The Pride of Hannah Wade (26 page)

“It’s hard to believe I’m going home.” A tremorof reliefrippled through her, suddenly washing out all the rigid supports that held her emotions in. check. Tears of relief and muted happiness welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry . . . it’s just that after all this time, it’s so good.” The apology and the explanation became all tangled.

“Considering all you’ve been through, Mrs. Wade, I would have been worried if you hadn’t cried,” Cutter said.

His easy acceptance of her need for the release tears would bring allowed Hannah to give way to them. His arms went around her and he gathered her loosely to him, while she cried softly at the rare pleasure of something good happening to her.

He breathed in the sweet fragrance of her hair while the heat of her body and the vague pressure of it against him made their impressions on him. The night had a sharp edge to it, and every whisper of sound was a song. Cutter stood stock-still.

“Your husband is a very lucky man, Mrs. Wade.” The thickened words were low and faintly gruff.

The close-paired figures under the trees made a dark silhouette, which John T. let his glance linger on. A lot could be read into Cutter’s rigid tension, the hands that wouldn’t stroke or comfort. With a small, wry shake of his head, John T. turned away from the sight and reached down to pick up a burning stick from the campfire to light his pipe. Sotsworth sat sprawled atop his bedroll, a wicker jug of Apache
tizwin
beer grasped loosely by the neck, obviously a spoil of this morning’s foray and obviously partially consumed. He stared at the couple in the tree shadows.

“How many Apache bucks do you suppose she’s had,
Hooker?” Sotsworth took another swig of the native beer. “I’ll bet she’s developed a craving for it by now.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t speculate about such things in front of the captain.” Hooker clamped his teeth on the pipe stem and sucked to draw the flame into the tobacco-packed bowl. “But I never did think you was any too bright, lieutenant.”

T
HE PAINT HORSE STEPPED HIGH AND TOSSED ITS HEAD,
catching the eagerness of its rider as they approached the collection of adobe, buildings. Cutter’s easy-striding cavalry mount kept pace with the Apache pony Hannah rode. Tension stiffened her spine and squared her shoulders and put a shining light in her eyes. Her calico headband still encircled her head, its faded dark blue pointing up the luster of her thick hair the color of burnt sienna. She still wore it Apache-style, smoothed back into the twin loops secured by an oddly shaped piece of leather. The way she sat her horse, the way she held her head, everything about her reminded Cutter of her deep pride and strong will.

Earlier, Cutter had sent a galloper ahead to alert the fort to the patrol’s return and specifically to inform Major Wade of his wife’s rescue. Cutter noticed the way her lips lay softly together, tremulous and ready to smile at the first glimpse of her husband. He knew that
Hannah wanted to break this slow pace, but he also understood, why she didn’t leave the column and ride ahead of them; she disliked arriving dressed the way she was—like an Indian. So her pace remained sedate, and the distance to the fort slowly narrowed.

As they rode into the quadrangle, Cutter spotted Stephen Wade standing at the edge of a long adobe’s shade. He swore under his breath at the damned black armband Wade continued to wear around his sleeve. All around them, work details paused to gawk at the Apache-dressed white woman, an officer’s wife straddling an Indian pony’s back, her bare legs showing. An apron-clad black soldier stood in the doorway of the bakery, watching them pass.

After turning over command of the column and the captured Apaches to his lieutenant, Cutter veered his horse toward the adobe where the major waited, and Hannah kept her pony abreast of the bay. Other officers stood well back in the adobe’s shade, keeping a discreet distance.

As they rode up to the
ramada,
Wade stepped out to meet them and grasped the rawhide rein close to the jaw of Hannah’s pinto. Disbelief and doubt seemed to lurk in his expression while he scanned the bronze-skinned woman on the horse.

“Stephen!” The smile she’d held back for so long finally broke across her lips as she swung one leg over and slipped off the brown-spotted horse.

Cutter dismounted and took the pinto’s rein from Hannah, unwillingly watching their meeting. Wade placed his hands very tentatively on her shoulders, while his running gaze seemed to pick her apart, from the sweatband around her forehead and the double coil of burnished hair at the nape of her neck to the buckskin clothes and the sun-browned skin.

