Authors: Ashley Elizabeth Ludwig
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.