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 mama, God rest her soul, knew why she’d done it.
Months later, when Papa had come home and asked Millie about the saddle, she’d told him she loved it so much she was sharing it with Rosemary. Papa had said he was proud of her, how she understood Rosemary was different, and needed to be assured constantly that she was loved, just like their mother.
Millie closed her eyes. It was true. For as bold and brassy as Rosemary was on the outside, inside she was fragile, as delicate as glass, just as their mother had been. Rosemary had said she’d take her own life, and that of the baby, before allowing Seth to discover the truth. He would ruin her if he found out. Millie didn’t believe there was much left of Rosemary’s reputation to ruin, considering the number of men her sister’s name had been linked with, but she did believe her threats. She feared the baby would be in danger, for Rosemary did appear to be as desperate this time as she’d been over the saddle, when she had jumped into the river.
The weight on Millie’s chest increased tenfold. She didn’t believe her sister capable of murder, but she did know there were things worse than death. And knowing that had left her with no option but to agree to travel to Fort Sill to keep Seth from going to Washington, and possibly Richmond, as the letter he’d sent implied, until December.
Her gaze roamed the room. Seth didn’t deserve the deception, neither Rosemary’s faithlessness nor Millie’s lies. And he didn’t deserve her painting his cabin with rose oil, either. But Rosemary was her sister. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to protect her, and the life growing inside her.
If Millie was more daring and courageous, this would be easier. Actually, if she’d told Papa the truth five years ago, she wouldn’t be here now. She’d known about Clifton Wells, that Rosemary was planning to run off with him, but instead of saying something, fearful there’d be a row when Papa discovered it, Millie had gone to a friend’s house to avoid being dragged into the argument. The following morning, when she’d been summoned home, she’d been confused to hear Rosemary was marrying Seth instead of Clifton. Until Papa told her Clifton was already wed, and marrying Seth was the only thing that would save Rosemary’s name.
A knock on the door had Millie pushing off the seat and squaring her shoulders. She couldn’t stop protecting the family secrets now, nor could she give up on this mission.
“I hope I’m not intruding, Mrs. Parker,” Mr. Winston said when she opened the door, “but I wanted to drop off your boots. They should be fine this time. Good as new, actually.”
A lump had formed in her throat at how he’d addressed her. Others, when making her acquaintance, had called her Mrs. Parker, but right now, after contemplating the past and the events that had led her to here to Seth, the deceit seemed uglier. Heavier. Taking the boots, she found a simple smile. “Thank you, Mr. Winston. I do appreciate all you’ve done.”
“It’s been my pleasure, ma’am,” he said, bowing his head as he backed out the doorway.
Not so much as a single scuff mark signaled that the heel had once been separated from the boot. Brand-new at the start of her journey, the black leather was still relatively stiff and the breakage had been disappointing. To Millie. Rosemary would have thrown them away and bought a new pair in Tulsa.
“Good night, ma’am.”
“Good night,” she repeated, closing the door.
Seth watched the door close from where he stood across the compound. The smell of roses still filled his nostrils, leaving his insides hard. The flower’s aroma might be pleasant in small doses, but what he’d just experienced was sickening, mainly because it reminded him of Rosemary. The overpowering smell had taken him back in time.
“Marry her and I’ll make you a major,” General St. Clair had said that fretful morning five years ago.
Seth’s stomach recoiled all over again.
He’d refused the offer, more than once, but ultimately, before the day was done, he’d become a major and married her.
It had been a goal he’d set for himself, to become a major, and to do so at the age of twenty-three had been enticing, but that was not why he’d given in. The reason had been the general. The man had been afraid. Seth had assumed it was because of his daughter’s reputation, but St. Clair’s fear had been deeper, more distressing than one might experience over a reputation. The general had talked as if Rosemary’s very life was in danger, and eventually shared the truth that Rosemary was seeing another man, one she shouldn’t have been associating with, but was.
None of that had truly been Seth’s concern, but knowing how the general had numerous times put his own life in danger to save the men he commanded, he hadn’t been able to ignore the man’s plea for assistance. When the general had assured Seth that he could still return to Indian Territory, and that when things calmed down in Richmond, he’d see to the divorce himself, Seth had finally agreed to marry the girl. In name only. He’d left shortly after the ceremony, with the general’s promise of a divorce within the year ringing in his ears.
St. Clair had died less than a year later, and that’s when Seth had started pursuing the divorce on his own. It galled him, how he’d accepted the man’s deal—saved her reputation, and then worked twice as hard to prove he was capable of the position he’d been granted—only to have her ignore his requests. Not so much as a note had been sent his way, verifying she’d received his letters.
Why was she here now? The question jarred his insides. She had nothing to gain, and though he lived half a world away from Richmond, word traveled. He knew Rosemary wasn’t sitting in her father’s parlor, pining for her husband.
His gaze followed Winston as the man walked almost the entire length of the compound, his way lit by torches staked in the ground and shielded from the wind with heavy glass-and-brass enclosures. Winston turned near the icehouse and headed toward the location where a group had gathered.
Some of the boys sat back there most every night, strumming guitars and banjos, playing harmonicas and an assortment of other instruments they’d acquired over the years. Seth sat there plenty of nights, too, but it wasn’t their music filtering through his mind right now, it was an annoying little feeling he hadn’t experienced for a very long time. He couldn’t be jealous of Winston; the man had simply returned her boots. Yet there was an inkling of envy or perhaps resentment inside Seth. It had appeared as soon as she’d opened the door and smiled at the man.
She had Seth flustered. A crazy thing for him to be, but there was no other way to explain
