The Peacemaker (13 page)

The enlisted men had cleaned the mess hall, decorated it with flags, and hung twenty kerosene lanterns from hooks in the overhead beams.

Indy had recruited the musicians from enlisted men and officers alike. The cacophony of sound that came with the testing and tuning of their instruments made her ears ache. She would have been worried had she not heard them earlier in practice, and knew they could indeed play harmoniously.

The guests began arriving after dark. Indy stood at the door and cheerily greeted each man, woman, and child. She had come to know many of them in the short time she had been at Bowie, but with the exception of Prudence, Sergeant Moseley, and Captain Nolan, she had not been able to gain their friendship. Even Aphra, Opal, and Ava, congenial as they had been, kept their distance, offering her everything
but
friendship. Indy suspected the standoffishness was due to the animosity they all felt for her father, which she understood because they were afraid that his methods would do more harm than good, but understanding didn't fill the lonely hours after she finished her chores.

Indy had thought her father would be by her side to greet everyone, as the reception had been his idea, but he had yet to arrive and neither had the guest of honor. Minutes passed and the room filled to capacity.

"Miss Taylor," said Captain Nolan, bowing slightly, his hat in his hand as he stepped inside and stood before her.

"Good evening, Captain." She looked around behind him, but he was alone. "Have you seen my father or Major Garrity? I thought they would have been here by now."

"No, I'm afraid I haven't."

She sighed. "They probably got to talking and forgot the time. Maybe I should send someone to find them?"

A raised eyebrow indicated the captain's disapproval. "I don't think that would be a good idea. I'm sure your father wouldn't be late without good reason."

Indy's forehead furrowed with confusion, then smoothed as the meaning became clear. "Good reason, meaning some sort of strategy?"

"Perhaps."

She thought about it a moment. "Yes, I see your point." Of course, he was right, she realized, wondering why she hadn't considered it before. Arriving after everyone else would assure maximum attention. She glanced again out the door, then looked up at the captain.

His head was bent and he was gazing at her with an ardency that couldn't be misinterpreted. "You should be proud of what you've accomplished on such short notice. Everything looks and smells wonderful. The entire garrison is grateful for your efforts." He paused a moment, as if to prepare himself for some difficult task. "I don't think your father realizes how lucky he is to have you," he said unsteadily, his voice growing thicker by the second. "I—I feel lucky just knowing you. And ... if you wouldn't think me too presumptuous—I'd like to call on you, that is if you're agreeable, and with the colonel's permission, of course."

Flushing, Indy glanced away. She didn't know how to respond. No one had ever asked to call on her before. She would have been wildly ecstatic if she felt something more for him than friendship. "Captain, I—"

"Aubrey. Please," he insisted. "We've been Captain Nolan and Miss Taylor long enough, don't you think?"

She gave a nervous laugh. "Captain, I hope you won't—" She broke off when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a glint of metal—and turned to see her father and Jim Garrity walking across the parade ground. "There they are," she said, her voice flooded with relief.

The two men were walking side by side. Jim Garrity's stride was long, loose, arrogant—the gait of a man who always knew where he was going because he had been there a thousand times before. It wasn't the first time he had given her that impression along with a sense that he had seen too much and experienced too much of the world.

He was a head taller than her father and considerably broader of shoulder. He was dressed in light-colored buckskin pants and a loose white shirt, similar to what he'd been wearing when he rode in. The only significant difference in his appearance was his hair, which he had neatly pulled back away from his face; its length tied in a leather thong at the back of his head. His hair and the absence of the headband made him look like a very different man from the near naked warrior who had vaulted into the ambulance and pinned her to the floorboards. Then, he had been Shatto—an Apache-—a dangerous savage. Now, he was Jim Garrity—a major in the United States Army—a gentleman,  she thought, then took it back, remembering that in spite of his staunchly proclaimed innocence, he had been convicted of murdering four men, court-martialed and sentenced to hang!

She gave an involuntary shiver. No, he wasn't a savage and neither was he a gentleman. But he was definitely dangerous. In more ways than one, she suspected.

