Marrying the Major. Victoria Bylin
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have established his authority because she sealed her lips. He looked up the hill, saw Jon navigating the incline and waited in stony silence for his friend to arrive. Tristan couldn’t stop himself from wondering about the quinine. If the Carvers knew the value, they would have stolen it. Judging by the mayhem on the road, at the very least they’d smashed the crate. Without sufficient quinine, his next bout of fever would be a brute.
As Jon came down the hill, Tristan saw the look his friend wore after a battle when bodies lay askew and the price of victory was its most obvious. He hadn’t found the quinine.
The man strode to Tristan’s side, acknowledged the women with a nod, then spoke in a quiet tone. “I found the crate. It’s been smashed. The bottles are broken or missing.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry,” Jon murmured. “There’s nothing to salvage.”
The younger woman cleared her throat. “Major Smith—”
“Miss Caroline!” He bellowed to make a point. “Do you always interrupt with such enthusiasm?”
“Only when it’s important.”
She said no more, leaving it up to him to humble himself and ask. “If you don’t mind, it will have to wait. I’m expecting an important shipment. Jon is looking for—”
“Quinine,” she said quietly.
Instead of scolding her again, Tristan stared into her shimmering eyes. “Go on.”
“Part of the shipment was destroyed, but I salvaged seven bottles. They’re hidden in the stagecoach.”
He said nothing because being in her debt was humbling and he didn’t know how to be anything but a man in command. Malaria had turned the tables on him. The disease was in charge, and it had been since he’d left the West Indies. Now Caroline Bradley was in charge. He didn’t like being beholden to anyone, especially not a woman with brunette hair and intelligent eyes. Molly had been gone for more than a year. He missed her terribly, but his own illness had forced him to cope with the loss quickly. He had only one focus—to provide a family for Freddie and Dora in case of his death.
Jon offered Caroline his hand. “You must be one of the Bradley sisters. I’m Jonathan Tate. I keep Major Smith in line.”
Tristan watched the woman’s eyes for a flicker of interest. Jon was twelve years older than she was, but women found him appealing. More than once Tristan’s second in command had been called a pussycat, while Tristan had been called “sir” by everyone including his wife and children.
Caroline Bradley shook Jon’s hand, then introduced her sister. Apparently, the elder Miss Bradley went by Bessie. Tristan should have been doing the honors, but he disliked social pleasantries. They reminded him too much of the stilted formality of his childhood.
“It was terrible,” the eldest Miss Bradley said about the robbery. “One minute we were riding along at a reasonable clip, and the next we were flying around the curves. The driver made it around a turn and stopped the coach. He told us to run for our lives.”
“What happened to him?” Tristan asked.
“They shot him,” Caroline said quietly. “I did my best to bury him, but his family might want to do better. His name was Calvin.”
Tristan knew Calvin. He’d worked briefly at The Barracks. He had no family, but Tristan wouldn’t leave him in an unmarked grave. He turned to Jon. “When we get to the ranch, send someone to take care of the body.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tristan turned back to the women. “Was there someone riding shotgun?”
Caroline shook her head. “There was supposed to be a second driver, but he didn’t show up. Calvin made the decision to go alone.” She gave him a deliberate look. “He was anxious to deliver the quinine.”
Calvin would have known the importance of the medicine. Yet again, Tristan was beholden to someone. The debt couldn’t be repaid except to live in a manner worthy of the sacrifice. That meant showing kindness to Caroline and her sister. Looking at her now, he saw a courageous woman who’d survived a robbery, buried one man and saved another by salvaging the medicine. Needing to focus on something other than her attributes, he changed the subject. “Do you know who robbed the stage?”
Bessie answered. “Calvin mentioned the Carvers before we left Cheyenne.”
“That’s the assumption,” he acknowledged.
Caroline had the haunted look of a soldier reliving a battle. “The robbers ransacked the stagecoach. We heard them making threats, so we hid. We couldn’t run because Bessie twisted her ankle.”
Tristan couldn’t stand the thought of the Carvers harming either of the women.
Bessie squeezed her sister’s hand. “The good Lord had an eye on us.”
Tristan doubted it. In his experience, God ignored the needs of human beings as surely as the duke had ignored his third son. Where was God when Molly lay shaking with fever? Neither did God care about little Dora, who still cried for her mother, or for Freddie, who didn’t cry at all. Tristan had seen too much death to deny the hope of an afterlife, but he didn’t see God in the here and now. He especially didn’t see a loving Father when fever made him delusional and his bones caught fire.
Bessie indicated the area around the coach. “As you can see, we’ve been camping. Caroline saw to everything.”
He studied the patch of ground sheltered by the coach. Caroline had done a commendable job of salvaging essentials from the wreckage. She’d built a fire, used a pot to fetch water from a stream and neatly organized food they’d brought from Cheyenne. The campsite was a testament to ingenuity, neatness and order, all traits Tristan admired. Nonetheless, he imagined the women would prefer his house in Wheeler Springs to another night in the open. They’d have to move quickly to arrive by nightfall, especially with packhorses laden with their possessions. He did a quick calculation and decided the women could ride together on Grandma. Jon could manage a packhorse, while the other carried what it could.
“We should be on our way.” He turned to Bessie. “Miss Bradley, how severely is your ankle injured?”
“It’s just a sprain.” She looked at Jon. “I can walk up the hill if someone will give me a strong arm.”
Jon turned on the smile that made him a pussycat. “I’d be delighted—”
“No,” Tristan interrupted. “I’ll escort Miss Bradley up the hill. You help Miss Caroline break down camp. Make sure you’re careful with the quinine.” Tristan would have preferred to carry it himself, but he felt wobbly.
Jon focused on the pretty brunette. “I’m at your service, Miss Caroline.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tate.”
“Call me Jon.” He shot Tristan a sly glance. “Only the major insists on formalities.”
The woman smiled. “Jon it is. For the sake of simplicity, Bessie and I go by our first names. You’re welcome to call me Caroline.”
Jon nodded graciously and Caroline smiled.
Though pleased by their budding friendship, Tristan felt envious. What would it be like to seek a woman’s attention? To woo her the way he’d wooed Molly? They’d had a stellar courtship, even if he said so himself. He hoped Jon would show the same ambition for Caroline. If Tristan’s plan worked, they’d fall in love and get married. If the malaria bested Tristan, they’d raise Freddie and Dora, and his children would have a family.
At Caroline’s direction, Jon went to work gathering their meager possessions while she retrieved a bundled nightgown that presumably held the bottles of quinine. Tristan stepped to Bessie’s side and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
“Thank you, Major.”
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