Merline Lovelace (4 page)

“
Ja,
and I shall hear about that from your mama, too.”

Sam ended the argument by tucking Victoria’s arm in his. “I’ll escort her home.”

“Thank you, Samuel!”

Feeling rather like a sack of potatoes tossed from one porter to another, Victoria barely restrained a huff as her papa hurried back the way he’d come.

“My parents sometimes forget that we
are
on the brink of a new century. I apologize for taking you out of your way.”

“As you said, it’s only a few blocks. And it gives me a chance to talk to you about what happened last night.”

The warmth that had coursed through Victoria moments ago was nothing compared to the fiery heat that suffused her now. Not for the world would she admit that the last thing she wanted was to
talk
about last night. What she wanted, rather desperately, was to repeat it.

Her pulse skipped erratically as Sam steered her
around another clump of excited citizens and across Central Avenue, where modest clapboard houses gave way to the more elaborate brick and stone homes of Cheyenne’s wealthy bankers and businessmen. The fanciful, turreted Nagle mansion loomed directly ahead when Sam slowed their pace and turned her to face him.

“I want to apologize, Victoria.”

“Apologize?”

“You were a guest in my sister’s home last night. I shouldn’t have abused her hospitality by trifling with you the way I did.”

Victoria would hardly classify that shattering kiss as a mere trifle. That Sam viewed it as such stung. Rather badly.

“As best I recall,” she returned, “it was
I
who kissed
you.
Perhaps I’m the one who should apologize.”

“Perhaps you should,” he agreed with a quick grin that almost—almost!—disarmed her. “As I said, you took me by surprise last night. That’s no excuse, however. I’m sorry. I assure you it won’t happen again.”

That wasn’t at all what she’d hoped to hear him say. The fool! The blind, chug-headed fool! Wondering how much this apology had to do with the woman waiting for him down at the railroad station, she tossed her head.

“You can’t
imagine
how very much you’ve re
assured me, Mr. Garrett. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a rather long night. I should like to get home, have a hot breakfast and tumble into bed.”

Sam wasn’t prepared for the jolt that went through him when Victoria spun on her heel and flounced down the walk. The thought, the mere thought, of this nubile young female tumbling warm and tousled into bed raised the kind of erotic images a grown man had no business entertaining about a gently reared girl.

Woman.

Girl!

The fact that he couldn’t decide exactly how to categorize Victoria Parker after last night irritated the hell out of him, along with just about everything else this morning. He’d woken up feeling as friendly as a bear with a sore tooth, a feeling that only intensified during the drive in from his sister’s place.

The plain truth was that he didn’t like the prospect of Mary leaving Cheyenne so soon after her arrival, any more than he liked the thought of her going off to Washington. And he was still trying to accept the fact that she hadn’t yet laid her husband’s memory to rest. She’d made that plain last night. Sam had had to bite his tongue to keep from saying things she wasn’t ready to hear.

Adding to his edginess this morning was this
business about the
Maine.
War was coming. Sam could feel it in his bones. The regulars from Fort Russell would assemble and ride off, leaving only a skeleton force to man the post. Boys like Lieutenant Duggan and that wet-behind-the-ears shave-tail friend of his would answer the call to arms.

As would the eager volunteers who thronged Cheyenne’s streets this morning. A long line had already formed down to the armory. The ranks of the First Wyoming Volunteer Infantry would swell to overflowing by this afternoon. And every wrangler, buffalo hunter and tracker worth his salt would rush to sign up for the cowboy cavalry regiment Wyoming’s own Senator Warren was urging Congress to authorize.

After eight years in uniform, Sam had a damned good idea of the incredible challenges the army would face in the days and weeks ahead. Mobilizing a peacetime military establishment filled to bursting with ranks of untrained volunteers would severely test the leadership abilities of every officer and noncom. And despite his eight years in uniform, Sam wouldn’t be one of those officers. With all his training, all his experience, he’d sit on the sidelines and watch his friends and neighbors ride off to war.

