walked under the banner and into another world. Candlelight twinkled; the aromas of barbecued beef, sweet corn, and freshly baked biscuits wafted in the air. Camp stewards were busy serving onto tin plates as soldiers ate up the special meal with as much abandon as they were saving for the dance floor. RuthAnne’s stomach rumbled, but she wouldn’t be eating much with the corset squeezing her this way and pushing her out that.

Whit paused mid-step. RuthAnne glanced to see what had captured the stout man’s attention.

“Isn’t it lovely? The KP crew’s been setting it up all afternoon. Had to battle a rainstorm and gale winds, but they managed to pull it off! Emptied out most of my storeroom, in the process. I still don’t know how he does it.” Whit shook his head.

“He who?” she asked, but then she saw him. He stood at the entrance, a basket of folded blue papers and pencils beside him, taking his task with the utmost seriousness. He looked taller in his polished boots, his large blue hat with gold cord gleaming. His goatee was well-trimmed, and his well-fitting uniform was neat and new-looking; though it was a fort event, RuthAnne could swear Private First Class Reginald Thompson was hosting this party in his own home.

“Reggie!” she gushed with delight and clapped her hands, so glad to see a familiar face in the crowd of strangers.

He tipped his hat and handed her a dance card and short pencil. She slipped the cord around her wrist.

“May I?” He wrote his name once on the front and once on the back, giving her a wink. “You look a fair share better than the first time I saw you.”

She gave him the warmest smile she could and squeezed his hand. He turned his charm to the next folks wandering in.

Within minutes, she was surrounded by the soldiers she had helped dress for the event.

“You look lovely this evening, Miss Newcomb.” Alex McDole was a smooth dancer, his manner weightless. She glided in the capable hands of the lanky stable master as he guided her through the traffic of the dance floor with ease.

“Mr. McDole, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Who exercises the horses when the soldiers are off duty?”

“Mostly they rest up and get lazy. Don’t get much call for help out at the stable, ma’am. Not unless someone wants to hunt up eggs from my chicken coop or have a carriage hitched to take them to Tucson.”

“I grew up riding bareback on my daddy’s farm in Alabama. There’s someplace I’d like to ride to, someplace I stopped by on my way out here...”

“Would that place have anything to do with a certain young lady recovering at the chapel?” He clucked his tongue, a grin pursing his thin lips.

“But, how...?”

“It’s hard to hide much when I’m the one who keeps track of all our comings and goings round here. Come by in the morning. I’ll have a nice gentle Appaloosa waiting for you, saddled and ready.”

“Thank you.” She squeezed his arm as the band finished the strains of “Silver Threads Among the Gold.” He clicked his heels as the next soldier waiting for a turn eagerly stepped forward.

Private Donnelly, dressed and pressed, had his shock of red hair tamed for the occasion. His dark eyes were pained as he took her for a spin around the floor. RuthAnne’s stomach rumbled uncomfortably as she went from merely hungry to ravenous. How long had it been since she’d eaten? She knew she should have nibbled one of those plump apples earlier.

“Oh, Miss Newcomb...You said she’d be here, but I haven’t been able to get ten feet from Moira all night. She looks so beautiful...” He went on about his personal plight, while RuthAnne did her best not to faint with hunger.

“I’ve seen her dance card. It’s so full, and I’m not that handy with a pencil.” He suddenly stopped them from waltzing and looked at her, truly concerned. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Just a full day’s work on a sausage biscuit. I’m famished.”

He glared at an approaching soldier who meant to cut in on their dance. RuthAnne clutched Private Donnelly’s arm.

“I tell you what, Private. You go and find me a plate of food, and I’ll guarantee you’ll have that dance with Moira.”

Through the dust and halos of lantern light, RuthAnne headed toward the lovely Moira Stevens. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders. Her smile was impish, coy, and slightly distracted as she attempted to re-button her boot with her fingers. Her dance card dragged the floor, and the men seemed to be standing in line, waiting for a turn.

“Really, Tom. Let me get my shoe back on before you tear the other one off!” She chastised the boy who had stepped on her toes too many times.

RuthAnne saw a look of relief wash over Moira’s face at her arrival. She touched one boy’s arm and gave a genteel smile. “Gentlemen, I’m sure Miss Stevens could use refreshment. It’s painful hot still this evening.”

They left in a stampede to fetch sustenance. Moira smiled at RuthAnne and leaned back on a stool. “Thanks for that! Don’t these dances just make you feel like a cow at auction?”

RuthAnne couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the girl’s candor. “Well, some of them might. You’ll know when it’s the right buyer, believe me.” She bent down and negotiated Moira’s button with nimble fingers, managing to snag her dance card in the process. “Oops. Here. Let’s get this back on you, shall we?” She slipped the cord back around Moira’s narrow wrist. “I didn’t know it was possible to write your name quite that small! You can barely make out the words!”

“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“I don’t mean to pry, but you and I both know there aren’t enough dances in the world to accommodate all of those young men. Don’t forget this one.”

Moira leaned forward, narrowing her gaze. “That’s not a name. That’s a smudge!”

RuthAnne leaned forward, carefully studying the card. “Well, it could almost say Sean Donnelly? If you wanted it to...”

“You mean Private Sean Donnelly?” Moira scanned the room for the red-headed soldier, chewing on her lip. “The one who’s never had a mind to say how do you do to me? Much less ask me for a dance...”

“I’ve heard him asking after you.”

“Is that so?” Moira glanced around again. “He put you up to this, didn’t he? I ought to give him a piece of my mind, if my toes weren’t in such a state!”

“Go easy on him. It’s a hard thing for a boy to try and win a girl’s heart.”

“I wish they cared more about my feet!” They laughed as the young man in question made his way over to them. His eyes widened at Moira’s presence.

“Thank you, Private Donnelly.” RuthAnne relieved him of the plate of cornbread biscuits and pulled beef, which she began sampling at once. “You remember Moira, I’m sure...”

The young soldier flushed to the roots of his hair. “G-good evening, Miss St-Stevens.”

“Well, good evening to you, Private Donnelly.” Moira’s jade green eyes sparkled.

“I’d ask you to dance, but...” He caught RuthAnne’s eye.

“Don’t mind me. You two go on.” RuthAnne said and daintily nibbled the delicious cornbread.

“I’ll save you that dance, Private, if you can take me for a walk first. I think the moon is starting to rise...” Moira stood and hooked her hand neatly on his arm. As they escaped the push of grumbling soldiers, Private Donnelly shot RuthAnne the largest grin she had ever seen.

“That was quite a trick.” A richly-toned voice spoke over her shoulder. She lifted her gaze to see an officer so emblazoned with ribbons and medals that he could only be Post Commander Carington.

He was tall in stature, towering over where she sat. RuthAnne swallowed, sizing up the man whom so many feared. He waited patiently, a smile touching his full lips. The commander’s white hair curled at his neck, swept back from his high forehead, not a strand out of place, a stark contrast to his sun-darkened face. His neatly trimmed white beard accented a strong chin, and his blue eyes were startlingly clear. He offered a handkerchief from his pocket, which she gratefully accepted, though his hand lingered over hers in a much too familiar way. In that moment, she caught a glimpse of what Edgar Carington must have looked like as a younger man, and a shiver went up her spine. Quickly, she drew her hand back and dabbed her lips to remove any traces of her meal.

“So, you must be the new talk of the Fort.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, sir—”

“We don’t move in the same circles. Trust me. You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself in a short time. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mrs. Newcomb.”

She focused on his uniform. Anything other than the disturbing thought that raced through her mind. His dress jacket was impressive with its mass of epaulets, shining buttons, and boots sparkling despite the dust. He was not at all what she expected, having met his daughters and wife. He straightened to his full height, seeming to sense her discomfort. “Care to take a turn on the dance floor, Mrs. Newcomb?”

RuthAnne set her plate aside and stood.

“Thank you, yes.” She straightened her skirts and placed her hand on his wrist as he led her to the floor as if they were at a fancy ball in the south. He led her around and into his embrace as the strains of “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” started. The doleful Irish music poured from the brass instruments.

“I might not have been here in body, but I have my ear to the ground. Kendrick tells me the men here are quite taken with you already. I do hope you’re making yourself comfortable.”

“Everyone has been most accommodating. Thank you, sir.”

He held her firmly, perhaps a tad close, but it could just be he was guarding her from other couples on the dance floor. RuthAnne kept her arms firm, resisting being drawn in any closer. Dizzy from twirling with his well-timed steps, or from hunger, she found herself unable to draw her eyes from his. Somehow, they ended up in the middle of the throng of dancers.

“You’ve done wonderfully with my family, and for that I’m grateful. Don’t mind Clara. She means well, but the heat is a bit much for her.”

“I’ll remember that.”

He continued to turn her around the floor, making her feet feel like they barely touched the floor. “If there’s anything at all you need, don’t hesitate to tell me. Personally.”

The song came to an end, and he stepped back from her, giving a slight bow. She watched him walk away, standing alone in the center of the floor feeling a bit lightheaded.

Major Kendrick waved his hand at the bandleader, and they struck up “Home on the Range” with abandon. The staring crowd turned back to their partners, and the dance began anew, the murmurs rising to be heard above the music.

Across the room, El Tejano adjusted the fake beard of his disguise. How could he have missed the blonde beauty before the post commander asked her for a dance? Old enough to be her father, he looked ridiculous.

He watched what had just transpired with growing anger. The girl stood there like a fool, transfixed as the post commander vanished into the night. She was blissfully unaware she was the focus of intense scrutiny from the ladies and gentlemen alike. She turned, and now he saw her face with utmost clarity. Impossible.

His fingernails dug into his palms so hard as to draw half-moons of blood. If she was alive, was her sister as well? The two of them held the key to the missing silver. And now, she was within his grasp.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from this woman. Hair like honey, piled delicately upon her head, loose stray curls accenting the long graceful neck and bare shoulders. The pale blue dress matched the shade of her sparkling eyes. The woman took his breath away. She should have been his. Moreover, she should be dead. As long as he bided his time, there would be a season for that.

Chapter 20

“You’d better come with me, RuthAnne,” Dolly said in her ear.

RuthAnne blinked and looked around. People were staring. “Yes, of course.” She blushed to her scalp as they hurried across the floor with Whit Baker mere steps behind.

The night air was thick with Arizona heat, pressing on her face and skin. Making her feel claustrophobic.

“RuthAnne, don’t you buy into that easy manner he showed you. The commander is nothing but a womanizer and a cheat.” Dolly seethed, her eyes brimming with fury.

“Dolly, I never...”

“I saw the look on your face. I’ve seen it a hundred times. That’s what he does with women. He draws you in, sucks you in, and then bleeds you dry. Just watch out.”

Dolly was near tears when suddenly it struck RuthAnne. “What did that man do to you, Dolly?”

Her friend’s eyes went from full of fire to the barest of embers. Sorrow. Overwhelming sadness. Remorse. “It doesn’t matter. Just, please. You’ve had but a taste. The rest of him ain’t so sweet.”

Behind them, Whit cleared his throat from a respectable distance. They turned abruptly. Dolly went white, her mouth a perfect O of surprise that straightened into a thin line. “So, did you hear what you needed to know, Mr. Baker?” Her tone was razor sharp.

“I heard plenty,” he said, stepping toward her.

They both looked ready for a fight. RuthAnne needed to do something and fast.

“Oh...” She hooked her arms through theirs and let herself drop a bit. “I feel a little faint.”

Whit and Dolly led her to a bench, sitting on either side of her like bookends. RuthAnne held her breath while she watched them stare each other down. After a few silent moments, Whit’s eyes softened. No longer cannons ablaze, his gaze now shot sparks of an entirely different nature. Dolly busily inspected the hem of her gown. He gave a long, defeated sigh.

“If you’re all right, ladies, I should probably take my leave,” Whit said and began to rise. RuthAnne held his hand firmly.

“Whit, you wouldn’t mind escorting us back to our quarters, would you? I’m not quite steady on my feet.” RuthAnne smiled pitifully as he nodded.

They began the trek back to the laundresses’ quarters in deafening silence.

Hard to believe that only a few hours ago one could hardly get a word in edgewise between the two.

“All that commotion made me lightheaded. I’m all right now, but tired. Mercy, am I bushed. And here I’ve promised Stable Master McDole that I’d help exercise the horses tomorrow.”

RuthAnne went on and on, babbling almost uncontrollably to keep two souls together that would rather fly apart.

“Do you like to ride, Whit? You know, there’s a trail I heard about, up into the Catalina Mountains. One of the boys talked about it all during our dance. He should have been paying more attention, for the number he did on my slippers. Anyway, the path takes you up through the foothills into a canyon, past seven waterfalls. Seven! Can you imagine?”

Whit cleared his throat. “I’ve seen them. They are quite spectacular.” He waited a beat, his eyes never leaving Dolly’s. They glittered in the moonlight like cast aside gems. He asked hesitantly, “Miss Jewel, have you ever had the occasion?”

Dolly shook her head. Her expression was grim, as if she had already mentally detached herself from this budding relationship that once held so much promise.

“I’m starting out that way, and then going east over the pass...” RuthAnne said, her gaze meeting and pleading with Whit’s. She willed him courage to break down the wall Dolly was constructing around her heart.

Whit looked like a man preparing to charge into battle as he spoke a bit loudly. “Well, Dolly, why don’t you and I get up early tomorrow and head north? I think you’d be mighty taken by the view. If you’d be so inclined...”

She stopped. “You’re sayin’ you want to take me?”

He nodded, the twinkle returning to his eye.

“Why would you want to do that, Whit Baker? What exactly do you see happening between us once you have me alone out there?”

“I’d like to show you the danged view. I’d like to do something that might impress you a bit.”

“Really? And why is that? I don’t work at the Wedge anymore, or haven’t you heard? Those days are long since past, though no one seems to have trouble dredging them up and throwing them back in my face.”

“And that’s what you think I’m doing? There are easier ways to get a woman into bed, Dolly Jewel.” His face reddened as he pulled at his collar. His voice rose, but hers was louder.

RuthAnne’s smile bloomed as she excused herself and left the two arguing over nothing in the moonlight.

Chapter 21

RuthAnne stirred in her cot at the crowing rooster. One eye opened to discover dawn still hadn’t broken. She grabbed her pillow, rolling over with a groan as the rooster crowed again. This would be a fine day for the canteen to serve chicken and dumplings.

Dolly flew into the room in a flurry of white cotton and ruffles, her hair tied up in rags. “Ruthie! Get up!”

RuthAnne sat bolt upright. “I’m up. What on earth, Dolly Jewel?”

“I don’t think I slept a wink. That Whit Baker...Can you believe the audacity of that man?” Dolly couldn’t stop grinning as she unwrapped her rag-tied hair.

“No, I don’t think I can. To think! He likes you and wants to do something nice for you.”

“We’re going on a picnic in the mountains. Isn’t that quaint? Uh-oh...Do you think I should drag along a chaperone?” Dolly paused, a red-blonde curl in her hand.

RuthAnne smothered her grin. It wasn’t like Dolly to worry what other people thought. “Why don’t you ask if Katie can tag along? I’m sure she’d like to get out a bit. Besides, if you and Whit are going to be...friends...he needs to spend some time getting to know her better.”

Dolly’s wide-eyed, precocious daughter would be the perfect chaperone for this occasion. Her presence would be noted throughout the fort, and Dolly and Whit’s encounter would be gossip-free. Dolly’s smile lit her face like the light of a rainbow. “Katie would love to go.”

“Let’s go tell her.” RuthAnne smiled and stretched out the cobwebs from the night before.

“No. Let her sleep. I need to go down to the creek and splash some sense into my thick skull. And I almost chased this man away...” Dolly turned on her heel and stopped at RuthAnne’s door. “You coming?”

“Where? To the creek?” She’d heard that once or twice a week the women went to splash in the light before the dawn. Forgetting her wrapper, RuthAnne slid straight from bed into her moccasins and chased after Dolly into the rich blue glow of early morning.

The Tanque Verde Creek snaked out of the foothills and around the outer limits of Fort Lowell. She heard the creek before she saw it; bubbling currents sang sweetly as it ran over rocks, pebbles, and fallen trunks of cottonwood trees. The two women skittered down a shallow bank to a small beach. There was no one around. Only the raspy birdcalls of cactus wren and the whoot-whoot of fat desert quail heralded that morning was near or that anyone else was awake. The barest hint of pre-dawn gold glowed over the Rincon Mountains to the east.

Dolly unashamedly shucked her garment and strode out into the cool water and waning starlight. Her breath caught and held with the shock of water on skin. RuthAnne hesitated and then followed suit. After a moment, they were perched between rocks in the middle of the water that flowed up to their necks, feeling the cooling rush like a million handmaids, fresh and clean on their bare skin.

“You know, women in ancient times used to wash this way. Something about making themselves new when their souls were tired. A ritual bath.” Dolly’s breath hitched as the sun broke over the broad slopes of the Rincon Mountains.

“We all need to be renewed now and again, don’t we?” RuthAnne’s throat was thick, knowing that though Dolly was dealing with so much, her faith never wavered.

“He loves me, even with the things I’ve done. How is that possible?” Dolly’s voice was barely audible above the rush of water over stones. Tears glittered on her cheeks, shining in the growing dawn.

The two friends held hands in the water. Sisters of the heart.

****

After what seemed an age, RuthAnne followed Dolly out of the water. Dried and dressed, they sat on the small stretch of beach, sharing a deeper bond than she had ever dreamed possible.

“Thank you.” Dolly grasped RuthAnne’s hand.

“Don’t thank me. I had nothing to do with it.”

“I meant for last night! Here I thought no man could ever want me and Katie, and he’s plumb been under my nose the whole time. Good thing he’s stubborn as a mule.”

“Well, you two just needed to air a few things out, is all.” RuthAnne shook off a last bit of sand from her toes and slipped on her shoes.

“Speaking of...” Dolly turned to face RuthAnne. The sun warmed their faces and dried their hair into ringlets on their shoulders. “You need to come clean with me.”

RuthAnne hesitated. “About what?”

“Just how you met our dear friend Bowen Shepherd and what your intentions are with him. Bowen’s near and dear to my heart.”

“Yes, I know. In fact, I always assumed...”

“What? That he and I?” Dolly laughed. “It’s only natural you would have thought we had been...well, intimate.”

Heat rushed to her ears. “No, that wasn’t what I thought. I thought you loved him.”

“He saved me, you know. It was a much worse thing than being stranded in a storm. I was newly pregnant with Katie. I wouldn’t give her up, and they were threatening to throw me out on my ear. Bowen was storming through town looking for a fight after that horrible Camp Grant incident.”

“Camp Grant?” RuthAnne had heard it mentioned, and every time she asked about it people hushed up as if ashamed or afraid.

“That was in spring of ’71.” Dolly explained further. “Back when the city thought it could do more good than harm by starting a war between two Indian tribes. They sent Bowen to clean up the mess, and it changed him. He searched out the masterminds behind the massacre and brought them to town for trial. When the judge let them all go—heck, the judge all but gave the Citizens for Public Safety Committee a commendation! Bowen went crazy, like a wild man, ready to bring them to justice by his own self...something stopped him. He had tracked down a certain high-ranking cavalry officer.”

RuthAnne’s mind clicked. The post commander? She opened her mouth to voice it, but Dolly simply held up a hand. Her face was sorrowful; her eyes told a million tragic stories.

Dolly continued. “I worked the Wedge because I had no choice; it was a good place for a girl like me. The Opera House, it was called, was considered a high-profile establishment. Not the usual riffraff, but a place where solid citizens could discreetly come to call. They kept us in pretty dresses, powders, all of the trappings and then some. Once a month, a Chinese lady would come and see to it none of us were in the family way. As awful as it was, it became almost...normal. Just something to detach yourself from; let your mind drift away, pretend you weren’t there. I could lock myself away in a closet in my mind, like when I was a girl. So it wasn’t even like I was there.”

RuthAnne wanted to weep. Across the desert, birds called. Deer walked with hollow steps down a well-worn path. The creek soothed and sang to them as it trickled between the rocks.

“The lady knew when she came that month, but I begged her not to tell. Katie was going to be mine. She was a gift, and I was finally going to get out of there. I told the mistress to tell him I was feeling sick, but I was his favorite back then. He paid extra to see me.”

Swallowing, she continued, eyes closed in remembrance. Fingers stroked the fine scar at her jaw. “I tried to make him stop. I even told him why...He was fearsome angry. Wanted to see to it single-handed that the baby wouldn’t make it. That’s when Bowen kicked the door in.”

She seemed lost in memory, words falling like water. “He grabbed the commander by his hair. Then he saw me...asked me if I was all right. Can you imagine? Me? Well, Bowen Shepherd dragged me right out of the Opera House and put me into the army’s good service washing their gear right along with enlisted wives and lifers, like I was one of them.” A single tear coursed Dolly’s round cheek.

RuthAnne wanted to say something. Anything. But she just searched out her friend’s hand and held it solidly until Dolly could continue.

“Katie was born at Camp Lowell, at the post hospital when it was new. She never had to see that life. Or that side of me, praise God.” Dolly’s eyes closed. She straightened her shoulders, as if lighter with the confession. RuthAnne gave her a solid hug.

Dolly laughed lightly, blotting her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “So, that’s the story. There’s more, but he’ll have to share it with you when the time’s right. It ain’t my place to do his telling.”

RuthAnne nodded and took a handful of coarse sand; she watched it drift through her fingers like through an hourglass. Bowen’s past confounded her, and worse, it made her heartsick for longing to share more with him.

Dolly pushed. “So, now it’s your turn. Tell me how you came to be in Bowen’s tender care.”

She laughed out loud in answer. Tender? No. Still, he told her if the truth came out, it was her telling. And she unburdened her spirit, sharing the story of her husband’s death, her sister, their trek by train and then stagecoach, with crates of army uniforms delayed due to Indians and bandits. Of El Tejano and how she and Mara had almost died. She idly fingered the healing mark at her temple, where the bullet had grazed past. Her life, spared by inches.

“I don’t know how, but Bowen found me. He found us. I’m going to the chapel to see if I can collect Mara and bring her back with me. She’s probably too weak to travel, but I must see her.”

“Why so secret?” Dolly asked.

RuthAnne shrugged. “Bowen said he had a lead on El Tejano but wanted to avoid...he said the townspeople would be up in arms if word got out that a Mexican bandito had almost killed two women...that no one would be safe.”

He wanted to avoid another Camp Grant.

Dolly nodded. “They’ll never hear it from me.”

****

In the bushes upstream, Amanda and Megan Carington listened intently. They had come to cool off in the early morning and instead found RuthAnne and Dolly already bathing there.

Silently listening to the stories told, they met each other’s eyes as only twins can. Unspoken, with looks of fear and trepidation for what they both knew to be true, they abandoned the thought of a morning bath and returned to the darkness of home.

****

Hours later, RuthAnne bid goodbye to Dolly, Katie, and Whit at the stables. Alex handed her the reins of an Appaloosa gelding he promised had an easy way about him.

“Don’t have much call for sidesaddles. This’ll have to do.”

“This is fine.” She set a booted foot into the stirrup, swinging her leg over the polished military saddle. Alex deftly adjusted her stirrup lengths to fit her legs.

“Why, you’re about as tall as a regular soldier, anyway, aren’t you?” he teased.

She blushed furiously, ever self-conscious of her height. This brought Captain Shepherd to mind yet again, the only man who had even come close to making her feel dainty.

“This Appaloosa’s as calm as can be, but he can be a mite stubborn,” Alex said. “Don’t give him his head too much.”

RuthAnne deftly wrapped the reins around her hands, adjusting her skirts underneath her as ladylike as she could muster, which wasn’t easy when riding like a man. She sat confidently in the saddle to keep the large animal knowing who was boss.

“Just cross the creek at the edge of the mesquites and head toward that low spot to the southeast. You’ll make it sure as Sunday.” He gave RuthAnne a wink and the horse a slap.

“Well, just so you know, if I’m not home by Sunday, someone better come looking for me.” She laughed and slowly guided the horse toward the gate with a gentle lead.

Alex seemed a bit put out about finding a pony that would suit the young Katie, who was all but jumping up and down with excitement.

“Maybe she could sit in front of me...” Whit said, and much to Katie’s dismay, her mother agreed. It was the first time RuthAnne had seen Dolly looking so relaxed; so happy, as if they were just going to the park to feed the ducks instead of riding off into the desert in search of seven waterfalls.

“But I don’t want to share!” Katie wailed, flipping her long braids over her shoulders. She was a piteous mess in the white cotton dress tied with a yellow bow at the waist.

RuthAnne overheard Whit bribing Katie with sugared cookies he’d swiped from the store. Katie’s eyes lit up; she was soothed. RuthAnne laughed. Following the path set out before her, she headed off to find Mara.

Chapter 22

The large, black boots made pillows of dust as Post Commander Edgar Carington traipsed across the well-marched-upon parade ground. The fort was quiet. After “Reveille,” the soldiers not on duty had scattered. The others tended their tasks quietly, dreaming of time away from here. Away from the blistering heat, scalded sky, and hours of scouring the desert for nothing in particular. Gone were the exciting days of fighting Indians. Now, they were more of a police force and not much looked upon, at that.

He had heard it too many times, from his wife, from his children. Why not accept a commission and go further west? Somewhere civilized, at least. San Francisco or even San Diego, for all of its beaches and wide expanses. At least it was cool. The wilds of the west were all but tamed. What was there left to do here?

There was an itching in his palms to see the girl from the night before. He’d seen the look in her eye from just a bit of compassion. Tenderness. She was starving for it, and he was just the man to see to it that she got the attention she needed.

Head high, he entered the laundresses’ quarters. What he saw was a fair share different than what he expected. Abigail Stevens; her husband Lawrence, the blacksmith; and their daughter, Moira, were sitting around the room, having a good laugh. It was an intimate family scene, as if these quarters were their home and he was an intruder. They startled at his entrance and quickly busied themselves.

Abigail grabbed a basket of mending and shoved it at her daughter; Moira hustled out of the room with but a nod to the post commander. Lawrence ran a stained and work-worn hand through his thinning silver hair. Abigail narrowed her blue-eyed, anvil gaze heavily upon him.

“She ain’t here, Edgar.” Her words were heavy, peppered with sparks of anger.

The commander held his hands up in defense. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Abigail choked back a guffaw, though Lawrence shot her a dangerous look and wrung his callused hands.

It was almost too easy for Carington to come up with the excuse that leapt to his lips. “I came for Lawrence. Heard you were dawdling over here. I have a horse in need of shoeing.”

“I’m at your disposal, sir.” Standing with a tired salute, he bent to kiss the waiting cheek of his wife.

