The March sun was strong, and a warm morning wind was carrying the scent of hill flowers and cut grass. The soldiers at Fort Lafayette were gathering hay. After the long winter, the garrison was about to face its first spring at the new fort, and the younger men were restless.
    "Reports say all is quiet, sir," said Lt. Wainwright handing the papers to Colonel Marlowe.
    Marlowe lifted a quizzical look on him. "Sounds like a bad thing, the way you say it."
    "Well, sir, it's about time we saw some action, don't you agree?"
    Tall, lanky Wainwright was over thirty and still behaved like a West Point cadet. Marlowe prayed fervently his own son did not turn out like him. "Lieutenant, Fort Lafayette ain't never gonna see no action, God willin'."
    "But..."
    "Go look after your wife." Marlowe waved him away.
    When the door closed after the lieutenant, the colonel exchanged a look with Captain Shelby, sitting in an armchair beside the crackling fireplace. Though relatively young, Shelby was a veteran of the war, where he had left an eye and his overall health. No sunny day was warm enough for him. He returned his colonel's glance with an ironic smirk, then restored his attention on the previous week's Gazette.
    "Action, he says," drawled Marlowe. "God Almighty. Makes me tired just to look at him." He got up and stared out of the window. He was surprised to see Sergeant McKay spurring his horse towards the gates of the fort.
    He opened the door of his office. "McKay!" he called. "I wanted that report on the trainin' session 'fore you went away!"
    "You got it, sir," answered his subordinate, slowing down. "Left it on your desk."
    "Ain't seen no report, McKay."
    The sergeant stopped the horse, breathed out in annoyance. "It is on your desk. I put it under the thing, the - the stone."
    "The stone? You mean my trilobite? That's for the 'out' mail! What's on your mind, McKay? No, don't answer me. Get out of my sight fast!"
    The sergeant saluted and obeyed the order thoroughly.
    Marlowe went back. The report was indeed on his desk, under his precious trilobite. The colonel picked it up and squinted. By the quality of the handwriting, it looked like McKay had scribbled it in a couple of minutes leaning on his horse's hindquarters.
    The colonel sighed, letting it fall on the desk. "What's up with ev'rybody?"
    "Spring," clarified Shelby, lazily turning another page.

     McKay reached Colorado Springs in record time. He dropped by at Alison's farm, but she wasn't at home, and neither was her wagon. So he rode on towards the town.
    The wagon waited outside Bray's Mercantile. McKay dismounted and got in. Alison was at the desk, choosing sewing threads from a big box under the supervision of a helpful Loren. They were discussing the recent happenings, the brawl at the saloon, Hank arrested by Sheriff Simon and the Gold Nugget closed down.
    "Hi," he said. "Travis brought me your message. Said you comin' to the fort for some days."
    She turned with a smile, then stared. "What's that?"
    "What?" he asked, coming towards her.
    "That," she said, pointing at him and then at her own mouth.
    He checked his face. "Guess I was a li'l hasty this mornin' an' I didn't wanna cut myself," he explained. He had shaved just two strips of skin between his sideburns and his mouth, and the result was a narrow ring of short, reddish-blond beard around his lips.
    "Good Heavens, McKay, how did you look before?" she exclaimed, laughing. "You don't see me for two weeks and forsake even that sketchy lawn-mowing you usually pass for a shave?"
    He looked disappointed. "Don't you like it?"
    Alison considered him with her hands on her hips. "Do you want to look meaner?"
    He wrinkled his nose. "Grrr."
    She looked behind her shoulders, but Loren was following the conversation with interest. "Tell you later," she whispered.
    He grew serious. "What happened? Why did you decide so hastily?"
    "Bella got her son Toby to work on my farm for four days without pay. Yesterday he and Brian Cooper let themselves get caught in a brawl at the Gold Nugget. Seems right was on his side... you know how it is. Yet Bella got scared, and decided to give him a little lesson."
    "Will he be alright, working alone on the farm?"
    "He won't be alone. I'm sure Bella'll give him a hand. She doesn't want to make him rebellious... it's just a matter of principle. In a way she's right, what he did was dangerous. If he wanted to make a statement, he should have gone into the saloon with his father and Robert E, not with poor Brian."
