fill with chatter about her long trip. She’d wanted to ask him about Ahkeah, but had decided against it. Things were too unsettled between the two of them, too raw and confusing. Oh, why had she come here? Why had she placed so much importance on making peace with the man who’d fathered her, when it would have been so much easier to simply let go? Why had she allowed Iron Bill Howell to matter so much to her, when she clearly mattered so little to him?
As she turned onto her side, she saw her leather trunk, standing open as she’d left it last night after rummaging for a clean nightgown. She had fallen into bed, too tired even to brush her hair or wash her face. Now she felt rumpled and gritty-eyed, her hair damp and coarse with alkali dust. What she wouldn’t give for a bath! But this was no time for self-indulgence. It was time to get up, pull herself together and face whatever the day might bring.
Tossing back the covers, Miranda swung her legs out of bed. Her serge traveling suit lay damp, dirty and hopelessly rumpled where she’d spread it on the single wooden chair last night. She took a moment to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles and rearrange the folds. Then she selected another gown from the chest, a simple, dark brown twill, its severity softened by a white lace collar. Hastily she dressed, then splashed her face at the washstand and twisted up her hair.
The silence from the other two rooms told her, even before she opened the door, that her father had already risen and left. His bedroom stood open, the simple bunk made up with military precision. There was no fire in the potbellied stove, and the rudimentary cooking facilities looked as if they had never been used. A quick inspection of the cupboard revealed nothing but a few dishes and not so much as a crumb of food. Clearly Iron Bill took his meals in the mess hall and expected his daughter to do the same—if indeed he’d given any thought to the matter.
Miranda’s blue cloak hung neatly on a rack beside the door. As she lifted it down, she saw that it had been brushed free of dust; but even now the faint aroma of wood smoke clung to it, whispering of Ahkeah. The scent enfolded her as she slipped the cloak over her shoulders, worked a single button through its satin-bound hole and opened the door.
The morning breeze was chilly, but not really cold. Once the sun was high, she realized, the cloak would be too warm. Stepping back into the room, she replaced it on the hook and selected a cashmere shawl—another of Phillip’s gifts—from her trunk. With the shawl’s airy warmth wrapped around her shoulders, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
Miranda had glimpsed the lay of the fort last night in the darkness. Now the vista of open desert and low-slung adobe buildings spread before her, not enclosed by walls, as she might have expected a fort to be, but sprawling over acres of barren land, unconstrained by factors of space and safety. Clearly the small military unit that remained here to keep order and protect the Indian Agency had little to fear from their captives or from outside attack. Her eyes picked out what she guessed to be barracks, stables and offices, and one large building that resembled a warehouse—some kind of commissary, she surmised. The ground was still glazed with a thin coating of sleet. Bare earth steamed and glittered in the morning sunlight. There was little or no grass, and the few trees she could see were stunted and bare. How did her father stand this desolate place?
Lifting her skirts above the frozen mud, Miranda strode across the empty square of land that passed for a parade ground toward what she remembered to be the mess hall. The few soldiers who were loitering outside the door straightened to a semblance of attention, tipping their hats as she passed. One of them, a quiet young man who’d been part of her escort from Santa Fe, smiled shyly and held open the door. With a nod of thanks she stepped over the threshold.
Her heart sank as she surveyed the long mess hall with its sea of empty tables and benches and the more genteel officers’ section at the far end. Where was her father? Couldn’t he at least have waited for her to join him for breakfast? Did he think she’d traveled all this distance to wander around this desolate place alone?
“So here you are, my dear.”
Startled by the sound of a feminine voice, Miranda turned to see a plump, birdlike woman hurrying toward her from the direction of the kitchen. She was well into middle age, her badly dyed brown hair sculpted into rigidly upswept curls. Her wine-colored gown was elaborately ruffled at the neck, sleeves and hem, giving her the look of a drooping garden peony.
At closer range Miranda saw that the woman’s childlike face was webbed with lines, but traces of faded beauty lingered in her molasses-brown eyes. Those eyes sparkled as she seized Miranda’s fingers in her small, lace-mitted hand. “Your father had pressing duties this morning and couldn’t be here. I offered to wait and show you around—after you’ve had breakfast, of course. My name is Violet Marsden. My husband is quartermaster here at the fort, and I…” She caught her breath, as if the very effort of speaking had strained her. “I can’t tell you how very pleased I am to welcome you here!”
Still a bit dazed, Miranda allowed the woman to lead her to a table in a corner of the deserted officers’ mess. It was cheerlessly set with a threadbare linen cloth, chipped but serviceable white porcelain and heavy silver plate that bore a patina of long use. But someone had placed a sprig of tiny yellow spring wildflowers in a spare cup. Who had it been? Her father? This woman, perhaps?
“I’ve just been to the kitchen to make sure the cook saved you some porridge.” Violet Marsden settled herself across the table, adjusting her gown like a preening sparrow. An undertone in her fragile voice spoke of cotton fields and magnolias and the gracious manners of a time forever gone. What was she doing here in this barren place that seemed to have had every trace of gentility parched, burned, starved and frozen out of it?
“Did you have a difficult journey?” she asked, lifting the china teapot and pouring a cup for Miranda, then one for herself. There was no sugar or cream on the table, but the tea was fresh, its warmth curling pleasantly in Miranda’s stomach.
“The trip wasn’t bad,” she replied, dismissing what she remembered of last night’s arrival. “But I do have a question. Am I just imagining things, or is my father avoiding me?”
“Avoiding you?” Violet glanced up, her eyes wide with surprise. “How on earth could you imagine such a thing? Of course Major Howell isn’t avoiding you!”
“Then where is he? We’ve barely exchanged a dozen words since I arrived last night!”
“But, my dear, there’s a perfectly logical explanation for that,” Violet protested. “Last night you were exhausted and needed your rest.”
“And this morning?”
“Why, it’s simply the usual Saturday. He needed to be at the issue house early to make certain there’s no trouble with the Navajos!”
“Trouble with the Navajos?” Miranda asked, dimly aware that she sounded like a trained parrot.
“Why, bless you, this is the day they come in to get their rations. Thousands of them! The line goes all the way from the issue house to the road and beyond. With so many Indians about the place, a strong military presence is needed.”
Miranda glanced down at the bowl of gluey oatmeal laced with canned milk that had appeared on the table before her. “And my father couldn’t be spared for a single morning?” she asked, stirring the grayish mess with her spoon.
“The commanding officer of the fort is required to be in attendance.” Violet dabbed at her little rouged mouth with her napkin. “With the care of the Navajos passing from the army to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, this fort has come under a good deal of public scrutiny, my dear. If there’s trouble and some impulsive young soldier fires at unarmed Indians, it could make the
