Free Beyond Squaw Creek by Jon Sharpe

hair was piled in a loose bun atop her head. Reacting to his bald appraisal, a blush rose in her finely tapered cheeks.
    He wanted to grab her, tear her hair free of its bun, lift her skirts, and kiss that wide, delectable mouth.
    Instead, he grunted and shifted his weight from one boot to the other. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He returned his eyes to hers. “You were one hell of a romp—and I’d put you high on my list of the best I’ve had—but it wasn’t anything I’d squawk about. Now, can I come in, or do you wanna send a plate out to the porch?”
    Green eyes flashing angrily, she stepped back and jerked the door wide. “Do come in, Mr. Fargo!”
    The Trailsman gave his boots an obligatory scrape on the porch boards, doffed his hat, and stepped over the threshold. He found himself in the cabin’s simple, rustic but comfortable kitchen, which was warm from the ticking iron range against the far wall, and rife with the smell of roasting meat.
    A stout, gray-haired woman in a bonnet and apron stood at a table slicing a steaming bread loaf—another noncom’s wife, probably, working as the major’s housekeeper. Fargo had heard that the major’s own wife, Valeria’s mother, had years ago died from a fever back east. Valeria had been educated at the best boarding and finishing schools. She’d come to Fort Howard to spend the summer with her father before traveling with wealthy friends overseas.
    â€œThe men are in the parlor ,” Valeria curtly announced, staring up at Fargo icily. “Dinner will be served shortly.”
    â€œObliged,” Fargo said, nodding at the housekeeper who’d looked up from her work to greet the newcomer with a wan smile.
    Hooking his hat on a rack, Fargo turned through a door in the kitchen’s left wall, and entered the nattily-appointed parlor where four men—Major Howard, Prairie Dog Charley, and two crisply dressed officers—stood in a tight clump before a red divan and a ticking wall clock. There was a thick throw rug on the floor beneath their boots. Beyond them, through an open door, lay the dining room in which a long table stood draped with oilcloth and china place settings.
    â€œAh, Mr. Fargo,” the Major said, halting his hushed conversation midsentence. “How good of you to join us.”
    The others turned toward the Trailsman, including Prairie Dog Charley, all holding glasses quarter filled with whiskey or brandy, and smoldering cigars. Prairie Dog gave Fargo a furtive wink.
    â€œDo come in and meet Captain Rudolph Thomas and Lieutenant Andrew Ryan. Gentlemen, meet Skye Fargo, commonly referred to as the Trailsman.”
    Fargo shook hands first with Ryan—a slender, prematurely balding man in his late twenties—and then Thomas, who quirked his upswept mustache in a stiff smile as he said, “Ah, yes, the Trailsman. We were to meet earlier for your debriefing, Mr. Fargo, but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
    Thomas was also in his late twenties—short and pale and bespectacled, with a flawless uniform and a smattering of red pimples across his cheekbones. He and Ryan were obviously West Point lads. They’d come west to bludgeon the savage redskins, but now, realizing they’d had no idea what they’d gotten themselves into nor of the Indians’ fighting abilities and furor, were soiling their trousers hourly. Their faces were stiff, smiles taut, eyes glassy.
    â€œSorry, Captain,” Fargo grunted, releasing the man’s hand. “There wasn’t much to debrief. We were ambushed, everyone in our party dead but myself and Miss Howard. I had a bath and took a nap in the sutler’s storeroom.”
    Prairie Dog chuckled as he lifted his glass to his bearded mouth.
    Turning away to fill a goblet from a cut-glass decanter, Major Howard said, “The sutler’s storeroom? Mr. Fargo, we’ve humble accommodations, to be