Woman of Three Worlds (12 page)

While water heated in big boilers, the women filled their rinse tubs from a row of water barrels and filled the washtubs about a third full. Then each sorted bags of laundry in heaps of white and colored. The stench of socks and underwear soon filled the room, which was aired only by three small windows and the door.

Jody, pipe clenched in his teeth, had come along happily enough with the women, but when Patrick called him over to watch the men getting ready for guard mount, the boy perched on the corral, and that was where he stayed till Patrick, returned from guard mount, called to Brittany that he was taking Jody into the saddlery and would bring him home for the noon meal.

After a few hours of scrubbing, rinsing, and wringing, Brittany began to wish
she
were furbishing saddles, bridles, halters, and gun slings instead of rubbing out stained socks, shirts, and trousers almost stiff with grime. The harsh yellow lye soap puckered her hands, and her back and shoulders ached from bending over the tubs. Still, she was earning more this way than she could from any other job, with board and quarters thrown in.

She didn't intend to be a laundress for years, but she'd save her money, pay back the Shaws, and accumulate enough to give her and Jody a start in some town, perhaps Tucson. Her thoughts wandered and she smiled dreamily. Unless Zach—

“If you'll help me wring out these pants, I'll help you wring out yours,” Bridget suggested.

By noon the wash water was almost muddy and the lines flapped full of uniforms, stable frocks, shirts, underwear, and socks. The women were glad to trudge back to their quarters and have a meal of mush, beans, and beef. Jody started to tag Patrick back to the saddlery, but Brittany shook her head.

“Later,” she said.

After she had named everything in their room and Jody seemed to know the words as well as those for eye, nose, head, hand, foot, and other things she could demonstrate, they went outside and strolled beside the spring, again pointing and memorizing. After a while Brittany selected small rocks, sat under a walnut tree, and started Jody on his numbers and simple addition.

He was quick. It was easy to show him how to count ten on his fingers or ten of rocks or sticks. Brittany was well pleased by the time the laundry was dry, and she let Jody race into the saddlery while she took in washing and folded it neatly, bundling what had to be ironed into a willow basket. Ironing was done in the quarters, where sadirons could be heated on the stove.

She was mightily glad as she sank down to rest for a bit before supper that her turn to cook didn't come for four more days.

Ironing wasn't as laborious as washing, but it was monotonous and also brought an ache to back and shoulders. Still, Brittany was determined to teach Jody a little each day. To make it more of a game for him, he taught her the Apache words for things and showed her the meaning of others, such as run, sleep, eat, sit, laugh, and frown. He was also picking up words in the saddlery.

“Sumvitch sergeant!” he exclaimed the third night at supper. “Dumb sumvitch go soak head!” He grinned at the thunderstruck Patrick. “Is right, Pat?”

Patrick sputtered as the others roared. “It's right enough, Jody,” he choked. “But don't say it!” He put his fingers over his mouth. “Especially not when the sergeant's around!”

Jody puzzled. “No say ‘sumvitch' at sergeant?”

“No say,” agreed Patrick. “And now, lad, you've learned one of the first rules of army life!”

Bridget sniffed. “Pity you can't! Always getting stripes off for insubordination!”

“Man has to have some fun,” Patrick grinned.

Under Patrick's protection Jody was becoming quite a favorite in the saddlery and corrals. He loved to watch guard mount, and Corporal Stroud had even let him hold his trumpet and attempt to blow it.

There were a few men who loathed Indians of any age, but most animosity came from wives of officers or enlisted men. The laundresses had adopted Jody, though, and were a formidable lot that no one cared to antagonize.

Strangely, as well as being happier in his new quarters, Jody was also safer from abuse than when he'd lived in the commanding officer's house. Patrick or Bridget could avenge jeers and slights that Colonel and Mrs. Shaw either didn't see or had to pretend they didn't.

In spite of her aching shoulders, back, and neck, Brittany, too, was happier than she had been since Tante died. She loved Jody, who still viewed her as his refuge, though he spent much of the day with Patrick. When she covered him up at night or gave him a quick hug, she wondered where his mother and father were and wished they could at least know their son was safe.