A flash of conscience raced through Carington’s mind. Lawrence Stevens had been out with the patrols for weeks and his family was obviously happy to have him home. Then conscience turned to annoyance. This was not the type of reception he had enjoyed from his own family, ever. He set his jaw. “I’ll meet you at the stables.”

He trekked out into the late August day, growing angrier with each step. If she wasn’t there, where was she? Where did she possibly have to go? He thought on her in the blue dress, pale skin, long neck, so ripe for the picking. It would only be a matter of time. He had a way of getting what he wanted.

He found himself walking by the complex lattice adobe wall that Alex McDole had insisted upon, building himself a coop in the middle of the stable yard; ventilation, he’d said. For the chickens. Chickens! True, as he wandered back to the tack room in search of the stable master, there did seem to be a cooling draft blowing into the interior courtyard the man had built.

White and black speckled hens pecked and picked up seed corn. A brown rooster eyed him warily and then ran off squawking as Carington kicked at him. The flapping of wings got McDole’s attention, sure enough.

“What the...? Oh! Sorry, sir. What can I do for you?” Alex McDole stood at abrupt and sloppy attention, saluting as if it was the first time in a long time he’d attempted such a formality.

More lax behavior from this sorry lot, Carington thought angrily. They’ve forgotten how to soldier in all of this peace. He never thought he’d find himself missing being at war.

“You look a few horses shy, Sergeant. A few saddles, too.” He nodded to the empty stands in the tack room.

McDole was sweating from more than heat. That was good. Carington was just setting in to lay into the stable master when a shadow fell across the tack room entrance.

He frowned, seeing Charley, the nearly seven-foot Yavapai scout, stride into the stable in all of his native glory. Charley’s richly toned, angular face could have been chiseled from stone as he walked right past the post commander into the yard without even a glance. No respect for authority, Carington grumbled. The heathen was practically naked, wearing nothing but a leather cloth front and back, tied with rawhide cord, and a worn military jacket exposing his mahogany skin and well-muscled torso.

A shiver of resentment rolled down Carington’s spine. Charley might have indebted himself in the military’s service during the hunt for Geronimo and Cochise, but now he was a holdover. An Indian not quite accepted at his home, wherever that was out in the desert, or here at the fort. Edgar Carington certainly hadn’t encouraged him to stick around, but he wasn’t sure at all how to roust him out.

Charley nodded at McDole in a wordless greeting. He walked with moccasined feet to a white and brown paint horse that nickered in greeting. Carington watched as Charley inspected the horse’s eyes, mane, ears, and neck. He placed a large hand across its velvety muzzle and looked deep into its eyes. Without word, request, or saddle, he slung himself over the horse’s back and galloped out of the stable leaving nothing but a cloud of dust in his wake.

“Just what kind of establishment are we running here, Sergeant?” Carington spat in distaste. McDole just shrugged.

“It’s his horse, Colonel. He just was checking to see if I’d kept him well. He’s been on a spirit walk.” McDole was obviously uncomfortable, but during Carington’s absence things quite well had fallen apart.

“You’ve been handing military horses out to civilians...I need to know where they went.”

McDole’s lip twitched. “I believe two ladies went with Baker up to see the Seven Falls. In the canyon.”

“Two ladies?” Who would have gone with her and why? She left the dance with that stout little charlatan who’d purchased the post store and...? Carington found himself standing openmouthed, staring dumbly toward the Seven Falls of Sabino Canyon.

Lawrence Stevens appeared, breaking the spell. He struck up his fire, using the bellows to blow air deep into the stoked coals. He donned the heavy blacksmith’s apron, and grabbed his hammer.

“Now, don’t this beat all? I’m supposed to be all by my lonesome, and now you’re going to be blowing smoke and ashes everywhere?” McDole laughed aloud.

“I was told there was a horse in need of shoeing. An urgent matter, right, Commander?” Stevens’ and McDole’s gazes turned toward him, heavy and amused.

This was all going wrong. Anger welled in Carington’s breast.

Just then, Major Kendrick appeared bearing a messenger pouch marked Prescott. “Colonel Carington, I’ve got a message for you and the missus. Marcus has accepted his new commission. He’s arriving from Fort Apache in Prescott.”

His son. Marcus was coming back to take on the duty as quartermaster of Fort Lowell, at last. Clara would be happy to have him back under her watchful eye. One less argument they’d have to face. Well, that made things better, if not right. Carington set aside his annoyance. His boy was coming home. “Well. That’s fine then. Thank you, Kendrick.”

****

The three men watched the commander walk away. Alex McDole smiled to himself, looking east toward the large dome of the Rincon Mountain range. Lawrence Stevens set about his task, taking the tongs to remove the old shoe nails. He cursed under his breath, sitting squarely on his stool as he inspected the Colonel’s steed. Kendrick fidgeted with the messenger pouch the commander had neglected to take with him.

Alex wondered a bit about that himself. He could have sworn he saw Marcus Carington just yesterday, darkening the corner of the dance hall. But there had been a lot of folks, a lot of dust kicked up. If Marcus had been there, he hadn’t stabled his horse, so Alex must have been seeing things.

“Just think. Now, there’ll be two of ’em in charge of our well-being around here,” Kendrick grumbled, glanced up quickly, and straightened his shirt.

Alex caught Stevens’ eye. “I can’t remember the last time the commander took that animal out for a joyride.”

Stevens grunted in reply and rubbed a work-worn hand over the horse’s back hoof and newly nailed shoe, inspecting the underside for mud before setting it back down. “I’m not re-shoeing this animal; I don’t care who asked me to.”

“Go back to your’uns, Stevens,” Alex said. “He don’t know which end is up on a pony.”

Lawrence Stevens’ face flushed with annoyance as he stood. He gave a brief nod to Major Kendrick, folded up his heavy apron, and stomped out of the stables.

Alex narrowed his gaze at the major, who frowned while picking his thumbnail. “The commander didn’t come here to have no horse shoed. He’s searching for the Newcomb woman.” Alex ignored Kendrick’s stuttering answer. He grabbed a saddle and his heavy needle and rawhide and lumbered off to repair where the leather was separating.

Kendrick followed, clearing his throat. “You wouldn’t know anything about where the Newcomb woman went off to...would you?”

“I told him what I know. I sent three up the canyon this morning. They had a picnic with them...”

It didn’t matter that the three included Dolly’s young daughter, Katie. Kendrick seemed satisfied with the answer. As for RuthAnne, she should be nearing the chapel any time now. Thinking what a bonus it was to send the post commander and his lackey into such frenzy, Alex went back to his chores, whistling as he worked.

Chapter 23

Mariposa waved a hand in greeting as RuthAnne rode into the courtyard. The native woman had braided her salt-and-pepper hair into a rope that slid down her back. She wore a yellow tiered skirt, and her embroidered blouse looked cool in the noonday sun as RuthAnne dismounted and secured her horse to the post.

“How is she?” RuthAnne didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Mariposa’s face melted into a smile.

“Awake.”

RuthAnne all but flew to her sister’s room only to find it empty. Mariposa was on her heels, laughing. “Your sister’s under the ramada. Taking in the view. Resting.”

RuthAnne followed the direction this kind woman pointed. The mountains rose up majestically behind the chapel. Rocky cliffs and crags caught the sun, reflecting in shades of brown, red, gold, and tan. It was amazing how the landscape she had once viewed as brown and forbidding now seemed scattered with deep emeralds, light jade, and bottle green. Cactus, sharp and dangerous, caught the sunlight in their needles, enshrouding them in a gilded glow.

A scattering of mesquite and the green-trunked palo verde ringed the courtyard where she found her sister, pale and pensive, sitting on a bent willow chaise, a quilt wrapped around her despite the heat.

“Mara...?”

Her sister turned, and their gazes locked. RuthAnne fell at her feet, unable to stop the tears she had held back for a week.

“They said you’d come. That you weren’t killed...I wasn’t sure they were telling me the truth...” Mara’s voice was weak, thin, as was her countenance. Her wrists looked so fragile. Her skin was nearly translucent. Her lustrous black hair was freshly washed and pulled into a loose knot at the back of her neck. “I’ve been praying for you...”

“As I have for you, dear sweet sister.”

“What happened, Ruthie?”

“You don’t remember?” It was a blessing, truly, if she didn’t.

“I remember the stagecoach. The noise we heard...I remember being so scared. We went over the side...”

A fist-sized lump filled RuthAnne’s throat. All she could do was nod as Mara searched her memory for fragments of events.

Mara held up her hands in question. “Then, nothing. It’s a blur.”

“It was not our best day...” RuthAnne choked out between sobs.

They held each other, weathering the storm of tears together. After awhile, she helped Mara back to bed. The girl had lost so much blood; she was weak, but she had survived. It wasn’t like with Evan, she thought, lowering Mara gently to her soft bed. Mara’s clear blue eyes held her own, and RuthAnne realized her sister was thinking the same thing. The girl’s eyes closed as peaceful sleep finally found her.

RuthAnne quietly exited the room and took Mara’s place on the chaise. A breeze blew through the rough-hewn, mesquite-post ramada. The shade cooled her arms and neck. A cactus wren cackled from a wide-paddled prickly pear near his nest of sticks. All around, the desert sounds soothed, making her feel not so alone. She closed her eyes, and prayed in silent thanks. Thank You, God, it wasn’t like what happened to Evan...

In her mind’s eye, she relived that dreadful day in Kansas City. The day Evan died. They were supposed to meet an hour before. The ever-prompt Evan was late coming home.

RuthAnne prayed through the annoyance and then the anger that wormed its way into her belly. When another hour passed, anger bloomed into worry as she waited for him to return. She’d wiped her worn and weary hands on her apron. A seamstress’ hands, she mused. Sewing was something she used to enjoy, before she’d been treated like a workhorse. At first, Evan’s manner was light and his way was easy. He made the work fun, even though he pushed her to the limit on a regular basis. It wasn’t like he knew a treadle from a needle anyway. He simply had the connections and the dream. She was his way to get there—a means to his own end. It was something she had grown to resent, it shamed her to realize.

They worked so hard to fill the ridiculous order he had made with the U.S. Army. Who were they to supply a whole regiment of soldiers with their wardrobe? Hundreds of pairs of trousers? Shirts and jackets, too? It made her grimace at the enthusiasm she’d shown for his gift of a White sewing machine with the buttonholer. She was only one seamstress, and Mara thankfully was there to assist.

They had spent every dime of her dowry money to buy materials. Rolls of fabric piled high against the walls and seemed to be enough to clothe every soldier in the outer reaches of the army frontier. Sky-blue wool kersey, bright yellows for trim. Dark blue wool serviced for the jackets. She’d cut patterns until they were memorized. And now, he was off to some meeting while she worked her fingers to the bone? He treated her more as a slave than his business partner.

“That does it. I’m going out after him. There is no way we’ll be done by Tuesday. It’s beyond ridiculous.”

She’d left Mara working, dusted threads and cuttings from her skirts, and hightailed it out the door. She hustled past storefronts and warehouses, crossing streets thick with carriages and passersby, the brick buildings and the littered city sidewalks. Night and day from the open spaces, plantation houses, and weeping oaks of Somerville, she knew she’d always remain a stranger in this big city.

RuthAnne regretted her bitter words that had followed Evan out the door. Still, he was the one who had turned what could have been a passionate marriage into a sweatshop. That wasn’t her doing. As she had neared the train station, fear for Evan shot to her heart.

She remembered the gathering crowd. People were waving their arms and talking animatedly. Someone lay in the middle of the circle, collapsed on the ground. A darkening crimson stain grew beneath him.

She recognized the jacket immediately, as she’d tailored it for his last birthday. She pushed her way through the crowd, kneeling to cradle Evan’s head in her hands. She screamed his name, barely registering the conversations around her.

“What...? How...?”

“...shot right there in the street.”

“...said it was some man he was meeting. They were arguing and then...”

“Evan, can you hear me?” Blood oozed and bubbled from his mouth. She gasped in horror.

“Ruthie...” He tried to talk. His eyes were glassy. She inspected him with shaking hands. Face. Neck. Chest. Stomach. Oh, Lord in heaven. He’d been shot in the stomach. His white shirt was crimson with dark blood. Drenched. Pulsing with each heartbeat.

“Someone help us!” she cried, instinctively covering his wound, applying pressure, attempting to put him back together where he was forever broken.

They were taken away in a blur. A hospital. White walls. Antiseptic smells. Nurses in starched white uniforms. A sorrowful doctor, cleaning his spectacles and shaking his head.

“We removed the bullet, but his stomach was pierced. He’s septic. There’s nothing further we can do. We’ll try to keep him comfortable, but your husband’s not long for this world. I’m terribly sorry.”

RuthAnne heard the words as if she were in a fog. Somehow, Mara joined her. Someone had fetched her.

“Should we send for Father?” Mara asked hesitantly. But they both knew where that would leave them.

Neither girl was willing to go back to Somerville. There was nothing left for them there. Everything had been taken from them after the War Between the States. The house was gone, burned on Sherman’s march to the sea. Father was a shell of a man. Mother was in a fugue state from losing her brothers, Johnny and Daniel, both killed at the Battle of Chickamauga. She was happier in her dream world than in reality now.

Evan had offered RuthAnne and Mara a future. A life. Since Father’s gift of dowry money, they had heard nothing from their family. Evan had become their life. They had embraced him and his foolish dreams. And now, Mara and RuthAnne had nothing but each other.

And she had almost lost Mara...

RuthAnne placed her head in her hands, crying until there were no more tears. She was empty; a vessel waiting to be filled. Her prayer was simple. Please. For what she pleaded, she couldn’t say.

“Hello, Mrs. Newcomb.” The voice was strong. Substantial.

She looked up in disbelief. He was there. Captain Shepherd loomed on the edge of the ramada, large as life. He shifted his weight like a horse about to bolt in any direction.

She unashamedly wiped at her face with tired hands, wanting nothing but to fly into his arms. “Good day, Captain. What brings you back?”

His hazel eyes spoke volumes his voice wouldn’t give words to. Her heart bloomed with unspoken promises.

“I thought I’d check on your sister. Give you an update. Finding you here’s an added surprise.” He handed her a kerchief, clearing his throat. “I found something of yours. I think it’ll please you.”

She watched in wonder as he hurried out to the corral. This man, this soldier with whom she had some sort of bond, was a mystery to her. Even more of a conundrum was how he made her heart twist in a way Evan never had. There was no use in denying it any longer.

A pang of guilt struck her, and she swished it aside. Evan was cold and dead to this world, and she would be pleased to see him in the next, after she throttled him a time or two. But she was a living, breathing woman. Well, at least her heart still worked, even if the thoughts Bowen Shepherd brought to mind made her blush a bit.

Bowen strode back bearing a canvas-wrapped package. “Some pages got loose. I think it can be repaired, but it’s the having of something like this that makes it special...”

He carefully unwrapped what she instantly recognized as the Newcomb family Bible. It had been in Evan’s family since they came over from England, a new Bible for a new life, he’d said. She gazed at it in wonder. “Where did you find this? How?” But then, it struck her. Bowen had returned to the scene of the crime. “The wreckage...”

“There isn’t much left. Honestly, the storms washed most of it down the mountain. This here was wedged under a boulder. The cover’s water damaged. I tried to dry it out for you by the campfire. I may have baked it a bit.”

“It’s amazing, truly. I don’t know how to thank you.” She touched his arm with gentle fingers, eyes spilling tears of a grateful heart. RuthAnne willed him to come closer, to pull her to his chest and wrap his strong arms around her, even though she knew she would push him away if he tried to touch her.

Bowen pursed his lips, looking toward the pass. “I need to take you back up there with me. I’ve been searching for the cave...Those mountains are steep, but we must be close. We need to retrace your steps. Yours is the only lead we have, RuthAnne.”

“And if El Tejano comes back?”

“You let me worry about that.”

“What if he tries to kill you, too, Bowen? I don’t know if I could have that on my conscience.” She stood, holding the Bible before her like a shield. Its leather cover was cracked and crumbling, the pages warped from water. But it was something real she could cling to. Her only armor against fear.

“I saw the dates in there. Evan died well over a year ago. You aren’t in mourning anymore.”

Now RuthAnne needed the shield for an entirely different reason. “No. Not officially.”

He nodded. He always seemed to know when to back off. The heat of unanswered questions steamed through his gaze. His large hands folded and unfolded themselves. “Now isn’t the time for this. Say goodbye to Mara. We’re going up.”

“I’m not leaving. I have until Sunday to get back to the fort. I’d like to be allowed my day of worship, if you don’t mind, Captain.”

Bowen flinched at her words, but with a nod, he began to walk away. After a few steps, he stopped and turned. “Do what you must. I’ll collect you in an hour, so get ready. We’ll go up the mountain past the wreck. I’ll have you back here by sundown. Tomorrow, after chapel, I’ll take you back to the fort.”

“I don’t require an escort, Captain. I’m not the deserting type.” She set the Bible down on the chaise and placed her hands on her hips.

His laugh boomed through the brittle summer heat. He made her feel small. Insignificant. Like a child. She stomped her foot and turned on her heel, storming back to Mara’s bedside.

Chapter 24

An hour later, they rode silently up a mountain trail steep enough that RuthAnne clung to Bowen’s waist in fear of slipping off the back of his horse. The tighter she held on, the more he seemed to pull away from her. He had referred to the handsome animal as General, and by the look of things, the stallion had full command, finding his own path. Relief replaced her annoyance that Bowen hadn’t allowed her to ride up separately. He was right. Though RuthAnne found the gelding’s sudden bursts of speed invigorating, Stable Master McDole had sent her off with far too spirited a horse.

She gasped as General’s hoof slipped on the crumbling granite, grateful that for once she’d bitten her tongue and not argued about it. Her gut reaction seemed to be to argue with Bowen about everything. Something about him made her heart swell to bursting when she wasn’t with him. Why he brewed up a fight with her every time they were together was beyond her comprehension.

They rocked and creaked their way up the slope; the horse’s shod hooves bit and sometimes slipped on the crumbling rocks. Bowen guided his mount with unspoken commands, using knees, gentle urging of the reins, and clicks to communicate. The horse obviously knew him well and answered unswervingly, obeying and almost anticipating his commands. She held tight, perched on the blanket at the back of the saddle. These two were a team in a way that she was only beginning to understand.

Suddenly, they were upon the wreckage from the stage, and her attention diverted. There was so much splintered wood. Broken wheels. The remnants of the leather harnesses. Torn clothing. He was right. Nothing here was salvageable. They had truly lost everything to the bandit’s rockslide. Biting her lip, she held on until they reached the flat of the road and both dismounted.

“What do you want me to do now?” Her words felt thick in her throat.

“You would have climbed up about here, I imagine. Just close your eyes and put yourself back there. On that day...”

RuthAnne did as he instructed. She allowed the memory to overtake her: the rumble of the rockslide, the out-of-control stage, Mara’s terrified face, their screams as they went over into oblivion. Unashamed, she balled her fists at her eyes and pressed hard. She forced herself to remember the relief of reaching the road and slogging through mud and rain; the safety of the cave turned to dread when they realized what and who they had stumbled upon. Anger filled her heart. Righteous indignation. She welcomed it. It was better than being afraid. She found her voice.

“The rain started right after we found our way up. It was pouring hard. We went that way. I think. But, it’s too steep, isn’t it? We sort of went across...” RuthAnne took several steps down the rutted road. She would have remembered such a steep incline, wouldn’t she? She observed how the road took a sharp descent in one direction and leveled out before turning back up the mountain.

“We went the wrong way...” She turned and went left instead of right, toward the peak of the mountain.

“You were trying to get to town. Town is this way.” Bowen led his steed by the reins, pointing to the right down the rutted road.

“But we were disoriented. It was pouring rain. I don’t remember going up or down. Just...across a rutted road.” He took a long even breath, and she knew he was nearing the end of his patience as she worked out the puzzle. “We kept walking until we saw the cave. But it was more an abandoned mine.”

“These mountains are littered with those. It makes sense, really, if you think about it. A miner whose luck played out. Close to the only road over the pass...sees one too many payroll stages come through. A man that desperate might go to any lengths to get his payday. Might even resort to killing.”

His words hung in the air like thunder. They stood in General’s shadow; the animal heaved a breath and shifted its weight, letting out a whinny, ears at attention. RuthAnne saw the horse’s large brown eyes focus in the distance, wide and staring.

“Someone’s coming,” Bowen said.

“Good, maybe they can help us.”

“No. The road is still out. No one comes this way. Come on.” Swinging himself back into the saddle, he reached for her arm. In an instant, she was lifted behind him and they were off, across the road and up the narrow gully.

Rocks skittered under the horse’s hooves. Bowen and RuthAnne leaned forward, and she willed the animal to find solid footing. Seemingly by instinct, the horse worked out of the ravine and back up the ridge to a large, flat area.

“What was it, boy? What did you hear?” The great horse flicked his ears. Bowen turned to the direction the horse was looking, his eyes solemn, hand on the butt of the pistol at his side. He slid off the saddle and motioned for her to stay. She wrapped her hands solidly around the reins; the horse’s rich black mane was coarse and wiry between her fingers as she stroked it for comfort. Whose comfort, she didn’t know as she and General both watched Bowen creep to the edge of the precipice.

He returned after a long moment, taking off his hat and brushing dust from its brim. With a laugh, he plunked the hat back in place and took the horse’s large head in his hands, looking him deep in the eye. “General. That’s the last time I trust your gut notions, you hear?” His eyes were dancing as he shifted his gaze to RuthAnne. “Wild ponies. Old General, here, must be on the lookout for a wife.”

She stifled a laugh as she took his hand and slid from her perch to go have a look at the small herd of mustangs. There were four of them hightailing it up the mountain. They were not shiny and brushed like the cavalry horses. Their legs were short, stocky, and their bodies were stout and true. Dusty, dull, and mud-colored, one was the spattered white and brown of the paint, the other three were tan and speckled, but each was muscular with wild mane and a short tail. “They’re beautiful...”

“Wild horses. Getting scarcer ’round these parts. Arizona Territory’s getting crowded with civilized folk. Everyone’s trying so hard to tame this country. They don’t realize that just makes the natives more determined to keep things the way it was.”

Sitting on the large stone outcropping, she let the broad expanse of desert take her in, from the enormity of the mountain pass behind her to the sloping plain with the scattered saguaros to the ribbon of the Rillito glinting in the sun. “It’s harsh. And lovely, in its own way.”

He simply nodded. She held her breath before asking him the question that burned her heart. “Captain Shepherd?”

He turned, and she saw the hurt that her formality struck in his pale eyes. “Bowen...” Her smile softened his expression, expanding her heart. “Why is it you’ve never really asked me about my situation? You seem to know so much, but don’t you want to know why I can’t go home?”

“Your past is your business, same as mine. What’s dead should stay dead.” His rumbling voice thickened with emotion. “I’ve done things I’m far from proud of, Ruth.”

“The past might be private business, but only God knows what’s in your heart, Bowen. Anything you’ve done is between you and Him.”

He laughed bitterly. “God and I have an understanding. I stay out of His way, and He stays out of mine.”

He confounded her; his words and his eyes so at odds with each other. She struggled to find words to tell him what was in her heart. He touched his fingers to her chin, so familiar a gesture and yet she didn’t pull away.

“Ah, sweet RuthAnne. You’ve worked a spell on Fort Lowell. They’ve fallen in love with you. There’s any number of good men down there who’d make a fine husband for you. I’m not the kind of man a woman like you should want.”

She bit her lip. This wasn’t the way this was supposed to go. The anger welled up in her chest once again. Who was he to tell her what to do?

“A woman like me? What does that mean exactly? What do you know of me, anyway? Or what I want?”

“I know you’re smart. You’re lovely to look at. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and you aren’t scared of much, but you know when to be careful.”

The inches between them evaporated to a hair’s breadth. She watched his mouth form words, but ceased hearing them, because hearing what he said meant sealing his fate against hers. His lips were full. His face was rugged, tanned by the sun, with the barest shadow of stubble on his cheeks. She longed to run her hand across that cheek, along the chiseled line of his jaw. To feel the roughness of his skin against her own. To lend him comfort where he had none.

“You don’t know much, Bowen Shepherd. You don’t know my heart, what I’m capable of, or what I’ve been through.” Her lip quivered. She’d been through the wringer to get here. She wasn’t going to let him make decisions for her again.

“I know I’m not the sort of man to build your life around. I’m not the marrying kind, RuthAnne. Best you get used to that idea.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s for you to decide. We came upon each other for a reason, Bowen. Can’t you feel it?”

And for a long moment, they both could. Their undeniable attraction went far beyond physical, as if his very presence made her whole.

“What I feel is hungry. Let’s get you back. It’s getting late.” He smiled, pulling her to stand, and led her back to his horse. And when she secured her arms around his waist, this time he didn’t flinch at her touch.

Chapter 25

Bowen wiped sweat from his brow and checked the sun. It was getting on about midday, and there was still no sign of them. Gentle murmuring came from behind the carved wooden doors of the chapel. He could make out the well-worn doves in the wood, a cross, the setting sun, all darkened with age and oil to keep them from warping in the fickle heat and cold of the Arizona weather. He chided himself, knowing he was only watching and waiting for her.

He idly checked his tack, cleaned rocks from General’s hooves, and found anything and everything to do while RuthAnne sat primly in chapel. She worshipped with Father Acuña, along with the few parishioners from nearby ranches. They prayed behind the heavy wooden doors to a God they couldn’t see. They praised and said their Our Fathers, their voices a gentle cadence, rising and falling in the thick morning air. It stirred something in his gut. Memories of his mother. Of his childhood. Of a time when his soul didn’t feel like a lead weight in his chest.

The doors opened, and Father Acuña stepped outside wearing his rough brown robe, his bald head shining in the sunlight. His parishioners left the confines of the chapel, the men shaking his hand, the women offering a hug or a curtsey. He blotted the sweat from his brow as RuthAnne tentatively walked up to him. They shared a private word. Bowen imagined it must be about Mara’s condition. He had looked in on the girl. She was much improved but had a row to hoe ahead of her for recovery. A gunshot was not an easy mend. He was only grateful that he had stumbled upon them when he had. If he had been an hour later...

But he hadn’t been. Maybe God had directed him and his men to follow that shortcut over the pass. Maybe it was dumb luck. Either way, that set of choices had brought him face to face with a woman who seemed set on changing his way of life.

Bowen thought back to the night spent drying out her family Bible. He’d read the family names, and after only one or two was completely bowled over by the coincidence. What were the odds that the woman who was trying to steal his heart had been married to his cousin? Divine design or comedy, it wasn’t something he was prepared to discuss with her just yet. Evan Newcomb had died, more than likely due to some con gone wrong. A scandal whose size he hadn’t figured out just yet.