“Hannah, it is you.” The words were breathed out,
and Cutter wanted to yell at him to take her into his arms. Couldn’t Wade see the way she was straining toward him? Couldn’t he see the ache in her eyes?

The moment seemed, trapped forever; then Stephen’s arms were hauling her into his embrace and Hannah was crushed against him. breathlessly laughing and crying with Joy. Her own hands found their way around his wide shoulders so that she could hold onto him with the same clutching fervency.

Finally Stephen pulled back and cupped her head in his hands, framing her face while his restless gaze inspected it again. “We’ll go to our quarters. They’ve been so empty without you. I know you want to get rid of those squaw clothes . . . and you’ll want to bathe, wash the smell of those savages off you.” His attention swung from her to Cutter as his hands came down to clasp both of hers. Hannah felt the swirl of his energy all around her. “Cutter, have someone fetch Cimmy Lou to our quarters.”

“Yes, sir.” Cutter lifted a booted foot into the stirrup and remounted his horse, then paused to touch the brim of his hat and nod to Hannah.

“Thank you, Captain.” She smiled up at him, seeing little details: the thick black line of his brows, the crookedness of his nose, and the hidden things in his keen blue eyes. His lips widened briefly in response, and Hannah remembered how his steady calm and easy silence had comforted and reassured her.

“Fetch Doc Griswald, too,” Stephen ordered, his gaze coming back to Hannah. Before she could protest that nothing was the matter with her, he said, “We’d better have him check you over and make sure you aren’t suffering from something.”

“I’m not. I’m fine—now.” Now that she was here with him.

His fingers tightened around her hands before Stephen
was distracted by the crunch of gravel under the hooves of Cutter’s horse as the captain turned to leave with the pinto horse in tow. “I want to speak to you later, Captain. I’ll be at my quarters.”

“Yes, sir.” Cutter saluted, and reined his mount away from the couple.

In his side vision. Cutter saw them start toward Officers’ Row, but they were soon out of his view as he rode to the infirmary. Like everyone else, curiosity had brought Dr. Benjamin Rutledge Griswald outside. Cutter saluted’ him, but remained in the saddle.

“Major Wade would like you to come over to his quarters and examine his wife,” he said, relaying the request.

“I figured as much when I saw her ride in with you.” Griswald nodded and picked up the black satchel sitting on the ground by his feet. “I expect after her being with the Apaches, she isn’t right in the head. Sad thing. A refined woman like her.”

“I think you’ll find she’s sound of mind—and body,” Cutter asserted tersely and saluted again, then swung his horse away from the adobe building, tugging on the pinto’s rein for the animal to follow.

Along Suds Row, ragtag pickaninnies played behind the tent houses. The boys were wielding sticks as if they were sabers and charging at imaginary Apaches crawling along the encroaching desert. They came running up when they saw Cutter leading a real Indian pony. A tolerant smile edged Cutter’s hard mouth. Until the captured Apaches were taken to the reservation, he knew they’d have trouble with the young ‘uns slipping around to get an up-close look at some of the “savages” their daddies had fought, and to get a good scare, too.

In front of the third tent, Cutter halted his horse and swung down. He picked out the oldest child in the encircling group, a girl of about ten with rag ribbons
trying the ends of her much-braided hair, and handed the horses’ reins to her, “Don’t let them loose,” he said in a mock warning, amused by her ear-to-ear smile; she was so proud to be chosen over the boys.

The door flap was tied open and Cutter ducked through, automatically removing his wide-brimmed campaign hat and combing his fingers through the unruly thinkness of his black hair where the crown had flattened it. His glance skipped by the crudely made pieces of furniture to the iron stove where a flatiron heated and Cimmy Lou stood, so dark against the light walls. An iron was in her hand, poised above the half-ironed shirt lying atop a cloth-cushioned board.

“Well, if it ain’t Cap’n Cutter come to call.” Her drawl mocked the way he came to a stop just inside the opening. The iron was returned to the stove to stay hot while she moved away from the ironing board to cross the room.