    "Punishment for brawlin' is four days of hard labour at your farm?" McKay shook his head. "Wish I had known it when I trashed the saloon."
    The joke fell flat. The Valentine fight with Harmon Fraser was still all too present to Alison's mind; and she was not amused by the fact that her husband had acted no better than a teen, and for a reason, frankly, much more trifling than racism.
    "Listen," she said firmly, "I have to finish my provision of threads - especially now, if I have to do some sewing up there. And I want to be sure I leave the farm provided with everything. Give me five minutes, then we'll go home to collect my things."
    "Alright," McKay answered. He stayed for a moment supervising the choice of the threads, but he was restless, and got on Alison's and Loren's nerves. So he went outside to enjoy the warm afternoon.
    As he stepped out on the porch, a curious sight greeted him. The usually vivacious Brian Cooper was wandering up the road with his hands deep in his pockets, head low. McKay lifted his eyebrows.
    "Hi, Brian," he called.
    Brian lifted his head enough to peer from under the wide brim of his hat. "Sergeant," he answered.
    "I thought you worked for Miss Jennings in the afternoon."
    The boy shrugged. He came closer and flopped down on the steps, head in his hands. "If ya call that workin'."
    "I thought you liked it."
    "I do. But today I can't get a single thing right. When I spilled all of Miss Dorothy's T's, U's an' V's on the floor, well... she said maybe I needed a breath of fresh air." Before McKay could inquire further, Brian shook his head. "Can't concentrate. Can't stop thinkin' 'bout what happened to Toby. It was so ugly in the saloon yesterday - an' he has to be punished? Just 'cause he defended himself?"
    McKay crossed his arms. "Alison says it won't be too bad. Reckon his Ma wants to keep him near her for some days."
    Brian shrugged again. Then he finally looked up. "This way Miss Alison'll be able to leave the farm for a while, won't she? Will she come up to Fort Skunk?"
    McKay stared a little, and Brian reddened. "Sorry. Some - some people call it that."
    "Well, the place was called Skunk's Tail by the Cheyenne, so I guess it ain't too wrong," said the sergeant, keeping a straight face. Then a mischievous correlation crossed his mind. He crouched down, forearms on his knees. "Hey, Brian, what's a trilobite?"
    The boy eyed him diffidently. "Why you wanna know?"
    "Colonel Marlowe got one on his desk, an' it made me curious."
    Brian's eyes widened. "Colonel Marlowe got a trilobite?"
    The sergeant nodded. "Yep. Looks like an insect, but it's as large as this an' weird-lookin', an' it feels like stone."
    "It's a fossil!" exclaimed Brian, insulted.
    McKay fished in his schooldays memories. "You mean one of those ancient animals you find set in rocks?"
    Brian looked at him sideways. "If I tell you all about it," he said conspiratorially, "will you let me come up to Fort Sk - to the fort to see it?"
    "Course," said McKay matter-of-factly, sitting on the steps beside him.
    "Well then," said Brian, raising his head, "you see, millions an' millions years ago, when Man was not yet on the Earth..."

    "... so, ya see, it depends on the soil, the amount of water in it, an' the climate," McKay concluded enthusiastically, as Alison jumped off the wagon in front of her house. "In Siberia, for example, you could find a whole mastodon perfectly preserved in the ice!"
    She smiled at him. "You really enjoyed it."
    "Brian loves to talk about these things," McKay said, dismounting and helping her with the supplies. "Just think 'bout Marlowe's face next time he tries to scare me away with his fossil expertise an' I get back at him with my newly-found knowledge of the Precambrian."
    Alison laughed. She carried the new spade head into the shack and looked around. "What am I going to need up there?"
    "No gardenin' instruments," McKay said, stopping at the door of the shack.
    She came back into the kitchen, brushing past him. "Shall I need pots and crockery?"
    "Don't think so."
    "Soap? Bedclothes?"
    "Hmmm... I'd say we have 'em, but since you comin' with the wagon, bring 'em."