How much did RuthAnne know about his dealings? Was she a partner or a pawn in his scheme? It just seemed a bit too convenient, with Quartermaster John Cross being shot on the streets of Tucson and now Post Commander Carington’s son Marcus stepping in to fill the position. Bowen had seen the writing on the wall when Cousin Evan wired saying that he had found a way to make money selling uniforms to the government and had just the talents to do it.

Evan Newcomb hadn’t changed a bit since he was a kid, hustling money on the street corners of San Francisco. The trouble he’d gotten into in California had him trekking east to take advantage of the chaos that followed the war. How had he met RuthAnne? How had she not seen through him? It stuck in Bowen’s craw. Thinking of his skinny cousin, eyes full of schemes and dreams, taking advantage of RuthAnne’s talents. Her abilities. Her heart. He flexed his fingers, balled up into fists yet again.

He had found her, and now he was responsible for her. But once he saw her settled, he would leave. Go where she wouldn’t follow. Where her luminous blue eyes wouldn’t haunt him.

“Those are some deep thoughts you’re thinking, Captain.”

He straightened, releasing the horse’s hoof to the ground with a thud. He dusted off his trousers and gave RuthAnne a respectful nod. “How was the service?”

“It was nice. Formal. All in Latin. But it’s always good to spend time in God’s house.” She smiled. The sun was behind her wealth of golden hair, like a cloud with a silver lining.

“We should go.” He turned abruptly.

“Just give me a moment to say goodbye,” she said and returned to the low-ceilinged casita where Mara rested.

He gave them a moment alone while his senses reeled from the hurt he knew he was causing her. There was no way of telling her how he was keeping her safe in making her keep her distance. Perhaps someday he’d understand why it churned his insides to do it.

Bowen watched from a distance as RuthAnne hugged her sister. He couldn’t help but overhear as they parted with promises that Mara would be much improved the next week when they met again. RuthAnne followed Bowen to the corral where their horses waited. Something had happened between them the day before. Something irreversible. He wasn’t sure where this would leave them, but it was best to not bring it up again.

****

RuthAnne tugged the reins to slow her spirited horse. The animal seemed ready to race stately General. Bowen arched a cynical brow, his full lips sliding into a smile. Side by side, they rocked, saddle leather creaking beneath them. The sun slid slowly behind the jagged Tucson Mountains to the west, painting their ridges and crags varying shades of amethyst, navy, and black with the fading light. Golden rods of sunlight spread the last fingers of day into the thin clouds, brushing the sky an array of fuchsia and burnt umber. The growing twilight left them gray and spent, like scattered ashes across the sky. RuthAnne knew she would never tire of seeing the drama of an Arizona sunset.

They headed past cholla cactus nodding in the slight, warm breeze and saguaros that reached to heaven along the banks of the Rillito. The fort was near. Their time together was drawing to a close.

Her heart hurt at the thought, so she found her voice. “Where do you head to next, Bowen?” She used his given name, a silent plea to draw him out, to force him to be a man and not a solider.

“We’re sending a unit to clear the rockslide from the road. Nothing’s coming in or going out until it’s done. We have a cease-fire in place with the Apaches. With the road clear, your wagons can come in from New Mexico. Your debts can be settled with the new quartermaster.”

“What happened to the old one?” Fear revived in her belly. Her mind flicked to the goods she had arriving on those wagons. Who would pay for them if the new quartermaster disapproved of the order?

He told her the story of the former quartermaster, John Cross. He’d apparently spent too much time gambling his money with the wrong people. “Shot in the gut. Died a hideous death; it took several weeks. Post surgeons couldn’t have done anything for him, anyway.”

Too vivid a memory; her face went cold, as if all the blood had run right out of it.

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have gone into such gruesome detail with you. I’m sorry.” From the look in his eye, he spoke the truth.

“It’s not that...” She gulped around the words that wouldn’t form. “I’ve witnessed such a death. It’s awful.”

“Your husband.”

She nodded, somberly. “Yes. He was shot in the street in Kansas City. We never found out why. Evan never would have hurt anyone. Not on purpose, anyway. He had a way of getting himself into predicaments...”

They swayed with the horses as they walked an easy gait back to the fort. The sun had set, and “Taps” played out. The sounds of the desert at twilight replaced the activity of the day. Coyotes bayed, river toads croaked and sang. Bowen angled them back toward the stable yard. They passed the small plot where Alex McDole’s corn crop waved in the slight evening breeze.

“We don’t always know people as well as we’d like to think. I’m sure your husband was a good man.”

“Good or bad, he was just a man.” Her voice seemed hollow in her ears.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find a fair deal with the new quartermaster. If you don’t there’ll be hell to pay, and I’ll make sure to present the bill.”

RuthAnne smiled, pressing a hand to his with sincere gratitude. He cleared his throat before continuing. “So, I’m leading the workers up to clear the road; while they’re working, Ross and Reggie and I will head back to the wreckage. We’ll go the way you directed, survey the mountain up and down looking for trails like you described until we find your mine. You go on and call for your wagons. The road will be open when they get here. Then we’ll wait.”

“For El Tejano? Do you really think he’ll go back to the hideout?”

“If what you said is true, the road opening will be just the thing to send him back to work. There’ve been a few too many accidents on that pass. This time, we’ll be waiting.”

Chapter 26

RuthAnne dreamily walked to the mess hall. She knew her blue dress had rumpled from the ride and her hair must be disheveled around her shoulders, but the world looked crystal clear. Nodding to a group of young men waiting for supper, she stepped into line, taking a tin plate in hand. Aromas of roasting beef, bubbling gravy, and freshly baked cornbread wafted in the air. Though the scent was heavenly, RuthAnne’s stomach was in knots.

That was Bowen’s fault. The man drove her to distraction. Coming for food was more for survival than outright hunger. She couldn’t bear to return to the confines of her quarters in the stifling evening heat. RuthAnne knew she was out of sorts, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Things were starting to come to a head. She would have to send a telegram tomorrow calling for the army transport to deliver their shipment from storage. She needed to meet with the new quartermaster and explain her situation. This twisted her insides. Evan had always been the one who conducted their business dealings, and now it was finally her turn. What would she say? How should she conduct herself?

“Mrs. Newcomb?” Major Kendrick stepped to her side, taking her by the elbow.

“Major? Yes. What can I do for you?” She held her plate out for a spoonful of the flavorful refried beans, a slab of roast beef, and a cake of cornbread to top it off, her appetite finally finding her.

“You’re wanted in the commander’s office.” He cleared his throat.

Dolly’s admonition came back to warn her, filling her with dread. “I’ve been out all day, sir. I’ll see him after my meal.”

“The commander doesn’t like to wait...”

“Then the commander shouldn’t interrupt people at dinnertime. I’ll be there presently.” Her heart hammered in her chest.

“I’ll wait for you outside then, ma’am.”

This meeting would obviously be unavoidable. She nodded at him, unable to speak further. She doubted if she’d be able to stomach her meal now, but she forced herself to go to one of the long tables and sit to eat.

Folding her hands, she tried to pray. Tried to be grateful. But all she could see in her mind’s eye was Evan’s face, in shock of being shot. Blood dripping from his mouth. The gurgling sound of his chest.

He hadn’t been a bad man, but she wasn’t sure he’d been a good one, either. She had always wondered what had been so urgent to send him out that day. Why he had never told her details, treated her like a real partner. Resentment built in her breast at the old thoughts, the old memories, but she pushed it aside. No one deserved to die that way, no matter what they had done, especially not Evan.

After making Kendrick wait a long spell, RuthAnne forced herself to leave the confines of the mess hall and face the commander. He had seemed so regal when she had met him at the dance. Still, true colors didn’t paint a pretty picture.

Kendrick marched her across the compound. She watched a lace curtain fall across a lighted window at the Carington house. Bowen had been right. This place seemed to have eyes everywhere. Kendrick straightened his coat and his shoulders, cleared his throat, and turned his beady black eyes to RuthAnne with tightened lips. He rapped twice on the door and then opened it, gesturing for her to head on inside.

A lamp lit the room in a warm amber glow. The commander sat behind his large, cherrywood, leather-topped desk. His uniform was neat and pressed; his bright blue-gray eyes looked tired but perked up when she entered. RuthAnne wondered at this man and what she knew from Dolly’s story. Her skin prickled.

“Please, sit.” He gestured to the cane-backed chair opposite him, and she did as directed, hands folded primly in her lap. He offered tea, which she politely declined.

His lips twitched in amusement. “Don’t think you’re in trouble, Mrs. Newcomb. I only wanted to welcome you in private. It seems that you have developed a low opinion of me since we last met.”

“Not low, sir. I only wonder at the circumstance. What could you possibly want with me so late on a Sunday?” Her back was straight. Though her words may have seemed brazen, her manner remained demure. She kept one eye on the door and her feet firmly planted on the floor, ready to flee.

“I only wanted to know how long you plan to be with us. The life of a laundress is transient at best. Most of our women are married. Or widows, like you? Perhaps you’ve come all of this way to settle? Find a new husband? Start a new life?”

“I won’t be staying on past the summer, Commander, though I do appreciate being in the army’s service. Once my business is settled, I plan on heading further west.”

“I see. And what business is that, my dear?” He stood and moved to the corner of his desk. The space between them closed rapidly. At that moment, she saw how sinuous his hands were. He was a strong man. A driven man. Someone used to getting what he wanted. Right now, it was fast becoming evident that he wanted her.

“I’m a seamstress by trade, sir. We were dealing with your former quartermaster. The uniforms that were ordered for this fort are ready for delivery, waiting at the La Junta station in Colorado.”

“We?” He leaned forward, intending to make her nervous. Thriving from the possibility of her fear. And she was playing into his hands. That would never do. She had to think, but there was no air in this close space.

“I. I mean I was. Am. My husband is no longer living,” she stammered, hating the way she sounded. Small. Feminine. Weak. Her heart hammered, blood rushed in her ears. RuthAnne fought to remain calm.

“Yes, I heard something about that. I’m sorry. Well, you by now have heard our quartermaster met an untimely demise. My son, Marcus, will be filling in that capacity.”

“Your son?” And then her line of defense struck her like a thunderbolt. She let a smile rise to her lips. “To think, it’s your son who’s the new quartermaster! What luck for me, I can’t imagine!”

Post Commander Carington’s expression faltered.

“I do hope he is as brave and charming as his father...that would be a treat.” She breathed a sigh, giving a slight laugh. “Here I thought you were flirting when you were charming me for your son. I do hope he isn’t married. Like you are, I mean. Married. To Clara.”

“Yes. No. He isn’t, but we aren’t through discussing your situation. What can I do for you to make your stay with us more...comfortable?”

“You’ve gone above and beyond to make me feel very at home, sir.”

His mouth twitched, and she knew this was her time to escape.

“Please tell your son that I look forward to meeting with him and discussing our arrangement. Thank you, sir, for taking such a personal interest in my well-being. Good day, Commander.”

She launched herself out the door and into the night air. Cicadas chirped and sang around her in a cacophony of sound. She couldn’t leave fast enough, and Kendrick watched her go in surprise.

The commander’s booming voice shot out behind her like a cannon, ordering her to come back, but RuthAnne was already gone.

She hurried through the stand of officers’ houses, passing the Carington residence in a flurry. A hand reached out of the darkness, grabbing her arm in a vice-like grip.

Clara Carington’s eyebrows knit together in disapproval. “So, you not only meet with my husband in secret, you saunter past my house to rub it in, eh?” The minty scent of laudanum was on her breath, slurring her speech.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.” RuthAnne looked around for someone, anyone who was bearing witness. There was nothing but dark and shadow around every corner. Windows shut tight against the desert heat. Inside, lanterns burned brightly. She couldn’t believe this woman was accosting her and there was no one around to intervene.

“Don’t play innocent with me. Do you think I don’t know what you’re up to? Don’t I have eyes? You, who come from nowhere with no means and nothing to show for your life? Hand-me-down clothes. Borrowed shoes. Counting on others to clothe and feed you. Tempting my husband into warming your bed? What sort of woman are you to break apart a family under everyone’s nose?”

“Mrs. Carington...”

“That’s right. I’m Mrs. Carington. And if you even speak to my husband again, I’ll have you thrown in the brig. And don’t think I can’t do it.”

RuthAnne dragged her arm away from Clara’s claws. “Don’t touch me again, ma’am. You don’t know anything about me but what the gossip hounds are saying. Don’t pretend to know me or my intentions.”

Turning on her heel, she left Clara Carington in the dust. RuthAnne stormed back to the laundresses’ quarters. So, this was to be her lot in life, was it? To be accused of adultery? Of tempting another woman’s husband?

Apparently, that was what the uneducated thought motivated the laundresses here at the fort. No one saw the good they did for the soldiers, for their morale. When there was no one to care for them, the laundresses saw to it they were sharp and mended. The married officers’ wives simply saw them as a distraction for their husbands. It was outrageous!

Hearing Dolly’s tittering laugh was a relief, and RuthAnne followed the sound out into the open air at the back of the building.

“Ruthie! You’re back!” Dolly flew into RuthAnne’s arms, hugging her until the air whooshed out of her lungs.

“Barely. You wouldn’t believe...” RuthAnne started on a rant and then noticed Katie sitting on a crate, happily swinging her legs. She was eating a piece of peppermint stick candy, looking rather pleased with herself in her falling down braids and nightdress.

“Mr. Baker brought us a whole jar of peppermint, just like he has behind the counter at the post store! Would you like some?” This level of enthusiasm was rare, even for Katie. RuthAnne raised an eyebrow at Dolly who simply shrugged.

“I don’t know what to tell you! Whit’s been like a breath of fresh air. Katie’s fallen completely head over heels for him.”

“He took us on a picnic!” Katie was aglow, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Her loose blonde braids flipped as she animatedly went on about their adventure. “We went into the canyon! We went all the way up a trail, to the pools at the bottom of the waterfalls. I even got to swim in the water! Mama said I looked like a fish!”

Dolly looked serene as she watched her little girl while twirling a small band on her finger. “You sure did, sweetie. A silver fish with a rainbow on its back, that was you.”

“Dolly...” RuthAnne leaned forward, taking her friend’s left hand in her own. “This is an engagement ring.”

“We’re getting married!” Katie smiled around the sticky candy.

Dolly Jewel could do nothing more but grin. “It would seem I am to become Mrs. Whit Baker. Come Sunday next.”

RuthAnne stared openmouthed, examining Dolly’s sparkling diamond. “So that was his intention? He got you alone and had the audacity to propose to you? Who knew Whit Baker was such a scoundrel!”

“Who proposed to whom? Did Bowen ask RuthAnne to get hitched?” Moira appeared in her gunnysack nightdress, hair tied in rags. RuthAnne blanched, while Dolly laughed.

“No! Though that would have been more likely.” Dolly smiled. “I’ve seen the way he pines for her.”

“He doesn’t pine for me. He isn’t the marrying kind. Told me so himself,” RuthAnne said.

Abigail wandered out to shoo in Moira when she saw the commotion. “Any man who says he’s not the marryin’ kind to a woman is obviously smitten and fighting it, tooth and nail. Be patient, Ruthie, and you’ll get him. That’s how I caught my Lawrence, you know.”

RuthAnne waved a hand. This was not about her. It was about Dolly. “Our Dolly Jewel, here, is getting married.”

More squeals of excitement had the whole house in turmoil. The laundresses all piled together, offering advice and laughing over tales of weddings and honeymoon nights. The event became Dolly’s impromptu engagement party, with all the fussing-over and congratulations that a young bride-to-be deserved.

When the chaos subsided, Katie trundled off to her bed with dreams of a real father who gave her sticky peppermint candy and a house with a wood floor and a bona fide roof overhead. RuthAnne and Dolly sat down to talk.

RuthAnne caught her up with news of Mara’s healing, of Bowen’s search for her would-be killer, and the prospect of finishing her business with the new quartermaster. “Once Mara’s well enough, we’ll be ready to make some decisions.”

“You and Bowen?” Dolly teased. The pain in RuthAnne’s aching heart reached her eyes. “You love him, Ruthie. It’s plain to see.”

“I feel like I’ve known him forever. Like our time here is so short and if I don’t do something, I’ll lose him. But something stops me from saying so, every time.”

“Fear?” Dolly’s question hung in the air.

Was it? RuthAnne didn’t think so. “It’s more likely to be hope. He seems to be immune to hope of any nature. Anyway, I can’t sit around and wait for him to decide. There’s a whole world out there I’ve yet to see. Family Mara and I have yet to find; Evan’s family Bible is full of names and places we’ve never been. I’m going to search them out. Tell them what happened to him. Help him to rest. Then we can see about finding a place to call our own. Build a shop for ladies, like Mara and I always talked about.”

Dolly smacked herself on the forehead. “I almost forgot to tell you. I had a visit yesterday evening. From Miss Amanda Carington. Katie and I were at the store when she came in to post a wire. Seems she’s in love with a librarian from San Francisco. They’ve been writing each other most regularly, Whit says. Anyway, we got to talking about the dances and your skill with a needle. The whole place was talking about how you remade that dress into a showstopper. People keep asking after you, wanting your help.” She took a breath, cheeks pink with excitement while she let the news sink in.

“Seems Amanda’s got a trunk full of dresses that she’s giving you to start your own business. You can re-cut the material for any lady at the fort who wants to wear them. What do you think?”

RuthAnne’s mind was spinning. What did she think? It sounded like a business proposition. Like the shop that she and Mara had dreamed about when Evan was having them slave their fingers to the bone. “That’s amazing...”

“Not only that, Whit is going to throw in patterns and notions for a small percentage of your profit. My dear, if you want out of this man’s army, it seems you’ve already developed quite a following.”

“I don’t know what to say!”

“Well, say it’s an answer to your prayers, sweetie. Because it looks like this is your lucky day.”

Chapter 27

The work detail left in a cloud of dust the next morning. Dawn’s silvery glow painted the harsh landscape, softening its edges. They rode east into the sun, a company of thirty men singing a cadence to get their blood flowing.

Bowen sat atop General watching their progress with a scowl on his chiseled face, eyes shielded by the wide brim of his hat. The squads each fell into line, a wave of blue uniforms, black leather boots, and swishing tails of their well-groomed mounts. The large, blue, army ambulance wagon that followed was packed to the gills with picks, shovels, rifles, and ammunition. There was no mistake about it, Bowen thought. Though it may have appeared so on the surface, this band was not on a mission of mercy. Should they find their quarry near the rockslide blocking the road, they would be loaded for bear.

They’d be a sight to behold as they made their way back east, toward the Reddington Pass where they would clear the road. The post commander had no interest in any happenings around the fort that didn’t directly enforce his further promotion. As captain, Bowen was often given the menial tasks of community service, outreach, and ensuring safe passage of the good citizens of Tucson as they made their way east or further west. Scouting trips into the Chiricahuas were growing farther between, and though he had a tentative cease-fire in place, relations between the Apache and cavalry were again growing tense. Bowen’s plan had fallen into place. Clearing the road was the perfect guise for capturing this criminal.

“Well, don’t you look like the cat that swallowed the canary?” Ross said. He had kicked his horse into a faster gait to keep pace with Bowen.

“We’ll see about that.”

“Given any more thought to that pretty laundress, Captain?” Ross’s smile was tooth-filled and full of good nature.

“Truth? I can’t get her out of my head, Ross, but if you repeat that, I’ll deny it.” Bowen punctuated his statement with a dark look in MacEvoy’s direction.

Ross held up a gloved hand in defense. “She won’t hear it from me. But just so you know, married women are a lot less high-strung. Once they know they’ve got you, they tend to settle down quite a bit.”

“Is that so? I seem to remember Josie threatening to tan your hide if you don’t take your leave tomorrow. I signed the order. You’ve got your two weeks of marital bliss, Sergeant.”

Ross laughed in earnest. “She knew she’d married a soldier with wanderlust when she said her I do’s.”

They leaned in and rode up a sharp hill, rocks skittering under the horses’ hooves. The landscape changed from the scrubby brush of the lowlands to the reaching saguaros and palo verde trees as they forded the rills and arroyos of the outer foothills. A band of coyotes eyed them watchfully. Bowen caught sight of five pups that darted into a den ahead of their mother. Above, hawks were circling in the updrafts of the mountain, hunting. He was set to do some hunting of his own as they continued up the pass road, in search of a killer.

****

RuthAnne checked her countenance in the polished mirror before she left her quarters. Her jaw was set in a hard line of determination, which she rubbed, trying to soften. No sense in looking like she was going to the executioner! Her cheeks were pink and eyes bright blue but dark and hollowed underneath from a poor night’s sleep. Her hair was neatly pinned up, a few loose curls around her long neck and shoulders framing the square neckline of her bodice.

She had adjusted the brown calico dress to be more fitted at the waist than had its previous owner and had pinned a starched white apron to her front. Matronly, she sighed, was the best she could muster. Perhaps given a few weeks salary, she could have pieced together a suit that would make heads turn all over the fort, men and women alike! But truthfully, she didn’t have the time or inclination anymore. And this was a conversation she had been dreading since her last talk with Bowen.

She strode across the parade ground to the office of the quartermaster. It was the first time since she’d been at the fort that there had been any activity in that area. She wondered if she was being overly presumptuous by simply appearing without an appointment. Still, she was doing her part to make sure Bowen was able to catch his man by calling for the delivery of her wares across the mountain pass. Wasn’t that what she had agreed to do? She prayed quickly that their ruse wouldn’t bring anyone into harm’s way.

Crossing the threshold of the quartermaster’s depot office, she entered another world. Papers were stacked upon tables. Ledgers were open and dusty. It was obvious that no one had been in these offices for quite some time. A dark-haired young man sat in the desk chair, head in hands. There was obviously more to do than he knew where to begin. RuthAnne’s heart went out to him.

“Good day, sir.”

He looked up, startled by her gentle voice, knocking over one of the piles of pages. They floated to the floor like snowflakes, scattering in the warm breeze that came in from open windows. Quickly, she helped him gather them up, and the two bumped heads in the process. RuthAnne sat down on the wood plank floor with a thud. They both found themselves laughing.

“Good day to you, miss.” He smiled. A streak of dust ran across his nose. Other than that, he was clean shaven. Dark eyes were obviously tired but full of good humor.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

“Just entirely too focused on learning the tasks of this office. Miss...”

“Newcomb. It’s missus, actually. Not miss. I’m widowed...” She stumbled over her tongue. This man was so handsome, so approachable. She hadn’t found it hard to speak with a man since Evan courted her. How odd this soldier should send her thoughts that direction.

“Well, Newcomb—it’s missus—actually.”

He was teasing her! RuthAnne blushed fiercely, feeling like a schoolgirl, which seemed to please this man even more. “I’m Marcus Carington. Most recently titled Quartermaster, though I’m sincerely considering abandoning my commission. Have you ever seen such a disaster?”

“No, I can’t say I have. It’s nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine if you can get my head out of these ledger books. We have a good year’s worth of non-action around here and a fort full of soldiers in need of just about everything. I’ve got requisition requests aplenty in that crate by the front door; the last date I saw was from two months ago. A requisition asking for more paper!” He knelt, going through pages of letters of request before he let them rain down back into the box. He laughed, and she found it easy to join in. “I’m afraid I don’t know quite where to begin.”

“I’d be happy to help however I can. Organization has always been a skill of mine.”

“Be my guest, Newcomb. Have at it.”

She scanned the room as he watched after her, arms folded across his chest, bemused expression on his lean face. It didn’t take much to identify the system that had been in place underneath the rubble of so much neglect. There was a ledger of accounts, a file full of receipts to be logged, and along with the demands for supplies, there was also a listing of items that had been ordered. She identified Evan’s name most readily.

“If I might be so bold, the first item would be to prioritize the requests from your men. They’ve been lacking most of the items of necessity. I hear it every day at the laundry. They’re short on ammunition, wearing boots with soles held on by tack nails, and are most desperately in need of...” She hesitated.

“Of what, Newcomb?” He was obviously enjoying himself immensely. “Spit it out.”

“Well, of new uniforms. They’ve been ordered and sent halfway here...”

“Halfway?” His gaze narrowed a bit in suspicion before widening. “How could you know all of this just by rifling through some pages?”

RuthAnne gave a sheepish shrug. “It isn’t from this. It’s the reason I’m here, sir.” She explained her position. That she and her husband had fulfilled a contract sent by his predecessor. He listened to her in awe.

“And now the shipment is in crates, stored at the depot, waiting for an army transport to bring it here. I’ve got the claim checks to prove it.” She finished with a sigh.

“All this time. Just sitting there.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And you came on ahead...but explain to me how a talented businesswoman like you ended up working in the laundry?” His eyes were full of mirth. He seemed almost giddy, not a haggard man without any idea how to start his work anymore. She was pleased she’d been able to help at least that much.

The door opened just as she began her explanation. Megan and Amanda Carington swept through and grabbed their brother, squealing with delight. They gathered around him in their brushed silk dresses, one of yellow, the other of pale pink. Each was more appropriate for wandering a boardwalk or attending a concert than traipsing over the dusty parade grounds. RuthAnne knew they must have primped for Marcus. Amanda looked a bit faint from the heat, but she was obviously thrilled to see her brother.

“Just wait until Mother gets a hold of you.” Megan pouted. It was far from becoming on her olive-skinned face, leaving her looking frightfully angry. “You’re not on her best side since you reenlisted. She was counting on you to come and care for her in San Francisco. Marry some rich newspaperman’s daughter.”

“Now, angel. I’m a grown man, and Mother doesn’t make my decisions for me. There’s a fortune to be had in the territories for a few more years yet. Then she’ll see me settling down with a lovely young lady for a wife. Maybe even this one here.” He winked at RuthAnne.

“RuthAnne? She’s hired help! Mother would pitch a fit for sure. That’s a good one, Marcus.” Megan snorted.

Amanda flashed a genuine smile in RuthAnne’s direction. “I think it would be lovely.”

“Amanda!” Megan didn’t seem to care for this at all. “You forget yourself. You’ll give the poor girl a delusion. RuthAnne, you understand, we all must remember our stations. Even in the wilds of Arizona.”

“Oh, of course. I know my station quite well. I’d best get back to it. Don’t hesitate to bring your dirty clothes by for me to launder, Megan. Quartermaster, you know where to find me once you’re ready to discuss that other matter. I’d best be going.”

Marcus knitted his brows in apology and held the door open for her. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Newcomb. I look forward to discussing our arrangement as soon as I figure out what it’s all about.”

She handed him the ledger that cataloged the order from the previous spring. “I’ve marked the page. And I look forward to next time. Good day.”

She left, hearing the agitation in Megan’s piercing voice. “What do you mean arrangement?”