Cutter straightened, his body rearing slightly away from Cimmy Lou’s potent beauty with her fine, high-boned features, luminous jet-black eyes, and softly full lips. The dark kerchief around her hair made a cameo of her face.

“I saw the patrol come in, but I shore never expected you to beat John T. here.” When she cocked her head to the side to taunt him, Cutter saw a faint bruise purpling the flesh along her jaw, nearly invisible against her coffee-brown skin.

“Who hit you?” At his demand, she immediately turned her head to conceal the discoloration, but Cutter laid his fingers against her chin and turned it back.

“Nobody. I ran into a post,” she answered sulkily.

“And what was the post’s name?” he queried derisively.

“Always so clever, ain’t you, Cap’n?” She laughed
and drew away from him, uncaring of what she’d admitted.

A hard anger made him tight-lipped. “Someday John T. is going to kill a man over you and wind up on the gallows before he realizes you aren’t worth it.”

“How do you know? Maybe I am.” Wickedness danced in her eyes, “It ain’t my fault he’s gone for weeks—months at a time. A girl gets lonely.” Always she flirted with him, baiting Cutter with her body and watching to see if he’d rise to the lure. “And don’t try to convince me John T. wouldn’t find hisself some ‘company’ if’n he had the chance. ‘Course, it’s okay for him.”

“Mrs. Hooker—“

“Why don’t you never call me Cimmy Lou like everybody else does, Cap’n Cutter?”

“Mrs. Hooker, Major Wade requested that you be sent to his quarters. As you already know, we brought Mrs. Wade back with us, and the major would like you to be of assistance to her,” he stated.

“Fo’ a white woman, she didn’t look no worse fo’ wear. Maybe she found out it wasn’t so bad after all. Did she talk about what-all they did to her?”

Cutter swung away in disgust. “The major is expecting you.”

She laid a long-fingered hand on his arm, halting him. “Ain’t you gonna pick up yore laundry while yore here, Cap’n?” she asked in a silkily innocent voice.

After a split second’s hesitation, Cutter pivoted back, a closed expression on his hard and trail-weary features. “Yes, I will.”

With a swing of her hips, she sashayed across the earthen floor to the piles of neatly folded clothes. “That’ll be five dollahs fo’ the month.” She came back, cradling the stack of his clothes in her arms. The gold coin was between his fingers, his hand extended toward
her offering the payment. “My hands are full,” she reminded him, her look and gesture provocative. She turned at right angles to him, standing close to give him a clear view of the deep cleavage between her upthrust breasts. “Why don’t you do like all the rest of the officers an’ put the money in my private bank?”

It was a challenge, a husky taunt that said she knew he wouldn’t do it. Cutter made a two-fingered drop straight down the middle, barely brushing the firmly rounded skin. Then he took the bundle of clothing from her arms. She looked disappointed, while trying to hide it.

“I don’t know if’n I’ll ever figure you out, Cap’n,” she declared. “Most of yore white officers gots to feel around a little before they find the bank. What makes you so high an’ mighty? White men have been messin’ ‘round with colored gals ever since they found out the color don’t rub off.”

“Good day, Mrs. Hooker.” He pushed his hat onto his head, nodding curtly.

“I guess it bothers you that I ain’t lettin’ you do the chasin’. Let me tell you somethin’ about women, Cap’n, colored or white. You men think you do the chasin’ an’ the winnin’. But there wouldn’t be no chasin’ if we didn’t surrender. You’d never catch a woman less’n she made up her mind to let ya. So ya see, she always gets what she wants.”

“What is it you want me to see?”

“John T. thinks yore somethin’ special, but I say yore jest a man.”

“Maybe, or maybe it’s something as simple as having more respect for your husband than you do, Mrs. Hooker.” This time Cutter stepped out of the tent and crossed to the young girl holding the horses.

With the freshly laundered clothes tucked under his arm, he swung into the McClellan and searched with
his toe for the other stirrup. Cimmy Lou sauntered over to his horse, looking at him as she started stroking a hand slowly along his thigh.