Major Randolph closed the door behind him and latched it. He picked up his book and took his seat, and she heard the driver chirrup to the mules.
Susanna pulled the blanket close around her. She glanced at Major Randolph, who was staring at her with a frown. She looked at him, then realized he was staring at the blanket. She stared at it, too, wondering.
“Mrs. Hopkins?”
She looked at Major Walters. “Your blanket is too close to that stove,” he whispered.
She looked. The blanket was not close to the stove, but she pulled it to her anyway. “Better?”
“Perfect.”
She glanced again at Major Randolph, who sat back with a relieved expression on his face. I don’t understand what just happened, she thought. I should say something. “Captain, uh … excuse me ….”
“Dunklin,” he offered, as if relieved to break the charged silence.
“Captain Dunklin, you have children who will be attending school?” She glanced at Major Randolph, who stared straight ahead, as if seeing something no one else saw. In another moment, he settled back with a sigh.
“I have one son, aged nine. High time he went to school.”
She couldn’t hide her surprise. “My cousin wrote that there is a school already.”
“Yes, one run by the private.”
Susanna heard the disdain in his voice.
“The army requires that children of enlisted men must be educated, but officers’ children are merely invited,” Major Randolph explained.
“Not required?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “Strange to you?”
“A little. Surely an officer’s child could learn something from a private.”
“We try not to mingle,” Dunklin said. “Joe, you’d understand if you had children.”
Susanna could tell from the post surgeon’s expression that he understood no such thing. I should think any school would be better than no school, she thought. Captain Dunklin was already reminding her of Frederick, because he seemed so certain that he was right. “Probably the private does his best,” she said, defending her profession.
“He does,” the surgeon said. “Private Benedict has eleven pupils now, all ages.” He must have noticed her expression of interest. “I head the post administrative council, and one of my responsibilities is the school.”
“Is there a schoolhouse?”
“No. They meet in a room in the commissary storehouse.”
“Between the salt pork and the hardtack,” Dunklin interjected. He laughed, but no one joined him.
From the look the post surgeon exchanged with Major Walters, Susanna suspected Dunklin was not a universal favorite.
The silence felt heavy again, but Dunklin filled it. “Where are you from, Mrs. Hopkins? Your cousin mentioned Pennsylvania.”
“Shippensburg, originally,” she said, afraid again. Major Randolph glanced at her. It was the smallest glance, but some sixth sense, honed to sharpness by years of fear, told her he knew more.
“My wife is from Carlisle!” Dunklin exclaimed. “She won’t waste a moment in making your acquaintance.”
Please, no, Susanna thought in a panic. “I … I didn’t get out much in society,” she stammered.
Dunklin nodded, his expression serious. “Your cousin told us of your loss. Too many ladies are war widows.”
Her heart plummeted into her stomach. She wondered what story her cousin had started, in an attempt to make her more palatable to the people of Fort Laramie. Suddenly the twenty miles between Shippensburg and Carlisle seemed no longer than a block.
“Mrs. Hopkins?” Major Walters asked, concerned.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Dunklin said.
“No, it’s just …” She stopped. Do I explain myself to these men? she thought in desperation. Do I say nothing? She sat there in misery, trapped. “Don’t worry, Captain Dunklin,” she said, becoming an unwilling party to a lie. “I am resigned to my lot.”
Dunklin nodded. He placed a board on his knees, took out a deck of cards and was soon deep in solitaire.
Major Randolph regarded her, and she realized with a shock that he knew she lied. What had Emily done? I must explain to him at the first opportunity, Susanna told herself. Drat Captain Dunklin for having a wife from Carlisle.
They stopped midmorning, which felt like an answer to prayer. For the past hour she had been wondering how she could delicately phrase the suggestion that they stop for personal purposes. And if they did stop, what then? A glance through the canvas flap revealed no shielding trees or even shrubs.
Without a word, the men left the ambulance. A shift of weight told her that the driver had followed them. Major Randolph was the last man out. Without a word, he lifted the seat where Captain Dunklin had been sitting, nodded to her and left. Speechless with embarrassment, she stood up and looked down at a hole and the snowy ground beneath. “That’s clever,” she murmured.
She peeked out the canvas flap to make sure no one stood nearby. There they were, standing off the road, their backs to her. By the time they returned to the ambulance, the seat was down again, and she had returned to her chair.
“We’re stopping tonight at Lodgepole Creek stage station,” Major Randolph informed her as they started again. “I have a little errand of mercy, a small patient.”
They stopped at a roadhouse for luncheon, which turned out to be a bowl of greasy stew and a roll amazing in its magnitude and excellence.
“This joint is famous for the rolls, but you don’t get one unless you suffer the penance of the stew,” Major Randolph joked.
Susanna ate quickly and excused herself, wishing for solitude, even if solitude meant cold. She was scarcely out the door when she heard someone behind her. She turned around, dreading to see the post surgeon, but it was Major Walters.
“It’s too warm in there,” she said.
The major extended his arm, so she had no choice but to tuck her arm in his. “Let’s walk.”
She let him lead her away from the roadhouse toward a line of trees, stopping by a frozen stream.
“Does it ever warm up?” she asked.
“With a vengeance,” he assured her. “One day it’s like this, then everything starts to drip and thaw.”
They stared down at the stream, where Susanna thought she could see the shadows of fish. She pointed to them. Major Walters nodded. “Everything’s just waiting for better days.”
So am I, she thought.
Major Walters seemed in no hurry to turn back. Hesitant, she said, “Major, I have to ask …. Why did Major Randolph seem so intent on that blanket and the stove? It wasn’t close.”
“No, but that doesn’t matter to Joe,” the major said, starting back now. “As you might have noticed from his accent, Joe is from Virginia.”
She nodded.
“He was part of the Medical Corps before the war, and stayed in when others went to the Confederacy. Good surgeon, from all accounts.” Walters sighed. “A pity he couldn’t save the one person he loved.”
The major stopped, even though the other officers had left the roadhouse and were looking in their direction.
“He