Sighing, RuthAnne went on her way. She hoped Megan Carington would bring her dirty laundry. It may not have been the most Christian of thoughts, but RuthAnne knew just where she’d hang that girl’s britches out to dry.

Chapter 28

Marcus watched his sisters with curiosity. They wanted something, or they wouldn’t have bothered themselves coming to his office.

Megan seemed to fall into a blue funk after RuthAnne’s departure. She idly ran her finger along a dusty shelf; she frowned at the result then at her sister. “How can you be so nice to her? She’s nothing to us, Mandy.”

“Nothing but kind and sweet and good-natured.” Amanda straightened her shoulders.

Marcus noticed Amanda drew her breaths in shallow puffs. He put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing softly. “Corset too tight, baby sister?”

She smiled and sighed. “This was Megan’s idea. I’ve been meaning to ask Ruth...well, I’ve been meaning to ask to have some new dresses cut. Once Mother gives me my allowance.”

“You had beautiful dresses! A trunk full! And what did you do? You gave them all to that woman. It’s a travesty, Mandy, and when Mama finds out...”

This is precisely why remote army life had been so inviting, Marcus thought, coming between them, hands up. “Ladies, please. Why don’t you take conversations about clothes and powder and other sundry items out to the post store and let your poor brother get back to work.”

Megan peered at the stacks of papers with distaste; thumbing through a few pages she turned a cynical eye toward her brother. “You’re in over your head this time, aren’t you? At least the army is clearing the pass so that you can get some supplies through from the east.”

“Who said they’re opening the pass?” Marcus bumped the desk and knocked over a stack of ledgers, cursing softly under his breath as he knelt to gather them.

Megan blinked vacantly, with no offer to help. “Some soldier who was helping Mother move in a new stove. He mentioned they were heading out this morning.” She continued in earnest. “The whole company was going! He was thankful he wasn’t one of them, since there’d been rumors of thieves about. That bandit, El Tejano, specifically. You remember the stories about him, don’t you, Amanda.”

Amanda pieced a book back together and handed it to her brother. “Megan, you promised you wouldn’t speak of it!”

“Wouldn’t speak of what?” Marcus saw the look passing between his sisters and knew he had missed something. “What would you two caged birds know about bandits?”

Megan squared her shoulders and puffed out her chest. “I know enough. El Tejano’s got over one hundred thousand dollars hidden away in the hills outside of town. Out east, most likely. Private O’Donnell says he watches and waits for the Wells Fargo stagecoaches. And other coaches. He steals whatever he wants and kills anyone who’d dare stop him. And he wears a mask so no one can see his face. He sounds absolutely fascinating...”

“He sounds terrifying! You heard poor RuthAnne...” Amanda fanned her face, glowing with perspiration.

Marcus herded them toward the door. “Now, you two have gone batty. What on earth would RuthAnne know about him?”

They answered him with blank faces and silence. He didn’t have time for this.

His expression darkened. “Bandits! Masks! Rumors.”

“But, Marcus!” Megan said.

He closed his ledger with a slam, and the girls jumped in unison. “Women, get out of this office,” he ordered and hustled them to the porch and gave them both sound hugs and kisses on the forehead. He had some thinking to do.

Hours later, Marcus closed his ledger book. His thoughts were on the winsome RuthAnne Newcomb. What an astounding set of circumstances this was turning out to be. If Captain Shepherd indeed was overseeing the opening of the pass, then he would telegram the La Junta Depot that very day and send for her things. They would be there within the month, along with payroll, supplies, and a hefty amount of silver waiting for delivery. He’d be indebted to her more than she could possibly imagine.

Chapter 29

Wringing out yet another shirt, RuthAnne’s hands were cracked, fingers pruned from being immersed in water all day. She gritted her teeth, watching the clear water drip into her basin. Suds free. This one was ready to hang. She had buried herself in her methodical tasks of the day. One after the other, she marked each of the soldiers’ names from her list.

Almost in time to the cadences called on the parade ground outside, she unpacked dusty, sweat-stinking clothes from stuffed canvas bags, separated and dumped each into the water; pants first, as those took longest to dry. She immersed them completely with the aid of her large wooden paddle.

The cool morning air had melted into the oven-like August afternoon. No clouds would bring reprieve this day as the chatty row of laundresses went about their tasks. Their babbling was background noise for the action at hand. Soap skipped across the dark fabric, musically scratching, with a little extra on the stains. Then it was plunge, scrub, turn, and repeat, until she’d scraped her knuckles raw on the washboard.

She dumped the filthy suds-filled water into the ancient, muddy canal and went to clip clothes to the lines. Katie and her friend Tommy, a nine-year-old with shaggy brown hair and mischievous dark eyes, had begged to run the pump and fill the basins today, hauling pails and singing “Buffalo Gals,” their voices sweet and strong. As the temperature rose, their enthusiasm for the task waned. RuthAnne smiled with approval as their mothers dismissed the children to go wade in the creek.

This late in the morning, she already had each soldier’s trousers drying; the gray flannel shirts went up next, in an assembly. It wasn’t a bad life, but now that she had a glimmer of hope in front of her, she found herself daydreaming of the future. She could see it clear as crystal, as she hadn’t since she’d been working under Evan’s ridiculous time constraints. While slaving over his orders, she had often dreamed of a shop for ladies, selling ready-made clothes, having women come in for tea and leaving with sacks full of purchases. With orders placed for more...And this time, she didn’t shun the idea of Bowen making an appearance as well. The thought sent her heart soaring.

RuthAnne pulled wooden pins out of her apron and absently sang about buffalo gals dancing by the light of the moon; she shook out the damp and drying tunics from her basket and set them fluttering in the breeze. They’d be dry in no time, and with that, she was already done for the day.

“Dolly! Quit your lollygagging. I wanted to go with you to the post store. I thought we’d make soap this afternoon...”

“Soap! That’s the hottest thing, Ruth. Really. We have plenty.” Dolly had spent the morning alternately working and chatting with whoever would stop long enough to talk.

“Well, I had a hankering for something that smelled a little better than lye.” She reached deep into her apron pocket. “Charley gave them to me. Pine needles from up the mountain, I guess.”

Dolly wrinkled her nose. “I still can’t believe you agreed to wash that savage’s jacket. Scared the breath out of me this morning when he showed up here. Why on earth someone should traipse around half-naked, wearing an army jacket, is the strangest thing. Caring that it’s washed? That’s a stranger thing altogether.”

RuthAnne had to admit she’d been completely taken aback when the towering Yavapai man had appeared at her doorstep that morning. She remembered quite clearly and doubted that she would ever forget the sight of that mahogany-skinned, magnificent man; standing well over six feet in height, he loomed above her. He had simply taken the jacket off his back and handed it to her. This had left him standing in his full glory, with only the smallest covering of leather flap and rawhide between him and total exposure.

Charley was quite a specimen of masculinity, long regal nose, proud chin, and classic profile. His skin was such a rich tone of golden red that she itched to touch it. Waist-length black hair fell in a long braid down his back, restrained with a leather thong. Though she’d never seen a man with a hair braid, the look was far from feminine. It had taken quite a bit of self-restraint to pry her eyes from appreciating his sculpted muscles. And she winced, remembering the wry smile that had touched his lips when she thanked him for bringing his jacket to her to wash.

She had inspected his pockets in his presence, as she always did to make sure nothing of value was destroyed in the wash. Inside, she had found bunches of pine needles, bound together with thread. She breathed in their heady scent again, remembering how he had taken all but one, closing it instead in her palm with a nod. A gift. Probably her payment. RuthAnne doubted the army would be paying for Charley’s suit cleaning. However, offering clothes washed with the gentle, clean scent of forest pine might just draw an extra profit from some of the men.

“You go on without me, honey. And tell that man of mine I love him something awful...” Dolly grinned like a schoolgirl.

“I’ll let you tell him that. I’ll just say you send your regards.”

“Best regards.” Dolly winked and pushed her reddish-blonde hair out of her eyes. “Mercy, where did all this work pile up from? The day’s half over!”

RuthAnne gave a quick hug to her friend, while giving a guilty glance to her already straightened work area.

“Oh, go on,” Dolly said. “I’ve handled worse than this!”

RuthAnne palmed the pine needles and ran them under her nose as she left the sweat-smelling laundry and walked into the sun.

An hour later she elbowed her way through the post store door with her box full of purchases. She blinked in the bright sunlight, surprised to see Marcus Carington waiting on the bench.

“Well, hello there, Quartermaster Carington. You getting the depot whipped into shape yet?”

“Truthfully, I got more accomplished during your brief visit than I have all week. But that isn’t why I’m here.”

“So...you were waiting for me?” She twitched her lips in amusement thinking perhaps he had come to see about courting her. Wouldn’t that make things interesting around here? Would it give Bowen something to think about, if someone else had an interest in her? Or would it even bother him? RuthAnne turned to view Marcus fully. He looked amicable enough, walking beside her, but something in his eyes left her wary. She stumbled, and Marcus caught her by the elbow, steadying her.

“I saw you heading over this way and thought I might share a moment of your time, if that isn’t too bold of me. Might I carry that for you?” He kept his tone affable as he liberated her of the box of soap making supplies without waiting for a reply. The lye and oil bottles clinked into one another musically.

Marcus strolled at her side, his gaze distant and his jaw set. RuthAnne cocked her head at him, wondering what it was he wanted with her. They walked along in silence for a minute. Her skin prickled, but not from the heat.

She hurried to keep pace with him as he walked in the direction of the cottonwood stand. He looked clean-shaven, well-dressed even, as if he had taken special care before coming to see her. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was hoping we could have a conversation. I overheard my sisters discussing something that I found quite alarming. And, of course, something that I hope isn’t true.”

She stopped, turning toward him. “All right, sir. Out with it. What did they say?” Her mind churned. It could have been any number of things, from their father’s advances to their mother’s suspicions. Either one set her blood to boil. It was unfortunate that rumor and deceit seemed to rule the Carington family.

“Well, I’ve asked around. I know how you came to be here. Lost in a storm. Of being stranded with nothing...and no family to turn to.” He hazarded a sarcastic laugh. “Why else would a lady like you end up laundering for a bunch of nasty soldiers?”

“Why indeed...” RuthAnne gulped around the lump of ice that seemed to fill her throat.

He led her into the tunnel of cottonwoods on the edge of the hospital grounds. The spotty shade of the reaching, white-barked trees was a blissful relief from the scorching late summer Arizona sun. Birds darted through branches that swayed in a light breeze; lighting, each sang their brief tune and took off in flight again. Leaves rustled. They were alone. How did she keep ending up this way? By herself in the company of a man she barely knew?

He continued, words coming slow as glue. “I know what happened in the mountains. In the caves.”

She blinked.

“El Tejano.”

“I never...”

“Don’t patronize me.” He swallowed hard, his gaze burrowing into hers. “Did he touch you? Dishonor you in any way? I’m sure he would have wanted to.” He set her box down at his feet and took her hand. Searched her face. “Now, don’t be angry. I just need to know. I need to know what you told Captain Shepherd.”

“My virtue is intact, Quartermaster Carington, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m fully recovered from the incident.”

He waited for her to divulge more, and she stood her ground. Something about this whole meeting was off. This went far beyond a new friend being concerned for her well-being.

“Listen, Marcus. Please don’t mention this to anyone else. We don’t want people to get the wrong idea. People in these parts...they tend to get up in arms about things like this.”

“It’s Camp Grant, you’re referring to? Captain Shepherd had dirty business there.”

RuthAnne bristled with his accusation. “Leave him out of it.”

“Oh, I know the stories. And I know his suspicions about my family. His self-righteous act doesn’t erase the fact he’s killed his own share of innocents. But this is different.”

“Captain Shepherd is a good man. You’ll not speak ill of him around me.”

“He has a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. No matter what he says, no one is quite sure of the role he played in the Camp Grant slaughter...”

“Captain Shepherd may be many things, but he isn’t a cold-blooded killer.”

“Are you certain of that?” he asked.

RuthAnne glanced around. The post hospital was vacant, as the post surgeon was on hiatus in San Francisco. Unlike the rest of the fort, there seemed to be no one around. This late in the day, the parade grounds were empty, all the soldiers out on patrol. Her pulse elevated with worry. “I’m certain that he has his own demons to deal with, and it’s none of my business. Just as what happened in Reddington Pass is none of your business, Quartermaster Carington. Good day.”

She took a step, but a strong hand clenched around her arm. She could go nowhere.

“Why won’t you talk to me, RuthAnne?” His breath was on her neck. His voice resonated in her ear. Gooseflesh erupted on her skin.

“I need to get back. They’re waiting for me...”

“I think they can miss you for a while.” His grip tightened further.

“I can’t, Marcus. I made a promise.”

“To Shepherd. I see.”

RuthAnne wrenched her arm away. His expression was grim. Dark. Uncompromising. She tried another tack. “If word gets out that El Tejano attacked a white woman, nearly killed...well, me...who knows what people would do? No Mexican man would be safe!”

“They’re pretty good at finding someone to make an example of, aren’t they?” He gave a thin smile.

RuthAnne stepped back, just out of reach, wanting nothing more than to rub the newly-forming bruise. Instead, she retrieved her box of supplies, keeping it like a shield between them. “Promise me you won’t pursue this any further.”

“Let’s just say I promise to keep my eyes open.”

“What’s this all about, Lieutenant?” Bowen Shepherd’s booming voice reached them before he did. He closed the distance readily, a full head taller than Marcus and ready for a fight.

“It’s Quartermaster Carington to you, Captain.”

“Is it?” Bowen didn’t bother to amend his error, turning his attention to RuthAnne. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just a little misunderstanding, Bowen.”

“Misunderstanding? I didn’t think you all knew each other well enough to even have an understanding.”

“Now see here, Captain...” Marcus puffed up to his full height, still inches shorter than Bowen.

“If I even hear of you coming within a casual distance of this woman, you and I are going to have more than words.” Bowen gave Marcus a solid shove, pushing him to the ground.

Marcus scrambled quickly to his feet. Only an invisible barrier kept the men from brawling. Bowen’s lip curled into a sneer.

With a glance to RuthAnne, Marcus dusted himself off. “I do apologize if I scared you.”

“Not at all, Quartermaster.” RuthAnne summarily dismissed him, and he skulked off back to his duties. It only took a moment for her to realize Bowen was breathing heavily and a thin trickle of blood came from his shoulder. A dark patch was broadening at his upper arm.

“Where have you come from? What’s happened?” She threw her box to the ground, bottles shattering, the air filling with pungent fumes from the lye as she removed his jacket to inspect his wound.

“Not me. It’s nothing. Ross is the one who needs help. He was thrown when his horse was shot out from under him. Reggie’s bringing him in now.” His face darkened as he took her cheek in his hand, eyes questioning. He looked her up and down with concern. “Did that animal hurt you in any way? I swear to all that’s holy...”

“Just a bruise on my arm. On my pride. How is it you’re always around to pull me out of a scrape, even when you’re hurt yourself?”

Bowen grinned. She loved the way his rare smile made his eyes light up, even though he winced when she touched his shoulder.

“Come with me.” RuthAnne hurried him around to the post hospital door. When they found it locked, Bowen used his good shoulder to muscle it open. She directed him to sit as she threw open the windows, letting the dusty light fill the room. All of her attention focused on his injury. Her heart seized in her chest.

“That’s a bullet wound, Captain.”

“That’s right. A .38 caliber from the look of it. Went right through front to back.” His words were matter-of-fact.

“You say that like it’s happened before.” RuthAnne helped him ease back, and then she reached for a bottle of iodine and a stack of gauze from the glass cabinet.

He closed his eyes, sitting back on the wooden table. “A time or two.”

“Can you move it? Or am I going to have to cut that old shirt off of you?”

“I can get it.” With one hand, he unbuttoned his shirtfront.

She helped him shrug out of one sleeve and then gently pulled the other off, careful where the blood had started to congeal around the wound. He was right. Front to back, and a small hole at that. Blood wasn’t flowing freely.

“The iodine should kill any infection. This is gonna hurt, Bow.” She sopped up the dark fluid with the gauze pads.

Their eyes met for a long moment, and he nodded. He was ready. His breath sucked in as she began her work. RuthAnne mopped up blood and dried sweat, swabbed the healing fluid into the wound. She bit her lip until the copper taste filled her mouth as well as her nostrils. She painted his muscular shoulder with the brown-orange fluid in concentric circles. He was pale, but his color returned as she finished.

She wrapped him up as best she could. The bend at his arm was an awkward spot for a bandage. “You did quite a number on that poor young man one-handed.”

He laughed. “That little pipsqueak doesn’t scare me none. I watched him grow up. He was a scrawny kid. Kind of creepy. Always watching us train, practice, asking about killing Indians.”

“Well, he knows what happened to me. I don’t know how.”

Bowen simply nodded. “It was bound to come out sooner than later. The road’s open. Men’ll be back in the morning with the news. We got on someone’s bad side out there; not sure where the bullets came from but someone had bad aim, thank heaven. I think more people than just us are looking for El Tejano’s cave of wonders.”

“How do you mean?” RuthAnne blinked. Why would anyone want to find a bandit’s hideout?

“He’s robbed the bank of over one hundred thousand dollars. That’s bound to make him quite popular. With the road closed, it gives gold diggers an idea they can scout it out, sight unseen. The army wasn’t all too welcome out there.”

“You took thirty men! Who would shoot at a company of soldiers but someone with a death wish?”

“We went looking for the cave on our own. Ross, Reggie, and I.”

The post hospital door flew open, and Reggie half walked, half dragged Ross MacEvoy inside.

“Dear Lord! Have mercy...” RuthAnne sent a prayer heavenward as she left Bowen’s side to lend a hand.

Ross was unconscious, his breathing shallow. Raspy. His head was a mess of dirt and blood and matted hair. Blood caked his neck and shirt from a wound that still bled profusely.

They set to work immediately, all hands reaching to help Reggie with the fallen soldier. RuthAnne ordered Bowen and Reggie to ease Ross onto the surgical table. They heaved their friend up as she took his head, placing towels underneath.

“Nearest doctor’s in Tucson. I sent Alex off to fetch him, but...” Reggie wrung his hands.

There was no need to explain further. Tucson was a good half-hour ride. They couldn’t wait.

Her hands were shaking. Bile rose in her throat as she glanced around the small, white-washed room, scant with supplies. She found what she needed in a bottom drawer and applied pressure to Ross’s weeping wound with a roll of cotton.

Bowen and Reggie both looked to her as if she knew how to mend the broken man that she considered a friend.

“What do you want us to do?” Reggie asked, his eyes shadowed and his tone grim.

“I need a basin of clean water set to boil, soap, and a straight razor.” RuthAnne briefly closed her eyes as Bowen left to do her bidding.

Once she was satisfied the bleeding had staunched, she realized it was up to her to sew this poor man back together or the wound would never heal.

Her mind flashed to her childhood, during the war in Somerville. She recalled standing on the wide front porch of her parents’ home. It had become a makeshift field hospital after a skirmish near Watkins Ferry. At not quite thirteen, she had not been allowed to hide upstairs like her cousins on the neighboring sugar plantation. Mother, Aunt Mariah, and Mariah’s daughter Elizabeth washed their hands to the elbows, and RuthAnne did the same at Mother’s direction. She assisted with piecing the wounded back together. The images still haunted her dreams.

She still remembered carrying the whistling kettle and Mother’s best crockery from the kitchen. She and Mother had snapped sugar peas into the bright yellow bowls just the day before, sitting on the porch swing, listening worriedly to the crack of rifles to the north. Now, RuthAnne poured them full of steaming water, their new purpose to dampen bandages for blotting blood and grime from the wounded.

She recalled the soldiers stripped of their uniforms and laid prostrate on pallets. Mother said that they were no longer Union or Confederate. Just men. Husbands, fathers, and sons who lay bleeding or dying. Mother ordered Daisy to burn blue and gray uniforms alike, lest the Yankees kill any of the Southern wounded. RuthAnne recalled the acrid smoke, the copper of clotting blood, and the stench of gangrenous flesh that filled her nose along with scents of bodies that hadn’t bathed in weeks. It wafted together, making her want to gag. Mother hadn’t allowed it.

Some screamed as her mother wove them back together again. Others were silent. RuthAnne hadn’t known which was worse as Mother worked tirelessly, driving herself mad all the while. Praying for her sons who would never come home. RuthAnne shuddered with memory.

Reggie stood wringing his hands. He needed something to do or he was going to pull his fingers right off at the roots.

“I have the iodine already, enough to kill any infection. When Bowen gets back we’ll need to shave Ross’ head around the wound. See how bad it is. We’ll need silk thread. White would be best. And the silver-tipped needles. There’s some at the post store. Tell Whit to give it to you, and tell him I told you so. He owes me. And, Reggie...” He looked at her, eyes wide and waiting. “Send someone for Josie. Fast.” e

Chapter 30

RuthAnne watched the subtle rise and fall of Ross’s chest while he slept. Men in uniform seemed to be everywhere, milling about. The laundresses had come and offered food, clean bandages, and prayers. And that was what he needed most of all. Ross might require weeks of recovery, if he recovered at all. She had no way of knowing. She wasn’t a doctor. A sob lodged itself in her throat as she leaned on the table. She had finally stopped long enough to realize what she had done for this poor man.

There had been so much blood. He had been thrown from his horse into a rock, Bowen said. Landed hard and had been unconscious for over an hour. In the light of the lamps, she carefully shaved his hair around the wound. She had knitted him back together with the careful hands and tiny stitches of a seasoned seamstress. Bowen stood beside her, though everyone else had fled the room when she explained the task at hand. Someone would have to hold his head and the flaps of skin together while she stitched. Tight. With hands and arms washed to the elbow, they had pieced Ross MacEvoy back together again. Thank God he wasn’t awake, was all that she could think.

When it was all over, she started shaking. Bowen had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Someone had given her a mug of tea. She heard strange music from outside. A drum. Chanting. As if it were coming from very far away.

Ross MacEvoy looked pale and small. His head was bruised, but she had inspected his skull as thoroughly as possible and was fairly certain all was intact. Still, dark hollows had formed below his eyes. He looked like he was sleeping, and yet...it was too quiet. His head wound would heal. The body was an amazing creation. It was infection that concerned her now. But he would have to fight that off himself. She had gotten him clean. She was sure of that. She had done all that she could do. The rest was in God’s hands. Outside, Charley sang the song of his Yavapai ancestors. It was a strange, lyrical tune. Sad. Anxious. RuthAnne sent her own prayers up for this fallen soldier.

****

“Where is he?” Josie demanded, bursting into the room. Ross’s wife wore a sensible tan skirt, apron, and loose white blouse, a small mound at her belly the only sign of the child growing within her. Her wealth of dark hair was swept back from a sheet-white face; her dark eyes were full of worry, expecting the worst.

RuthAnne looked up sharply, startled awake from the short nap she had allowed herself while watching her patient. She pointed across the room to Ross’s resting form. He was covered with a thin sheet, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. The bleached bandages were wrapped tightly around his head.

Josie leapt toward her husband, but RuthAnne spoke out sharply. “No. Don’t touch him without washing first.”

Glaring at her, Josie considered this for half a second and then nodded. Though it looked like she wanted to rip RuthAnne limb from limb, she quickly washed her hands and arms with soap and water from the basin.

Josie fell to Ross’s side, whispering to her broken husband and brushing his face with butterfly kisses. She inspected every inch of him: his cheeks, shoulders, hands, chest, and arms. She looked him over with sharp eyes, cooing over every abrasion and weighing their meaning toward her husband’s fate. It could have been much worse. Her Spanish words were foreign, but their meaning was full of her relief.

She traced the air above his bandaged head, fingers feather-light and birdlike as she inspected the damage done. RuthAnne averted her eyes from this tender, sweet moment. Josie was a woman, grateful that her husband was alive; Ross had been returned to her, but for how long? He radiated heat, skin flushed. He had developed a fever. RuthAnne chewed her lip, mind churning with thoughts of all that could go wrong.

She stood, stretched, and with a gentle squeeze to Josie’s shoulder, she left the two to be alone. Outside, Bowen leaned against the adobe post hospital wall. She walked over and placed a careful hand on his wounded arm. Her thoughts flicked to Josie and how she had all but covered Ross’s body with her own. The bond between husband and wife, so close as to not be able to tell where one stopped and the other began. She drew her fingers quickly away from Bowen as if burned.

“How is it?”

“I’ll make it.” His words were full of meaning. He would survive. Would his friend?

She had no answers for him, nodding instead to the post hospital. “It’s good that she’s here. If he is going to come back, it won’t be for soldiering.”

Silent understanding passed between them. They walked together through the shady cottonwood grove. Somewhere, anywhere, just to be out in the open air. To breathe. To feel alive.

She could hear the creek beyond, the slight breeze rustling in the leaves. Though the sunlight was hot, the breeze tickled and cooled her exposed neck and arms. Bowen was so near that her shoulder almost brushed his side. Goose bumps rose on her arms, but she knew it had nothing to do with the temperature.

Their hands somehow found each other, as if of their own volition. His fingers wrapped around hers, thumb idly tracing the back of her hand. It was reassuring, but more, somehow. He helped her step over a log as they crossed the old canal to the edges of the Rillito. The low creek water ebbed and flowed over the rocks. Its music filled her head and soothed her soul.

“I’ve never seen a man fall so hard or fast as Ross did for Josie,” Bowen said as they wandered together.

He drew her down to sit on the sandy beach by the water’s edge, pulling her close in the cool shade. The dappled light through fluttering leaves alternately shadowed and brightened his face.

“It was the same with her. She’s always said it was that hot, Mexican blood. Full of passion and romance...he didn’t stand a chance, once she set her sights on him. That Josie Jerez, she had a powerful aim...” He let out a small laugh of remembrance.

When RuthAnne leaned her body against his, the last piece of her puzzle finally clicked into place. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “I think I finally understand what he meant.”

His words were thick, heavy with the emotion of the day. She looked up at him, seeing the line of his jaw; his dark hair that curled around his collar; the subtle shadow of his beard on his cheeks; the cleft of his chin; the intensity of his eyes. Still, she said nothing. Waiting.

“This is a hard life for a woman, RuthAnne. It’s not like back east, where people settle their differences in front of a judge. Today’s testament to that; Josie was sure that she’d finally lost her husband forever. You never know when we’re coming back...gone weeks at a time. What kind of way is that to have a marriage? To raise a family?”

Finally, she found her voice. “Who are you trying to convince, Captain? Me? Or you?”

Their gazes locked. She wanted to memorize every detail of his face, this moment, but there were no more words. Bowen drew her in for a soft, sweet kiss. Their lips met with the barest touch, and emotion washed a tidal wave, threatening to drown them both.

