Authors: Ralph Compton
Stryker's Revenge (28 page)
“A remarkable man, indeed,” Stryker said, saying nothing at all.
“And you, Steve? You never wed?”
“No.”
“Then you have not been blessed with children.”
“Oh, but I have. My adopted daughter, Kelly, is over there, surrounded by that gaggle of admiring young officers. She was orphaned when her”—he hesitated a heartbeat—“parents were killed by Apaches.”
“How perfectly dreadful.”
Birchwood stepped beside Stryker and briefly reported on some minor matter concerning supplies. Stryker listened, then said to Millie, “Please allow me to introduce my adjutant, Major Birchwood.”
“At your service, ma’am,” the man said, smiling, bowing over Millie’s hand.
A red-faced corporal, uncomfortable in his dress uniform, offered a tray of chilled champagne. Millie took a glass, as did Stryker.
“You are not indulging, Major?” the woman said.
“Alas, no, ma’am. I promised my betrothed that my lips would ne’er touch whiskey or other ardent liquors.”
“La, a soldier who doesn’t imbibe is indeed a rarity.” Millie’s attempt to mimic the speech of the young Washington belles was an abject failure. “And when will you wed the lady to whom you have pledged your troth?”
“We are in no hurry to enter the bonds of holy matrimony, ma’am. Soon, perhaps, after the regiment returns from the Philippines.”
He turned to Stryker. “Will you excuse me, sir? I have duties to perform.”
Stryker nodded. “Of course, Major.”
Birchwood bowed over Millie’s hand again and left, leaving behind a silence that Stryker made no attempt to fill.
Finally the woman said, “Steve, I’m sorry everything turned out the way it did. If I had it to do all over again . . .”
“What’s done is done, Millie,” Stryker said. “We can’t change the past.”
The woman nodded. “No, I guess we can’t,” she said, recognizing the finality of Stryker’s statement. “Well, I must join the senator. I see him looking for me.” She held out her hand. “Good luck, Steve.”
Stryker took it. “And you too, Millie.”
That night, in his quarters, Stryker lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling.
He remembered what Birchwood had said, and whispered it aloud, “Her ass is an axe-handle wide.”
He smiled . . . and the smile became a grin . . . and the grin became a laugh.
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