If he didn’t love his father so much…

If his mother hadn’t been so devastated by her husband’s accident…

If Sam didn’t know deep in his heart that he could serve the war effort as well by helping his brother-in-law supply the horses and equipment the army would so desperately need for its rapidly expanding cavalry regiments…

Blowing out a long breath, he followed Victoria the few steps to her parents’ stone-and-stucco mansion, bid her a curt good day and left to rejoin Mary at the train depot.

F
or Victoria, the next weeks were a whirlwind of dramatic events and ever more sensational headlines.

The sketchy initial reports from Havana soon gave way to an avalanche of longer, far more detailed dispatches. Captain Sigsbee, commander of the
Maine
and one of its few survivors, could not offer any definitive explanation for the explosion that sank his ship. Theories abounded, ascribing the destruction to everything from Spanish torpedoes, to one of the old mines that littered the bottom of Havana harbor, to spontaneous combustion in the
Maine
’s coal bunker, causing a fire that spread to the magazine.

A few of the more dignified papers like the
New York Times
adopted the same deliberate attitude Victoria’s papa had. Like the
Tribune,
these papers cautiously withheld judgment until the navy con
cluded its hastily launched official inquiry into the tragic event. The more sensational papers like William Randolph Hearst’s
Journal
and Joseph Pulitzer’s
World,
however, enflamed the passions of their readers by trumpeting their own conclusions with banner headlines. As early as February 17, a mere two days after the explosion, Hearst’s
Evening Journal
screamed:

War? Sure!

A small army of American reporters rushed aboard ships to augment those already in Cuba. Once on the island, they scrambled for any and every story. Gruesome, on-the-spot reports of the charred bodies fished from the harbor were followed by detailed coverage of the solemn honors and burial the city of Havana accorded the dead American sailors. Several newspapermen even hired their own divers to swim down into the murky depths of the harbor alongside those of the Spanish and American navies attempting to determine the cause of the explosion.

A number of more daring reporters slipped past Spanish patrols to make direct contact with the rebels, who stepped up their deadly attacks with a new infusion of arms and supplies shipped to Cuba by outraged Americans. The armaments were paid
for by Congress, which, acting on its own initiative, authorized a fifty-million-dollar war chest.

Victoria spent more and more hours at the
Tribune,
helping decipher the torrent of dispatches that flowed over the wires, composing stories and relieving poor Mr. Woodbury on the Linotype machine. She wasn’t too busy to attend the fancy dress ball held at the Cattleman’s Club on the first of March, however, and dance half the night away in the arms of her many admirers—whose numbers did not include Sam.

She hadn’t seen him since their chance encounter in the street, wasn’t sure what she would have said to him if she had. As Elise confided that night at the ball, her uncle had also been kept busy since his parents’ return from Denver with disappointing news.

“The surgeon in Denver suggested Grandfather must resign himself to spending the rest of his days in a wheeled chair.”

“Oh, Elise!”

Victoria couldn’t help but remember General Garrett before his horse went down and rolled on him, crushing his spine. He was as tall as his son, but leaner, and every bit the commander despite the fact he’d been retired from active service for some years.

“How tragic,” she murmured.

“It is, indeed,” her friend said glumly. “He says
doctors don’t know everything, but it hurts to think he may never walk or ride again.”

“Surely there’s still hope?”

“I suppose so. Grandfather insists on keeping a pair of crutches near to hand, but every time he’s tried to use them so far he’s fallen on his face.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Grandmama keeps reminding us that he took a ball through the hip during the War Between the States, and had the same hip shattered by rifle butts while he was a prisoner in Andersonville. He recovered from those injuries. She’s confident he’ll recover from this one, as well.”

“But if he doesn’t?”

The tall, willowy brunette sighed. “If he doesn’t, Grandmama says it doesn’t matter one whit. He’s the same man he always was. And Sam says—”

Irritated by the way her pulse fluttered, Victoria arched a brow. “Yes? What does your uncle say?”

“He says the same,” Elise replied with a curious glance at her friend. “What happened between you two the night of my birthday, anyway? You can hardly say his name since without screwing up your face as if you’ve just bitten into a sour pickle.”

“Nothing happened.”

Nothing of any significance, anyway. At least according to Sam. Victoria hadn’t been able to wipe the memory of his kiss from her mind, yet
he
had
shrugged it off as a mere trifle. Annoyed all over again, she turned the subject.

