Love and War

121

Ashton ached from sleeping in strange beds and straining to avoid contact with her husband's lardlike body beside her. How sick she was of all the dissembling — with James and with strangers who continually asked about their accents.

'Why, yes, sir — yes, madam — we are Southerners of a sort. We are Kentuckians, but of the loyal Union breed.'

How galling to repeat that lie over and over, to be forced to endure the graceless remarks and cramped quarters offered by inn and hotel keepers along the route of their long, seemingly endless pilgrimage. With their forged papers, they had traveled from Montreal to Windsor and Detroit, then on to Chicago, and now, in early February, to St. Louis, where their paths would diverge. Powell and her husband would head due west on the overland stage; she was to take the twice-weekly service for Santa Fe.

On the afternoon before her departure, Powell sensed Ashton's malaise and risked inviting her for a walk on the levee while Huntoon napped, Ashton's husband had been in a stupor all day, having consumed far too much bourbon the night before.

'I'm sorry we're forced to part for a while,' Powell said. Without touching, they strolled by a gang of noisy, laughing stevedores; the black men were putting cargo aboard a river steamer. 'I know the journey has been difficult.'

'Vile.' Ashton jutted her lower lip. 'I have no words to describe how sick I am of unclean beds and cheap food.'

Assuming that no one on the busy river front could identify them, Powell took her hand and slipped it around his left arm. Their squalid hotel lay two blocks behind, and Huntoon had been asleep when they left.

'I understand,' Powell murmured. 'And some hard days are still ahead.' He reached over to caress her right hand. She wondered why that produced such an uneasy feeling.

The back of her neck itched, too. But then, she was presently passing through those few days that were womankind's monthly burden; she had learned to suffer debilitating aches and peculiar moods as part of the experience.

'Once those are behind us, we can begin to build our enclave for people of true merit. Those who believe in the only genuine aristocracy — that of money and property. No egalitarians or negrophiles need apply.'

She didn't smile; nothing was amusing today. 'I really don't relish going on by myself.'

'You will be perfectly safe in the coach. You have emergency funds —'

'That isn't the point. It's another long, miserable trip.'

He flared. 'Do you think mine will be easier? To the contrary. In Virginia City, I must load two wagons with secret cargo — remaining constantly on watch for thieves all the while. Then I must bring those wagons several hundreds of miles to the New Mexico Territory, through a wilderness infested with hostile savages. If I consider the potential rewards worthy of such risk, I should think you could curb your complaints about a relatively tame ride in a stagecoach.'

Pain cramped her middle abruptly; the corners of her mouth whitened. A crude plainsman swaggered by, running his eyes over her bosom. The greasy fringe of his hide shirt brushed her arm. She felt as though a leper had touched her.

And Powell was still glaring. Everything angered him lately; he, too, must be feeling great strain. Realizing that moderated Ashton's cross feelings.

'Yes, you're right — I apologize.' She lowered her head briefly to acknowledge his authority. 'I just don't think you understand what a trial it's been to get in bed with James night after night and wish it were you.'

A whistle sounded from a packet churning upstream in the broad river. 'Never forget what I said on the Royal Albert. James is necessary. James is' — a pointed look — 'a good soldier.'

Some color appeared in her face, which had grown pale over the winter and gaunt because she had refused so much bad food. She had quite forgotten the military metaphor.

Powell's eyes brightened. Sometimes, seeing that particular glint in them, Ashton questioned whether her lover was altogether sane. Not that it mattered; a conventional mind was not an attribute of a man with epic dreams.

'I also remind you,' he continued softly, 'that it's a very long way from the Comstock to our destination. With miles of waterless waste to traverse, and the Indian threat, something could happen to any of the soldiers accompanying me.'

She laughed then, feeling relieved, buoyant in spite of her feminine complaint. She did experience a twinge of pity for James. Poor soldier; about to start his last campaign. But it was brief.

Half a block away, hidden in shadow by the high wall of a mercantile building, Huntoon shook his head, reached under his spectacles with a kerchief, and vigorously wiped each eye. He then continued toward the river, following his wife and Powell until they disappeared behind a pyramid of casks.

Tears welled again. He blinked them away, dazed and angry. This was no surprise. He had suspected for more than a year and, since rejoining Powell, had caught more than one furtive glance between the lovers.

He didn't blame Lamar, whom he still advised. He blamed the bitch he had married. He had pretended to nap, then came skulking after them, because he wanted absolute proof, which he had obtained by spying. He must now write a second letter, telling her about the first one.

He faced about and walked swiftly back to the cheap hotel where they were staying. His expression was so odd — maniacal — that two blanket-wrapped Indians seated against the wheel of a wagon watched him long after he sped by.

In the clamor before departure, Huntoon kissed Ashton's cheek, then pressed a sealed envelope into her hand. Passengers were already boarding the elegant egg-shaped Abbot-Downing coach that rested on wide, thick leather thorough braces. The manufacturers in Concord, New Hampshire, had painted it to order — lustrous dark blue — and decorated the doors with identical sentimental portraits of a beautiful girl admiring a dove on the back of her hand. Ashton cared less for aesthetics than for the availability of good seats, all of which would soon be taken. Crossly, she said, 'What is this?'

'Just some — personal sentiments.' His smile was limp; he avoided her eye. 'If anything should happen to me, open it. But not before. You must swear you'll honor that request, Ashton.'

Anything to humor the fat fool and get aboard. 'Of course, darling. I swear.'

She presented her cheek for a parting kiss. Huntoon buried his head on her shoulder, giving her a chance to cast a final longing look at Powell, very elegant and ebullient this morning. He twirled his stick and regarded the loving couple from a polite distance.

The coach driver poked his head into the vehicle while Ashton was engaged in her prolonged farewell. He had a big fan-shaped beard, white, and a beaded vest that looked as if it had once been rinsed in vegetable soup.

'How many of you folks rid in a Concord 'fore this?' Only one hand went up. 'Wal, she's mighty comfortable, as you'll soon find out. But if you're travelin' the whole way to Santa Fe, I got to warn you that we hit some mighty twisty roads. Gits so bad some places, the horses kin eat out of the luggage boot.'

Having delivered his standard joke for tourists, he tipped his hat, climbed to the box, and began separating the various reins of the four-mustang hitch.

Impatiently, Ashton pushed Huntoon away. 'I must go.'

'Godspeed, my love,' he said, handing her into the coach. She managed to squeeze into the last place on the rear-facing front seat, leaving two laggards, a middle-aged drover in poor but clean clothes and a sleazy drummer with a sample case, to take the hard drop seats in the middle.

She examined the envelope. He had written Ashton on the front and closed it with three large drops of wax. He certainly did want his request honored if he sealed it that carefully. She dropped the