    "Full change of clothes, just in case some horse kicks me in the mud..." She darted into the bedroom and started rummaging around. From her trunk she took out some bedclothes and underwear, with a jasmine soap that Dorothy had given her as a present. She straightened up and looked around. "Clothes, yes, let's see, a blouse and skirt, but not the red gown, or the blue one, maybe the yellow one, but the hem is torn, and..."
    "Hey." He came closer and put his hands on her shoulders. "Relax. If you forget somethin', I can send somebody to fetch it for you in no time."
    She nodded. "'Course. There's no reason to be nervous, is there?" She encircled his waist, as usual resisting the temptation to fiddle with his cartridge pouch. "We didn't finish our conversation at Loren's," she said.
    "Which conversation?" he asked, feigning innocence.
    "This," she whispered, rising on tiptoe.
    The kiss started playful, and got moving and sensual. She expected him to feel scruffier, instead it was a smooth and soft sensation. "You did it on purpose," she whispered.
    "I swear I didn't... uh... whoa."
    "Hmmm, I could come to like it... like it very much."
    "Alison - gotta be back quick. Promised. Colonel could cut my next leave."
    She looked at him. "Would he be this mean?"
    "Positively," McKay answered.
    Alison sighed impatiently and laid her head on his shoulder in a more restrained way. "I missed you, Terence."
    He stroked her hair tenderly. "So did I. Listen... the sooner I get back to the fort, the sooner I'll be off duty tonight, hm?"
    "Sounds fair."
    "Collect your things and let's go." He couldn't contain his joy, however, and made her do a half turn, lifting her from the ground. She laughed and hugged him tight.
    "I'm glad we'll be together," she said.

    On their arrival at the fort, Colonel Marlowe saw it fit to be found strolling casually beside the gates, so that he could be the first to welcome Alison. He helped her get down from the wagon and gave her his arm. "It seems you're gonna stay with us a little more than usual, ma'am."
    "Unfortunately I have only four days, Colonel, then I'll have to be back to my farm."
    "You'll make the most of it, I'm sure. Last time I didn't even see you. Come on - the missus' waitin' for you."
    Alison shot an amused look at McKay, who was unloading the wagon. Sometimes she managed to squeeze an afternoon or evening at the fort in the demanding schedule of her farm. The last time she'd got there late at night and went away at dawn. She had felt like she was having an affair with her own husband.
    Mrs. Marlowe was waiting for them at Headquarters, in the middle of the parlour, like a queen expecting the homage of her loyal retainers. She had joined her husband a little after his taking command of Fort Lafayette. She had taken possession of the rooms upstairs, previously used as documents' storage - not that there were all that many documents in a newly-built fort, but they had stored there all the odds and ends left after the departure of the builders, and Sergeant Hopkins had had his hands full for a couple of days to make them inhabitable. Now there was a bedroom and a nice-sized dining room, and the colonel's small bedroom downstairs had become the parlour to receive officers' wives and visiting personalities. No kitchen - Mrs. Marlowe didn't cook. Ma Hopkins, the sergeant major's wife, did it for her.
    "My dear," she said in her husky voice on catching sight of Alison. She held out her hands. The first time she had seen Mrs. Marlowe, blinded by her appearance, Alison had attempted a curtsey, feeling an utter fool - from then on she had resolved on treating her as equal. It wasn't easy. Even as she grasped the lady's hands companionably, Alison felt inadequate. Mrs. Marlowe was taller than her, statuesque, a dramatic blonde beauty. She must be around forty, and looked twenty-five, if one didn't look closely at her eyes. She managed to sport an impeccable wardrobe on all occasions. And inexplicably she was always welcoming to Alison, always considerate to the humble NCO's wife who came nosing about a place that wasn't really her own.
    "I've been looking forward to spending some time with you," Mrs. Marlowe said. "I hope you will join us after dinner."
    Alison nodded her thanks, noticing that the invitation did not cover dinner. That would have been too great a departure from the fort's etiquette. Sometimes she wondered whether the rituals that worked there were standard cavalry behaviour or were the result of Mrs. Marlowe's influence.
