“Go along with ye, Sergeant Burke,” said Mrs. Baker, who was originally from Kerry. “That fine Irish tongue will not get you anywhere with me!”
Michael heard the musicians striking up a waltz and gazed around the room. He wasn’t about to waltz with an impressionable young girl. He wasn’t full of himself, mind you, but was quite conscious of his ability to charm women and didn’t need to raise the hopes of a seventeen-year-old by dancing with her twice in a row. He realized that the commander’s wife was chatting with one of her friends while her husband was off in the corner deep in conversation with two officers. He bowed to the Bakers and strolled over.
He would probably be made a fool of, he thought as he approached her. The dance might be mixed, but he would be willing to bet what he’d won that day that not too many sergeants asked the colonel’s wife to dance. Well, he would and be damned. She could only say no, and since she was a gracious woman from all he’d heard, she would at least say it nicely.
“A lovely lady like yourself shouldn’t be sitting out a waltz, Mrs. Gray. May I have this dance?”
Janet Gray looked up into Michael’s blue eyes. He said the words easily and with just the right combination of respect and charm but she knew that a refusal on her part to any noncom would hurt and humiliate. And why should she refuse, she thought as she smiled up at him. He was a good-looking young man and she was going to enjoy her waltz with him. And her Charles was off with his cronies in the corner.
“Thank you, Sergeant Burke,” she said with a smile and offered him her hand.
Michael moved as gracefully and expertly as she thought he would and when she saw Charles looking over at her with his eyebrows raised, she only gave him a little smile and went on chatting with Michael.
“You rode a very exciting race today, Sergeant. I declare, you had all us ladies having palpitations at the finish-line, it was so close.”
“Somehow I don’t think ye’re the sort of woman for palpitations, Mrs. Gray,” he said, smiling down at her. “Not the wife of Colonel Charles Gray who’s been stationed in the territory for five years.”
“You are right, Sergeant,” she admitted. “I was making a poor attempt to flirt with you, but I suppose I am too old for that anyway,” she added with mock sadness.
“And now ye are just trying to pull a compliment out of me, ma’am,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye. “But ye need no compliments from me, Mrs. Gray. Ye’re a very handsome woman.”
“And you are a very bold young man, Sergeant Burke!”
“Sure and ye wouldn’t be dancin’ with me otherwise, had I not summoned up me boldness and courage.”
“You are incorrigible, but very enjoyable. And a very good rider,” she added more seriously, “It was clear to see that you and your mare have a real partnership.”
“Thank ye, ma’am.”
“I heard a rumor that you were ordered to race, Sergeant Burke. I am sorry if that were true and Lieutenant Cooper abused his authority over you.”
Michael remained silent.
“I see you are a discreet soldier, Sergeant Burke. Well, that is only to your credit.”
When the waltz was over, Michael returned Mrs. Gray to her friends. The musicians were taking a break and he walked over to Elwell.
“That was fine music ye were makin’, Joshua. I’m going to have to teach ye a few jigs and reels.”
“I only know one Irish tune besides the ‘Garry Owen,’ Michael, a slow air,” said Joshua, picking up his fiddle and beginning to play softly.
Michael remembered the tune well, and if he closed his eyes he would be home again, listening to his sister Cait hummin’ it with a faraway look in her eye. She’d been sixteen and Michael had teased her unmercifully, for she had fallen in love with young Donnelly to that tune at one of the
ceilidhs
. That was just before the hard times. Just before young Donnelly died, the week after their ma.
The music was sweet and slow and sad and reached down into Michael’s soul, waking all the memories he’d held at bay for years. He wasn’t ready for them and he lapsed into his broadest brogue when he interrupted Elwell’s playing.
“Josh, me boy, I’ll have to teach ye a few lively chunes, I can see. ‘Tis too sad ye’re makin’ me,” he said as he covered his eyes dramatically.
Elwell laughed, but when he looked up he was surprised to see that Michael’s cheek was wet and that he was quickly wiping it even as he teased. Elwell stood up and joked back, not wanting to embarrass the man. “Let me cheer you up, Sergeant. I hear the punch has been treated by Dr. Osborne. For medicinal purposes, of course, but I need to treat your sudden melancholy.”
