The Major's Wife

Chapter Two

“I...I...I—” This couldn’t happen. Closing her eyes for a moment, Millie imaged how her sister would react to the accusation. It appeared instantly, for Rosemary never accepted fault. Huffing out a breath, she sent across the room a bitter glare akin to ones she’d witnessed on several occasions. “Millie?”

“Yes, Millie,” Seth repeated. The ire zipping beneath his skin was mixed with a goodly portion of mirth. She was a sight, not just her travel-worn outfit and windblown hair, but her beet-red cheeks and eyes as big and round and startled as a doe’s at the end of a gun barrel.

“I’m not Millie,” she insisted. “Goodness, Seth, I’d have thought you’d remember your own wife.”

“I do. And you’re not her.” There wasn’t anything he could put a finger on, for he didn’t know the sister any better than he knew his wife. But this woman was not Rosemary, therefore she had to be Millicent, the younger sister. Why—the foremost question that had been bouncing around in his head for over a week—intensified.

“Seth,” she said, pressing both hands to the base of her throat. “I realize it’s been five years, and I understand how easy it is to question my youthfulness. Yes, Millie is younger than me, but please...” Her sigh was accompanied with a steady batting of her eyelashes. “She’s shorter than me, somewhat chunkier and not as attractive—her eyes are too close together. People have said that for years. Since the day she was born, actually.” Patting the hair sticking out in all directions, his visitor continued, “Now, I know I must not look myself right now, but once I’ve had a bath, you’ll see it’s me, Rosemary.”

Now, that sounded like Rosemary. Matter of fact, those were almost the exact words she’d said the first time they’d met. General St. Clair had just introduced them, and commented that the youngest sister wasn’t home, but the two were practically identical. Rosemary had piped in then, stating that she was much more attractive than her sister. Seth recalled it so clearly because at the time, he’d thought her the snootiest girl he’d ever met. The next morning he’d decided she was a lot more than snooty. Downright mean and nasty was more like it.

Maybe she had changed. The Rosemary that had climbed into his bed back in Virginia, the same one that insisted he’d taken advantage of her, and convinced the general her reputation was ruined, would not have been as calm and patient as the woman standing before him. The girl from that night would have been screeching and stating a list of demands before she got off the wagon. Actually, she’d never have gotten on the wagon.

Frustration gurgled in his stomach. The two girls looked enough alike to be twins, he remembered that, and Rosemary was older by three or four years, if he recalled correctly. She’d be twenty-four now. He shoved away from the table. Why was he concerned with any of it? All he wanted was a signed divorce decree.

A knock sounded and the door opened before he responded. That wasn’t unusual; his men knew he was always at their disposal.

“Excuse me, Major,” Ben Cutter said, barely glancing his way. “Ma’am, the bathing house is ready. I saw to it myself.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Cutter. Your kindness is never-ending.”

Seth’s back teeth clamped together and had his jaw stinging. Not just at her fawning, but at how Cutter was looking at her. One would have thought the man was gazing at an angel. Seth, of course, knew differently.

“If you tell me what you need, ma’am,” Cutter said, “I’ll carry it down there for you.”

An uneven click and thud echoed against the rough-hewn walls as she walked across the room toward the table.

“Her heel broke off in Tulsa,” Ben said directly to him. “It got caught in a knothole on the train platform. Ralph fixed it, but it broke off again yesterday.”

Seth didn’t need an explanation; it made little difference. Yet because in most instances he did expect full reports from his men, he nodded to Cutter before he asked her, “Don’t you have another pair of boots or shoes?”

The sideways glance she sent his way was full of intolerance. “Do you honestly think I’d be wearing these if I had another pair?”

That, too, sounded like Rosemary.

She lifted the tapestry bag Russ had set on the table. “I have day slippers I can wear now, but they wouldn’t have held up while traveling.” Turning to Ben, she smiled. “I packed everything I’ll need in here last night, after you and Mr. Winston explained the layout of the fort.”

“Here, then, ma’am, I’ll carry that for you,” Ben replied, taking the bag and holding the door wide with his other hand.

“Thank you.” Chin up, she marched—with her awkward high-low steps—out the door, without a single backward glance.

Seth was just fine with that. Though he did follow as far as the opening. A crowd had formed, which was to be expected. The fort was close-knit, more so than some families, and there were a few men who’d probably been standing right outside the door, attempting to hear every word. They were off to the sides now, watching curiously. Only a select number of people had known he was married, but once the telegram came in, announcing her arrival, word had spread fast. A twinge pulled at his forehead. He’d have to tell his mother now, and better send the letter soon. If someone else mentioned it, she’d never forgive him.

“Major, sir,” Ralph Winston said, clicking his heels together as he stopped next to the open doorway. “Did Ben explain your wife wasn’t hurt, other than a broken heel, when she fell? I did fix her boot, but without the proper tools, it broke again.”

Seth was grinding his teeth again; he had to pull them apart to answer. “Yes, he did.”

“She was attempting to help us load her luggage, sir. We told her it wasn’t necessary. Half the town thought it was a gunshot, the way the sound echoed beneath the platform.” Winston wiped his brow and replaced his hat. “My heart danged near stopped working, seeing her sprawled out on the ground.”