A vivid rush swept from the top of her head to the tips of her toes as their souls danced together. Their hearts beat in time. He filled every part of her, his soft, full lips warm on hers. He drank deeply, and she opened herself to him. His arm circled her waist, his strength surprising her as he laced his fingers in her golden hair, possessing her. Breathing her name on the wind, he embraced her fully. They were one body. One soul. As their kiss deepened, so did her feelings for this soldier. This man. Bowen Shepherd. She let it power over her in a torrent. Love. Passion. Devotion. All entwined together. All or nothing. She would give him all of her, if she could...but she could feel the power of his restraint. See the pain of longing in his eyes.

When their lips parted, their gazes remained locked. The rhythm of the water played in harmony with birdsong and the rustle of curling yellow leaves blowing along the shoreline. From the far end of the fort she heard a cadence being called. Troops must be returning from somewhere; as always, they were accompanied with the sounding of a bugle.

Reality beckoned, but Bowen continued to hold her. He drew her in for a long, firm embrace, his body trembling against hers. They were two halves of the same whole. As she relaxed into the strength of his arms, she smiled, realizing that he finally knew it, too.

After a long moment, he drew away. Standing, he pulled her to her feet with his good arm. Clearly, Bowen would ask no more from her than that tender kiss. She remained in awe of the need that filled her. She would share her life with this man. She had found love as she had never known it could exist. There were no words as he settled her hand in the crook of his good arm and walked her back to the hospital.

Chapter 31

A different twist filled RuthAnne’s chest as she watched Bowen ride off to the east with Reggie. Her thoughts were full of the day before, of what they’d spoken, and the intimacy they shared. In her heart, she’d become a wife once again, filled with thoughts of love—of the future. She prayed they would have one as he went off into the unknown.

The pass crawled with opportunists in search of treasure. She knew Bowen intended to put a stop to it once and for all. His voice barked with commanding orders as the company rode off. She waited. Watched. Prayed that he would turn to see her bidding him farewell. His shoulders were square and his back to her. Still, he must have sensed the weight of her gaze as he pulled his horse to a stop, letting the soldiers trot on ahead of him.

With a flick of the reins, he turned General around and rode to where she stood at the rise of a small hill.

“Ma’am.” He nodded to her. The official tone in his voice would have upset her had it not been for the glint of humor in his eye.

“Captain.” She all but giggled. Then, reaching up to General’s black mane, she gave the horse a good stroke. General nickered and lowered his stately head to her, rolling his bit in his mouth. She found her voice and spoke from her heart. “God go with you, Bowen.”

He stepped from the saddle, reins in one hand, the other reaching out toward her. She stepped to his side, and he removed his wide-brimmed, navy blue hat. “And with you, RuthAnne.”

He drew her close and leaned down to kiss her gently. Her heart filled her breast with warmth, and the depth of his kiss reached to the tips of her toes. She could get used to this. They parted, and he cupped her cheek with a gloved hand. “Time to go to work.”

He stepped back into the stirrup, swinging a leg over in a swift and dance-like movement. With a nod, he was off. When he would return was a mystery. His safety was in the hands of the Lord and his own good sense, which she trusted him to use. She knew better than to ask why he had to go back. The quest to bring the criminal back to justice drove him on. And if he found the man who shot him and injured his friend it would be even more of a reason to celebrate.

She watched until he vanished into the desert hills. The waiting arms of the mountains beckoned beyond. Their majestic peaks and slopes rose like titans from the desert floor, keeping watch over the pitiful humans below. Loneliness swept through her soul.

With Ross returned to his home in Josie’s tender care, there was nothing to do but get back to work. Idle hands were the devil’s playthings; her mother had always said so. With thoughts turning toward the trunk full of dresses sent from Amanda, and the promise and possibility of them, she returned to her quarters with deliberate steps.

RuthAnne wandered into the laundresses’ quarters. Dolly looked up from fussing with Katie’s curls. Katie couldn’t get away fast enough as her mother’s attentions were diverted, and she ran out of the room with a slight wave to them both.

Dolly sighed heavily and gave RuthAnne a solid hug. “With everyone gone, there’s not much to do around here but clean up. That’s the third time I’ve redone Katie’s pigtails. I can’t stand days like this. How’d it go with Ross?”

“Josie’s taken him home. Time will tell. The doctor will be out to their ranch later. Probably to tell what a horrible job I did!” They exchanged smiles, knowing she was being modest. If not for her quick work, he would have died for certain. The whole fort knew it.

“We do have one task in front of us,” Dolly said. “I’ve got a list of women and their measurements. We’ll plan a dance on Friday in honor of Ross’ recovery.”

“I doubt if he’ll be well enough by then, Dolly...”

“Well, we’ll plan another when he’s well enough to come out, then. Any excuse’ll do, you know.” She waved a hand and winked. “It’s not often we get this chance to celebrate a life saved. More often than not, it’s to honor one we’ve lost.”

RuthAnne nodded in understanding. She took the list Dolly offered and looked over the names with interest. Her eyes widened with her grin. It was time to get started with their fledgling project.

Chapter 32

Another long week passed, filled with infernal heat and storm clouds that gathered around the mountains but refused to bring rain. RuthAnne kept her eyes trained to the east, waiting for the return of the task force. And Bowen.

This week had also seen a new stream of patrons into the laundresses’ quarters, one rarely seen before. To the unaware, it simply looked as if women were coming and going, carrying bundles and leaving with empty hands and a lighter step.

Inside the laundresses’ quarters, the scissors and needles flew as RuthAnne trained Dolly, Moira, and anyone else who cared to learn about cutting and fitting dresses in the latest fashions. She interviewed the ladies as they traipsed in, getting a feel for what they would be comfortable wearing. She sketched ideas and various styles for them, using lead pencils and slate normally reserved for the children’s schoolwork. The best were transferred to brown paper and tacked to the wall, patterns made to fit women in a wide array of sizes and shapes.

“What time is it, Doll?” RuthAnne wiped her forehead. Her fingers ached from pushing yards and yards of fabric through the machine, just as her foot throbbed from running the treadle.

“Almost four. Let’s just finish this before Mrs. Anderson comes for her fitting.”

“Mrs. Anderson’s already here!” a tentative voice called from the front room.

Dolly hopped up, dropping her work to the floor. RuthAnne yelped, rescuing the taffeta from the freshly swept dirt floor. She’ll never learn, RuthAnne thought, brushing away the dust.

Dolly returned with Bella Anderson, who walked in with delicate steps and a wide smile just as RuthAnne finished the fastenings.

“Please tell me you could do something with that dress. My figure’s just not been the same since Johnny Jr. was born.” She ran her hands down her sides to wide, round hips, patting the rump she considered oversized as well. “Bearing children changes you. Good thing my Johnny doesn’t seem to care one way or the other.”

RuthAnne saw the light and love in Bella’s rich, brown eyes. She had a tumble of enviable auburn hair curling down her back and the smooth porcelain skin of a china doll. “You’ll be lovely in this. Let me just snip these threads here, and we’ll see for sure.”

RuthAnne clipped and inspected, seeing Bella’s hands twitch for wanting to touch the gorgeous fabric. It shone like sunlight on water in a vibrant daisy yellow. “Look how this compliments your coloring. Your husband’ll be the luckiest man at the party!”

RuthAnne directed her anxious customer behind the privacy screen and into her bloomers. While she stood, unabashed in patched cotton, on top of a crate hauled in for this purpose, they showed Bella how to hold her hands and arms up over her head, as if she were diving into a lake. With a nod, the two women settled the brilliant yellow taffeta around Bella’s torso as they stood in front of a cracked floor-length mirror.

The effect was instantaneous. Bella’s face lit up as RuthAnne fastened the hooks and eyes. No need for a corset, as she considered them evil creations, RuthAnne explained the stays she had sewn directly into the dress.

“They’re made from strips of reeds.”

“I can breathe!” Bella whooshed her breath in and out, demonstrating.

“That’s the idea.”

Dolly busily pulled loose threads from the waist of Bella’s dress and explained further. “RuthAnne had the notion to fashion stays from those reeds down by the creek’s edge. Isn’t the effect fabulous?”

“Well, whalebone stays are the best, you know,” RuthAnne said.

“But they’re almost impossible to come by and far too expensive for most of us...uncomfortable as all get out, if you ask me. Real bamboo’d be better, when Whit gets his hands on some. But this’ll do.” Dolly finished fiddling with the dress so Bella could enjoy it. “Take a turn, but mind that you don’t topple off the box.”

“Oh, this is perfect. I never dreamed...” Bella swished the skirts around her ankles. Her large, doe eyes filled with tears of gratitude. The yellow made her skin look golden, rich, and lovely. The three-quarter length gossamer sleeves enhanced her round shape rather than hiding it. “I look like myself again. As I did before we married, but...”

“But a woman, not a girl.” Dolly winked. “Bella, you’ll be the belle of the ball!” They hugged.

“Now, hold still.” RuthAnne took final notes and affixed the hemline with pins once Bella stopped her twirling on the apple box.

Bella reluctantly returned the dress and slipped back into her green gingham walking dress. She pressed some coins into RuthAnne’s hand. “It isn’t much, I’m afraid. But it would never be enough. You’ve given me quite a gift today, Miss Newcomb. I’m powerful grateful.”

They watched her leave with a spring in her step. “Now, if that don’t beat all!” Dolly laughed, counting the money and tucking it into the top drawer of RuthAnne’s bureau along with the other coins and bills neatly collected from their clients’ purses. “I don’t know why you don’t just run to town and shop up a storm.”

“That’s not how you run a business, Dolly. You scrimp. Save. And put all of your earnings into your future. That is, if you’re going to do it right.”

RuthAnne flexed her hands and stretched, walking to the door and looking out toward the rise of the Rincon Mountains in the east. She saw no sign of dust clouds; heard no trumpeting of arriving soldiers. A warm breeze stirred up a dust devil across the compound, blowing dirt, dust, and stray papers up into the air in a whirl before it vanished out of sight.

“No sign?” Dolly’s hand was warm on her shoulder.

RuthAnne gave a weak smile. “I’m terribly obvious, aren’t I?”

“You’re a woman waiting for her man now. That takes some getting used to.”

They set back to their chores, and RuthAnne mulled that over. Was Bowen her man? Did the kiss they had shared truly bind them together as she imagined that it had? Did he feel the same? Her heart yearned, like it would pour out of her chest and into a puddle on the floor.

Dolly collected trimmings, threads, and pins off the threadbare rug and paused. “You know, Bella was our last customer. There’s nothing more to do this week. It’s only Thursday, but why don’t you head out? Go and check on your patient. Ross and Josie would be glad to see you. I’ll hold down the fort, so to speak.”

“Do you think I could make it by sundown?”

“Honey, it’s August. You could make it there and back again before the sun goes down. Go see Alex for a horse. He’ll be pleased to chat with you; anything that keeps a man from working in all of this heat is a welcome excuse. Especially if it’s a pretty girl.”

With a quick hug, RuthAnne headed for the stables. She found Alex McDole mucking out the stalls, his hair wet with sweat, shirt soaked through from exertion. He swore a blue streak under his breath, ranting something about the way things should be, would be, when he had his own ranch. RuthAnne worked her fingers in her riding gloves, waiting for him to notice her, and finally cleared her throat to let him know he had an audience. Alex looked up with a start.

He straightened to his full height, sweeping a long-fingered hand through his shock of blonde hair. The sun on his face had aged him, making him appear older than his twenty-something years. His clear blue eyes went wide, caught in the act of complaining, but softened as they settled on RuthAnne.

She stood primly, straightening her dark brown split skirt and adjusting the waist of her billowy white shirt.

“Why, Miss Newcomb. Ain’t you a picture. What brings you by on this blistering hot day?”

“I’m afraid I’ve come for a favor.” She smiled, she hoped winsomely. “Would it be possible for you spare a horse for a day or two?”

“You running away, Miss Newcomb?” Alex leaned his wooden pitchfork against the dirt-brown adobe wall and winked at her.

She noticed how blue his eyes were. How if he put on a pound or two, he would actually be a fine specimen of masculinity. As it was, he was so tall and lanky that he gave one the impression of a walking skeleton with a shock of blonde hair.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Alex. I just...would like to pay a call to a friend.”

Alex cast a look over to the corral. “This one’s a mite more spirited than the last, I’m afraid. Are you up to it? The pickings are slim around here with everyone out.” They walked to inspect the white and brown paint mustang just finishing his dinner. The horse eyed Alex warily, giving a stomp of one hoof and a low whinny. “His name’s Broomtail. Not the prettiest of the lot, but he’s sturdy. Knows his way back home, if’n you lose yours.”

RuthAnne stood at Broomtail’s head, stroking his white muzzle and inspecting his mane, neck, and shoulders. She coughed at the dust that rose from his back when she gave him a good pat. The horse shook his withers at the base of his long neck with a hint of appreciation.

“He’ll do. I’ll help you get him ready.” She followed Alex into the tack room as he gathered saddle, blanket, and bridle.

She rounded up a currycomb, brush, and hoof pick. In tandem, they got the horse saddled up and set to ride.

Stepping into the stirrup Alex had adjusted for her, RuthAnne squeezed his hand. “Thank you. If anyone asks...”

“I ain’t seen you, but if’n I had, you probably were headed into town.” He winked, hand to the bridle, holding just tight enough to keep her from leaving. Their eyes met and held a long moment. An uncomfortable feeling washed over her at the unsettling look he leveled upon her. “Just between you and me, RuthAnne, what was it like?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean...” She set her boots solidly into the stirrups, wrapping her hands around the leather reins.

“Coming face to face with that big, bad Mexican. El Tejano. Was he as scary as folks say?”

RuthAnne’s mouth went dry at the mention of the bandit. Why was Alex pressing her for information?

He looked hopeful for a response, and made it clear he’d listen to whatever grim detail she’d give him, as he stepped closer. Could Alex be the bandit with the mask that wreaked terror upon all who had seen him and lived to tell the tale? That was ridiculous. Alex McDole was the wrong size; the wrong shape, entirely. Where Alex was lean and lanky, El Tejano had been well built, of average height and weight. Strong, overpowering while not looming. No. Alex was just a boy with a powerful imagination. He wasn’t the man who haunted her dreams. The man Bowen had made it quite clear he would bring to justice come hell or high water.

She adjusted her seat in the saddle. Her knees rested tight against the horse’s sides. She could feel the large animal breathing deeply beneath her. She heard the hollow clicking of the bridle as he worked it against his teeth. Broomtail was ready to go, and so was she. “Thanks again, Alex. I hope I’m not putting you out...”

“They said he took you to his hideout. Is that true?” Alex hazarded a glance her way, and she caught a glint in his eye. As if he knew something. Something more.

Her words seized in her throat, forcing her to swallow through it and smile to hide her concern. “Now, Alex. Don’t go getting romantic on me. There was a storm that night, don’t you remember?”

“How could I forget? You all came in like drowned rats.” He shook his head at the memory.

“And I’m a stranger here. I need a horse that knows its way home or I’d be wandering in the desert for an age! You told me so yourself.”

“Aw, RuthAnne, can’t you tell me something? I just love a good mystery. Don’t you?”

His eyes were full of adventure, and at once she realized his plan. Alex had a mind to go up into the mountains himself. He wanted to find El Tejano’s treasure without a thought to the risk.

“Truthfully, I’d rather not be part of this particular one. But I’ll tell you this, my friend. He was terrifying. And intimidating...and doing what he does, or chasing after him, is no way to earn a fortune, Alex. If you have faith, and are smart with your savings, you’ll get your ranch when it’s time—and a wife to share it with.” She squeezed his bony hand.

He nodded slowly, eyes sweeping the ground before meeting her gaze. His wistful look showed the stable master’s mind was filled with thoughts of adventure beyond the stable gates. He gave the horse a smack on the rump, sending them on their way. She sent him a wave over her shoulder as she rode out of the compound.

Chapter 33

Clara Carington dried her long fingers on her apron towel. It was infernally hot with the desert sun streaming through the open window. She had forgotten how she hated this place. So far from town, surrounded by soldiers and women who were so far beneath her socially they weren’t even worth having over for tea. Chewing her lip, she thought of the dark brown, glass bottle in the drawer of her trunk. Just a thin line of laudanum remained at the bottom. Not enough to ease her mind. There was never enough. She’d have to venture into town if she wanted a physician to prescribe more. She had sent Amanda over to the post hospital in search, but the medicines were already ransacked and in need of replenishment. Laudanum, it seemed, was a rare commodity in these parts.

Sniffing, she remembered how easy it was to get what she wanted in San Francisco. Even San Diego. The cool ocean breezes were remedy enough, in her mind. She missed the warm wind; the dense fog that drifted in over the shoreline in the evening, shrouding the landscape in its feathery tendrils. The blaze of sunset as it dipped into the vast blue and beyond. It was something her husband had never appreciated. He only wanted recognition, as he had enjoyed during the War Between the States. Something she knew he’d never have again, especially now that his tastes had him frequenting brothels at The Wedge in town; places where wide-eyed young girls would coo and giggle in wonderment of his stories as they expounded on his virtues.

Girls like that RuthAnne Newcomb. Clara knew a no good, no-account female when she saw one, no matter what Amanda said. Silly girl with stars and bars in her eyes. She wanted herself an officer. Married or not. Clara’s glare narrowed as she looked out the window, seeing RuthAnne riding off on a painted horse and looking young and full of energy. She had been that way once. When her Edgar had fallen for her, once upon an age ago. The young Clara had been a dreamer, a hopeful spirit with dreams of conquering the west with her handsome warrior husband at her side. But he had simply dragged her to posts from the frigid north of Wyoming, to as far south as Houston. Heaven only knew where else Edgar had left her while off on his Indian campaigns for the army. More often than not, he’d left her to fend for herself, except when the need for her flesh suited him.

She had borne her son alone, with the help of a Mexican maid, during the howling winds of a hurricane. Edgar had been off somewhere, like always. Such a solitary existence, until her Marcus arrived; with him at her side, she finally had control of her own destiny.

As her eyes followed RuthAnne, she watched a figure step out of the shadow of a ramada. Marcus was also watching the girl ride away with far-from-veiled interest. His eyes were all but glued to the vanishing form of the young woman on horseback.

Clara’s heart quickened in her breast. That wasn’t possible. What would people say? Poor Clara Carington...husband and son, taken with the same woman while she drowns her sorrows in drugged tea. Swallowing hard against her thirst, she left the bottle in its drawer and headed to have a word with her son.

****

Marcus frowned as he turned to go back indoors. Where was RuthAnne going? Things were rapidly getting out of hand. He had plans for her that didn’t include her gallivanting off into the desert without him as an escort. It was time to take some action. Just as he reached for the satchel hanging from a peg on his office wall, he heard his mother’s scolding voice.

“You can’t tell me you have designs on that girl.”

He turned to his mother and couldn’t hide his disdain. She looked weary. Worn. Her face, once round and smooth, now streaked with lines from the sun. The crinkle of age had set in around her eyes and mouth, which these days seemed eternally set into a scowl.

“Mother! What in heaven’s name are you doing spying on me?”

“Looking out for your best interests, as always. That girl isn’t it. I know her kind.” Clara reached to brush dust off of his shoulder in a way that made him cringe.

He knew that in her mind’s eye he’d eternally be a seven-year-old boy with a cowlick of hair on his head and skinned up knees. “I don’t need your supervision or your blessings on what I find of interest. I’m quartermaster of Fort Lowell now. That means something.”

“Now, don’t pout. It means you have a father who’s the commander of this fort, and a mother who knows people in high places. It’s our connections that make us who we are, Marcus. That is all that means anything in this godforsaken place.”

“So, you don’t think I could have done this, achieved this of my own accord?” His temper simmered as he listened to her expound on her dealings. How she wheeled and manipulated him into a position where she could keep an eye on him.

“I thought you wanted me to become a newspaper magnate in San Francisco.”

“Well, you love the army. So, plans can change. You need me, Marcus. We need each other. I have high hopes for your career, for your future, and that girl isn’t part of it. She is a strumpet. A ghost with no past and no future, and not a suitable wife for a future general.”

Marcus’ mouth became a thin line. Yes, he knew all about his mother’s plans for him. He had known about them his whole life as she attempted to dominate him. Cow him into following the path she had so clearly defined for him. If she only knew what she had created...He exhaled, hanging his satchel back on its hook.

He would deal with RuthAnne on his own terms later. With a softening look toward his mother, he sighed and walked across to his desk, still covered with ledgers, papers, and messages that were yet to be opened. He opened a file drawer beside his desk, unearthing a brown glass bottle. Gaze flicking to his mother’s, he saw her wet her lips with the need of her addiction.

“Let me walk you home, Mother. You need some rest.”

“Yes. Rest. I am powerful tired. It’s so hot here. So hard to sleep. We really must get back to California.”

He nodded, closing the bottle in her waiting hand. She cradled the laudanum like a child as he turned her and directed her out the door and into the afternoon sun. Arm around her shoulders, he guided her back to her quarters.

Now was not the time. But soon enough, it would be. Very soon.

Chapter 34

Clouds covered the sun, casting a shadow across the landscape, for which RuthAnne was powerfully grateful. She followed the directions to the letter and now neared the MacEvoy ranch.

She could see the white house with the tin roof perched on top of a hill, like a beacon. Smiling, she remembered the stories she had heard of how Ross had built it for his waiting, would-be wife. How she had cajoled and teased him into adding rooms, buying her an enameled cook stove, putting the porch around the entire perimeter so they could see the view from every side. It was exactly as RuthAnne had heard it described: a dream home like none she’d seen out west, built by the hands of a man in love.

Josie stood at the pump, drawing water into a wood bucket. Her black hair had been swept up off of her neck but was falling down loose into her face, sticking with sweat. From the side, her round belly arced out. RuthAnne smiled, thinking Josie had the look of a little girl playing dress-up. As if she’d placed a small pillow under her dress.

RuthAnne slipped from the saddle, walking Broomtail the rest of the way up the hill and quickly tying him to a rail. “Josie! Let me help you with that!”

“RuthAnne! What in the blazes are you doing out this way?” Josie all but sighed with relief as she was unburdened of the sloshing bucket. She put her hands to her lower back and breathed deep. “Come to check on your patient?”

“How is he?” She saw the peace in Josie’s eyes. No sign of the worry that had plagued her days before.

“Ornery as ever. He’s on the mend, praise God. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep him here before he goes trotting off after Bowen again. They’re up to something out there in the mountains, but Ross won’t tell me what. I’m so mad at him today I could spit.”

“Well, I don’t want to intrude...” RuthAnne was flushed with heat. She pushed her straw hat off her head, so it hung down her back, tied around her neck.

“Don’t be silly. We could use someone to talk to besides each other. Before long, this one will be running around and giving us a much needed distraction.” Her hands absently cradled her belly, stroking in wide circles. RuthAnne bit her lip against a pang of envy. What must it be like to know you were about to have a child? What did that do to a woman but give her peace and hope for the future?

“When are you and Bowen going to hitch up, anyhow?” Josie said.

RuthAnne looked up as if she’d had water poured over her head. “Oh, we’re not. I mean, I don’t...I’m not. We haven’t discussed it.”

Josie just laughed and hooked arms with her. “Not yet, maybe, my dear. But soon. I’ve got a sense for this thing. Wait and see. Let’s go find Ross.”

He sat in a wood rocker, scowling at his long-barreled rifle; he wiped it down with an oil cloth, inspecting the hollow tube before running a wad through it with a long stick. He clicked it back together with a snap, holding up the sights. The bandages removed, RuthAnne could see the red line of his injury had scabbed up and bruised. Where it still remained, his freshly washed blonde hair dried in curls over his shoulder. His mouth widened in a toothy smile as the women approached.

“Why, if it isn’t the light of my life and my own personal physician.” He struggled to rise, but both women shouted at him to stay seated. He shooed them away and stood in spite of them. “I’m not an invalid! I’ve got to move around if I’m to get back to work tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” RuthAnne gasped.

Josie just shook her head. “He thinks he’s going back into the mountains with that man of yours. They’re looking for ghosts. Thieves. Or some such things.” Ross began to protest, but she waggled a finger at him. “Don’t lie to me, mister. I know you inside and out. I haven’t cared for your broken head so you could patronize me.”

RuthAnne held up her hands between them. “Now, now, y’all. Let’s just have a look at how he’s healing. I see the doctor took out your stitches. Doesn’t look like it’ll scar much.”

“Barely at all, he said. It’s amazing.” Josie breathed in relief. They both squeezed RuthAnne’s hands, gazes locking over her in an easy truce.

They might bicker, RuthAnne noticed, but there was so much love between them it washed over her in a wave. She knew she witnessed a very private moment and averted her eyes toward the north. The Rincon Mountain range towered above, its wide half-circle seeming to erupt from the desert floor. She could see it for all of its glory and how the fickle desert at the bottom became scrubby chaparral up its slopes, the peaks peppered with piñon pines and rocky cliffs toward the summit.

“It’s beautiful here. I’ve never seen such a view.”

“Josie told me, ’build me a house here, and I’ll stay with you forever.’” Ross pulled his wife close in front of him, his hand finding the bulge of their baby. Josie rested her head back against his shoulder.

“So far, we’ve done just that.” She sighed. “Don’t go cracking your head open again and miss all of the fun your son’s going to bring us, got it, Sergeant?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

RuthAnne saw a flicker of worry behind his pale eyes, and she turned again to admire the view. Two small clouds of dust on the road heralded visitors.

“Are you expecting company?” She squinted against the sun’s glare. “Riders are coming up the road.”

Ross looked over and sighed. “That’d be the cavalry come to fetch me.”

“You’re going with them?” RuthAnne’s voice trailed off as she saw the way the man on the lead horse sat squarely in the saddle, as if at one with his mount. Bowen. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face, but she knew the man who plagued her every waking moment even at such a distance. She blushed, heart racing at the unexpected prospect of seeing him. The other rider, who could only be Reggie, followed at a canter.

“Your doctor said at least two weeks of rest, Ross MacEvoy! I had plans for you...” Josie scolded, but he laughed.

“Plans, including rerunning fence line along the back 80 like I did for you yesterday? If I’m well enough to dig post holes, I’m well enough to do my job.” He winked at RuthAnne, patting his wife on the rump before she stormed into the house. “Oh, I ain’t as injured as I let on. I’m a fast healer. Besides, Bowen wanted folks to think I was worse off than I was, so we might have a bit of surprise on our side.”

“Well, you’ve done surprised everybody,” Josie called through the open bay windows. White muslin curtains blew to the outside in a swirling breeze.

Ross just grinned. RuthAnne sat heavily in the rocking chair on the wide porch and waited for company to arrive. She just hadn’t counted on being completely ignored once they got there.