Michael wasn’t much of a drinker, but one glass of punch enabled him to push down the memories and focus on the here and now. And when the music started up again, he danced almost every set.
When the last dance was announced, he looked around. He had been a paragon of courtesy and partnered almost every lady there. Except Mrs. Woolcott. There she was, only a few feet away. He didn’t think she liked him very much but damn it, he could show her an Irishman could be as light on his feet as any Mr. Cooper, who had been her last partner.
He walked over and gave her his most formal bow. “May I have this waltz, Mrs. Woolcott?”
How could she say no? It would have been a terrible insult, especially from an officer’s wife.
Not that she wanted to say no. Not really. She had kept herself out of his way the whole evening, all the while very aware of his presence. All the while wondering what it would be like to have
his
arms around
her
waist.
Now she would find out.
At first, she wouldn’t let herself feel it. She kept her smile cool and polite and counted her steps to herself, though she didn’t need to, for she was a good dancer.
But it was a lovely tune and the fiddle was carrying it and she let go of her control and lost herself in the music.
Michael Burke was as good on the dance floor as he was on horseback, she thought. She could feel his gloved hand against the small of her back and the warmth it created seemed to be spreading up her spine. It frightened her, the effect that physical closeness with the man had on her. It seemed to create sensations she had never experienced before. She could put no name to them, but somehow she knew they were dangerous. Surely they were sensations a wife should feel only with her husband. She shivered.
“Are ye cold, Mrs. Woolcott,” Michael asked. Someone had opened the doors and the night air had made her shiver, he thought.
“No. Well, perhaps a little, Sergeant Burke.”
She was very quiet, little Mrs. Woolcott, he thought. He couldn’t tell if it was shyness or distaste. He couldn’t guess what she was feeling, but for himself…well, he had to keep reminding himself that she was someone’s wife, for the feeling of having her in his arms was very sweet. Perhaps it had been Elwell’s playing that tune, perhaps it was the glass of punch, but Michael’s emotions were closer to the surface than usual. And she had such a small waist, Mrs. Woolcott. And her head barely came to his shoulder.
He couldn’t think of a charming, teasing thing to say for the life of him to break the tension or whatever it was that was thick between them. Here he could chatter all night to the colonel’s lady, and a second lieutenant’s wife had him terrified.
Her dark blond hair, shining with reddish glints, was swept softly over her ears and pulled back in a knot. There was a hint of jasmine in the air. He liked it, that she used scent sparingly. He hated it when women doused themselves with perfume. He looked down at her hand in his and grinned. The paint stains he had noticed before were faint, but still noticeable. He guessed it was the usual condition and he liked her all the more for having something in her life that was important enough to get a little dirty for.
When the music stopped, he walked her over to where her husband was standing with a few other officers.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Woolcott,” he said with another very formal bow.
“You are quite welcome, Sergeant. I enjoyed our waltz,” she replied with equal formality and turned to her husband.
The officers and their wives left first and when the last of the couples were gone, Michael walked over to Elwell.
“Ye did tell me, Josh, that Mrs. Casey had, em, a friend.”
Josh grinned at him. “She does. Mary Ann.”
“Are ye visiting Mrs. Casey tonight, Josh, and do ye think she might introduce me to Mary Ann?”
Michael was very pleased to find out that Mary Ann was a buxom woman and obviously experienced, whether she was a widow or not. A night enjoying her company was just what he needed. It would, he hoped, chase every picture of Mrs. Woolcott right out of his head. He might be a long way from Ireland and his upbringing, but he had no intention of allowing his thoughts to wander to a very married woman, no matter how odd a partnership he thought it was.
The wood detail was wandering further and further in their search for fuel. Two days after the horse race, Michael led them north and they passed by the small canyon where he had bathed in the creek.
“There’s probably a good supply of wood in there, Sergeant,” said Fisk as they rode by.
