“I can help,” Susanna said, taking off her overcoat and putting on the apron hanging on a nail by the dry sink. “Major Randolph is delivering …” She stopped, unwilling to remind Maeve Rattigan that other women had babies at Fort Laramie.
Maeve put her hand on Susanna’s arm. “Mrs. Hopkins, life doesn’t stop because of my misfortune,” she said quietly. “I know he’s delivering the Bevinses’ baby.”
“You’re right,” Susanna said, struck by her words. It was true that life hadn’t stopped for her, either. Maybe she could learn something, if she chose to.
“I doubt it’s any harder than your own situation, widowed at a young age.”
I don’t want to continue that lie, but what can I do? Susanna asked herself.
By the time the omelet was ready for the skillet, Nick had brought in more wood, and Sergeant Rattigan was stamping snow off his boots on the front porch. Susanna glanced at Maeve, charmed at her sudden animation. I want to love like that someday, she thought.
“Saint Paul, you’re mighty handy,” she said, as Nick put the wood by the stove.
The sergeant helped Maeve back to the big chair. He covered her with a blanket, kissed her forehead and then opened the oven door for another warm blanket.
“I’m staying here today, Sergeant,” Susanna said.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“I don’t mind at all,” she replied, turning the omelet carefully and holding her breath until it was cooking, whole, on its other side.
“Very well.” He put the warm blanket against Maeve’s back, then returned to the kitchen. The sergeant glanced toward the parlor. “Maeve tells me you are interested in teaching some of the wives to read.”
“I am.” Susanna gestured to Nick, standing in the corner, to hold out the platter. “I’ll see how that works in with my other duties, and then we’ll begin.”
Nick may have objected to sitting at the table when Susanna asked, but Sergeant Rattigan was made of sterner stuff, apparently. One leveling glance and Nick sat down, hands folded in his lap like a well-behaved child.
Toast and tea completed the meal. Susanna ate as little as she could, hoping that would leave more for Maeve. She noticed Sergeant Rattigan was doing the same thing; they smiled at each other like conspirators as Maeve ate a large helping, then closed her eyes in satisfaction.
“’Tis rare to have an egg,” she said, her eyes still closed, but a smile on her face.
“The major gave us a dozen,” Susanna said, which made Maeve open her eyes in amazement. “I saved three. I intend to make a cake this morning.”
“Imagine that, Johnny,” Maeve said.
Susanna could barely suppress her delight at something so simple as a cake earning a response almost reverent. “If you have some dried apples, I can make an applesauce cake. Maybe you and Maeve could have a party tonight. You know, invite some friends over.”
“I believe we could,” the sergeant replied. “Would you be up to that, Maeve?”
“Aye, Johnny. I’d like a party.”
Maeve dozed then, her face calm, as Nick helped Susanna with the dishes. The sergeant sat by his wife, doing nothing more than watching her and touching her hand when she stirred. The cake was ready for the oven when he stood up quietly and came into the kitchen.
The sergeant nodded to Nick. “It’s time we left these ladies to their own devices,” he whispered. “There’s guard mount, and I imagine the hospital steward could use your help, uh …”
“Saint Paul,” Nick said with dignity.
“Saint Paul.” He put on his overcoat, kindly waiting for Nick to remember where he was and put on his own coat. “You’re doing a fine thing, Mrs. Hopkins,” the sergeant said. “I am in your debt.”
“No debt,” she said, shy again. “I’ll take good care of her.”
His eyes filled with sudden tears, but he made no comment as he released her hand and left with Saint Paul. Susanna sat a long moment in the kitchen, grateful for quiet as Maeve Rattigan healed, and she felt her own heart at peace.
There wasn’t anything more grand than a frugal sprinkle of sugar for the top of the loaf cake, but Maeve clapped her hands when Susanna set the cooling cake by the front room’s only window. It did look festive on the little table.
“I would serve it with tea,” Susanna told her. A quick look in Maeve Rattigan’s lean-to had revealed nothing grander. Army rations weren’t designed for even modest card parties.
“Tea it will be,” Maeve said. “Sit here now, if you please, Mrs.