In her study of Jim Garrity, she had all but forgotten the captain and the question she had been about to answer. With alarm she realized that while she had been staring at Jim, he had been staring at her. Nothing could have been more sobering or more disquieting. Suddenly she knew how that poor rodent had felt when the hawk flew over the camp.

"Father," she called out and quickly made her way toward him. "We've been waiting for you."

He continued walking toward the mess hall. "We were unavoidably detained," he answered stiffly, his eyes narrowing critically as he looked her up and down, from head to toe, as if conducting a uniform inspection.

"It's the only special occasion dress I brought," she explained defensively. She hadn't been sure the dress—a pale yellow lawn with a tier of three organdy ruffles around the hem—would be suitable for the occasion. But having
seen
how the other women were dressed, she felt confident in spite of her father's critical eye. Twining her arm around his, she walked alongside of him, chattering like a monkey about the food and the musicians, all the while acutely aware of Jim Garrity's discerning gaze watching and studying her.

Once inside, and after the formal salutes, the colonel surveyed the room and everyone in it. Indy searched his face, looking for something in his expression to tell her he was pleased. His gaze swept the room and rested on the flags artfully draped over the fireplace mantel. His mouth thinned and formed a grimace of distaste that stayed with him as he continued his survey.

That told it all, Indy thought, sighing inwardly with utter disappointment. Everyone had worked so hard to make it a nice reception. And it was— by anyone's standards except, obviously, her father's. She had no idea what specific thing displeased him—maybe everything.

Again, she had gotten her hopes up for nothing, and again she felt the pain of defeat.

With false cheer, she took her father's arm and signaled the musicians to begin playing the Grand March.

"I would prefer that Major Garrity lead you out," said the colonel, pulling away from her.

"Oh, but, Father, you know that protocol demands that the commanding officer lead—"

"Protocol?" he flared at her, his eyes cold as the steel saber dangling from his hip. "I set the protocol here, daughter."

Jim Garrity came forward, stepping directly in front of the colonel. "Miss Taylor, I'd be honored if you would allow me to escort you through the Grand March." He bowed, his dark eyes intent upon hers. The sophisticated formality so contrasted with everything she knew about him that she was momentarily stunned.
He's not a gentleman,
she reminded herself.
Don't be fooled. He's dangerous.

"Thank you, Major," she said, moving toward him. As long as she remembered who he was and what he was, and stayed within her father's sight, no harm could come to her. Lifting the sides of her skirt, she made a small curtsy. Jim proffered his right arm, crooked at the elbow, for her to grasp on to and led her out onto the floor.

"Major James Garrity will lead out Miss Independence Taylor in the Grand March," Captain Nolan announced in a stentorian voice that effectively silenced the crowd. In a matter of seconds everyone had claimed their partners and formed a line starting at the stone hearth.

Jim and Indy took their places in front of the hearth and awaited the signal to begin. Indy felt conspicuous standing next to Jim. Not only was he the talk of the garrison, but he was the only man not in military uniform. It seemed to Indy that every eye in the room was watching them, which made each second an eternity. Her emotions ran the gamut: embarrassment, confusion, unease, fear.

Feeling the need to say something—anything to break the chain of her thoughts, she said the first thing that came to mind. "It's been a long time since I've done the Grand March," she confided, raising her chin to look up at him. He was so tall, too tall as far as she was concerned. She could imagine all sorts of awkward predicaments a couple of their respective heights would encounter. "I hope I remember the steps." He
had
to sense her nervousness. She couldn't hide it. But hopefully he would attribute it to her father's reprimand and not to himself.

The music began with slow, introductory notes. Jim tilted his dark head and gave her a considering look. "It will come back to you, but just in case, I suggest you hold on to me a little tighter. I wouldn't want to lose you in the turns." Until then her hold on his arm had been purposely light, but his warning had merit so she tightened her fingers and felt the tensing of hard male muscle. "I assume your burns have healed and you're no longer in any pain."

Disconcerted by the awesome power that lay just beneath the surface of his skin, she found she couldn't form an answer and shook her head instead.

