The Major's Wife. Lauri Robinson
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taking a seat and scooting a bit closer to her side than necessary.
“Y-yes, thank you,” she stammered.
The twitching of her lower lip did make him want to smile. Oh, yes, this might be the perfect plan of attack. He should have thought of it earlier. Not doing what his enemies expected had kept him alive for years.
When Briggs opened the food line, Seth escorted her through it, with his hand riding low on the small of her back. He noted how her feet kept stumbling, and her nervousness had triumph rising inside him. They ate with the men at the long table, and Seth encouraged her to answer the slew of questions the soldiers posed. Many of them hadn’t been outside Indian Territory for years, and they were hungry to hear what was happening in other parts of the country.
The attention was more than she’d bargained for—her trembling fingers said that. And the edgy glances she sent his way told him she hadn’t expected him to be so accommodating.
Seth simply smiled, and asked a few nonessential questions of his own. When the meal was over, he took her hand and folded her arm through the crook of his while leading her to the door.
Things were slow at the fort right now. The cattle drives were over for the year and most of the crops harvested. That had bothered him this morning, knowing he wouldn’t have other duties consuming his time, but now he realized it was a good thing. Dedicating a few days to a plan that would ultimately hasten her departure was exactly what he needed.
The way he’d linked her wrist around his elbow had her breast brushing the upper part of his arm, and she was straining to keep the simple contact from happening. Telling himself it wasn’t affecting him, Seth asked, “Would you like to take a stroll through the compound?”
Her gaze bounced to the cabin and she pinched her lips together, which made him suddenly want to see what all the commotion had been about. “But you must be tired,” he said. “It’s been a long day. Let’s just go home.”
“No,” she said nervously. “We could take a stroll.”
“It’s all right, you’ll have lots of time to explore the fort,” he cajoled. “Right now, you need some sleep.”
“No, really—”
“I insist.” Seth let go of the hand he’d kept hooked on his elbow, and looped his arm around her shoulders. “You must be exhausted.”
She let out a sigh that held a tiny groan, but didn’t struggle as he guided her forward.
The sun hadn’t set yet and the warmth intensified Seth’s sense of smell. They were across the compound from Ilene’s flower beds, but he caught the scent of flowers. Or maybe it was perfume, because it smelled more like roses. Actually, he’d noticed a hint of it when he’d sat down next to her back in the hall.
A shiver rippled his spine as he turned his head, glanced down at the woman standing next to him. Her grin was much more of a grimace as she stepped aside for him to open the door to their cabin.
The warm, closed-in air rushing through the open doorway was downright overpowering. Blinking from the sting in his eyes, Seth asked, “Did a vial of rosewater burst in one of your trunks?”
“No,” she said, stepping past him to enter the cabin. “I washed the floors with it.”
“Washed the floors with it?”
Millie drew a deep breath, almost choking. The rose oil Lola made was quite potent and she may have used more than necessary. But it was what Rosemary would have done. “I also had To-She-Wi and Ku-Ma-Quai help me wash the walls.” She flinched slightly, not wanting to get two of Briggs Ryan’s maidens in trouble. The Indian women had proved to be not only friendly, but most helpful in assisting her with transforming the cabin.
“Wash the walls!” he exclaimed. “That oil will soak into the wood. It’s going to smell like this forever.”
“One can only hope,” she replied, sounding so much like her sister she wanted to bite her tongue. “It smelled of sour men before.”
The tick that appeared in his cheek should alarm her, but from what she’d learned today, Seth was not unfair. Though she might have decorated things a little more than she should have. It had been fun at the time, thinking she was getting him back for frightening her.
“My eyes are watering,” he said.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“What’s this?” He gestured toward the table.
“I know you’ve seen a tablecloth before.”
“Not in an army barrack.”
Making her best attempt at being nonchalant, she shrugged.
“And pillows, and cushions, and rugs.” He was walking through the tiny area, pointing things out, and stopped in the doorway to his office. “Curtains? Curtains in my office? Where did you get all this stuff?”
“Mr. Fallon. You must be quite proud of him. He has a bit of everything.”
Seth gave her a glimpse full of disdain before he spun to take a second look at the space that had been his office. Once again Millie flinched inwardly. She’d never done anything like this before, and pulling up the courage to finish what she started was not easy.
“Where. Is. My. Desk?”
His cold tone had Millie gulping, but she managed to find the nerve to step into the room and point toward the far corner. With the desk up against the wall, covered with a tablecloth, and the chair positioned in front of the window, decorated with two tiny pillows, plus a rug covering the floor, the room looked much bigger and more homey. To her. What Seth thought was probably a bit different. Obviously was.
He glared at her with those piercing eyes for several long moments. “You are Rosemary, aren’t you?”
She held her breath, hoping the churning in her stomach wouldn’t erupt.
“Put it back,” he growled. “Put it back the way you found it. All of it.”
Millie scurried aside as he left the room.
“And get rid of those stupid curtains!”
The door thudded shut and Millie let out her breath in a gush. Rosemary wouldn’t put any of it back. So Millie wouldn’t, either.
Chapter Four
Millie did walk over and open the office window she’d closed earlier, having known the heat would intensify the smell of the rose oil while they were eating supper. Lola had said to use it sparingly, just a drop or two in a bathtub of water. Millie had used an entire bottle scrubbing the cabin.
Exhausted inside and out, she plopped onto the chair. What would Rosemary do now?
Millie couldn’t remember when she’d learned her mother had died; it had happened when she was just an infant. But she did recall the moment she’d learned how her mother had died. It had been her eighth birthday. Papa had given her a new saddle, black with silver conchas, and a seat as plush as velvet. She’d ridden all afternoon. It was that night, when she was in bed, that Rosemary had entered her room and said if she didn’t give her the new saddle, she’d jump in the river. Drown. When Millie said she wouldn’t give it to her, her sister had told her the family secret.
No one was ever to know, Rosemary had said, but their mother hadn’t died from complications of childbirth. She’d taken her own life when Millie was six months old, with one of Papa’s pistols.
Papa hadn’t been home—he had been off doing army business, as he had been most of their childhood. The saddle had been ordered and delivered with a note from him. So Millie had asked Lola about their mother the next morning.
The housekeeper confirmed what Rosemary had said was true, that their mother had shot herself when Millie was a baby. She’d also said no one but their dear