Seth was a touched surprised by the concern that raced over him—and irritated. One more person to be concerned about. Responsible for. Army men were one thing. Women and children another—and something he never wanted to have to worry about again.

The giggle that sounded a short distance down the walkway snagged his attention, but through will alone, he kept his gaze from turning that way. He was about to dismiss Winston when the man continued.

“She’s a trooper, Major. Was laughing to beat the band when I helped her to her feet. Never saw a woman laugh at herself like that.”

Seth’s spine stiffened all over again. The Rosemary he knew—or the one he thought he knew—would never have laughed at herself. True, he’d left Richmond less then twenty-four hours after meeting her, returned here to the Indian Wars, but her attitude, her persona, had imbedded itself within him the first hour he’d known her.

“I’ll see the heel gets repaired properly this time, sir.”

After a nod, Seth waved a hand, dismissing Winston. His eyes then went to where his wife entered the door to a room with tubs and water barrels. The officers’ quarters were separate homes with space for private bathing, and Rosemary would have demanded to know why he didn’t live in one of them.

He turned and reentered his cabin. Even after becoming a major, he’d gone on living in the barracks. Back then things had been so busy, he hadn’t had time to think beyond knowing he had a bed to fall into at night.

The turmoil had calmed down considerably over the past few years, even more the past months, but he still hadn’t thought about moving. Besides, the major’s house, as it was known, had become a catchall. Storage for items no one knew what to do with.

As Seth spun to shut the door, the hairs on his neck stood up. People were still gathered about, some pretending to be on missions, whereas in reality they were staring at him. Watching for his next move.

That was common. By nature, and due to his position, everyone at the fort was always watchful for his command. This was different, though. It had nothing to do with army business, and... A heavy sigh escaped, one he hadn’t known had built in his chest. He didn’t know what his next move would be, either.

That was an oddity. For the first time in a very, very long time, he was at a loss.

“Major?” A hand planted itself on the half-closed door.

“Briggs,” he said, in answer to the man pushing the door open again.

“I see your wife,” the Swede said in his deep and gruff voice. “I bring food. Here to your cabin, she eat after cleaning up. No?”

It didn’t matter what the man said, question or statement usually ended with no. And right now, it fit. “No, Briggs. If she’s hungry she can eat at the hall like everyone else.”

“But Major, a woman—”

“She might as well get used to it.”

The startled look on the cook’s face made something recoil inside Seth. He usually got along with his men, because of mutual respect, but the way he’d just snapped at the Swede, said he didn’t like it. Seth squared his shoulders, let his stance confirm who was in charge. “Is there anything else you needed, Sergeant?”

“No, Major. Sir.”

The man spun around, and this time Seth all but slammed the door. Exactly what he’d always suspected. A wife would interfere with his duties.

* * *

A reflection of the dented brass tub caught in the mirror. The accommodations were rough, but she’d never enjoyed a bath as much. Twisting, needing the mirror’s assistance in placing the combs, Millie coiled each braided length and pinned them in place at the back of her head. Drying it would take an hour, and curling it even longer, and she didn’t have that kind of time. Besides, just as she’d suspected, curled hair would not convince Seth she was Rosemary.

Satisfied the combs were secure in hair that was once again brown and not dust gray, Millie tidied up the area before opening her bag to stuff her boots on top of the traveling suit that would never be pale green again. It had been new at the beginning of her journey, and clothes usually lasted her years. A miniature shiver had her lifting her head, gazing toward the mirror again.

The reflection in the glass mocked her. Millie would be sad about the dress, Rosemary would not. An invisible weight pressed upon her shoulders, so heavily she sat down next to her bag. Being Rosemary was more difficult than she’d imagined. Back in the cabin, when Seth had voiced his suspicion, it had been easy to know what to say. People often confused the two of them, especially from a distance, but in reality, her sister was more attractive, and never failed to remind her of it.

After she’d pulled Rosemary into her mind and said those words to Seth, her stomach had twisted inside out. His expression had turned hard; those piercing blue eyes had gone cold enough that she’d shivered. Seeing the tick in his cheek had made her afraid for the first time since she’d left Richmond.

Millie let out another sigh. No matter how irritated Rosemary made Seth, that’s who she had to be—Rosemary. She had to remember that.

It took several deep breaths, and a few minutes of concentration, but by the time she opened the door and stepped out onto the walkway, she was once again convinced she could do it. Could be her sister for the next three months—until the baby was born.

People stared, mostly men dressed in their blue uniforms with brass buttons, wide yellow neck scarves and flat-brimmed hats, and though Millie would have smiled, nodded, Rosemary would not, so she kept her nose up and moved forward. She did ignore a few things that her sister wouldn’t have. There was nothing she could do about the wind and dirt, and she had to wave at Mr. Cutter. It would have been too rude not to. The man had to be twice her age, yet his cheeks shone crimson every time he spoke to her. She appreciated him, too, for all he’d done.

Those things were inconsequential, of course. Seth was the only one who had to believe she was Rosemary. She could do that.

