The Major's Wife. Lauri RobinsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
the scene before her might change.
It didn’t.
They were naked.
Leastwise from the waist up—a sight she’d never seen before—yet they milled around the railway platform as freely as others who were fully clothed.
“Ma’am?”
“Good heavens,” she muttered.
The porter took her arm. “Ma’am. Step down, please. There are other passengers behind you.”
“Oh, yes, of course, forgive me,” Millie stammered. It took considerable effort to unlock her knees and lower her feet to the metal steps and then onto the wooden platform, for all that skin was shocking. It couldn’t help but hold her attention. Fortunately, the porter, with a solid grip on her elbow, aided her the entire way.
He’d been a kind man, offering smiles and asking about her comfort several times since she’d boarded the Missouri-Kansas-Texas rail line back in Missouri. His elderly face, complete with bushy gray brows and deep wrinkles that reminded her of a garden gnome, held compassion now as he pointed toward a small building at the edge of the wide wooden platform. “Your baggage will be placed along that wall.”
A goose egg formed in Millie’s throat as her gaze once again snagged on the shirtless men mingling in the crowd. This was known as Indian Territory, so encountering some was expected, but she’d had no idea they walked around half-dressed. In public no less.
“Is there someone to meet you?” the porter asked, tugging her farther out of the way.
“Y-yes, yes, my br—husband was to send someone,” she managed to say. Husband. No matter how odd it was, she had to remember to refer to Seth Parker as her husband, not her brother-in-law, as he truly was. One slip of her tongue would send her back to Virginia, and that couldn’t happen. Leastwise not before she settled things. For years she’d dogged Rosemary’s footsteps, righting wrongs and cleaning up after her older sister, but this was by far the most imperative. Perhaps the one that would convince her sister that life was worth living.
Willing her nerves, and the familiar sorrow sitting heavy in her heart, under control, Millie did her best to pull up a smile for the porter, as well as tug her gaze off all the dark-shaded skin of the bare-chested Indians. “My husband’s sending someone from Fort Sill to pick me up.”
“Fort Sill?” The bobbing of the porter’s Adam’s apple above his smartly buttoned-up collar sent a shiver all the way to her toes.
“Yes.” The air was so hot and dry her lips cracked as soon as she wet them, and a chill settled around her spine. “Fort Sill,” she repeated. Her home for the next three months. A mere snippet of time, considering it would save a child from becoming motherless. That’s what had kept her putting one foot in front of the other since this trip had started.
“Rosemary’s just like your mother was,” Papa had always said, which was a fear Millie had lived with for as long as she could remember.
She didn’t have a single memory of the woman who’d given birth to her. Other than a few stories others had shared, her mother was nothing but a name. One that filled Millie with sadness, and only intensified when she thought of her sister following in their mother’s footsteps.
The porter had disappeared among uniformed men, women dressed in everything from common calicos to eastern gowns as stylish as those in Millie’s trunks, and of course, the Indians with little more than tight-fitting britches and soft-soled, knee-high moccasins. Some, she noted, now that she could see beyond the bronze-colored skin that had been so shocking, had on army jackets and pants, but even they had very long hair and feathers in their hats, as well as ornate necklaces hanging around their necks.
A weary pressure settled inside her chest. Seth Parker might not have sent someone to escort her. There was no way to know if he’d received the message of her impending arrival. It had been sent; she’d seen to that herself, five days ago, before boarding the first of several trains with so many separate railroad names she’d long ago lost track.
Someone jostled her elbow, almost pivoting her in a circle.
“Excuse me,” a man muttered, rushing past.
She nodded, but he was gone, one among many bustling about. The noisy surroundings, as well as the town—from what she could see of it—did suggest things were somewhat civilized in Indian Territory, which provided a bit of a comfort. She’d harbored considerable fears about residing at the fort, bearing in mind she’d never left Richmond before this trip.
Setting her traveling valise on the ground, Millie pulled down the hem of her waist-length jacket. The coal smoke and dust from the trains had turned the pale green traveling suit grayish, and her hair was so stiff she didn’t dare remove a comb for fear every last strand would break off. But in a few miles, her travels would be over.
Then the real work would begin.
Work indeed. Pretending to be her sister would be the most challenging thing she’d ever done. Not in looks—people had been confusing the two of them forever, and she had cut her hair. It no longer hung to her waist in the simple braid she’d favored for years. For this journey she’d had to twist it around the hot prongs of a curling iron, then pin it up in a fashionable way. Rosemary had shown her how, though Millie still didn’t have the knack her sister did. Maybe because it was a frivolous waste of time. Rosemary had changed her hairstyle so many times over the past years Millie sincerely doubted her sister remembered how she’d worn it when marrying Seth. Besides, Millie had larger worries. Such as hoping she’d recall what Seth Parker looked like. It had been five years, and she’d seen him only once. Mistaking someone else for her so-called husband could prove disastrous.
Yes, when played against everything else, her hair was truly the least of her concerns. Picking up her satchel, Millie moved forward, elbowing her way to the little building with a sign proclaiming Tulsa in faded red letters.
Two of her trunks sat there. She set her traveling bag on one and stretched up on her toes, attempting to peer over or around heads sporting every type of hat imaginable for a glimpse of her additional luggage—or rather, Rosemary’s.
The high-pitched screech of the train whistle and the shout “All aboard” echoing over the crowd had her searching harder.
People rushed by, bounding up the metal steps, and steam started hissing from beneath the locomotive. Surely the train wouldn’t leave before all her belongings were unloaded. The distance between most of the previous stops had been lengthy; even when she wasn’t switching trains there’d been time to walk about, stretch her legs.
Bubbles of anxiety filled her stomach and Millie scrambled on top of one trunk. Using a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she scanned for a round bald head ringed with gray hair. Sighing in relief at the sight of the porter dragging a trunk behind him, she climbed down. The crowd diminished a bit, leaving more room for the man and his assistant to deposit her other trunks next to her.
“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “I was getting worried.”
The porter, wiping at the beads of sweat running down the sides of his face, eyed her quizzically. “Ma’am,” he said, “you do realize how far away Fort Sill is, don’t you?”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, the train agent in Richmond—Virginia, that would be—informed me I’d have to take a wagon the last few miles.” Patting the varnished trunk he’d set down, she continued, “That’s why I was getting worried when I didn’t see this trunk. I’ll need a parasol out of it.”
“A parasol?” The porter shook his head. “It’s pert’ near two hundred miles to Fort Sill from Tulsa, ma’am.”
“Surely not t-two hundred.”
He nodded.
Stunned, she sank onto one of the trunks behind her. Air refused to catch in her lungs despite several tries. Once able to speak, Millie asked, “Surely there’s another train—”
“No.”