A few hours later, RuthAnne helped Josie bring out platters of arroz con pollo, beans, and fresh corn tortillas. The men hunkered down at the table, seated on pine benches carved by Josie’s father. They spoke low as Josie set down pitchers of freshly-squeezed lemonade, the lemons picked from the four trees by the well.

Across the way, chickens pecked and squabbled in front of the hen house. The horses were stabled for the night, and cows were out lowing in the fields beyond. It was a picture of farm life but for the men in uniform looking ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

RuthAnne stood in Bowen’s line of sight and waited for him to acknowledge her presence, for some hint of recognition or remembrance of their parting. Receiving none, she turned on her heel and marched back into the house to fetch the glasses and plates. Setting the tray down a bit harder than necessary on the chopping block, she loaded it up with the thick Mexican glassware, blue-edged and heavy. They clinked together and threatened to topple to the hardwood kitchen floor as she gathered them up.

“Let me get that for you,” Josie said.

“I’ve got it.” RuthAnne lifted the tray, met her new friend’s eyes, and slammed it down again. Josie covered a bubbling laugh. “Haven’t seen him for four days, and this is the treatment I get?”

“Oh, honey. He’s on the warpath. Doesn’t have time for romancing you. You’ve got a lot to learn about loving a cavalry man.”

“I don’t love him. I can’t stand him.” She kicked a booted foot into the cabinet and hopped on her heel, pain shooting from her toe.

“Right. That’s why you’re slamming around my kitchen. At this rate, you’re going to break all of my dishes, Ruthie. You want my advice?” Josie waited a beat and gave it anyway. “Let them have their little meeting. Then, if you do what I did to my poor Ross there, you’re sure to get his attention. Likely all of it.”

“What do you mean?” Her eyebrows raised with interest as Josie went on, explaining her plan. A hint of a smile found RuthAnne’s lips. “What if he sees through it? He and Ross are all but joined at the hip.”

“Ross likes to talk, but he don’t tell those boys everything. Some things a man’s got to keep to himself. Especially when his pride’s involved.” Josie gave a wink. “You go on out now, act like you’re not bothered by them and their man club. We’ll see who’s boss before the day’s over.”

RuthAnne mulled Josie’s words as she took out glasses and dishes. Rather than silently demand Bowen look at her, she averted her gaze, kept quiet, and backed away from the table. She even pretended not to hear him call her name as she disappeared back into the house.

“Now, what the devil was that all about?” Bowen grumbled, pouring himself a glass of refreshing lemonade.

Reggie looked up, catching Ross’ eye. “We need to finish our plans, Cap. Keep your head in the game here.”

The sun had arced across the sky and perched just over the Tucson Mountains to the west, setting the high thin clouds ablaze with color. To the east, the fingers of twilight were spreading greedily. There was no time for anyone to head out now. They would all be staying at the MacEvoy ranch until morning.

Reggie piled his plate full of the steaming chicken and rice. He sopped up the refried beans into a tortilla, alternately talking and taking large bites of the savory meal.

Bowen picked at his plate, his attention focused on the house. He watched the two women mill around, hearing their lilting voices, a titter of laughter as they went from room to room lighting candles and lanterns against the growing darkness. RuthAnne helped open more windows to let in the cool evening breeze. One woman short in stature and heavy with child; the other tall and lean as a young mare and just as likely to kick out as canter away. Both women were beautiful to him in different ways.

RuthAnne stood with her back to him, hands on her hips as she told a story. He couldn’t make out the words, but caught her meaning as she gestured to her shoulder. She was talking about him! After a moment, he realized she was making fun of him. His tortilla went dry in his throat as he stood up, hitting the table with his knee. Ross reached out to catch a glass before it toppled to the ground.

“Bowen? You all right?” His men watched him warily.

“Fine. I’m fine.” He sat down heavily, nearly knocking over the lemonade pitcher. “Go on. Let’s finish this so we can get the horses fed before dark.”

Reggie and Ross leaned over the drawing he was sketching on the brown paper spread out between them, neither saying a word about the obvious object of Bowen’s distraction.

After a moment, RuthAnne breezed out with a coffeepot and ceramic mugs. “You all must need some stimulation. All that plotting and planning can be draining.” Her smile was winsome as she poured and set cups for Ross and Reggie.

“Much obliged, ma’am.” Reggie took the mug and inhaled the rich aroma, long and deep.

“Captain?” She stood beside him, her dress barely brushing his arm. He looked up, frowning sharply, and nodded. RuthAnne raised an eyebrow and poured for him. As he reached for his mug, she turned slightly, causing his hand to tip it over and onto his shirt. Hot coffee splattered and stained. He yelped at the heat, falling prostrate into the dirt. Everyone laughed, save for RuthAnne, who knelt over him with a hand towel.

“Good heavens! You’re the clumsy one, aren’t you?” She attempted to mop him up, but he simply grabbed the towel away and began scrubbing his white cotton shirt with abandon.

“Bowen Shepherd. That’s coffee, not water. You’re just spreading the stain around. I’m the laundress. Remember? Come on inside. I’m sure Ross has a shirt that’ll fit you. Might be a tad bit big, but...”

“Big? I’m twice his size!” Bowen barked.

“Hmm. Come on with me before you cause a scene.” RuthAnne marched away, up the stairs and inside the house. Bowen stood, speechless, towel in hand.

“Well, go on. Follow her!” Ross ordered his commanding officer.

Muttering and cursing under his breath, Bowen did as he was told.

Inside, RuthAnne stood sorting through Ross’s wardrobe, searching for a suitable replacement. Bowen darkened the doorway, not setting foot inside Ross and Josie’s bedroom. He watched her delicate hands flutter like butterfly wings over the carefully hung garments. He could hear Josie singing in the kitchen, just down the hall. He stepped in with cautious feet.

“We’ll have to soak that shirt before the stain sets.” Her back was still to him; her hand hesitated.

He caught her eye for a split second as she watched him through the mirror on the dresser.

She sucked in her breath and quickly went back to sorting through garments. “You know, for all of your scheming to find that bandit, you should ask others their opinion from time to time. Maybe a different point of view would serve you well.”

“When I want your point of view, I’ll ask for it.” He stomped his boot hard enough to make perfume bottles rattle together on the vanity, but she refused to turn around.

“Well, here’s something you might not know. Seems a lot of people at the fort are asking me about El Tejano lately. What I know. What I remember. Perhaps what you are looking for isn’t out in the mountains but right under your very nose. Ah! Here’s a good one. It’s a little worn around the edges, but I don’t think he’ll mind the loan.” She held up the flannel collarless shirt, turning to where Bowen stood.

“What people?” He took a step forward, possessively reaching to grab her wrist but thinking better of it. Instead, he clenched his hands into enormous fists at his side.

“People. Men. Around the fort. You know, the ones I come into contact with every day. Take off your shirt.”

“Why?”

“I need to wash the one you’re wearing. Can’t rightly do that while it’s on your back. Anyway, the ladies and I have been planning a dance tomorrow night in honor of Ross’ recovery. Perhaps you’ll find what you’re looking for there. I’d bet the Wells Fargo payload that he’ll be there. Watching. Waiting. Maybe even make a move.”

He unfastened his buttons with large fingers, exposing his well-muscled chest. A splotch of red on his skin matched the outline of the coffee stain, and her eyes softened. Her fingers brushed his bare chest. “Does it burn much?”

“A bit. I’ll live.” His mouth turned into a slight smile, stepping toward her, closing the distance between.

She frowned at a scar on his side, rough and jagged. She brushed it with careful fingers, a nearly lethal blow, she judged. “Where’d this one come from?”

Bowen touched his hand over hers, the heat from his fingers striking sparks up her arm. “Our sweet Mariposa. This was our introduction, I’m afraid.”

“She could have killed you...”

“Lotta folks died that day. She was a terrified little thing.” His far-off gaze seemed to fill with the memory.

RuthAnne’s thoughts flicked to Mariposa, her pensive face, and her obvious affection for Bowen. “Isn’t that just like you? To be more concerned for someone else’s feelings, even when you’re leaning on death’s door..”

“That’s all ancient history. Now, who are all of these people who are so interested in what you know about El Tejano?” His eyes caressed her along with his fingertips.

A thrill skittered up her spine. RuthAnne swallowed to strengthen her resolve. “Bowen Shepherd!” she gasped playfully. “Don’t you dare try to seduce me with our friends right outside the door!”

“Darn it, RuthAnne.” He stomped his foot again, this time the force knocking bottles over. He grabbed her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. She couldn’t help but admire his sculpted physique as he breathed deeply; a spattering of hair lay below his neck, but otherwise his chest was bare. His shoulder wound was healing and now unbandaged. The bullet would leave another scar that they would always remember. His broad shoulders evolved into well-muscled arms. There was power in his hands as he held her firmly, but it took far more power for them to part. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m...”

“You’re what? Jealous?” She held the shirt out to help him dress. He slid his right shoulder carefully into place, the only hint that it still caused him pain. They were inches apart—he in his ill-fitting, unbuttoned shirt, and she with her loose golden hair that tumbled like a waterfall down her back. For a split second she imagined them a married couple getting ready for bed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed the vision away.

“I’m sorry.” He cupped her cheek with tender fingers. She didn’t pull away. “I didn’t expect to find you here. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw you here.”

“Likewise, Captain.”

“Can we start again?”

He leaned down to her. His breath warmed her hair, her cheek. His lips carefully brushed hers in the most tender of greetings, saying at last what her heart longed for. “I’ve missed you.”

“That’s better.” Her heart raced as her thoughts tumbled.

“Now, say you’re sorry.” He dragged her closer.

“Why should I be sorry? You’re the one who spilled the coffee,” she teased and then darted around him and through the door. Forgetting the fact that his subordinate soldiers were outside waiting for him, Bowen chased her down to the water pump where he caught her in a bear hug and squeezed her until she howled with laughter and finally did apologize.

****

Still sitting at the table, Reggie stated glumly, “Looks like our captain’s a lost cause.”

Ross smiled. “More like RuthAnne’s been listening to some of Josie’s courting stories. Excepting, of course, with me, Josie dumped a whole tray of beans in my lap.”

“You mean that whole charade was on purpose?” Reggie gaped.

Ross shrugged and folded up their plans and slipped them into his pocket as Josie came out to join them.

Josie planted a firm kiss on Ross’ lips.

Reggie averted his gaze and sighed. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand women!”

Chapter 35

Dolly was fixing her hair when RuthAnne poked her head around the corner with a smile. “Let me help you with that.”

Dolly gasped and then sank into the chair. “You scared me to pieces! You ain’t supposed to be here, but I’m so glad you are. Katie’s gone to a sleepover with our new friend Bella’s daughter, if you can imagine. An officer’s wife befriending a laundress. And not just any laundress, but one with a questionable past!”

She laughed, and RuthAnne was pleased not to see a brick of Dolly’s protective wall appear. Dolly seemed nervous but happy since she and Whit had worked things out; since she had made her peace with God.

“When will you ever learn that having a questionable past just makes you more interesting at tea parties?” RuthAnne stepped in, squeezing her shoulders. She drew the brush through Dolly’s elegant red-blonde hair and pushed pins and curls into the appropriate places. After a moment, she stepped back to admire her work. “You look stunning!”

Dolly nodded, eyes widening with obvious amazement. She not only looked amazing, she looked like a bride.

“I like it. Remember, if anyone asks, it was you who chose this one for me. I’ve always tried to stay away from white...you sure you don’t think it’s too assuming?” Dolly stood and flounced around the room in the sparkling faille gown, kicking back the small crêpe lisse train. RuthAnne had fixed loops of white satin ribbon diagonally from the empire waist to the floor, serving the dual purpose of hiding a stain caused by its previous owner and enhancing Dolly’s figure. She looked a lady, fit for a ball of magnificent proportions.

“The color? Sure. The style? Absolutely not. It’s terribly modern.”

Dolly squared her shoulders, showing through the bare sleeves of faille; the square bodice held just a hint of heart-shape, nicely accenting her bosom.

“Are you sure you’re brave enough to wear it?” RuthAnne said.

“Why, RuthAnne Newcomb, I believe you’ve got me figured out. Come on. Let’s get you fixed before Whit gets here. I can’t wait to see his face!”

“Whose face?” A deep, rich voice filled the room tickling the back of RuthAnne’s neck.

She turned, still in her riding outfit, to see Bowen standing in the doorway in his dress blues. He seemed a million miles tall as he filled the space with wide shoulders and a wider grin.

He blew a long, slow whistle of approval. “Well, that’s something. Dolly, you’re more than a jewel. You look like a diamond.”

“Bowen Shepherd! You go on.” She glowed with the praise and then remembered herself. “Get out of here, now, so we can get RuthAnne ready.” Dolly turned to her friend, a look of worry crossing her face. “I hope I didn’t sell your dress this afternoon. You should have seen the hustle and bustle around here!”

RuthAnne’s jaw dropped before she realized Dolly was teasing.

Dolly winked at Bowen, then shooed him out the door, calling after him, “Find Whit, and you two keep your distance. We’ll meet you at the dance when we’re good and ready.”

Less than an hour later, RuthAnne and Dolly entered the dance arm in arm. One dressed in white, the other in black. RuthAnne’s satin dress was a modern columnar style, accenting her height and slender figure; the square décolletage enhanced her swanlike neck and was a bit low for her taste, but there was nothing to be done for that now. Fine black lace looped the dress, her hips rounded with a satin and lace pannier rather than a bustle attached at the bodice line.

Bowen stepped forward, hands floating to the tiny hints of satin ribbon and lace at her shoulders. He leaned down to kiss her hand, a glimmer of good humor and approval in his eye.

Dolly had secured RuthAnne’s blonde hair with black ivory combs; it draped elegantly over one shoulder in a cascade of blonde curls. He placed another tender kiss at her exposed neck, no longer hiding his affection, and making her gasp and giggle all at once.

“Bowen Shepherd! There are other people about.”

“I only see you, my dear.” He took the dance card she was affixing to her wrist and eyed it warily. “You can’t expect me to write my name for every time I want to dance with my girl.”

“You’d better start writing.” A smile touched her lips as she offered him a pencil. He sniffed and possessively placed a hand at her waist.

Young soldiers mobbed Dolly. She ordered them back, inspecting their hands for cleanliness before she allowed them to sign her card. Whit stood behind her, looking amused. The soldiers took one look at RuthAnne standing next to their captain and backed away.

“Bowen! You tell those boys they can have a dance. Men outnumber women five to one at this fort.”

“Well, let them dance around with each other, then.” He stifled a laugh and grabbed the nearest soldier by the arm. “Private Jonah Thomas, have you had the privilege of meeting Miss RuthAnne Newcomb?”

“Uh, no, sir. I’ve heard of her though.” Private Thomas swallowed hard, tugging at his collar as he gave a slight bow. “Ma’am.”

“Glad to meet you, Private Thomas.” She shook her head at Bowen with a slight grin as she proffered her card. Before long, it filled up with scrawled names and marks of soldiers of all ranks and reputations, though Bowen still refused to sign his own name.

Ross and Josie swept through the milling crowd as heads turned and whispers followed in a wave of sound. His head was re-bandaged, as was the plan, and he was in full dress uniform. He moved slowly, theatrically, to the rows of chairs brought in for the weary. Josie, dressed in a light pink frock that accented her olive skin and growing belly, settled him down with a slight smirk. Her thick, black hair was held back with abalone combs, sparkling a rainbow of blues and greens in the lantern light.

Reggie followed them at a fair distance, adjusting his jacket and medals and ribbons aplenty for a man of his lowered rank, as if their presence embarrassed him. His gaze searched the crowd, lighting up at the sight of Bowen and RuthAnne. He stepped quickly to her, unhanding her dance card from a much younger soldier and staring down his complaint with an intense glare. Reggie quickly scrawled his name several times and gave her a peck on the cheek. Shrugging at Bowen’s disapproval, he affixed a smile to his face and moved to write his name on the card of every woman present.

The ladies of the fort glittered like an array of gems in their dresses of gold, platinum, emerald, sapphire, ruby, and every hue in between. It was the best-dressed crowd the fort had ever seen, and faces were lit with excitement.

A banner declaring the First Annual Ross MacEvoy Dance was displayed behind the bandbox in a spatter of red and blue paint on white canvas, prepared by the fort’s army of schoolchildren. Josie pointed and clapped, beaming. Men lined up to shake her husband’s hand, and she glowed with pride.

The band tuned up, sending off notes soaring across the dance floor. Trumpets, horns, and trombones played different melodies in a cacophony of sound before the bandleader stepped up and called his boys to attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, in honor of our guest, and this fine nation’s Centennial Anniversary, I give you a national treasure.” He nodded and instruments were brought to the ready.

Suddenly, the band burst forth with the patriotic “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and everyone laughed and applauded before singing along. The flags of their fathers whipped in the growing breeze, a flutter of red, white, and blue, as kerosene lantern flames dipped and bobbed, holding back the growing twilight.

****

Amanda pinned back her hair for a third time, adjusting a curl that insisted on freeing itself from the pile on her head. She watched as Megan alternately held dresses up to her reflection and tossed them aside with increasingly frustrated sighs. Their room looked as if it had been robbed. Dresses of every color and fabric lay discarded on the bed, the trunk, the chair, and the floor.

Megan cocked her head to the silver-framed mirror, eyeing her latest victim, before casting it aside like yesterday’s news. “So they weren’t in the latest styles. Any one of my old cotillion gowns would have been fine, Mandy! Honestly, why I listen to you sometimes is beyond me.” Megan unearthed a final garment from the back of the wardrobe, raising an eyebrow. “What about this one?” She narrowed her attention on the green dress with dark green-jeweled collar and sleeves, holding it to her creamy skin.

“I like it.” Amanda tapped her foot impatiently, already dressed in her empire-waisted gown of azure blue. She adjusted the lace pannier around her midsection, once again uncomfortable without the added weight of a bustle. “You look fine, Megan. Truly. Can we go now? I hear the music starting!”

“Don’t worry, Amanda. You’ll find someone to dance with you. Or is that what’s bothering you?” Megan eyed the dress that RuthAnne had redesigned for Amanda with a carefully arched eyebrow. “That’s the same color as Mother’s old dress. The one she was wearing when she met father?”

“That’s right. She gave it to me. I had it...updated.”

“Updated?” Megan spouted a tittering, unkind laugh. “You look a fool with no bustle. Really, Mandy. Don’t you follow fashion? Someone’s been filling your head with air.”

Marcus stepped into their room, interrupting their fussing.

Megan busily applied more powder and paint to her face. Amanda’s lip trembled, near tears. Thank heavens Marcus intervened.

“You both look fine. Can we go now? I swear, I’ve been waiting on you two since I was twelve.”

“Marcus Carington, you’d better be more patient. If it wasn’t for your sisters, you’d still be doing the box step,” Megan said as she continued to primp and preen in front of the mirror.

“And if it wasn’t for me, the two of you would be staying home tonight rather than going to the dance. Father won’t have his daughters running anywhere unescorted, you know that.”

Megan squeaked as he grabbed her by the forearm and hauled her to the door.

“Just a second, children. I’m coming with you.” Their mother’s voice came from the back room, a tad slurred. The three held each others’ gazes and their collective breaths as Clara joined them.

Chapter 36

“These contemptuous shoes. Megan, you’ve buttoned them wrong again,” Clara barked as she stumbled. She clutched Marcus’ arm, her hook-like hand digging in.

He simply smiled, pulling his mother to stand. “Megan might not be the best at button-holing, Mother, but I think you stepped on another rock.”

“Rocks! That’s all this infernal place has. Rocks. Cactus. Sun. Heat. Marcus, darling. We need to get ourselves back to civilization! California! Promise me, as soon as you’re able you’ll take me back.”

Amanda watched them walk in front, saddened at what her once beautiful mother had become. Her voice was filled with desperation. Her face was puffy from sleeping and her deepening dependence on the drug. Still, she had pulled her wits about her enough to dress for the party.

“Megan, let’s spruce Mother up, shall we?” Amanda suggested, and the two girls slipped their mother back into her wrap that was dragging on the ground. Amanda swiped at the dust streak on the taffeta drape. Megan affixed it around her shoulders, pushing a few stray pins back into their mother’s hair.

“Mama. You’re too thin. Once we get inside, I’m bringing you a whole tray of cakes.” Megan kissed her mother’s cheek, their eyes meeting.

“Bosh! Thin. You do have a wild imagination, child. Come now, let’s try and avoid any more missteps, shall we?” She trounced on ahead, reaching for Megan and dragging her along.

“This whole night is a misstep if you ask me,” Marcus whispered, and Amanda giggled, walking arm in arm with her handsome brother. He’d trimmed his beard and wayward hair to look like an all out gentleman. His dark eyes were full of humor, but as they neared the dance, they clouded with something else.

“Why, Marcus, whatever’s the matter?” Amanda said, poking her brother in the side.

The band played a rendition of a waltz. On the floor, ladies in the dresses she had acquired for this purpose twirled like a beautiful bouquet. The brilliant hues, bright expressions, laughter, and joy that filled the dance were infectious. Amanda’s chest filled with pride. Their project had worked, under the skillful hands of RuthAnne with Dolly’s help and Amanda’s imagination. She wanted to clap and cheer. Instead, she held lightly to her brother’s arm and smiled with apparent idle interest.

Megan whipped to her sister’s side. “Amanda! What’s going on?”

“It’s a party, Megan. Get your dance card filled, why don’t you. Thank you, Private.” Amanda smiled at the young man who handed her the loop of cord and card to wrap around her wrist. She couldn’t help but laugh when she saw he had already jotted his name down. She gave the tall, lanky soldier a slight wave as Megan pulled her aside.

“That isn’t what I mean! Those dresses look startlingly familiar.” Megan’s eyes were cold as a snake, and she was just as ready to strike. For once, Amanda stood her ground and met her twin straight on.

“They should. You tossed them out months ago. Too old-fashioned. Too tight. Too boring. Something like that. I simply...repurposed them.” Amanda gulped. Had she made the wrong decision? She had known Megan would be less than enthusiastic about seeing her tossed-out garments redesigned and dancing on women from around the fort. She hadn’t expected her to be quite this furious.

“Those are my cotillion gowns!”

“That you said you wanted burned, I believe.” Tears pricked Amanda’s eyes. She swallowed around the large lump in her throat. And then she understood what made her sister so upset. It wasn’t the dresses. It was not being included in the decision. Amanda had never done anything without her sister’s approval.

“I did it for you, Meg. As a surprise. Remember how you said we should brighten this place up a bit? What’s bright and fun about being the only belles at a dance? Now we can wear our finery and not feel so hopelessly out of place.”

Megan’s eyes were damp with angry, hurt tears.

“Does that pink one look familiar?” Amanda said.

“It looks like the one I wore to Marissa Harper’s party...but that dress was white. Now it’s pink?”

“It had a strawberry punch stain down the front. Remember? You threw it out. It also had a ruined hemline and torn netting...”

Megan snorted. “Thanks to that rascal, Tom Salinger. He threw a drink on me when I refused him in the rose garden. He thought he could put his hands where they weren’t wanted.”

“He was wrong...you showed him. And you told me that you’d rather die than wear it again! Didn’t you? It isn’t the same dress anymore. RuthAnne dyed it a shade darker than the stain, and of course, had to let out quite a bit, as you see. You were much more slender when you wore that one. I don’t know how RuthAnne found the extra fabric to fit Mrs. Kimball. Look at her!”

Megan laughed in disbelief as Mrs. Kimball glided across the floor, her husband’s hands on her thick waist. “Well, I’ll be.” She turned to her sister. “Amanda, please tell me you weren’t foolish enough to just give them all away. Those were worth a small fortune!”

Amanda blushed a bit. “I might have made a slight profit. Which I’m splitting with you, of course.”

“Well, aren’t you the budding entrepreneur.” Megan hugged her sister. “Exactly how much will we be sharing?”

“Enough for you to buy some new clothes and make your own decisions about your future.”

“What about you? I know you weren’t completely on a mercy mission with all of this...” Megan waved her hand at the jeweled dancers.

Amanda cleared her throat. “I’m going to return to San Francisco. For Roger. He wants to marry me...”

“The librarian? Oh, sister. You have gone off the deep end. Come, let’s discuss your foolish plan before Mother hears...”

“Before your mother hears what?” Clara stepped between her daughters, eyes narrowed. “Just what the devil is going on here? Megan?”

Clara fanned herself, looking about but her question was obvious. They no longer stood out against the ladies of the fort. Her gaze swept the dance floor, mouth curling in bitterness. She watched the dancers, brows raised. “Do either one of you wish to tell me why your hand-me-down gowns are in higher fashion than anything we are wearing?” Disapproval dripped from her words.

Amanda smoothed her skirts and cleared her throat. The music picked up again, a cheery waltz. A soldier stepped up. “Uh, pardon me, Miss Carington. My name’s on your card...”

“Well, let’s dance, shall we?” With a shrug and a wary glance back to her mother and sister, Amanda escaped to the dance floor.

****

Clara grabbed her remaining daughter’s arm tight as she dared. “Someone better explain things to me and fast.”

“Mother, please.” Megan turned sharply.

Clara wrenched her away from the music. Away from the lights and the laughter. “RuthAnne put you and Amanda up to this, didn’t she?”

Tears dripped from Megan’s eyes, but a mother knew how to force the truth from her daughter. “I didn’t even know until this evening. Mandy’s in love, mama. She just wants to go back to San Francisco. She sold the dresses to RuthAnne.”

“Why would she want to go back...not for that librarian? This story gets better all of the time. My own daughters are abandoning me.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Mama.” Megan swallowed.

“No, of course you’re not. And neither is your sister.” Clara searched for her husband among the throng of partygoers. Of course, the one time she needed him, neither he nor his lackey Kendrick were in sight.

She spotted RuthAnne dancing with a short, stocky soldier. From the crease in RuthAnne’s forehead, the boy was obviously treading heavy upon her slippers. With a glower of disapproval, Captain Shepherd stomped over and separated the soldier from his dance partner. Barking an order Clara could not hear, Shepherd sent the poor boy scrambling off into the crowd. She watched as RuthAnne bid her apologies to the departing barrel of a soldier. Clara noticed RuthAnne’s face light up with gratitude as the two began to waltz.

They were a lovely couple to be sure. She, in black satin, draped with lace. Her tumble of blonde hair fixed in a cascade over one shoulder, the other bare. The captain was a full head taller than she, muscular and lean. He filled out his blues in a way both forbidding and appealing. He held RuthAnne as if he intended never to let go. They danced in perfect step, as if they were two sides of a coin.

