not happy.”
“They are not. President Grant offered to buy it, but Lo the Indian is not interested.”
She stopped. “Ah! I have heard that before. ‘Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind, sees God in clouds or hears him in the wind.’” She grinned at him. “Alexander Pope, who probably never saw an Indian. I ask you, shouldn’t poets write about what they know?”
“They should, but don’t. ‘Lo’ is our nickname for hostiles.” Joe stopped, certain that her feet must be cold, but unwilling to continue this conversation inside, where Captain Dunklin would interrupt. “The plan now is to insist that Lo, Mrs. Lo and the Lo kiddies who traipse about in the unceded area—we call them Northern Roamers—be forced onto the reservations. Then Uncle Sam will turn that land and the Black Hills into one large For Sale sign.”
“If they won’t?”
“They have until the end of January, but I ask you, how easy is it to move a village in this cold? Very few Roamers have come to the reservations.” He sighed. “That is precisely what General Sherman wants—he’s general of the army. By February, I am certain a campaign will begin, to round up the Northern Roamers. You will see troops on the move this summer. Sherman is hoping for a fight.”
“All I want to do is teach school,” she said. “That sounds so self-centered, but it is the truth.”
“You’re not asking much.”
“I never do,” she replied quietly.
“Maybe you should,” he said on impulse.
She just shook her head and started for the roadhouse. It was his turn to stop at the door, thinking of another day of talking to Captain Dunklin, and feeling appalled by the idea.
Mrs. Hopkins must have been a mind reader. “Captain Dunklin reminds me of a pompous hypochondriac who taught in a school where I once worked. To shut him up, I would look at him with great concern, tell him I was worried about, oh, whatever I could think of, and suggest he see a doctor.”
“But I am the doctor!” Joe declared in humorous protest. “How can that work?”
“Who better to tell him that he should really rest his throat, because you’re concerned about that raspy, irritating sound he makes when he wants to get someone’s attention? You know the one I mean! You’ll have to be more diplomatic, but you understand.”
“I believe I do. We are now official conspirators.”
Her smile this time was genuine and made her eyes light up. Even if their precariously cobbled plan didn’t work, the major knew he would cherish the look in her eyes, a combination of gratitude and mischief that stripped away years from whatever burden she bore, at least for the moment.
He considered it a fair trade.
Susanna slept no better than usual, coming awake with that instant of terror, wondering how lightly she would have to tiptoe that day, before her conscious, rational mind reminded her that she was nowhere near Frederick Hopkins.
She followed her morning ritual, thinking of Tom first, hopeful that Frederick’s housekeeper had gotten him off to school with a minimum of fuss. Tommy had become adept at calling no attention to himself, so he wouldn’t upset his father. It was no way to live, but that was his life now.
“Tommy, I miss you,” she whispered.
When she came into the kitchen, she witnessed Dr. Randolph’s creativity. Captain Dunklin was dressed and wearing his overcoat, even though the kitchen was warm. Around his neck the surgeon must have wound a gauze bandage. She smelled camphor.
Susanna almost didn’t have the courage to look Major Randolph in the eye, not from fear, but from the conviction that she would burst into laughter, if she did.
The doctor made it easy. With a frown, he motioned her into the room.
“Don’t worry. Captain Dunklin isn’t contagious.”
“What could be wrong?” she asked, knowing she could play-act as well as anyone.
“I mentioned to the captain that he has a raspy way of clearing his throat that concerns me.” The major touched Captain Dunklin’s shoulder. “I wrapped his throat.”
“Major, I …” Captain Dunklin began, but the major shook his head.
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’m happy to help. When we get back, I’ll give you a diet regimen that should solve the problem. I gave him a stiff dose of cough syrup.” He sighed. “He’ll probably doze, but at least he won’t strain his vocal cords.”
“Captain, you may have my place by the stove, so you can be warm.”
Captain Dunklin looked at her with so much gratitude that Susanna felt a twinge of guilt. It passed quickly. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“That’s enough, Captain,” Joe admonished. “I would be a poor doctor if I advised you to eat anything more than gruel for breakfast. Would you like me to help you?”
“I do feel weak,” the captain whispered.
Susanna turned away and stared at a calendar until she regained her composure. “Let me feed him,” she whispered, when she turned around. “Women’s work, you know.”
It amused her that the doctor couldn’t meet her gaze. She took over the task of feeding a patient who had nothing wrong with him besides pomposity. When Dunklin looked at her with gratitude and tried to speak, she only shook her head and put her finger to her lips.
Swaddled in another blanket and seated in her chair by the ambulance’s stove, Dunklin promptly fell asleep, thanks to that dose of cough syrup. Susanna took his former place next to Major Randolph, who said nothing until they were under way.
“How will you treat him at Fort Laramie?” she asked, still not trusting herself to look at her partner in medical crime.
“I’ll prescribe bed rest and a low diet for five days,” he whispered. “His much-put-upon lieutenant will thank me, if he dares.”
They continued the journey in peace and quiet. Afternoon shadows began to gather as the ambulance stopped, and Major Randolph opened the door to look out. He opened the door wider. “The bridge is almost done.”
As she looked out the door, interested, the major left the ambulance to speak with a corporal wearing a carpenter’s apron. The cold defeated her, so she closed the door, only to have the post surgeon open it and gesture to her. Captain Dunklin muttered something, but did not wake.
“We’ll walk, but the driver will take Captain Dunklin across.”
She looked down dubiously at the frozen water under the few planks that spanned the bridge.
“You’re looking at the only iron bridge between Chicago and San Francisco. It will be the only bridge across the Platte, so it opens up the Black Hills from Cheyenne. Say goodbye to the buffalo and Indians. Here comes the gold rush.”
She took his gloved hand and crossed the river. When they were safely across, the corporal