“Are you coming into town on Friday to see the kinetoscope?”

“I wouldn’t miss it!”

“Good. Let’s go together, shall we?”

Friday dawned bright and sunny, hinting at the spring that had yet to take a firm grip on the plains. Most of the snow had melted and only a few dirty piles of slush leaned up against walls in shady corners.

Elise drove into town with her younger brother and left the carriage at Victoria’s house. The three then walked downtown and joined the long line already formed in front of the Cheyenne Light Opera and Vaudeville House. Everyone within a hundred miles, it appeared, was eager to see the sensational kinetoscope entitled
Remember the
Maine!

Rushed into production by an enterprising master of the new art of moving pictures and being shown at the major cities along the transcontinental rail line, the stirring drama contained no actual footage of the
Maine.
Instead, it used images of an older battleship scuttled by the U.S. Navy during artillery practice. But the film was so cleverly pieced together that audiences hissed and booed at every flickering image of Spaniards, shed copious tears when the unidentified ship went down and shouted
“Huzzah!” at a finale showing grimly determined American soldiers marching off, presumably to Cuba.

“Golly!” Elise’s younger brother Matt declared as they exited the theater. “I wish President McKinley would stop dithering and declare war!”

“Why?” his sister teased. “Do you think Mama’s going to let you shoulder your rifle and march off with the men?”

Offended, he puffed out his chest. “Why shouldn’t she? I’ll turn fourteen in a few months. And I’ll wager I can shoot a damned sight better than that fuzz-faced lieutenant from Fort Russell you’re so sweet on.”

Just in time, he dodged a sisterly slap.

“Let Mama catch you saying ‘damned’ and you’ll feel the butter paddle on your backside, fourteen or not.”

“Sam says it,” the would-be warrior offered in his defense. “A lot! Mostly when he thinks no one’s around, but I’ve heard him plenty of times just in the past weeks. He’s grouchier than a stuck hog these days.”

“That’s true,” Elise agreed with a sidelong glance at Victoria. “I wonder why?”

“Papa says it’s because he can’t go off to war, either,” Matt confided.

“Or perhaps it’s because he’s sweet on someone
and can’t bring himself to admit it,” his sister suggested slyly.

If he was, Victoria thought, his secret love had dark eyes and hair the color of night.

And yet…

The memory of those moments in the sewing room rushed back. Despite his apology, Sam couldn’t have kissed her the way he had if another woman claimed his heart. Victoria was woman enough to sense his interest in both her and Mary Prendergast, and feminine enough to be peeved by it.

She hadn’t quite recovered from her pique when she and her parents turned out with the rest of Cheyenne for a change-of-command parade at Fort Russell some weeks later. The lieutenant general commanding the army of the West would officiate. Wyoming’s Senator Francis E. Warren, who had himself earned a Medal of Honor during the War Between the States, would grace the reviewing stand, as would Brigadier General Andrew Garrett, the legendary horse solider who’d commanded the fort until his retirement some years ago.

Victoria couldn’t help but feel a thrill as she and her parents were escorted to the viewing stand constructed for the grand occasion. The officers and enlisted personnel of Fort Russell had outdone themselves. Bunting draped every building, flags
flew and the silver-and-brass accoutrements of even the lowest-ranking troopers gleamed from hours of energetic polishing.

Miraculously, the unpredictable Wyoming weather cooperated. After the bitter February cold, March was proving exceptionally mild. A brisk breeze fluttered the horsetails adorning the soldiers’ Prussian-style spiked dress helmets, but the first tender shoots of green peeked through the saw grass covering the vast, open plains beyond the fort.

With the sun beaming brightly, the ladies had felt confident enough to throw off their dark winter coats and don cheerful spring colors. Victoria felt quite smart in a new walking suit of leaf-green broadcloth, lavishly trimmed with red braid. A rolled parasol, tan kid gloves and a modish hat anchored securely with a lethal, six-inch hatpin completed the ensemble.

