to sleep yet. Everything was still too new to her, and all day long her mood had swung between the relief of freedom and the pain of loss.
She couldn't bring herself to go to bed. Her gaze strayed there, taking in the pretty handmade quilt turned neatly back, the starched ruffle beneath, the snowy sheets. The last time she'd slept in a real bed, she'd been under her own quilt, lying beside her husband.
That night she and Ethan had loved each other almost to exhaustion, then lain awake long after, dreaming of a trip to New Orleans. They'd planned to visit his younger brother's family, and Ethan had been looking forward to showing off her and Susannah and Jody. Now she could only wonder if anybody had notified Matthew that Ethan had died, if Matt had come to take care of their affairs.
As she looked around the room, seeing all the homey touches Cora had put in the Sprenger quarters, she felt her own loss now more than any time since those days after they took Susannah. She had no husband to hold her, no baby to tug at her skirts, no inquisitive little daughter to follow her about.
But she was free, she reminded herself, and she had to be grateful for that. Now she could look for Susannah. She could pester the authorities until they joined in her search. She could go home and regain her strength; then she could help in the search for her daughter.
The only sound in the house was the loud ticking of the big clock in the front parlor. Annie sat listening to it, hearing it strike the three-quarter hour, then the hour. It was ten o'clock. Ten o'clock, and all's well Or if it isn't, you have to make it that way. You have survived for a reason.
She couldn't stand the loneliness of that ticking. Rising, she went to the window and looked outside. The wind had died down, and the storm had passed, leaving behind a thick, pristine layer of snow on the ground. By moonlight a single sentinel made his rounds, crossing between buildings, then disappearing. It was a lonely night out there also.
She thought of Hap Walker lying in the infirmary, clinging to leg and life. Major Sprenger had talked a great deal about him at supper, reminding her where she'd heard the name before. Hap Walker, the Texas Ranger. She'd read his name in the Austin paper some years back, before the war even, when he'd made a daring rescue of two little girls taken by a Kiowa war party. As she recalled, he'd crawled into the camp, stampeded the Indians' horses, then grabbed both children in the confusion. Everybody had talked about it at the time.
According to the major, Walker had lived an incredible life. A Texas Ranger at eighteen. Captain of a ranger battalion by twenty-four. A Texas volunteer in the Confederate Army who'd risen to the rank of captain there also. Twice wounded in the war, once at Atlanta, once at Sharpsburg, and yet he'd not come home until it was over. Recommissioned in the rangers just last year, he'd been forced out by the wound that still threatened his life. But people still called him Captain Walker.
"Hap Walker," Sprenger declared, "was the best Indian fighter in Texas, bar none—and a damned fine lawman, too," adding, "Folks could count on Hap. He'd die before he'd let 'em down. They don't come any better than Hap."
But when Cora had asked how he was recovering now, the surgeon's expression had sobered. "I'm worried—real worried," he admitted. "Maybe I should have just gone ahead and amputated. If that fever doesn't come down some by tomorrow, I'll have to do it, anyway, and hope to God I didn't make a mistake by waiting."
"But you said you'd found the source of infection earlier," his wife reminded him. "You said he had a good chance."
"That was before the fever shot up. It was one hundred three at six o'clock, and that's mighty high for a grown man. I told Nash to add sassafras to the quinine if it goes up any more, but I hate to make a man sweat when his body's short on water."
And so it had gone. The surgeon had just come
She couldn't bring herself to go to bed. Her gaze strayed there, taking in the pretty handmade quilt turned neatly back, the starched ruffle beneath, the snowy sheets. The last time she'd slept in a real bed, she'd been under her own quilt, lying beside her husband.
That night she and Ethan had loved each other almost to exhaustion, then lain awake long after, dreaming of a trip to New Orleans. They'd planned to visit his younger brother's family, and Ethan had been looking forward to showing off her and Susannah and Jody. Now she could only wonder if anybody had notified Matthew that Ethan had died, if Matt had come to take care of their affairs.
As she looked around the room, seeing all the homey touches Cora had put in the Sprenger quarters, she felt her own loss now more than any time since those days after they took Susannah. She had no husband to hold her, no baby to tug at her skirts, no inquisitive little daughter to follow her about.
But she was free, she reminded herself, and she had to be grateful for that. Now she could look for Susannah. She could pester the authorities until they joined in her search. She could go home and regain her strength; then she could help in the search for her daughter.
The only sound in the house was the loud ticking of the big clock in the front parlor. Annie sat listening to it, hearing it strike the three-quarter hour, then the hour. It was ten o'clock. Ten o'clock, and all's well Or if it isn't, you have to make it that way. You have survived for a reason.
She couldn't stand the loneliness of that ticking. Rising, she went to the window and looked outside. The wind had died down, and the storm had passed, leaving behind a thick, pristine layer of snow on the ground. By moonlight a single sentinel made his rounds, crossing between buildings, then disappearing. It was a lonely night out there also.
She thought of Hap Walker lying in the infirmary, clinging to leg and life. Major Sprenger had talked a great deal about him at supper, reminding her where she'd heard the name before. Hap Walker, the Texas Ranger. She'd read his name in the Austin paper some years back, before the war even, when he'd made a daring rescue of two little girls taken by a Kiowa war party. As she recalled, he'd crawled into the camp, stampeded the Indians' horses, then grabbed both children in the confusion. Everybody had talked about it at the time.
According to the major, Walker had lived an incredible life. A Texas Ranger at eighteen. Captain of a ranger battalion by twenty-four. A Texas volunteer in the Confederate Army who'd risen to the rank of captain there also. Twice wounded in the war, once at Atlanta, once at Sharpsburg, and yet he'd not come home until it was over. Recommissioned in the rangers just last year, he'd been forced out by the wound that still threatened his life. But people still called him Captain Walker.
"Hap Walker," Sprenger declared, "was the best Indian fighter in Texas, bar none—and a damned fine lawman, too," adding, "Folks could count on Hap. He'd die before he'd let 'em down. They don't come any better than Hap."
But when Cora had asked how he was recovering now, the surgeon's expression had sobered. "I'm worried—real worried," he admitted. "Maybe I should have just gone ahead and amputated. If that fever doesn't come down some by tomorrow, I'll have to do it, anyway, and hope to God I didn't make a mistake by waiting."
"But you said you'd found the source of infection earlier," his wife reminded him. "You said he had a good chance."
"That was before the fever shot up. It was one hundred three at six o'clock, and that's mighty high for a grown man. I told Nash to add sassafras to the quinine if it goes up any more, but I hate to make a man sweat when his body's short on water."
And so it had gone. The surgeon had just come
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