Free The Officer and the Bostoner (Historical Western Romance) (Fort Gibson Officers Series, Book 1) by Rose Gordon Page A

perfect opportunity for a small nap. “Every so often, there’ll be a ball,” he murmured, locking his fingers together and placing them behind his head.
    “ A ball?” Her tone was drenched with doubt.
    “ Yes, a ball,” he countered, forcing himself to open his eyes. “As it would be, every two months or so, we have dances with the Cherokees.”
    She shook her head, causing two tendrils of her long, dark hair to fall loose around her face. “I swear, you are the least serious man of my acquaintance.”
    “Then you need to spend more time with—” He cut himself off before he made such a foolish suggestion. The last thing she needed to do was spend more time with anyone, especially Gray. “Believe it or not, I was being very serious about the dancing. I wasn’t here when it started, but every two months or so, the Indians will come to trade goods. While they are here, they want to dance.”
    “ And you actually dance with them?”
    He couldn’t tell if that was surprise or disdain he sensed in her voice. “Yes. In case you have not noticed, there are very few females around there. We men do enjoy some female companionship, when possible.”
    Her face turned red and she dropped her eyes. “I didn’t realize...never mind.” She turned her attention back to the pot of water. “It’s not that I was criticizing them or any of you, I was merely surprised the Indians would want anything to do with the Army, that’s all.”
    He laughed and shut his eyes again. “They probably don’t. But they still have to trade with someone. Besides, this ball isn’t quite what you might think. Back East people go to balls to socialize with friends and seek a spouse, if necessary. This ball is about business, keeping peace and making trades. If one of those squaws were to be harmed by one of our men, it wouldn’t end well. Not—”
    “Wes!” Allison shrieked.
    Wes snapped his eyes open and nearly laughed at the sight of the pot in the too large fire. Boiling liquid bubbled over the side and onto the fire, putting it out and creating a huge billow of smoke as it hit the hot coals below. He pushed himself out of bed, grabbed the closest item of fabric to him—which just so happened to be his coatee—and reached into the fire to grab the pot’s handle. After he pulled the pot out, he set it down on the table and dropped his coatee on the bed again. “Your water, my lady.”
    Her wide eyes collided with his, making him want to laugh all the more. Instead, he whistled as he returned to his spot on the bed and rested his eyes once more. Except this time, instead of closing them all the way, he just lowered his eyelids and watched Allison as she swallowed convulsively on her way to open the little window above the table. With her back to him, she reached for the coffee bean. Before he could tell her that one bean would only make enough for his single cup and that she could use the rest for any tea she might have had with her in her purse, something had already been dropped into the pot. His coffee would be weaker than he was accustomed to, but that was all right; he would casually inform her next time.
    She scooped up his coatee and shook it in the air to help push the smoke out the window.
    He scrubbed his cheeks with his fingers. He’d need to make a stop at Charles’ tomorrow during lunch and get some supplies for their home. His coatee was not a suitable replacement for a towel.
    “ Your coffee is ready,” she murmured a few minutes later, extending a cup to him.
    He sat up and took it from her. “Aren’t you going to have some?”
    “No, thank you.”
    He lowered the tin cup toward his lap. It had been so long since he’d been home; he’d nearly forgotten that coffee was not a drink most consumed. Apparently, a decade or so ago, President Andrew Jackson had gotten coffee and sugar added to the soldiers’ rations, thus making it a popular drink among those in uniform but still very rare and often disliked by