Clara was pleased to see her well-ensconced in the brash soldier’s embrace rather than Edgar’s. But a flick of her calculating gaze saw someone who wasn’t pleased. In fact, he was seething. Clara watched Marcus observing the same scene. His jovial face darkened. His eyes were locked on the pair. In heartbreak? Disgust? She couldn’t read his expression, but she knew the cause. The same cause of all of her troubles since she arrived at this godforsaken place—RuthAnne.

The sound of brass instruments, laughter, and chatter filled her ears, threatening to split her head in a cacophony of sound. Clara only had eyes for RuthAnne, pale skin glowing under the lights, her long blonde hair lit up like a halo. Her joyous smile pierced Clara’s icy heart, filling her mouth with a bitter taste until she could take no more. Clara stepped into her path, forcing them to stop mid-step.

RuthAnne saw Clara Carington from the corner of her eye.

“You.” Clara’s eyes brimmed with loathing.

“Mrs. Carington?” RuthAnne was confused. Bowen guided them out of the way of the onslaught of dancers until they stood in the center of the floor, though Clara followed them like a stalking wildcat.

“I know all about you. What you and my daughter did. So you think that you can just appear out of nowhere and ransack my house for your own profit?”

“Mrs. Carington, we didn’t...” RuthAnne looked to Bowen for help.

Just beyond the murmuring crowd, Dolly muscled her way in between RuthAnne and the coiled snake that was Clara Carington, Whit closing in behind.

“Mrs. Carington, it wasn’t RuthAnne’s idea. It was mine,” Dolly said.

“And mine, Mother.” Amanda stood beside Dolly, visibly shaking but standing her ground. The band ground to a halt in a disharmony of brass and drums.

“Is that right?” Clara turned her fury on her own child. “So, it’s finally happened. By hiring a whore into army service, your father has finally corrupted his own daughter.”

Dolly blanched, her mouth open. Before she could speak, RuthAnne stepped in. “Are you sure you’re one to cast stones, Clara? What do you know about Dolly Jewel? Have you ever spoken with her? Met her, even?”

“I don’t have to meet her to know that she came to Fort Lowell unmarried and pregnant. Shamed. Cast out from The Wedge.” Clara’s smile was evil, full of hurtful intentions. “And what about you, RuthAnne? Ever since you came here you’ve been flaunting yourself around the fort, tempting my son to fall in love with you. Riding off to meet heaven knows whom in the desert for days at a time. These aren’t activities for a woman with no means and no family in this godforsaken place. I’ve seen you. Don’t deny it.” Venom spilled from every word. The guests were silent, watching the heated exchange.

“You don’t know anything at all,” RuthAnne whispered.

Bowen stepped forward, arm protectively around RuthAnne’s shoulders. He nodded to Reggie. “Just like you, Mrs. Carington, to spoil a surprise. We have another special visitor this evening. Another life to celebrate.”

Reggie vanished and, moments later, reappeared with three people in tow. Father Acuña in his simple brown robes; Mariposa, his exact opposite in a brightly-colored Mexican dress, hair ornately arranged in traditional combs; Mara followed behind, adorned much the same.

Mara found her way into the mix, her dark eyes full of worry. She wore her hair pulled back from her face, spilling loosely around her shoulders. Her eyes searched until they settled on RuthAnne. She breathed a visible sigh of relief, face brightening into a wide smile. Her skin was full of color, her brown eyes dancing. RuthAnne met her in a deep embrace.

With a look of extreme satisfaction, Bowen guided RuthAnne and Mara out of the middle of the dance floor. Father Acuña stepped forward, hands outstretched to the murmuring crowd, which fell to a hush.

“These two sisters were brought to me with nothing. Robbed penniless by El Tejano. Mara was shot. Your own Captain Shepherd rescued them from certain death. RuthAnne was tending her sister back to health at the chapel; she was too proud to sit idle and came here to serve you.” Father Acuña told the story, his voice booming over the crowd. RuthAnne had to admit it was the perfect opportunity to lay all of their cards on the table.

“When she wasn’t with Mara, she was waiting on others here at Fort Lowell. She is a noble and honorable woman. Anyone who thinks different will have to speak to me.”

The crowd answered with hurrahs of agreement. RuthAnne blushed, and Mara all but glowed. Clara turned her attention back to Amanda and Dolly, pointing a rigid finger at them. “That doesn’t excuse my daughter consorting with a prostitute.”

Whit Baker stepped forward between Clara and his fiancée. “Ma’am, this woman has more class in her little finger than you will ever muster.”

“I don’t need you to defend me, Whit Baker,” Dolly protested.

“Get used to it, Dolly.” He kissed her firmly and then waved her off. With chest puffed out and eyes wide and full of indignation, he continued, speaking not just to Clara, but the entire room. “If I ever hear anyone refer to my future wife in that manner again, they’ll be answering to me!” His gaze scanned the crowd, reunited with Dolly’s, and softened along with his smile. “These women did a fine job dressing the ladies using their own ingenuity and the meager supplies I was able to find for them. There’s no reason to tear Miss Jewel or your own daughter down.”

Clara narrowed a venomous glare at her daughter. “You didn’t have my consent for any of this.”

“She had mine.” Megan spoke quickly, taking Marcus in hand and dragging him behind her. He said nothing, his expression a blank poker-face.

“You. You ungrateful children...” Clara gasped, speech slurred and hair falling from its pins.

“Mother, can’t you see—” Amanda said, but Clara held up a hand.

“The only thing I see is disrespect.”

RuthAnne’s heart filled with pity. Clara’s outrage and indignation were only on the surface. Below lay something much deeper, be it heartache or fear of abandonment.

“I wanted to surprise you.” Amanda swallowed. “Don’t you see how much brighter and beautiful things look? Doesn’t it remind you of San Francisco?”

Clara blinked. The crowd stared back at her. The band members held their instruments at the ready, watching the exchange with interest. To RuthAnne, with the flags and banners flicking in the breeze and lantern light glimmering, the place looked like any other backwoods army dance. She wondered what Clara saw in her mind’s eye; the woman’s wide-eyed expression visibly softened. Instead of wearing their normal frocks and housedresses as usual, each woman looked fitted and lovely in her own way.

“You did this for me?” Clara’s voice was small, slurred, as she addressed her daughters. Whispers of gossip rose from a breeze to a gale.

Marcus set his jaw and turned to gesture to the band. The conductor of the small group nodded, took up his trumpet, and struck up a light and airy tune.

A crowd of laundresses flocked to RuthAnne and Dolly, shuttling them deeper into the crowd. The officers and their wives went back to kicking up their heels. The incident passed; the party was ceremonious and gay once more.

Clara watched in dismay, but allowed Marcus to guide her off the dance floor and into the waiting care of his father. Edgar Carington stood at the edge of the dance floor, having come late to the event.

“Did your meeting run long in town, Father? Maybe now you’ll finally understand what you’ve put her through. I doubt you even care,” Marcus growled low.

“It’s not your place to tell me, boy.” Edgar straightened his collar. Marcus shook his head and walked away.

“Edgar, don’t be so hard on him. He’s going to be a general someday. Mark my words.” But she was tired and leaned into her husband. She ignored the smear of rouge on her husband’s coat. She also ignored the scent of cheap perfume that permeated his clothes.

“Come along, Clara. I’ll take you home.” He guided her to the door, and they stepped into the darkness.

Chapter 37

Father Acuña smiled as he hugged Mara. “You’ll be better off here with your sister, my dear.”

“I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done, Father.” Gratitude filled her sweet face.

The dance was over. Crowds of partygoers dispersed, either in search of more lively entertainment or back to the comforts of their bunks. The dry desert air was perfect for viewing the Milky Way, brightening the night with its canopy of stars.

Bowen stood beside RuthAnne, his large, rough hand curled around hers. Unabashed at showing her his affections, finally. Mara’s eyebrow shot up in question.

“What have you been up to, Ruthie?” Mara’s laugh was like the tinkling of bells in RuthAnne’s ear.

“Living, Mara. I’ve been getting on with the business of living.”

“Well, hallelujah!” She threw her arms around Bowen’s shoulders. “Can I call you brother yet? Or is it a bit early for that?”

Bowen laughed heartily. “You can call me whatever you like.”

“Well, thank you for saving my life, Brother Bowen.” She hugged him in earnest as Whit and Dolly joined the group.

“With the dance dispersing and all, I thought we might continue this party at the store.” Whit had his arm hooked in Dolly’s. “Seems the future Mrs. Baker here has some ideas on how the post store can better serve our feminine clientele. She wants to share them with you all.”

“The MacEvoys are staying overnight, so you all might as well come along, too.” Dolly looked in seventh heaven. Pleasure for her friend bloomed in RuthAnne’s heart. Dolly had found her match in Whit Baker.

A familiar set of shadows caught her eye, distracting her as they crossed the compound; they hesitated a moment then retreated toward the stables.

“You all go on ahead. I just need to say a quick thank you. The Carington children have done so much for us...It’s hard to have your family’s faults laid out for the world to see. “

“Do you want me to come with you?” Dolly asked, obviously not that interested in going. Her eyes were only for her future husband.

“Not at all. You go on and start the party.” RuthAnne swept them on ahead of her with a light smile and a wave.

Bowen blocked her retreat. “I know that look by now. You’re up to something.”

“I’ll be along directly. Mara, would you please take care of him for me?”

“Better hurry back before I disclose all of your darkest secrets.” Mara hooked her arm into Bowen’s, giving him a huge smile. The small group proceeded to the post store. RuthAnne hitched up her skirts and followed the shadow that now skulked around the corner toward the stable yard.

Light bloomed through the lattice adobe wall, painting the ground with the glow of the kerosene lanterns beyond. She struggled to adjust to the inky black darkness.

“Hello? Amanda?” she called, certain she had seen the girl walk this way. What was she doing alone at the stables?

“Not Amanda. Her brother.” Marcus’ voice was in her ear.

RuthAnne jumped a mile, then put a hand to her breast, laughing. “You gave me a fright. I thought I saw your sister...”

“We were taking a walk. I just sent her on home to look after Megan. It’s been a long night. For all of us.” Marcus struck a match against the adobe building and lit a cigar. The tip glowed hot and orange. Gray, pungent smoke swirled around his head as he puffed.

“I’m sorry about this evening. People aren’t always what we want them to be,” RuthAnne said gently, and Marcus stiffened visibly.

“The older you get, the less you’d think it would matter. That your father was a cheat, your mother needs drugs to get through the day...” He shook his head, stepping out of the shadows and into the starlight. A slight smile was on his face, but his eyes were cold. Worry stabbed her heart. “But, if you take a step back, you see it’s always been this way. And it explains quite a bit, really. After all, they are the ones who molded me into exactly what I am.”

“And what are you, Marcus?” RuthAnne watched him warily, uncertain where this conversation was going. Her stomach tightened.

He smiled coldly. “An opportunist, I suppose.”

“You’re an officer in the United States Cavalry. That means something, doesn’t it?” She stepped back as he moved closer.

“It means that my father is in a position of power. My mother has her hands into politician’s pockets and has been guiding my career. She wants me to be a general.” He spat out the words with disdain.

“And what do you want?” She backed deeper into the stable compound as he edged toward her, cat-and-mouse.

“Power. Prestige. Money. Love?” His smile turned into a sneer as he backed her into a corner.

One more step, and she found there was nowhere to go. The gritty adobe brick wall met her shoulders. The tack room was to her right, the stable catty-cornered across the open ground.

She could no longer see the lights at the post store across the parade ground. They were completely alone...Unless Alex had returned to the stables instead of going to the bunkhouse after the dance? She looked about, but the tack room doorway was dim. Black shadows reached their greedy fingers, making her remember the cave. The walls that seemed to close in around her. Unease gave way to fear, bordering on panic. RuthAnne found it hard to breathe. Her heart pounded in her ears.

“Those are all noble things, if sought after in a decent way.” She gulped, buying time.

A pitchfork leaned against the corner, just out of reach. She took a side step toward it as he pressed closer to her. Her nose wrinkled with the bitter aroma of whiskey on his breath.

His gaze leveled upon her, brimming over with lust as he unashamedly eyed her open neckline. She fought back as his hands roughly explored the lines of her body. Shuddering with outright revulsion, she pulled away as much as possible. The pitchfork tines gleamed in the low light. RuthAnne took another cautious step closer.

“What about you, RuthAnne? Could you love a man like me?”

Praying for inner strength, she opened her eyes and found words around the lump of fear in her throat. “You’re stronger than I am. You could take whatever you wanted from me, physically. But you’ll never have my soul.” Even though his grip loosened, she knew there was no escape.

“But I do want it all, RuthAnne. All or nothing...”

Marcus’s words reverberated in her ears. She gasped as the recognition struck home. His dark eyes glinted as they had through the horrible mask. The tone of his voice echoed as it had from the shadows. Marcus Carington was El Tejano!

Footsteps crunched on earth as they both turned sharply. Marcus’ eyes were full of warning, his hand a lead weight on her arm as he dragged her deeper into darkness.

“Quiet!” he ordered, muscling her to the wall. Thoughts of reaching a defense weapon faded as he ground her shoulders into the hard bricks.

He leaned heavily into her, breath hot on her neck, his knee pressed painfully to her thigh, forcing her to remain still. RuthAnne stiffened, knowing full well what he was doing. To the idle passerby it would look as if they were wrapped in a lover’s embrace.

Little would anyone know that his fingers dug deep bruises on the flesh of her arms and blood filled her mouth as she bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. Tears stung her eyes. She had totally underestimated the son of the post commander—El Tejano—who thought he could take whatever he wanted, with no thought to cost or consequence.

A long shadow entered the stable yard. That lumbering gait could only be one person, and who else would come to the stables in the middle of the night but Alex McDole? RuthAnne squeezed her eyes shut, sending a prayer for his safety and well-being, willing him to turn and run.

Alex whistled a merry tune, walking with a spring in his step as he rounded the lattice wall by the tack room. He sang to himself, completely oblivious that he was being watched from the shadows. “Evelyn Jones, sweet Evelyn Jones. Rancher’s daughter gonna marry herself a soldier. They’re gonna have that ranch o’ their own someday...”

Alex went back to whistling a happy tune. RuthAnne had seen him and the prim rancher’s daughter promenade around the dance floor to that very song earlier in the evening. Now, presumably, he’d returned to check the horses for the night.

His whistling stopped short, as if he sensed something was amiss. The horses were not nickering at his arrival. All was quiet.

“Hello?” he called to the shadows.

RuthAnne’s breath hitched as Alex focused his gaze on where they stood in the shadows. What must he be thinking?

“Hey, now. This ain’t a meeting spot, you all. There’s plenty of those to be had in town. Go on, now. Get out of here.” Alex’s voice shook, his flint-hard eyes sparked with anger.

RuthAnne’s captor kept her pulled close. She clenched his arm, digging into Marcus’ skin with her nails, satisfaction welling in her breast until he squeezed her wrist to breaking. She knew she was no match for him.

“Miss Newcomb?” Alex’s tone relayed obvious confusion.

Marcus drew his long-barreled Colt .45 pistol from his side holster.

“Alex! Get away!” RuthAnne lunged forward, but Marcus shoved her down. A wave of pain rocked through her as her head cracked hard against the ground. She dimly watched as Marcus knocked the butt of the weapon against the side of Alex’s skull. The stable master never had a chance, crumbling into a heap on the ground.

“No!” RuthAnne tried to scream. Her protest died in her throat as Marcus grabbed her by the hair and dragged her toward the stable.

“I should have taken care of you and your sister that first moment. Live and learn, so they say.”

He manhandled her into the back of the waiting buckboard. The dappled gray draft horse was already hitched up and pawing the ground anxiously.

Taking a length of rope, he bound her at the wrists and feet. “They’ll be coming for you. Somehow, you’ve managed to worm your way into the hearts of everyone here. Let’s make sure they waste time looking for you inside.” His mouth curled into a wicked smile. “Maybe Bowen will even be trapped inside, looking for you. That loose hay in the loft’ll go off like a powder keg. Once it ignites, the roof timbers won’t stay up long. He’ll die searching for you. Be burned and buried alive...all for love.”

Ruth let out a sob in protest as he roughly tore the black ivory combs from her hair. He tossed them just inside the stable doors. Marcus surveyed the scene with a grin of satisfaction as he unhooked the kerosene lantern from the wall.

She watched as he let the glass and metal lantern fly to the opposite end of the stable. It smashed against the neatly stacked hay bales and exploded in a burst of liquid flame. Firelight filled the room as the horses stomped their hooves heavily. RuthAnne could hear the fear in their almost human screams.

“What about Alex? What of the horses?”

“Oh, I’m sure your precious captain will save the day...or die trying. In any case, we’ll be long gone.”

He pushed her back down and cracked the reins. They were off, out of the fort and into the darkness along a road RuthAnne couldn’t see, headed into oblivion.

Chapter 38

Where was RuthAnne? Bowen paced, his boots echoing on the plank floor while the growing crowd sang “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” Afterwards, Father Acuña clapped his hands with enthusiasm. He launched into a prayer of gratitude. Bowen extracted himself, working his way to the entrance.

Dolly edged her way to him, tilting her head. “Bow, I’ve never seen you so distracted.”

“She should’ve been back by now.” He opened the door and stared out into the darkness. Lights had been snuffed out in the officers’ quarters. The bunkhouse was quiet. The entire fort had gone shadowy and still. All save the stables where a glimmer caught his eye. “Something’s wrong.”

“What could possibly go wrong?” Dolly blinked then narrowed her eyes. “Y’all set something up, didn’t you?”

He cringed at her anger. “There was an opportunity. We took it. But...”

“You’ve been egging that bandit on, and now you’re worried Ruthie’s caught up in the middle.”

He met her unveiled worry and found it impossible to hide the truth any longer.

Behind them, Father Acuña’s voice lifted to the heavens, speaking words of love and friendship in his prayer. “Quoting our teacher, Paul, ’Love is not boastful or proud. It serves not for its own end...’”

Dolly simply nodded and closed her eyes in a wordless prayer. “Then what are you waiting for? Go get her, Captain.”

The moonless sky seemed too bright to the east. Bowen strained his eyes and ears. Something wasn’t right. There. A sound, like breaking glass. A crackling. Now, the licking of bright orange and yellow firelight casting shadows. A tang of wood smoke. The whinnies of nervous horses.

“Fire at the stable! Baker! Sound the alarm! Reggie. Ross. Time to go.” Bowen launched himself out the front door without waiting to see who would follow.

Flames engulfed the stable, their amber claws tearing at the doorframe, pungent smoke filling the air. Ross joined Bowen, leaning over and grabbing his knees; Reggie followed suit a moment later, breathless from running. Bowen quickly surveyed their situation, barking orders to man the pump and start drawing water. Straggling soldiers appeared, drawn by the smoke, the light, and the cries of the horses.

“Where’s Alex?” Reggie asked. “He must be inside.”

Bowen’s eyes searched the crowd as he removed his dress coat and grabbed a bucket to douse it in. “I’m going in.”

Ignoring protests, he threw the soaked coat over his head. In the barn, smoke curled and smothered; he slunk along the floor, his eyes stinging and throat burning. There was no sign of Alex as flames reached up wood-framed walls, ate hay bales, and threatened to jump to the stalls next. Horses cried out in panic, punctuating the roar of the swirling flames.

Bowen released the latch and slid back the wooden brace-bar; the stall doors swung open. Freed, a stampede headed into the night. Save for one terrified horse backing deeper into its stall. Its nostrils flared, eyes orange with reflected firelight as it reared up with outstretched hooves threatening to knock Bowen down and out. He lunged out of the way, getting to the side of the animal. He covered its terrified eyes with his sodden jacket and sent the bay out of the stable.

Heat blasted his face. Bowen cringed as the shirt against his arms began to char and smoke. He released two more horses before Reggie took over freeing the remaining animals from the doomed structure.

Outside, Bowen coughed and wiped at his stinging, watering eyes. Now that he was out in the night air, he shrugged free of his smoldering shirt. He raked a hand through his hair and across his face, palm slick with soot and sweat. The barn was a total loss. Even the bucket brigade came to a complete stop. The crowd watched in horror as the structure burned to a hollow shell.

He coughed heavily, leaning on the fence post as Reggie staggered over to him. “We got the rest of the horses out safely. They ran off, but I sent Johnston and his men to round them up. Alex was...”

“You found him? Alive?”

“Yeah. Over by the tack room. He’s got a lump the size of Texas over his ear.”

Bowen stood with clenched fists and scanned the crowd. It seemed like the whole fort had turned out to view the conflagration: enlisted, officers, women, and children milled around to view the scene. Some were crying. Some were praying. Dolly and Mara were toting buckets and giving ladles full of water to the men who had tried to fight the fire.

“Any sign of...anyone else in there?”

Reggie hesitated before he grabbed Bowen’s arm with one hand and proffered a small offering in the other. “Cap, we found these...”

Bowen looked at what Reggie held; his heart skipped a beat. RuthAnne’s hair combs reflected the flickering orange light.

With a flash, he remembered the way they had sparkled in the lantern’s glow as they waltzed. He’d imagined taking the combs gently from her hair, allowing that tumble of gold to spill through his fingers. He even allowed himself to envision her reaction. Her mouth would have parted into a slight smile; her full, red lips would have spoken his name. Her eyes would have closed in a wave of love and passion...

Now, those same combs were broken and smoke-stained, their fragments glittering dully in his hands.

“She’s not in there. I’d know if she were.” Bowen clenched his teeth. He hated the quiver of emotion that punctuated his words.

“Bow, you have to realize...” Reggie gestured to the conflagration behind them, painting all who stood around orange in its powerful glow.

“She can’t be dead. I won’t allow it.” He lunged toward the inferno, its very heat making his skin seem to crisp on his bones. Reggie and Ross both grabbed him, holding him back.

“Bowen, you’re talking crazy,” Ross said. “We can’t know for sure, of course, until it burns itself out. We’ll have to wait and sift through the wreckage.”

Bowen caught sight of Josie. Her pink dress stained and dusty, she passed the beads of her rosary rapidly through her fingers. Her eyes were full of sorrow and compassion as she met his gaze.

He turned away before he gave in to the loss. Murder filled his voice. “That’s what that thievin’ coward wants us to do. To sit and wait while he takes her...”

Bowen eyed Charley as he wandered the crowd, the man towering a head taller than everyone else. The Yavapai strode bare-chested as always, save for his uniform coat unbuttoned in the night air. The crowd parted to let him through.

Bowen watched Charley wrinkle his nose at the fire in disgust, cocking his head to the side as he stepped through the opening crowd and into the scene. Charley knelt, inspecting the ground in front of the tack room wall, nodding, speaking the strange native dialect to himself; his words rose over the cacophony of destruction and panic.

Reggie’s pleading for Bowen to be realistic fell on deaf ears. Bowen joined Charley on his path toward the burning stable. The fire cast shadows and light over him. The hot wind made his unrestrained black hair fly around his broad shoulders. The backdrop of flames seemed to set him aglow. The Indian knelt, searching the ground with his eyes. With a grunt, he picked up a handful of dirt and faced Bowen fully, letting the soil fall through his fingers. Charley set loose a battle cry, his howl like a coyote, making the crowd jump where they stood.

“Tell me,” Bowen pleaded. Grief and rage threatened to tear him in two.

Charley grunted. “There were three out here. Your man, found there.” He gestured to the stable yard. “He’s alive.”

“Barely.” Reggie’s voice was ragged from shouting.

“The other two. A man. A woman. There was a struggle at the stable doors. He left you something? Something to make you think she was inside?” Charley’s deep voice questioned, interrupted by the crashing of timbers and crackling flames inside the shell of the building.

“Her hair combs...”

Charley nodded, obviously pleased with himself. “One wagon. One horse. Your woman went with him. Unwillingly. But alive. At least, when they left. All of this...” He waved at the devastation behind them. “...to distract.”

“Where did they go? You can’t track them at night. We’ll have to wait until morning.” Ross’ voice was full of frustration but edged with hope.

“East. Tracks point to the eastern road.”

“They went back to the mountains. To his hideout...” A saber of fury slid into Bowen’s gut. “If he took the wagon, they’ll have to go the main road. We might even be able to get there ahead of them. Come on.”

Chapter 39

RuthAnne’s shoulders ached as she struggled against her bonds. The black velvet sky gave way to countless stars, winking and cold above, silent witnesses to her abduction.

Her beautiful black dress was torn and filthy; its low back had left her skin rubbed raw. Her body ached from the constant shudder of the wood wheels of the buckboard against the rocky road. It seemed like hours since she had been attacked, bound, and tossed aside like a sack of potatoes.

She heard the strain of leather harnesses and the squeak of the springs under the driver’s bench. Marcus’ back was toward her as he slapped the reins again over the dappled gray workhorse. The animal grunted as it submitted to the command and surged forward.

RuthAnne struggled to get her bearings as she lay bound in the bottom of the wagon. She could see nothing but the slatted sides and the starlight above. They were going up on the mountain road. How would Bowen ever find her now? He didn’t know where to come looking! Or if she were even alive...

She prayed silently as she wriggled her hands against the ropes. Marcus had spared no mercy when he bound her. RuthAnne gritted her teeth as fibers cut into her flesh; pain radiated from her hands. The constant rubbing made her skin raw enough to bleed. Tears of fear coursed down her cheeks. Her head swam. If she didn’t do something, she’d pass out for certain.

Think, RuthAnne!

In her mind’s eye, she saw flashes of the last time she and Mara had been in El Tejano’s hideout. His horrible mask, with vacant eyes and bloody grin; his eerie words, all or nothing, sealing their fate; the abject terror of knowing what he planned on doing to her. To Mara. Fleeing in the dark. The gunshots. Mara bleeding. Bowen.

She turned her thoughts to Bowen. How he’d held her close as they’d danced, completely unashamed of their growing affection for each other. He’d looked at her with love in his eyes and held her in his arms like something to cherish. His kiss lingered on her lips, resonated in her soul. He was her future. She had never known real love before this. Her sweet, deluded Evan once had grand dreams and plans, but even those had been a lie. He had died staring down a gun in the streets of Kansas City, following the lure of riches. Of an easier path. Something she had never understood.

Could greed alone have driven a man like Marcus to such lengths? The desire to prove himself as powerful beyond the abilities of his domineering mother? To prove he was more of a man than his lecherous father? He’s turned from a mere thief into a murderer. He’s gone mad, and, Lord, if I ever needed Your protection, it is now.

“The Lord helps those who help themselves, Ruthie...” She could almost hear Bowen’s deep, gravelly voice whispering in her ear.

Thoughts of him lifted her from her terror and fed her resolve. His laugh. His glowering look of disapproval. His touch. Things she might never see or feel or say to him. This is what El Tejano was stealing now; their future together, which had been so clear earlier this evening, now but a prayer rising to the heavens.