    The colonel had retired into his office. McKay appeared on the door of the parlour and bowed his head to the lady. "I had your things brought to my quarters, Alison," he said. "If you wish to stay here a little, I'll ask somebody to wait for you."
    "Oh, my dear, I don't mean to detain you," said Mrs. Marlowe. "Go and put your things in order. We'll see you tonight."
    Alison reached McKay. "I don't need an escort," she said in a low voice as they crossed the yard towards the NCOs' quarters. "I dare say I know where your room is."
    McKay's face stiffened a little. "Alison, during these four days I'll be on duty most of the time and you'll find yourself alone a lot. Don't go anywhere without an escort. I insist on it."
    She looked at him. "What could possibly happen to me? Everybody will be on duty most of the time. I don't think anybody'll have the time to be a menace to me."
    He looked at her seriously. "If you knew what I know 'bout some of these people, you wouldn't wanna look at 'em, even."
    "You'll make a list of the people I must avoid."
    "It'll be shorter to list those you can trust."
    "Terence - I was joking."
    "I was not."
    Under the porches of the NCOs' barracks they passed a squad of recruits practising the clean-up of their rifles. The soldiers saluted. Sergeant Flaherty waved a cheerful hand. "Hey, Terry."
    Only Alison heard the low growl with which McKay returned the salute. She smiled at Corporal Winters, who beamed at her, and scanned the row of faces. People of all ages and looks. As she entered McKay's quarters, at the south end of the barracks, she wondered which of them would not make it on the list.

    The men got back to their cleanup.
    "I think it's unhealthy, to be so besotted with one's own wife," said Corporal Morrow.
    "You're just envious," Winters objected.
    "Yeah, what's wrong with it?" Flaherty added. "He's lovesick, so what? As long as he does his duty..."
    "But just look at him, sportin' that ring on his finger as if it was all that big thing - as if a horse sported bite an' bridle." He spit in the dirt.
    "Now shut up," Flaherty said, "an' be done with this, or Sgt. Hopkins will roast ye alive."
    
    "Is Flaherty one of those I wouldn't want to look in the face?" Alison asked, half jokingly, closing the door behind her.
    "No," McKay admitted. "He's just plain dumb. Ain't seen a lotta fightin'. Put him in a place where he can earn his so-called glory, he'd run away."
     Alison looked around. The barracks' block faced Northwest, so the room got some light only in the afternoon; at that hour, a little after lunch, all the sunlight they could see came from the reflected glare of the yard. It was a small room in dark unpolished wood, with a bed in a corner, a washing bowl and pitcher with a mirror for shaving (Alison smiled a private smile), a table with two chairs, a burning stove and a sideboard surmounted by a couple of shelves. Some pegs behind the door held McKay's greatcoat, a shirt and his knapsack. His trunk lay along the wall, and Alison's had been deposited between it and the back door, thus diminishing freedom of movement even more. This was what they called "married quarters" - just because the bed was ever so slightly larger than a common pallet, and of course because the room was all for the occupant and his wife.
    Actually the room, which a straight-faced Cloud Dancing, on being informed of the arrangement, had named "The just-in-case lodge", was the result of a rather awkward and temporary compromise. Alison rarely went to the fort, and it would have been impossible for McKay to move from the barracks to another room every time he wished to spend some hours alone with his wife. Of course, Marlowe could have cut the question by deciding that there was no place at the fort for a migratory wife, and forcing McKay to either limit himself to seeing Alison in his off hours at her home, or have her relocate at the fort for good; but the sergeant had pulled all the strings he could and had got the room anyway. Alison knew how much it meant for him to give her the opportunity to get used to life at the fort, in case she could one day spend more time there. So he mostly slept alone, sometimes missing his comrades' company and sometimes enjoying solitude. Jokes about his special treatment had quickly died down, to his face anyway, after a couple of withering glances.
    "Need anythin'?" McKay asked.
    "I'll just look around a bit," Alison answered. "Don't worry, I'll take care of myself."
