a merry chase,” Joe read. “It was as though Nick was drawing me away from the wagon yard, like a mother bird from her chicks. I finally lost him, but resolved to search the yards in the morning, when I could see better. When I did, the wagons had already pulled out, heading for Fort Russell. I was advised not to follow, because of Indians. Major, keep your eyes open. Tommy’s heading right to you, I think.”
Joe closed his eyes in relief, then opened them, to look in the envelope. He sighed with gratitude. Will had included the photograph of Susanna’s son. “I’m going to find you,” he murmured.
His patients were silent for the most part, as contemplative as Trappist monks, except when the ambulance hit a particularly bad spot. Then they sucked in their breath, hissing in pain. He knew the sound from years of experience, but it always unnerved him.
By the time they arrived at Fort Russell, the captain’s wife, alerted by telegraph, waited by the hospital entrance. Joe held her as she sagged against him, aghast at her husband’s wounds, then straightened and followed the stretcher into the hospital, her tread firm. Joe could only admire that much resolution, even though he knew Susanna was her equal. For some reason, he thought of foolish, faulty Emily Reese and her own devotion to her captain, and then Maeve, so loving, and now adored by a daughter as well as her sergeant. Perhaps it was just as well that Louis Pasteur had not answered his letter. He belonged with these intrepid souls.
It was a bracing thought that kept him awake long enough to hand over his patients and their charts, and find a bed in Russell’s orphanage, the army nickname for temporary quarters for those officers casually at post. Joe soaked in a cramped tin tub, then crawled between sheets that lacked one key ingredient in his life—his wife.
He went to breakfast, pleased to see Jim O’Leary and his men in the mess hall. He sat with them, listening to Jim’s stories of patrol and rumor.
“Gossip says Crook is holed up at Goose Creek, fly-fishing and determined not to move forward without ample reinforcements,” Jim told him in disgust.
Joe listened, wondering again why Crook had come to his hospital to stand there in silence. He was about to say something when someone dropped a pan and all the men at breakfast whipped around to look, some with their hands on their sidearms.
“We’re on edge,” Jim commented.
Joe looked beyond the mess tables toward the source of the noise, where a boy was picking up the pan. “Army’s getting younger every year, or I’m getting older,” he said.
“You’re getting older, Major dear,” O’Leary said, familiar in his Irish way. “The cook told me he’s so shorthanded, with all soldiers in the field, that he’s practically snatching civilians and throwing them in the kitchen.”
Joe looked at the boy, on his hands and knees now, wiping up porridge. He looked again. He felt his face drain of color, then shook his head to clear it. The boy was tall and thin. His hair might have been blond, but it was dirty. Look at me, lad, he thought, suddenly alert. Just look at me.
He got up slowly, his attention focused on the child, who was mopping up the mess he had caused, while the cook scolded him. Just look at me.
The boy did. His eyes were brown and he looked very much like Susanna Randolph, with her heart-shaped face. Joe held his breath to observe the mole under the boy’s eye.
The cook swore and the boy looked in his tormenter’s direction. Joe let his breath out in a whoosh. The boy had a patch of much darker hair by his temple. This was the boy in the photograph that Susanna had treasured, and surrendered so reluctantly. Will Pinkerton was right; Tommy had been making his way west, set on this path by Nick Martin.
“Tommy,” Joe said, tentative and still unsure.
No reaction. I’m a fool, Joe thought, and turned away. He turned back. The cook had set up a scold so shrill that Joe could barely hear himself. He walked closer, giving the cook such a glare that the man went silent.
“Tommy Hopkins,” Joe said, distinctly this time.
The boy looked up, startled, poised for flight. He balled up the rag in his hand, which dripped porridge, ready to throw it if Joe took one step closer.
Joe stopped. He took a deep breath and spoke softly.