Her Hesitant Heart - By Carla Kelly Page 0,31
I saved the worst for last.”
Susanna felt her heart thump harder. “I hope Mrs. Dunklin takes no interest in Shippensburg gossip.”
“We’ll know soon.”
The Dunklin quarters were overheated like all the others, but with heavy, dark furniture. Obviously not for the Dunklins were packing crate settees, which Susanna found charming, or light folding chairs, easy to move to the next garrison. The Dunklins seemed to be doing their best to bring Pennsylvania to the West.
To her relief, Captain Dunklin dominated the conversation in his own parlor, as he had attempted in the ambulance from Cheyenne. He complained of headache, which Major Randolph assured him was the principal symptom of erobitis.
“It will run its course by tomorrow afternoon,” the post surgeon said with a straight face. “Here is your scholar. Bobby Dunklin, Mrs. Hopkins has so much to teach you.”
Bobby scowled. Susanna decided to seat Nick Martin directly behind him, starting Monday. She glanced at Mrs. Dunklin, aware that Bobby must have inherited his scowl from her. Goose bumps marched in ranks down Susanna’s back as she chattered to an unwilling Bobby about school. “I’d rather ride my horse,” he said.
“Just think, Bobby,” Susanna said “While you’re waiting for spring, you can learn a few things.”
She felt Mrs. Dunklin’s eyes boring into her back. Can we leave? she pleaded silently to the post surgeon, wishing Major Randolph was susceptible to thought waves.
As the post surgeon started eyeing the door himself, Mrs. Dunklin stood up suddenly. “We’re so pleased you are here to lead our children into knowledge,” the woman said, sounding every bit as pompous as her husband. Then she frowned. “It’s going to drive me distracted until I remember why your name sticks in my mind, Mrs. Hopkins. I’ll figure it out.”
“Is it too much to hope that Captain Dunklin be transferred before Monday morning?” Susanna asked as they walked toward the Reeses’ quarters.
He said good-night on the porch. “If you’re serious about an omelet at the Rattigans’ tomorrow morning, I’ll stop by at five-thirty to escort you. With eggs, of course.”
She laughed softly. “Major, I never joke about omelets, or the weightier matters of our society. I’ll be ready.” She relished the sound of his own quiet laughter as he tipped his hat to her and continued on down the row.
Susanna was ready at five-thirty, waiting for the post surgeon’s knock on the door.
When it came, she opened the door to Nick Martin, who held out a note to her. “‘Nick’s your escort this morning,’” she read, after ushering him inside out of the snow. “‘I am doing my best to keep Lieutenant Bevins calm while his wife, a real trouper, labors on. Enjoy the eggs. Joe.’”
They crossed the parade ground quickly because the soldiers were assembling there, some of them still rubbing sleep from their eyes and yawning.
“What now?” she asked her escort.
“The corporal calls the roll, and then they go to breakfast,” Nick said. “There’s Sergeant Rattigan.”
She followed Nick’s pointing finger, the egg basket rocking on his arm, to see Maeve’s husband, standing ramrod-straight for his corporal to finish the roll. Too bad the army didn’t take into account that maybe Maeve needed Johnny more than some forty sleepy soldiers did.
Since Maeve’s husband was on the parade ground, Susanna hesitated before knocking on the Rattigans’ front door. It seemed a shame to make Maeve get up from her bed. She tapped lightly, and the sergeant’s wife opened the door.
She could tell Maeve was better. With a smile, the woman opened the door wider. Nick tried to hand the eggs over the threshold and back away, but Maeve stopped him.
“Nick, since the major is busy, who will eat his portion of the omelet?” she asked. “Omelets don’t keep well.”
Nick handed the egg basket to Maeve, but came no closer than the porch. “I can wait out here,” he mumbled.
“No, you won’t,” Maeve told him, her voice firm. Susanna decided she wasn’t a sergeant’s wife for nothing. “It’s too cold.” When he still didn’t budge, her eyes grew thoughtful. “Saint Paul, how will you even keep up your strength for another missionary journey, without an omelet?”
“I do believe you are right,” he replied, and came indoors.
By now, Maeve was leaning on the chair Susanna had left yesterday beside the armchair. Susanna took her arm. “Saint Paul, if you could bring that smaller chair into the kitchen, Maeve can sit down while I cook.”
He did as she said. “I will bring in wood.”
Maeve sat down thankfully. “I thought I could do