The Garretts had already arrived when Victoria and her parents joined the guests on the viewing platform. She thought the general looked quite resplendent in his dress uniform, his chest almost obscured by row upon row of brightly colored medals. That he was forced to remain seated when everyone else stood milling about in no way detracted from his commanding air. His wife was beside him, her blue-black hair wreathed in a crown of braids and showing only the faintest traces of silver.

While her parents chatted with Sam’s mother, Victoria paid her respects to his father.

“How good it is to see you, sir.”

“You, too, Victoria. May I say you look quite ravishing in that particular shade of green?”

“You may indeed.” She hesitated, loath to bring attention to his disability but quite sincere in her sentiments. “And may I say I was sorry to learn you didn’t receive more encouraging news from the surgeon in Denver?”

“You may,” he replied evenly, before his mouth quirked in a crooked grin that reminded Victoria so much of his son that her breath snagged in her chest. “I’m not quite ready to accept his opinion, however. I’m afraid I can be rather bullheaded at times…as Julia quite often informs me.”

Catching her name, his wife threw him an amused glance. The years might have added fine lines to her face, but the legendary belle of New Orleans still turned heads whenever she entered a room.

“Whatever it is I supposedly inform you of so often,” she said, “you know very well that you hear me only when you wish to.”

The teasing smile that passed between the general and his wife started a little ache just under Victoria’s ribs. Her own parents had a comfortable marriage, but she’d never seen them display any
thing close to the love shining in Julia Garrett’s violet eyes.

That’s what she wanted, she thought with a pang. A love more enduring than time. A passion that knew no physical bounds.

Her gaze strayed to the man lifting his youngest nephew to see above the bunting-draped rail. Pursing her lips, she studied his strong, handsome profile. Unlike his father, Sam wore civilian attire. Victoria thought his elegantly cut suit, high-necked shirt points and black bowler looked completely dashing, if a bit drab, compared to the colorful uniforms of his one-time comrades in arms.

The yearning she’d felt for so long edged everything else out and she let herself look her fill before she made her way across the reviewing stand. His jaw was taut, she noted, his eyes narrowed as he watched the regimental sergeant majors inspecting their troops.

“Do you miss all this pomp and pageantry?” she asked.

In the blink of an eye, his expression relaxed. Lifting his nephew down from the rail, he gave Victoria a cheerful grin.

“No, not at all. Marching about with a tin bucket on your head, a horsetail tickling your neck and your collar buttoned so tight around your neck you can’t breathe isn’t something any man would miss.”

“Truly, Sam?”

“Truly. Come, we’d better take our seats. The parade’s about to begin.”

Victoria found the way he dismissed her questions so lightly rather annoying, but the hand he slipped under her elbow effectively ended their conversation. Hiding a frown, she allowed him to escort her to her chair.

Suddenly the piercing notes of a bugle soared through the air. With a rattle of sabers, three hundred men snapped to attention.

The bugle sounded again, and the infantry marched smartly to the edge of the parade ground. With saddles creaking and bridles jingling, elements of the Ninth and Tenth Cavalry followed. Dubbed Buffalo Soldiers by the Plains Indians, who considered them among the bravest and fiercest of their foes, the all-black cavalry units had been headquartered at Fort Russell for some years.

The colorful spectacle that commenced enthralled Victoria. She, like the rest of the viewers, was soon swept along on a wave of rousing martial music and patriotic pride.

Victoria wasn’t the only one with a too-keen eye, Sam discovered when he wheeled his father into the back parlor of the Garretts’ imposing, two-story town house after dinner that same evening.

When his parents had commissioned construction
of the house, his mother had purposely set the back parlor aside as a smoking room and furnished it accordingly. Humpbacked sofas upholstered in maroon velvet invited a man to sprawl at his ease. Handy humidors kept cigars moist and ready. Potted palms added a touch of greenery to the maroon wall coverings, and the sturdy marble-topped table in the center of the room was the perfect size for the general’s Tuesday night poker club.

In these comfortable surroundings, father and son indulged their nightly ritual of a good Cuban cigar, which inevitably raised the subject of war. With a cloud of fragrant smoke wreathing the air, the general asked much the same question Victoria had earlier that afternoon.

“Have you had second thoughts about resigning your commission, son?”

Sam might have been able to brush aside Victoria’s questions, but he could never hide the truth from his father.