Then she arrived at their cabin, where he stood in the doorway.

Smiling.

Oh, goodness.

“Feel better?” he asked.

Millie pressed the thin leather soles of her day slippers against the boards below her feet. Rosemary wouldn’t respond—she’d ignore him pointedly or start spouting demands. But he appeared to be making an effort, and whether her sister would appreciate that or not, Millie did, and couldn’t discount it.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “It’s amazing what a little water can do.”

Once again his gaze became so penetrating her insides sprouted wings. A stirring silence grew between them, and she clutched the satchel handle tighter, afraid it might tumble out of her trembling fingers.

“Yes, it is,” he said, stepping back, clearing the cabin’s doorway for her entrance.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, to calm the flapping there. The gown was a simple blue calico with short sleeves and a square neckline. It had seemed the most appropriate for the weather yesterday when she’d packed her bag, sitting in the back of the bumpy wagon.

When she lifted her gaze, the explanation died in her throat and her feet grew roots. There was a tightness in his jaw, and she could feel his contempt. Tugging her feet off the walkway, and praying she wouldn’t stumble, for there was no excuse now that she was no longer wearing the off-kilter boots, Millie dipped her head and moved forward.

She’d barely stepped inside the cabin when a clanging noise echoed through the open courtyard.

“It’s lunchtime,” Seth said. “Are you hungry?”

Five days of beans—the thought was still horrifying—blasted into her mind like a storm. Men could release the pressure beans produced, but women couldn’t, and most certainly never in mixed company. She’d requested to sit in the back of the wagon for fear she’d burst at times, and the thought of eating beans again today was deplorable. But so was the confrontation about to take place—it was right under the surface. She could tell he was ready to claim once again that she wasn’t Rosemary.

He was probably going to say her sister would never have made the wagon trip—or half the train rides. She’d have returned to Richmond long before crossing the Mississippi. He’d be right, of course. But Millie hadn’t had the choice of not coming—nor of leaving.

“As a matter of fact, I am hungry,” she said, setting the bag down on one of her trunks.

Once again the thought of Rosemary doing what their mother had done made Millie’s insides quiver. The housekeeper, Lola, insisted she mustn’t blame herself. Millie tried not to, but when you’re responsible, you carry blame. Forever. Papa had always feared the same thing—that Rosemary would do what Mother had done—and Millie had never told him how close Rosemary had come once. She’d never told anyone. Martin knew. He’d been the one who saved Rosemary’s life, but he’d thought she’d fallen into the river.

The weight in Millie’s chest grew immense. Lola had vowed no such thing would happen while Millie was gone, and if anyone could make Rosemary behave it was their loyal, watchful housekeeper. Remembering that gave her fortitude. If Lola could handle Rosemary, surely Millie could handle Seth. After five years postponing the divorce, an additional three months couldn’t be that difficult.

“Shall we go then?”

Dropped back to earth like a peach falling from a tree, Millie paused mentally, gathering her wits. “Yes, lunch,” she mumbled, mainly to herself. Food probably wouldn’t help, but not being alone with him would. Her nerves were too jumbled for her to think straight right now.

Millie didn’t attempt to concentrate on becoming Rosemary during the short walk across the compound. She was too focused on keeping up with Seth’s long strides. Once they entered the building a man as large as a bear, with hair as yellow as corn, met them at the door.

“Mrs. Parker,” he said, dipping his head. “My name’s Briggs Ryan. Private Cutter said you like tea, no?”

“Yes, yes, I like tea,” she responded.

“Good. Ja, I have some for you. This way.”

As wonderful as the tea sounded, she couldn’t help but pause at the way Seth stiffened at her side. He didn’t take a step to follow the man, so she didn’t, either.

“I set a table for you and your wife, Major,” the man said, “as usual when we have company.”

There appeared to be some kind of showdown between the two, and Millie had to believe she was the cause of it. “I’m not really company,” she said, hoping to ease the tension.

Neither man spoke, but after another quiet moment, Seth nodded his head slightly. He then took ahold of her elbow and led her across the room, following Briggs Ryan.

The large room was crowded, but almost silent now as they made their way to the table. All men, dressed in their blue uniforms. Some were sitting at the long tables flanked with benches, others standing in line, filling their plates from huge platters set out on a high counter.

Mr. Ryan held a chair and she sat. The table was small and set for two, complete with a tablecloth and napkins.

“I’ll have your plates out in a minute and your tea, ma’am,” Mr. Ryan said before walking away. He, too, was wearing a uniform, but it was covered with a long white apron.

“Is Mr. Ryan the cook?”

“Yes,” Seth answered. “Keeping the unit fed is his job.”

The words seemed to hold a double meaning, but it was beyond her to understand exactly what. The man was back within minutes, placing a teapot and two plates of food—stew, not beans—in front of them.

The tea was refreshing, but it didn’t help as much as she’d hoped. Perhaps because the room held a thick silence, one that had her wondering if being alone with Seth would be better.

They, too, ate in silence, and though he didn’t gobble his food, Seth was done long before she was. At which point he pushed away from the table. “I have work to see to. I assume you can find your way back to the cabin.”