Anger brewed in her belly. She started working at the ropes again, biting her lip, turning her injured fists in slow but constant circles. The cording was growing slack, stretching with the motion and sticky lubrication of her weeping wounds. Perhaps her own blood would prove to her advantage. RuthAnne prayed silently as she continued to work the bindings, kicking and twisting in the back of the wagon.

Chapter 40

RuthAnne ceased her struggles as the wagon drew to a stop. Marcus’ back was still to her as he sat on the driver’s bench, a ghostly black figure haloed by the pale sliver of moonlight as it crested the ridge. He turned to her, his stare reminding her of an animal stalking its prey. He reeked of sour whiskey and sweat and seemed satisfied that she had given up her fight.

“We’re back where all this started, RuthAnne. I told you that you were going to die in that cave. I didn’t lie, now, did I?” He leapt easily over the driver’s seat and into the wagon’s bed beside her, checking her over. RuthAnne sucked in her breath and stretched her wrists as far apart as possible while he tugged at her bindings. Pain shot to her shoulders as she kept the ropes tight. She’d managed to loosen them, though the act had abraded her skin enough to draw blood; she’d be darned if he discovered her, no matter how bad it hurt. She battled the urge to scream, knowing they were in the middle of nowhere now. He spoke without whispering, showing his confidence that there was no help around for miles.

“This is where they did all of that hard work to clear the road. Nothing but rocks on every side. Very hard to track anyone here. So many footprints, so little soil to leave them in.” His lips curled into a wicked smile as he grabbed her roughly by the arm and hauled her out of the wagon.

Her dress tore on a splinter of wood. Someone would see it eventually when the horse found its way back, and they would know she survived the fire, if not the abduction. That at least was a modicum of relief. Maybe they’d find her out here yet.

“Let’s get this old girl out of here...might buy us some extra time if anyone is crazy enough to think you’re still alive.” Removing RuthAnne’s ankle bindings, his hand traveled to her calf, cupping it with warm, despicable fingers. His hand traveled further to her knee; she kicked at him, and his grip tightened painfully before he released her.

He slapped the draft animal on the hindquarters, sending it up the winding road. RuthAnne stumbled on the loose rocks as she watched the wagon disappear around the bend.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Marcus sneered, pushing her in front of him. “There’s nowhere to turn around until it reaches the other side of the mountain.”

They trudged uphill. Silver starlight painted the manzanita bushes black, their leaves a ghostly gray. Their thorny branches reached like lost souls into the heavens. Tore like demons into her bare legs. She was bleeding. He continued to push her uphill, deeper into unfamiliar territory.

“Where are we going?” she demanded after a long while. Her slippers shredded against the rock. Her beautiful dress now slashed to ribbons. He smugly pushed her to rest on an outcropping of rock. Below, there was a scattering of lights. In the crystal clear desert night, she made out the tiny town that was Tucson. The lights of the fort looked much closer.

“Somewhere Captain Shepherd’s quite familiar with.” He sat down heavily, taking in the expansive view.

RuthAnne felt small, keeping as still as possible at his side.

“You know, I’ve known him since I was a boy. He was a new lieutenant in the army back then. Thought my father was a great man. Can you imagine? Anyone thinking Edgar Carington was great?” His laugh was hollow. “There was a group of men who made a lot of promises to important people, mainly those who were running the rail lines westward. The plan was to keep the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe rolling through the West. If the rail lines were able to dip down into Tucson, the people would come. The city would grow. But the Apaches had other ideas. No one wants to be butchered by a band of Indians, and they were only too happy to provide, waging all out war on the territories.

“The cavalry couldn’t promise safety. But there were people who had a lot of money invested in getting the railroad into Tucson. So, they enlisted some helpful citizens to speed things up a bit.”

“The people responsible for Camp Grant?” RuthAnne guessed. She knew the stories of the massacre still haunted Bowen. That incident had defined him as a man, and as a soldier, but it had also stolen his faith.

Marcus waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “Indians killing Indians. All they did was provide incentive. They were visionaries. Of which my father played a great role. Unfortunately for him, things didn’t go as planned. Because of a certain soldier who refused to look the other way, there was too much attention paid to the slaughter.”

“Bowen...”

“Yes, your Captain Shepherd was the only one in his patrol who refused to report back as directed. He dragged the reputations of Tucson’s finest through the mud. He was willing to take them to trial to pay for their actions. At the risk of his military career. At the risk of his very life. Well, fortunately for Tucson’s finest, they managed to find a sympathetic judge. They barely saw the inside of a courtroom. It didn’t matter. Shepherd had already done enough damage in the newspapers. The rail line executives changed their minds and turned the lines north, through Flagstaff. Tucson remains the fair-haired stepchild, waiting last in line. It’ll be years before the train reaches these parts.”

Her heart stopped as he unsheathed his Bowie knife and idly inspected its shining blade.

“So, as the story goes, men like my father were shamed but left to their business as usual. Such travesties have a way of being smoothed over by time, but some have difficulty paying for their sins. They turn to liquor. Gambling. Women...or all three. Mother can’t stomach it anymore. It was her plan for me to be promoted around the ranks. Her idea for me to become a general eventually. I suppose that’s a military wife’s idea of the ultimate accomplishment. Father will never make it. He’s too weak. So, she placed all of that hope into her only son.” His laugh was bitter, his voice wistful as he went on.

“I was simply biding my time at my last assignment until my time was up, pushing papers at the supply offices and trying to figure out how to escape this curse of a military son. With so much untamed wilderness, a man can make a mark for himself out here, if only he has some seed money...”

RuthAnne held her breath as she listened to him baring his soul. He meant to kill her for sure.

He turned, focusing his attention on her. “I saw how many shipments never made it to their destinations. Payrolls and supplies stolen by bandits or Indians and written off as a loss.”

“So, you stole from people who had nothing...it’s morally reprehensible.”

“Who said I had morals?” He winked. Clearly, Marcus Carington had no conscience at all. “I knew what was coming over the mountains and when. Planning a furlough home to see the old man a few times a year was easy enough. No one seemed to notice that is when El Tejano did his best work...It was a simple plan, really. One I’d been managing quite handily. Evan thought it was brilliant.”

“Evan?” An icicle dug its way into her heart.

“Evan and I were in the war together.” Marcus flexed his long fingers, reaching one to trace the line of RuthAnne’s jaw. She shuddered in revulsion.

“He told me in a letter that he married himself a sweet little thing. Young. Innocent. A talented seamstress who would work her fingers to the bone to keep him an honest man. But Evan Newcomb and honest didn’t go together. When the request came through for uniforms to Fort Lowell, an order large enough to outfit an entire brigade, I knew just the man to fill it. A word to my father, and the deal was set. All Evan had to do was promise to enclose a few extra items in the bargain.”

“Extra...you mean smuggling?”

“Opium to sell to the weak fools who’ll buy it. Dynamite, guns, and ammunition—the tools of my trade. I knew the times and locations to strike. We were to split the profits and make thousands. He would close up shop, and we’d do it again in a different city under a different name. But then Evan threatened me. My business. Said he wanted to go straight. That you all could make it on your own.” He spat into the dirt.

RuthAnne looked up with the shock of realization. The remembrance of Evan’s body in the street, bleeding. At the hospital. His life slipping away. This was all Marcus’ doing.

Marcus’ eyes were cold. “He was in too deep, and so were you...you just didn’t know it yet.”

“You murdered my husband?” Her heart thudded in her ears. She remembered the crowd outside the train station. The concerned faces as she watched her husband’s life snuffed out like a candle.

“Think about it, RuthAnne. Taking money off of the top of orders was just the beginning. As an equipage supply officer, I’ve been kept abreast of every shipment. Every stagecoach that’s carrying more than its fair share, whether or not their driver is alone. All of the guesswork removed...quite a coup for my alter ego. “

“El Tejano...”

“He was a legend when I was a boy. I used to love reading stories of him, robbing stagecoaches and wagon trains. The locals even talked of him being the Robin Hood of the desert. He stole from the wealthy, left coins and clothing for those in need. He was a hero...”

RuthAnne gulped around the lump in her throat. “Except you aren’t sharing your wealth with anyone. Not even the man you claimed was your partner. You’re no hero. You’re a common thief. And a murderer.”

She heard the crack of his hand like a gunshot in the still, night air. The sting erupted across her cheek; pain radiated from the impact and rocked her to a heap. RuthAnne tasted the copper of her blood, warm against her tongue. She let out a whimper, scrambling to find something to hold, to cling to. Her hands only found pebbles and dirt.

“That’s enough soul-searching for one evening. I’ve something else to show you.” His hands were rough as he hauled her to her feet; he pushed her up the slope behind them, higher up the mountain ridge. Away from the road. Away from all hope of discovery.

Chapter 41

With General running at full speed, Bowen tried to coax more out of him. Hooves thundered on the rugged dirt road, dust leaving a trail that would be easily identifiable from the mountain pass if the moon were up any higher in the summer night sky. Still, they had a good half hour before it crested the ridge and revealed their pursuit. By then, they would have reached the mine entrance...if indeed he had located the right one.

Clenching his teeth, he gave another swift kick. He heard the animal’s grunt of complaint. General’s nostrils flared like a dragon’s, his head down and mane flying. Bowen knew the horse was giving all that he had to give. Like it or not, he’d have to deal with what he found when they got there. He just prayed to God he wasn’t too late. The very prayer made his heart hurt. How long had it been since he’d sworn off praying? The Lord must have more important things to do than listen to the likes of him, but for RuthAnne, he’d try anything.

They maneuvered their way up the mountain road until they reached the point of the rockslide. Charley slowed his pace, leaning over with a decisive gaze, and dismounted.

He carefully crept around the spot of road, kneeling down. He observed the dirt and the way the rocks had parted or compressed into the ground under the weight of the wheels. He nodded. “They stopped here. Then the wagon went on. With a lighter load.”

“They got out. But which way did they go?” Reggie took off his hat and scratched his sweaty head. Saguaro cactus stood straight and tall in the darkness, their arms raised in a silent salute, the only witnesses to the event.

“Up,” Bowen said. “They went up the ridge. Leave the horses here. We’re following on foot.” He slipped his Spencer rifle from its holster and slung it over his shoulder. He was off up the rock trail with Charley before the others had even dismounted.

“This path leads only one place.” Charley’s broken English followed him, voicing what the others already knew. “Ghosts of my ancestors are there. Very sacred ground.”

Bowen squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his scalp. It was a path he always led a wide berth around. It made sense. “He’s taking her to Camp Grant...or what’s left of it.”

****

Marcus grabbed RuthAnne’s arm, halting their progress. Looking around in the growing light of the moon, he searched for his bearings.

“Lost?” She was amazed at the flippant tone in her voice. She found a certain freedom in knowing she was doomed. There’d be no more cowering as she faced off with him.

With a sneer, he shoved RuthAnne roughly to the ground. She fell back against a mound of earth, her breath forced from her lungs in a whoosh, and blinked at her surroundings. The rise appeared to be the slumped remains of a ruined adobe brick building. Her mind clicked, realizing this was important. This used to be a structure. There were burned out remnants of charred roof beams. Beyond, she noted a line of rock that had once been a wall. Someone lived here once.

“Not lost. Just...listening.” The stand of saguaro cactus had given way to low mesquite trees and brittle brush, tinged silver against the midnight blue sky. He looked nervous. “Did you hear something?”

“Couldn’t be the voice of your conscience, could it? You don’t have one.” Once again, her head was rocked by his open palm. A thin line of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. She touched it with tender fingers, watching Marcus like one would watch a coiling rattler.

He slipped the knife from his belt again, this time angling it toward her cheek. “Hold your tongue, RuthAnne, or I’ll cut it out.”

After a moment, he returned the Bowie knife to its leather sheath. He smoothed back his black hair, usually so well-kept and now wild from their journey. She observed him while he transformed from panic to calm.

“We’re here. This is what I wanted you to see.” In the light of the moon, he pointed out the sunken evidence of round wickiups where the Apache had made their homes in that desperate time just a few short years before. “This hanging valley once housed a small band of Apache. The cavalry had all but starved them out, you see, left them begging for aid. The army took them in even though men like my father railed against it.”

“A true visionary.” RuthAnne spoke below her breath, and he went on as if he hadn’t heard her.

“The leaders sent six of their own people, and hired a group of Mexicans to carry out the attack alongside almost a hundred of the Papago Indians, the Apache’s sworn enemies. A brilliant campaign, actually. They attacked before dawn, setting themselves into a thousand-year-old war and came out on top. I wish I’d been there. Laying in wait that night while their prey lay sleeping, not a hundred yards away...”

“You’re sick. It was a slaughter. Women, children, the aged...murdered...”

“The road to progress is paved with blood, my dear. Some escaped, but not many. They hid like animals in the caves. This mountain is riddled with tunnels. Caves. Abandoned mines. See the entrance, just there? Behind that outcropping? The story goes, a young cavalry soldier was surveying the aftermath. He found a woman in there. Crazy. Terrified. She almost killed him, thinking he had come for her, like the rest.”

RuthAnne saw the open mouth of the cave hidden behind creosote brush and boulders. Her mind opened to the picture he was painting. A woman’s dark eyes full of fear, anger, and agony of having lost her child and husband in the night. Mariposa had nearly dealt Bowen a lethal blow; he still carried the scar to prove it. Her heart surged with the memory of touching the scar, his rough, warm flesh beneath her fingertips.

Marcus’ voice was thick as he blotted drying blood from the corner of her mouth. His hand was almost gentle on her cheek, trailing down her neck.

“If only she’d succeeded, you might have fallen in love with me instead. We could be having a very different conversation right now.”

She wanted to wrench herself away from him, his breath, and the heat of his eyes. “You don’t know me as well as you think.”

He dragged her sharply to her feet and pushed her into the opening of the cave, into complete and utter darkness. The cave walls threatened to close in over her, and yet she reached out with her soul, praying to her Father in heaven, hallowed be His name. For the peace that passes understanding.

RuthAnne knew Marcus could kill her at any moment. If she died, she would be reunited with her brothers in heaven. Would Evan be there? She wondered. He had not been an honest man, but his redemption was between him and his Savior...who knew what happened in that moment between this world and the next? Did God give the lost one last chance to take His hand?

And what of those she loved that she would leave behind? She tried to turn her thoughts to Mara, so that she could pray for her sister’s well-being. But Bowen’s face was all she could see. RuthAnne couldn’t stifle the sob that wracked her body. She stumbled on the uneven floor in the darkness.

Behind her, Marcus struck a match on the rock wall. Firelight pushed back the darkness in a flash of amber. He held it to the end of a branch wrapped with kerosene-soaked cloth. The tang of acrid smoke filled her nose, burning her lungs. Overhead, the leathery flap of bat wings made her shudder.

The last time she’d been here, Mara had been with her. They’d been bound for escape. Now, it was clear; this would be her tomb.

“Go.” Marcus shoved her back, and the two descended into the bowels of the mountain.

Chapter 42

Marcus situated RuthAnne at the edge of the hearth ring. He dropped the smoking torch into the center of already stacked kindling. Within moments, the fire burned bright, casting long shadows throughout the cave.

He turned and his liquid eyes, mesmerizing in their intensity, glittered in the orange light. “I wish we had more time, but that soldier of yours will come after you, guns blazing. He’ll figure out that you’re not dead. I’ll be out of here come sunrise, back safely in my quarters, no one the wiser. El Tejano’s reign is over. I don’t need him anymore. Money, as you know, is the root of all evil. All of this has become far too easy. As the quartermaster, my reach will be far more...extensive. I may even make Mother proud someday and become a general, after all.”

He snorted with the thought as he emptied the canister of thin, ruby kerosene in a ring just outside of the fire’s reach. He sloshed a long line to the crates and trunks, flinging aside the dusty canvas drape where it landed in a pile of fabric. He doused the boxes of dynamite, leftover from his escapades as the hooded bandit.

Crates and trunks were open, tossed aside like empty coffins. He had plundered what he considered of value and planned to cover his tracks by destroying whatever remained.

RuthAnne caught sight of the strongbox where her stagecoach driver had so openly declared his silver was stored. The one he had showed her with pride, where he stowed his weapon in the secret compartment underneath. It appeared to be intact, on its side, and she wriggled herself away from the fire and toward it. Her palms itched to reach it. A quick look to Marcus, and she pushed herself back toward the wall, as if to get away from the scent of the acrid fuel.

“What are you going to do?” She tried to keep her voice even as she scooted. She’d managed to work her bindings almost loose. If she could just bend her right hand enough, she might be able to slip it out...

“The fire’s heat will ignite the kerosene vapor as it dries. There’s just enough dynamite left to collapse the cave, but you won’t have to worry about that. The fumes will smother you first. You’ll feel drowsy, I’m told. Just close your eyes and succumb to it. There’s no point in fighting. They’ll find you here, of course. You’ll be given a proper burial, I’m sure. But all trace of El Tejano will be left to charred rubble.”

“Marcus, please. You don’t have to do this...”

“Come now, RuthAnne. Begging’s not becoming to you. I have a plan, and unfortunately, you aren’t a part of it.”

He knelt where she sat but an arm’s length from the box. With a move more befitting a gentleman than a rogue, he lifted her chin in his hand. Leaning closer, he placed a kiss on her ice cold lips. Though revulsion filled her, she did not fight him. She knew how he fed on her fear. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. With a scowl, he pushed her away.

She stiffened as Marcus adjusted her bindings, visibly annoyed that she didn’t even whimper in pain. She wanted to be nothing to him. A statue among his scattered treasures.

“This is where we say good-bye, RuthAnne.”

She turned a cold eye toward him, swallowing around her fear and the certainty of her impending death. She had but one chance to survive. “It’s a pity that you never learned the real meaning behind that message...” Her throat burned.

Halfway across the cavernous room, Marcus paused. Curiosity had gotten the better of him. Good. RuthAnne fought the wracking cough. The fumes grew thick. Black smoke curled to the ceiling from the igniting kindling. “What message?”

“It isn’t the money that’s evil...it’s the loving of it. Look what that’s done to you, Marcus.” In one motion, she leaned forward as if to cough; instead she flung herself into a shooting stance, the ropes that bound her, discarded at her feet. She aimed the recovered shortened .38 revolver at his midsection.

“Oh, you are full of tricks, aren’t you?” He eyed where he had placed his guns by the entrance, too far to grab. Instead, he took a step toward her. Flames licked the dark trail of kerosene. “Give me the gun.”

“Or what? You’ll let me live?”

“You don’t have it in you to kill, RuthAnne. You’re a good and decent woman...”

He took another step forward.

With hands shaking so mightily she feared she’d drop it, RuthAnne pulled the hammer down, needing both thumbs to cock the weapon. The cylinder turned with a long, well-oiled click.

He hesitated, raising his hands and looking at her in awe. “Where on earth did you find that?”

“Mr. Bingham had a few tricks up his sleeve, if you hadn’t taken the coward’s way in robbing him. There’s a reason you didn’t recover his silver, you know. And now you’ll never find it.”

She gestured toward the strongbox with its secret compartment. She’d pried the false bottom open, leaving the empty holster of the .38 now trained on his midsection. At each corner on the box, she’d exposed four gaping keyholes of equal size, the silver ingots locked within. “You had the silver all along.”

“No...” The realization struck him, his face an open book of shock, horror, and awe. “You did this. Turned the tables on me!”

Flames leapt from one log to the next. The toxic fumes began to roil, burning her eyes, nose, and throat. RuthAnne blinked back the tears, not only from the smoke, but from righteous indignation left unspoken. “No. You’ve done it. I might die in here, but so will you, Marcus.” Her voice shook, her hands slick with sweat as she leveled the pistol.

He dove for her, a battle cry filling his lungs. The force of his attack knocked the small weapon from her grasp. They scrambled for it on the cave floor. RuthAnne became an avenging angel. She clawed and scratched at him. Fire ate up the trail of fuel he had left for it, igniting the trunks and crates in rapid succession.

She kicked the gun away from his closing fingers. It skittered over rocks, into a crevasse. They both watched it go. Fire jumped as if alive from one crate to the next, igniting packing straw and scattered contents. It edged toward the stacks of dynamite he’d left to seal the cave in a grand explosion.

With the weapon out of the way, he reached for her long, pale neck. His hands closed over her throat as they both coughed and gagged. “You’ve killed us both.”

She saw the rush in his wild eyes as she fought and clawed at his hands. She writhed and scratched beneath him. Her lungs screamed for air. Dark stars filled her vision. This was the end, she was sure.

“I...I...”

“You what?” he growled, animal-like. Eyes filled with fury.

“For...give...” RuthAnne choked out the word.

Marcus yanked her close as the swirling smoke reduced vision to nothing. Her tear-filled eyes rolled up in her head as she dragged in a last gasp for life, her struggle almost over. She knew his had only begun. Sinking with her to the floor, his grip on her throat loosened.

The inferno behind them raged toward the ceiling.

“I forgive you,” she rasped.

He backed away from her as if burned, pushing himself to stand with panting breath.

The heat from the blaze was intolerable. It seemed to crisp flesh like charred bacon. RuthAnne lay in a heap at his feet. Marcus shook his head. Just then, a voice straight from heaven filled her ears, calling her name.

“RuthAnne! Don’t move!” Bowen lunged through a wall of flame to reach her and gathered her limp weight in his arms.

“How did you...”

“Let’s just get you out of here.” After a split second’s decision, he drew her to her feet, wrapping them both in the canvas tarp he found on the floor.

“Wait! We can’t leave him!” She pointed to Marcus, coughing through the thick smoke.

Bowen’s eyes were wide with lack of understanding. “You can’t be serious! He meant to kill you! Twice!”

RuthAnne was already on her way over to Marcus, kneeling beside him and pulling him to his feet. “We’re getting out of here. All of us.”

“Let me go.” Face contorting beneath smeared soot and ash, Marcus wrenched away from her grasp, edging closer to the conflagration.

He lunged toward the only part of the room that wasn’t burning: the waiting crates of dynamite.

“Marcus! No!” She reached for the man who would have been her killer. Retreating, Marcus reached into the box, unearthing a red cylinder with shaking hands.

“RuthAnne! We’re leaving. Now,” Bowen said, dragging her away. Ducking beneath the tarp, he manhandled her through the flames and down the stone shaft into the hot night air.

Bowen barked orders to the waiting team as he and RuthAnne vaulted themselves onto General’s back. The group fled from the mine, down the mountain road.

A series of explosions rang out behind them. Flashing light pierced the darkness. The earth shuddered beneath their feet as if demons attempted to claw their way out of hell. Behind, the mine collapsed. The mountain groaned and dust settled. All that remained of El Tejano and his lair had been buried by his own hand.

Chapter 43

General rocked along at an easy gait, but RuthAnne’s grip around Bowen’s waist hadn’t loosened since the harrowing journey. She cocked her ear to the symphony of desert sounds that greeted the dawn. Cactus wrens jabbered their raspy calls. The steady hoots as the quail answered one another. Lonesome mourning doves flitted from the trees. Even the heavy footsteps of mule deer echoed as they searched for a breakfast of tender mesquite leaves.

Looking at Charley, Ross, and Reggie’s grim faces and slumping shoulders, she could tell how exhausted they all were. RuthAnne was overcome with the notion that they were returning from battle as they reached the Rillito ford on the outskirts of Fort Lowell.

With a nod, Bowen pulled General over to stop at the water’s edge. The others went on ahead, each tipping his hat to RuthAnne as they passed. Her eyes were full. No words needed to be said.

Bowen slid from the saddle, taking RuthAnne’s hand and helping her down. She winced in soreness. The physical evidence of the previous night would be with her for some time to come. He gently guided her to the creek and sank down beside her on the small, sandy beach.

“Thought you’d want to wash away some of that soot before we give everyone the good news...”

“Good news?” Her words were full of cynicism, but relief filled her soul as she sank her toes into the sand. “Have I thanked you, Bowen? For coming to my rescue? Again?”

“No need to thank me, Ruthie. I’m the man who loves you.”

He looked painfully serious, save for the glint in his eye. He cleared his throat and cupped her cheek in his hand. “Did he hurt you very much?”

“I’ll make it.”

She thrilled at his touch, leaning into him. Her body neatly melted into his, like a puzzle piece that had been tried every which way and finally fit. Was this love? Real and everlasting?

She released herself from his grasp, turning to let her fingers trail through the cool, clear water, bringing a handful to her lips. Sweet. She swallowed, wincing slightly at her bruised throat. She would make it. Marcus, on the other hand...

Memory threatened to rock her to the core. RuthAnne focused instead on the beauty around her: the desert in the morning; the dappled sunlight through tree branches; the way the spattering light formed rainbows on the water; the soldier who sat beside her, who wouldn’t take his eyes off her for even a moment. Bowen’s hand found hers, his thick fingers curling around hers possessively, his thumb tracing the back of her hand.

“When I saw the fire at the stable, I came apart inside. I didn’t know how much I needed you until...until I thought you were lost to me forever.” Tears welled in his eyes. Emotion tinged his voice to breaking. It was more than her heart could bear.

“Bowen...”

“Let me finish.” He rose to his feet, pacing at the water’s edge. “I need to know where we stand, once and for all. I’m a soldier, RuthAnne. I go where the army sends me. It could be here, or it could be the outer reaches of the northern territory. This life’s about duty. And honor. And sacrifice. Would you be willing to share it with me? As my wife?”

RuthAnne closed her eyes to imagine a future with Bowen by her side. Where she had once envisioned flinging open the doors of a dress shop she could call her own, she now saw opening the doors of a house full of stair-stepped happy, dirty faces, each one bearing a striking resemblance to their father. Instead of making clothes for strangers, she foresaw a family to be cherished. Here at Fort Lowell or anywhere else the army would send them. Together, as husband and wife.

Opening her eyes, she drank in the sight of him. Memorizing his weather-lined face. His sun-darkened skin. This moment. And she knew what her answer would be.

He knelt beside and drew her close, crushing his lips to hers without waiting for her reply.

Laughing, she pushed him back, wiping a line of soot from his brow. “You presume a great deal, don’t you?”

“Better get used to it,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. He leaned in and kissed her as she had never been kissed before.

A word about the author...

Ashley Ludwig is an Arizona native, though she has been transplanted to her new home in Southern California wine country. She lives with her husband, their two daughters, and dog.

She received her Bachelor of Arts from the University of Arizona, with a degree in Anthropology and a minor in History. Ashley worked for several years as an Archaeologist across the American Southwest. She has turned her passion for research and attention to historical detail to her true love, writing inspirational, historical romances.

Visit Ashley at www.ashleyelizabethludwig.blogspot.com/

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