Authors: Ashley Elizabeth Ludwig
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.