Finally, the drummer gave the signal. Arm in arm, Jim and Indy marched down an invisible path through the center of the room. At a point just short of the music dais, Jim stopped, stepping in place, while Indy picked up the side of her skirt and made a quick curtsy. Without missing a drumbeat, he led her out again into a sharp right curve and they marched back, past the line of couples who had yet to reach the dais. Returning to the point where they had begun, they met up with Sergeant Moseley and Prudence Stallard, who were returning via the left loop.

With the first round behind them, and while continuing to step in place, Indy took time to catch her breath and sneak a glance at her partner, who, in spite of his lack of uniform, was an impressive figure and looked every inch a proud military man. She wasn't the only one who thought so. Prudence hadn't taken her eyes off of him, nor had a half-dozen others, though they, at least, were more discreet with their admiring glances.

Of all the women present, only Prudence seemed out of place because of her ruby-red satin gown, a style the likes of which Indy had never seen before in polite society. Why Prudence would choose such a gown Indy couldn't fathom; it was decidedly inappropriate with its dangerously low bodice that left little to the imagination. Then she remembered: Prudence's husband had rescued her from a saloon—which explained the gown—a saloon girl's gown.

Indy could see the officers' wives' disapproving stares and couldn't help but feel sorry for Prudence, though it didn't appear that Prudence was overly concerned. Quite the contrary, she seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself, as if she didn't have a care in the world.

As soon as the last couple had made the turn, Jim and Prudence linked arms. Now, four across, they marched to the dais, made the loop, and returned to join with the other foursome coming from the opposite direction. The cycle repeated with eight across, then ended, everyone breaking with their partner and applauding.

With the march out of the way, it was time for Jim and Indy to lead out the first dance of the evening. A polka. Everyone moved back to clear the floor. Jim bowed and Indy curtsied. Anticipating his actions, she raised her hands into position. He moved up a step and pressed his left hand against her right hand and bent his fingers over the tips of hers as if to say he was in complete control. His other hand wound around her back, pulling her closer than she thought proper, but before she could say or do anything about it, he was dancing her across the room.

Indy hadn't danced since her seventeenth birthday, a few weeks before her mother and brother died. The polka was her favorite of all the dances, but how much she enjoyed it depended on the skill of her partner. Jim Garrity was an excellent dancer, which, after the Grand March, didn't surprise her. But it did make her wonder about what kind of man he was. He'd lived in two worlds, as different from each other as night and day. He had fought in the war and risen to the rank of major. Other questions presented themselves. How had he and Captain Nolan come to know each other? Why had he killed those four men? And why had he chosen to live with the Apaches? Surely there had been other choices.

Something told Indy that even if she had all the answers, she still wouldn't
know
Jim Garrity. She doubted anyone did. He was like a maze with so many twists and turns that one could spend an entire lifetime exploring him.

After completing three circles around the room, they were joined by a dozen or more other couples and the dance floor was filled with light-hearted conversation and laughter. Then, Sergeant Moseley came onto the floor with Prudence Stallard. Envious of Prudence's nonchalance, Indy decided she too deserved to enjoy herself and promptly threw herself wholeheartedly into the dance, putting everything and everyone except her partner out of her mind.

Too soon the dance ended and Jim led her off the floor. She hadn't enjoyed herself that much since—she couldn't remember the last time, it had been so long ago. She was breathless and hot, and it felt wonderful. Unconsciously, she plucked her lace handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it against her forehead. She was about to tuck it back away when Jim took it from her hand.

"You missed a spot," he told her, then gently wiped the handkerchief over her right temple. The unexpected gesture paralyzed her. She felt his cool palm brush against her cheek and his fingers touch her hair. The contact sent a tremor of longing through her body and a singing into her ears. She found herself fighting the urge to look up at him, to gaze into his eyes, afraid of what she would discover there. Instead, she stared at his mouth and saw an almost imperceptible smile. Then it was gone, and he was putting the handkerchief back into her hand. "I'll go get us some punch," he said, bending close so she could hear him above the voices and the music.