Instead of being jealous of her, the laundresses, after their first suspicion, had made her something of a pet. Far from wanting the hard work to defeat her, they helped, taking some of the grimier things to their own tubs or dispatching her to the relatively light task of hanging laundry up, claiming that stretching “got” them in the shoulders.

Brittany was young and strong, though, and quickly toughened to her new work. Still, as the days passed, she longed for a bath. Sponging off in a few cups of water did little to vanquish for long the smells coming from hard, hot work, and sometimes she wasn't sure whether it was men's socks or her own self that was odiferous.

She wouldn't break rationing by getting bath water from a barrel or even from Apache Spring, but there were other springs in the area, as she had discovered on her rides with O'Shea. Though she'd have been afraid to visit the ones a mile or two from the post, Bear Spring was only three-quarters of a mile east, and there was supposed to be a small spring only a quarter mile northeast.

On the fifth afternoon of her new life, she decided she
had
to wash her limp, oily hair and bathe. Jody was with Patrick, so she collected tin washbasin, soap, towel, and clean clothes and set off up the wash toward where O'Shea had said the spring should be.

With a slight pang of conscience, she remembered having promised Hugh Erskine never to undress outside, but that had been when he'd thought she'd be living on Officers' Row. Anyway, she had to have a bath!

The spring was only a trickle from the rocks, but she could use it without feeling she was cheating others. She smiled at the crimson flash of a cardinal and put her basin to fill. The sun was hot, but there was a breeze, and trees shaded the banks around the spring, protecting her from being seen from the post.

She let the water warm in full sun while she undressed, reveling in the delicious freedom of being bared to the clean air. When the water was lukewarm, she washed her hair, soaped her body, and rinsed off. Drying her hair with the towel, she stepped into the sunlight to toss it about till it began to fluff and her skin was dry.

Somewhat reluctantly, she put on fresh clothing, dusted the soft fine sand of the wash off her feet, and put on her shoes. Wonderful what a little water and soap could do! She felt a new woman. Starting down the wash, she froze at a rustle in the bushes, laughed as a mule deer bounded up the slope.

That instant's relief was followed by terror as strong hands seized her from behind. Hard fingers clamped over her mouth as the basin went clattering and she was dragged backward against her captor, kicking feet swiftly imprisoned between two gripping legs.

Helpless, she almost fainted with dread. The man shifted his grip, bringing her around to face him. “If I'd been an Apache, would your bath have been worth it?” Zach demanded.

“You—you—” Blood heated her face. “Did you watch?”

“What do you think?” he returned. “I decided if you were that set on cleaning up, I'd better let you do it while I was around to take care of any other passersby.”

“Of which there are so many!”

He shrugged. “It only takes one Apache.” Suddenly, he grinned and the light in his dark blue eyes made her shy. “I'll have to admit you sure smell nicer than folks up at the post.”

“Oh, you've been there?”

“Sure. Your cousin told me what an ingrate you are. That you'd found your proper level with a savage and Soapsuds Row.”

She took the odd note in his voice for condemnation. “Jody's worth ten of her Ned! And I like Bridget and the others a lot more than the officers' wives, except for Mrs. Shaw.”

He chuckled. “All right. You stood the post on its ear and made people be decent to Jody. But you sure can't enjoy scrubbing wash for a bunch of soldiers.”

“It's a way to earn a living,” she said stubbornly.

“I don't like your doing it.”

She shrugged derisively. “Have you got a better idea?”

“Yes.” His jaw hardened as if he were going into battle. “You can marry me. Come down to my ranch with Jody.”

She gasped, pulse racing. Then she chilled. Not a word of love. Not a hint of tenderness and needing her. He probably didn't want her to be so accessible to all the single men at the post, but the real reason behind his amazing, if unenthusiastic, offer had to be that he'd brought Jody to the post and felt responsible for the child and any problems he'd caused.

“Thanks very much,” she said cuttingly. “But I wouldn't dream of letting you make such a sacrifice.”