“Could be, Private Fisk, but we’ll save it for the cold weather when we won’t want to be riding that far out from the fort,” Michael answered, telling a partial truth. His reasoning made sense to the men, however, and they rode on cheerfully as he hung a little behind them, remembering the shrine he had found and the pleasure of bathing in that canyon stream. He couldn’t explain it to himself, much less to his men, but he had a strong feeling about the place and he didn’t want to be riding the mules in and worrying about the men disturbing the shrine.
They gathered their wood a few miles northwest and after the mules were loaded, Michael gave them a short break. His four soldiers pulled out their mess kits and canteens and took shelter from the sun under a small juniper. Just as Michael was pulling his own canteen from the mule, Spratt jumped up and fumbled at his holster, calling, “Sergeant, Sergeant, Indians!”
“Sit yerself down again, Private Spratt. And don’t be so quick to draw your revolver.”
“But, Sergeant….”
“Private Spratt,” Michael barked in his best drill sergeant’s voice.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Spratt knelt down next to Mahoney, who was strung tight as an overstretched piece of wire, thought Michael. Thank God for Elwell and Fisk, who were still eating and drinking as though they hadn’t a worry in the world, although Michael knew they would respond in a minute if he needed them.
He hoped he didn’t.
The riders were coming from the southwest and the sun was almost directly in Michael’s eyes as he tried to make them out. There were six of them and he was sure they were Navajo. “Sure, and who else would they be, boyo,” he chided himself.
As they drew closer, he relaxed, for the lead horse was very familiar. It was the blood bay that he had raced and presumably his rider was Antonio. He moved away from the shelter of his mule and walked toward the approaching riders.
It
was
Antonio, he saw and then he fully relaxed. No matter how calm he had appeared on the outside, he was not ashamed to admit that he didn’t like being so far from the fort with only four men. If they did meet any hostiles, they would have a poor chance of making it back.
“It is you, Sergeant,” said Antonio. “I see you are not riding your mare today?” he continued in a gently teasing tone.
Michael assumed an expression of wounded pride. “Sure and ye’re not insultin’ me mount, are ye, Antonio? Why, I bet me mule could take yer bay quite easily.”
Antonio laughed aloud and dismounted.
“It’s good to see you again, Sergeant.”
“And I was very glad to see it was you, Antonio.”
“You have little to fear, Sergeant. The Diné have kept their word.” Antonio’s face had become serious. Michael had not meant to insult him, but from what he had heard, things had been in a constant state of flux between peace and war these last ten years.
“I don’t question Manuelito’s word,” he responded with equal seriousness. “But I know from experience how hard it is to control every member of a spread-out people. And how hard it is to convince the army that you cannot be responsible for individual renegades.”
Antonio’s face relaxed. “You are indeed a rare
bilagaana
if you understand that, Sergeant.”
“I was just about to have me ‘afternoon tea,’ ” Michael said and then realized from Antonio’s expression that the phrase was too idiomatic to convey humor. “We are having a late lunch,” he added, handing his canteen to the warrior.
Antonio gestured his men down and they sat silently opposite the cavalrymen, their faces set and unsmiling. Elwell offered one a piece of bread and he took it without a word.
Antonio went back to his horse and pulling down a buckskin pouch, slung it over his shoulder and joined Michael.
He accepted some cheese from Michael, and then placing the pouch in front of him drew out a handful of what looked like dried ears and extended his hand.
Michael had never seen anything like them before and he kept his face expressionless as he said thank you and took one. He automatically brought it up to his nose and exclaimed, without thinking, “Why, it smells just like peaches!”
“Why shouldn’t it?” said Antonio, chewing on one. “It is a dried peach.”
“I’ve only seen dried apples meself, and not too many of those,” said Michael, savoring the chewy, sweet morsel.
“We have thousands of peach trees north of here in Canyon de Chelly. My uncle has an orchard and always keeps my family supplied.” He paused and then looked over at Michael with a glint in his eye. “What did you think it was, Sergeant?”
Michael grinned. “The thought did flit through me mind, but only for a moment, mind ye, that it resembled an ear.”
Antonio laughed and the men under the juniper, both troopers and Navajo, smiled at one another, despite their ignorance of the joke. They were all very happy that their sergeant and Antonio were clearly friendly.