To his pleasure, she smiled at his feeble wit. “Would it help if I feigned sleep this afternoon? That way, he won’t try to talk to me, and your headache will abate.”
She did precisely that as the ambulance bumped and rolled toward Fort Laramie, feigning sleep so expertly he wondered if she really did doze off. If she wasn’t actually asleep, then she knew precisely how to pretend.
He thought suddenly of his late wife, who had never feigned sleep because he never gave her reason to. He recalled Melissa’s pleasure at waiting up for him in the tent on that fatal march to Texas. Not for Melissa the hope that he would think she slept, and not trouble her with marital demands. She’d waited up for him, and showed him how quiet she could be as they made love in a tent. He couldn’t help smiling at a memory that used to sadden him.
They spent the last night out from Fort Laramie at James Hunton’s ranch, a more commodious place with actual rooms for travelers. Joe gratefully turned the entertainment of Captain Dunklin over to James, a gregarious fellow who had close ties to Fort Laramie. After dinner, neither man even noticed when Joe and Mrs. Hopkins quietly left.
“Is your headache gone?” she asked, speaking to him first, which made him hope she was beginning to trust him. It was a small thing, but Joe Randolph noticed small things.
“Yes, thank you.”
He only glanced at her, but it pleased him to see her smile. I can’t be certain—God knows she hasn’t said—but why would any man dare beat a woman like this? he asked himself. He could imagine no other way for her occipital bone to have a dimple in it. He knew it was not something he could ever bring up. He glanced again, and she looked as though she wanted to say something.
“Yes?”
“What is this spring campaign Major Walters mentioned?”
They had reached the edge of the ranch yard. Mrs. Hopkins turned around and he offered her his arm again. This time, she took it.
“I will give you a short course in the dubious business of treaty making, Mrs. Hopkins. If it is so boring that your eyes roll back in your head and you feel faint, let me know.”
“I am made of stern stuff,” she assured him.
“According to the Treaty of 1868, the Sioux and Cheyenne have been assigned reservations on the Missouri River, but also given a large tract of western land over which to roam, in search of buffalo.”
“That sounds fair enough.”
“Treaties always sound fair,” he said. “Included in that land, never actually surveyed, is the Black Hills. It’s sacred to the Sioux, and wouldn’t you know, someone has discovered gold there.”
“Oh, dear,” she murmured. “Prospectors want it, and the Indians are not happy.”
“They are not. President Grant offered to buy it, but Lo the Indian is not interested.”
She stopped. “Ah! I have heard that before. ‘Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind, sees God in clouds or hears him in the wind.’” She grinned at him. “Alexander Pope, who probably never saw an Indian. I ask you, shouldn’t poets write about what they know?”
“They should, but don’t. ‘Lo’ is our nickname for hostiles.” Joe stopped, certain that her feet must be cold, but unwilling to continue this conversation inside, where Captain Dunklin would interrupt. “The plan now is to insist that Lo, Mrs. Lo and the Lo kiddies who traipse about in the unceded area—we call them Northern Roamers—be forced onto the reservations. Then Uncle Sam will turn that land and the Black Hills into one large For Sale sign.”
“If they won’t?”
“They have until the end of January, but I ask you, how easy is it to move a village in this cold? Very few Roamers have come to the reservations.” He sighed. “That is precisely what General Sherman wants—he’s general of the army. By February, I am certain a campaign will begin, to round up the Northern Roamers. You will see troops on the move this summer. Sherman is hoping for a fight.”
“All I want to do is teach school,” she said. “That sounds so self-centered, but it is the truth.”
“You’re not asking much.”
“I never do,” she replied quietly.
“Maybe you should,” he said on impulse.
She just shook her head and started for the roadhouse. It was his turn to stop at the door, thinking of another day of talking to Captain Dunklin, and feeling appalled by the idea.
Mrs. Hopkins must have been a mind reader. “Captain Dunklin reminds me of a pompous hypochondriac who taught in a school where I once worked. To shut him up, I would look at him with great concern, tell him I was worried about, oh, whatever I could think of, and suggest he see a doctor.”
“But I am the doctor!” Joe declared in humorous protest. “How can that work?”
“Who better to tell him that he should really rest his throat, because you’re concerned about that raspy, irritating sound he makes when he wants to get someone’s attention? You know the one I mean! You’ll have to be more diplomatic, but you understand.”
“I believe I do. We are now official conspirators.”
Her smile this time was genuine and made her eyes light up. Even if their precariously cobbled plan didn’t work, the major knew he would cherish the look in her eyes, a combination of gratitude and mischief that stripped away years from whatever burden she bore, at least for the moment.
He considered it a fair trade.
Susanna slept no better than usual, coming awake with that instant of terror, wondering how lightly she would have to tiptoe that day, before her conscious, rational mind reminded her that she was nowhere near Frederick Hopkins.
She followed her morning ritual, thinking of Tom first, hopeful that Frederick’s housekeeper had gotten him off to school with a minimum of fuss. Tommy had become adept at calling no attention to himself, so he wouldn’t upset his father. It was no way to live, but that was his life now.
“Tommy, I miss you,” she whispered.
When she came into the kitchen, she witnessed Dr. Randolph’s creativity. Captain Dunklin was dressed and wearing his overcoat, even though the kitchen was warm. Around his neck the surgeon must have wound a gauze bandage. She smelled camphor.
Susanna almost didn’t have the courage to look Major Randolph in the eye, not from fear, but from the conviction that she would burst into laughter, if she did.
The doctor made it easy. With a frown, he motioned her into the room.
“Don’t worry. Captain Dunklin isn’t contagious.”
“What could be wrong?” she asked, knowing she could play-act as well as anyone.
“I mentioned to the captain that he has a raspy way of clearing his throat that concerns me.” The major touched Captain Dunklin’s shoulder. “I wrapped his throat.”
“Major, I …” Captain Dunklin began, but the major shook his head.
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’m happy to help. When we get back, I’ll give you a diet regimen that should solve the problem. I gave him a stiff dose of cough syrup.” He sighed. “He’ll probably doze, but at least he won’t strain his vocal cords.”
“Captain, you may have my place by the stove, so you can be warm.”
Captain Dunklin looked at her with so much gratitude that Susanna felt a twinge of guilt. It passed quickly. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“That’s enough, Captain,” Joe admonished. “I would be a poor doctor if I advised you to eat anything more