we did the Apaches. Huh, Colonel Stryker, is that not the way?”
“Apache warriors never let a soldier close enough to hit them with a saber, Senator,” Stryker said. “As for the Filipino rebels being savages, I don’t think—”
His voice trailed away. Nelson was no longer listening. The man was staring over Stryker’s shoulder, his eyes searching for the really important people.
“Yes, yes, Colonel, very interesting,” Nelson said absently. “If you will excuse me . . .” He stepped around Stryker and raised a hand. “Ah, General Funston, a word with you . . .”
“You look well, Steve. Even taller than I remembered, if a little grayer.”
Stryker turned toward the woman’s voice.
“And the full beard becomes you so,” she added.
It took Stryker a few uncomfortable moments before he remembered the face. “It’s wonderful to see you again,” he said. “After all these years.”
He was taken aback. Still dressed in a mourning gown of rustling black two years after her father’s death, to call Millie matronly would have been a compliment. Major Birchwood, less courteous but more accurate, would say later, “Hell, her ass is an axe-handle wide.”
“I heard about your father, Millie, or should I say Mrs. Nelson?” Stryker said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“We are old friends, Steve. Millie is just fine.” The woman’s eyes, made small by the upward pressure of her chubby cheeks, misted. “Papa gave his all to Washington and our great nation, but in the end it was just too much for his poor, noble heart.”
Millie dabbed at her eyes with a small lace handkerchief. “However, the senator has been a tower of strength, supporting me in my time of great need. The senator and I have three sons, all made in his image. Two are destined for the clergy and the oldest will follow his dear papa into politics.” She added, with some pride but little affection, “The senator is a remarkable man.”
“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.
