Who would have thought that a tidy living could be made playing poker, of all things? She’d always considered gamblers to be shifty, slovenly, and most of all, perpetually penniless.
By the middle of July, Anderson took over a spacious dugout with an actual window and two bedrooms. The previous owners, farmers from northern Franklin County, had determined that it was probably safe enough to return to their land, rebuild their burned house, and commence with the hope of rebuilding their lives.
Though Bret offered her the larger of the rooms, Sarah categorically refused, moving her bed into the smaller room in the back rear. There, outfitted with most of the necessities of a home, she continued to cook his meals, wash his clothes, care for Jefferson, his big black horse, and do the dishes.
Not once in the passing weeks had Bret treated her as anything but a valued employee, though more and more, he seemed to spend his leisure hours sitting at the handcrafted wooden table, a cup of coffee in hand, just talking with her. He said it soothed him.
For her part, Sarah had begun to relax, though on more than one occasion, she had been awakened from terrifying dreams when Bret had called from her door, “Sarah, wake up. You’re safe. It’s just a nightmare.”
“Bret?”
“Yes. It’s me. Go back to sleep now. I’m right outside, and I’ll shoot the first booger that walks through the door.”
For the most part, she’d sighed, and drifted back to sleep.
In the security of the house, Sarah began to let her hair down again. With her wages she had purchased two nice cotton dresses—both of which actually fit her—one blue the other red. She bathed each day, as if by doing so, she could distance herself from the event. As if being scrubbed were a repudiation of what Dewley and his men had done to her.
She was in the yard that afternoon, sleeves rolled up, hair tied behind her head as she scrubbed a pair of Bret’s pants in the washtub, suds beading on her forearms.
She glanced up as the horseman appeared out of the brush down by the creek. Close-shaven, he had short-cropped blond hair that was confined by a campaign hat. From his insignia, he was a provost marshal, and the blue double-breasted officer’s coat hung open revealing no less than two pistols holstered butt-first in his belt. A well-varnished carbine stock protruded from the saddle scabbard.
“Ma’am,” he greeted, touching a finger to his hat.
Sarah stared up into hard blue eyes, the kind with no give to them.
“Officer,” she answered warily, every instinct warning her to back carefully away to where her pistol hung just inside the door.
“I’m looking for Major Bretford Jerome Anderson, Tenth Massachusetts Light Battery. Is this his residence?”
“The Mr. Anderson who lives here has not, to my knowledge, ever served in the military. Nor is he in residence at the moment, having gone to Little Rock on business. My suggestion, sir, is to return here tomorrow evening. Say about five? My employer should have returned by that time.”
“Your employer?” His thin lips twitched. “Has such an honest ring to it, don’t you think?”
Sarah stiffened, her heart beginning to pound. “Yes. I take care of Mr. Anderson’s household. And only his household.” Forcing herself to move slowly, she backed to the door. The pistol hung just inside. If he dismounted, followed her, she would let him back her through the door. As soon as he stepped inside, she’d shoot him through the chest.
But he just sat on his oversized black horse, his cold eyes taking her measure. He seemed to be weighing his choices, then said, “Now, if I were to await Anderson here, what sort of entertainment do you think we could devise to occupy ourselves, housekeeper?”
“I said, good day, sir.” Sarah crossed her arms, the proximity to the pistol filling her with courage.
“You’re a liar, ma’am. Reckon I’ll be back just as soon as I deal with the belly-crawling bastard you’re sharing the blankets with.”
He was a very competent horseman. She didn’t see the cue he gave, the horse just seemed to wheel on its own, breaking into a trot as it headed off across the flat toward the fort.
Sarah sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm her humming nerves. “Bret, what the hell did you do?”
She pursed her lips. He’d never mentioned being a soldier. Let alone being a major. But then, there was a lot about him she didn’t know. She damned well knew what provost marshals did: they arrested people.
“So, think, Sarah.”
She had no idea where Bret’s game was, and even if she did, he often moved it. Did she dare go warn him? Or would that provost marshal just be waiting out of sight and follow her?
What was the smart thing to do?
Making a decision, she quickly and efficiently began packing Bret’s belongings into his trunk. As she did, the ultimate irony struck her that she was so intimately familiar with a man’s wardrobe. She’d always anticipated being so, but with a husband, not a footloose gambler.
She left the house long enough to fetch the two mares Bret had bought at auction, and tied them off behind the dugout. The cookware and loose items she folded into blankets, remembering how Paw had once showed Billy when he was boy. Done up so, they could be tied on a horse with a diamond hitch.
“Blessed be, Sarah, can you remember how that went?”
Having nothing better to do as the sun inched slowly across the sky, she practiced until she got it right. Then it was just a matter of waiting as her imagination conjured one horrible thing after another. The provost marshal’s blue eyes faded into Dewley’s, sending a shiver up her spine.
Sarah strapped the .44 Colt around her hips, taking a moment to check the caps and loads. The hammer clicked crisply as