“Damn it!” he growled. “I never proposed to a woman before—”

“And it's clear you don't want to now.” She tried to twist out of his grip. “Let me go, Mr. Tyrell! I have to get the washing off the line.”

He caught her hair in his hand and turned her head. His mouth closed punishingly over hers. He swept her up and carried her to the grassy bank. Sinking down with her, he lowered his lips to her throat, traced his way back to her mouth while his free hand slid from her neck down the curve of breast and thigh. She felt him trembling, knew she quivered too with urgent, questing hunger.

“Well?” Raising on an elbow, he gazed down at her, exulting in the response she was powerless to hide. “Do you still think I don't want you?”

She struggled up, retreating out of reach. “Oh, I'm sure you
want
me,” she said bitterly. “I daresay you want a lot of women. But that's not enough to get married on.”

Face closing, he got to his feet. “If you need a lot of fancy high-flown talk, I can't give it to you. I want you in my bed and I think you want to be there.”

“You—you—!”

Gathering up her scattered belongings, he returned them. “If you change your mind,” he said stiffly, “let me know. The offer may still be open.”

He strode ahead of her up the wash. When she reached the place to climb up the slope to the post, he was already riding away.

Her heart plunged. She almost called after him before pride made her close her mouth tight. A sense of responsibility for Jody and a good admixture of lust had prompted that grudging proposal. She wouldn't have him, no matter how desperate she was or how much she loved him, till he loved her and would say so!

The thought had slipped past her.
Loved him?
Brought up short, she tried to deny the unwished for conviction, but it persisted.

All right, she conceded bitterly. She loved him. But she wasn't going to accept his insultingly halfhearted proposal and watch him hang around after other women when his first passion cooled.

The way she felt about him demanded more than that. Tearing her misting eyes from his disappearing back, she made her way up the slope.

IX

Next day she was up to her elbows in soapy, almost muddy water when the washhouse door darkened. Michael O'Shea crossed to her in two long strides. “Brittany! What do you think you're doing?”

“Earning a living.” She planted her hands on her hips and thrust her chin up combatively. “Did you bring some laundry, Lieutenant?”

He turned crimson. “If you think I'd let you do my wash—”

“Someone has to.”

“Damn it, Brittany, this is all wrong!”

She selected a sock and began to rub it up and down on the ribbed board. “Why? I do my work.”

Jaw agape, he stared at her a baffled, helpless moment before he said slowly, “I suppose this is all because you feel sorry for that Apache kid!”

“Partly,” she shrugged. “But whether you believe it or not, I'm a lot happier than I was at my cousin's.” She wrung out the sock and tossed it into the rinse. “If you're embarrassed by my occupation, Lieutenant, please don't feel obliged to continue our friendship.”

“You know me better than that, I'd hope! And,” he added grimly, “my name is still Michael.”

She flashed him a smile. “All right, Michael. Did you have any trouble on your escort duty?”

“Mules ran short of water between Dragoon Springs and Tucson, but we didn't lose any. And we never saw an Indian. I'd guess they're hid out in the Chiricahuas or down in the Sierra Madre.” He pushed back the golden hair clustering damply at his forehead. “Will you go riding with me this afternoon?”

“Yes, if you'll bring a horse for Jody.”

Bridget tittered. O'Shea colored again. “I will,” he said, “if you'll go to the Camp Grant ball game with me Saturday night and the dance afterward.”

“I will,” Brittany bargained in turn, “if Jody can come to the game with us.”

The lieutenant gave a sigh of exasperation. “He can come, provided he's sent to bed before the dance!”

Breaking into irrepressible giggles, Bridget straightened from her tub. “Don't fret about that, Lieutenant! My Pat'll take the lad off straight after the game. Hates dancing, he does, so he'll be glad of an excuse.”

“He's a brave man to leave you exposed to other men's wiles, Mrs. O'Malley,” teased Michael gallantly. “Miss Brittany, I'll call for you this afternoon.”

As the sound of his spurs jingled away, Bridget shook her carroty head in only half-feigned envy. “There's one beautiful young man! Brave too, the men say, and they like him. I'd reckon you won't be with us much longer.”