    He nodded. "I'm on duty till after dinner. Get somethin' to eat from Ma Hopkins. Alison... remember what I told you. Watch your step. Whatever happens you don't like, report it immediately."
    She nodded. "I will."
    He gave her a quick kiss, to avoid temptations, then stepped to the door. He opened it, and turned to look at her with a small smile.
    "What?" she asked, laughing.
    He just shook his head, backed out and closed the door.

    Alison sighed. She barred the door without thinking, then sat down on the bed. She gave another survey to the room. "Now what do I do?"
    The bed was low and hard, a thin mattress on some boards barely off the wooden floor. She lifted the covers. It looked fairly clean, as usual. McKay always spoke highly of the Fort Lafayette laundry arrangement. The whole room seemed in order, no visible living creatures running around. She had learned not to be finicky - her and Susan's first months in Aunt Louisa's house had been plagued by cockroaches and mice, and though she had mastered the art of fumigating, she still found all kind of animals inside the house, due to the vicinity of the woods: from spiders and scorpions to thieving racoons and stray birds. Yet her parents had always kept a clean household in Denver, and she appreciated it when possible.
    Alison hadn't asked whether there was anything she could do. She got up, took the shirt that was hanging from the door and sniffed it. It could go for another couple of days. There was nothing to mend, she usually did that at home. She went to the back door and looked out. All she could see in the back, between the clotheslines, was the wall of the compound lined with stables, a lean-to protecting the horses' hay and the woodpile, and the outhouses. She knew there were two separate places for men and women, at least nominally. A trooper went by driving a cart and saluted her. The smell of horses was strong, but she could get used to it.
    Alison came back inside and opened the sideboard. Apart from some essential pottery, it was empty. Out of the window she saw a water pump just beside the porch steps.
    She didn't really feel like going to Ma Hopkins for help. She wanted to know at once if she was able to survive by her own means. All she had to do was go to the fort store and buy some flour, eggs, meat and vegetables. And the room could use some embellishment. She couldn't stop thinking about McKay's proud smile a moment before going away. His happiness at making her a part of his world was so touchingly plain. He had a lot of expectations in her, and she must not disappoint him.
    Somebody tried to open the door. Alison jumped. A knock. A female voice called: "It's Ma Hopkins. Open up, girl."
    Alison felt caught. She went to the door and let the lady in.
    "Welcome back," said the sergeant major's wife, grabbing Alison's shoulders and pulling her down for a smooch on the cheek. She was a stocky woman, hair still almost completely black. "When yer finished unpackin', come 'n' eat with us."
    "Thank you, ma'am, but really, I thought I'd get the feel of the place..."
    "There'll be time fer that tomorrow. Now, gonna round up some other stragglers." Ma Hopkins lifted an admonishing finger and was gone.
    Alison was surprised to find that she was glad for the invitation. Amusedly, she wondered whether she had just seen herself some fifteen years in the future. She hoped at least she would be a little more concerned with privacy. She chuckled.
    Well, that settled the question of dinner. But there was still time, and Alison didn't want to remain idle till then. She went to the table and pulled back a chair, then did the same with the other and found it heavier. She crouched down and discovered the chair was occupied by her fringed leather cushion, the one she had made for McKay as a present when she had fallen in love with him, and had managed to give him only after their wedding. On the cushion was curled up a smallish-sized fuzzy black cat.
    "Hi, cat!" she said joyfully. He lifted his head, looked at her, yawned so hard that she saw all the way down his throat, jaws stretched, eyes blissfully shut, ears flattened - then went back to sleep. Caressing him, she felt him purring sedately. Such a discreet creature, so subtle in bestowing his affection. No wonder that he and McKay liked each other.
    So, there was no need for cushions - the cat was fond of hers, and another one on the other chair would clash. But there was need for a tablecloth, and some curtains. A white material would do fine, maybe a chequered pattern for the table, like at Grace's.
    Alison sighed. She thought about Grace and her helper Dora Mae, and then of her brother Toby. She wondered how the boy would fare at her farm.
    She measured table and windows with her hands, jotted it down in her little black notebook, took her purse and went out. She noticed there was no way of locking the door from outside. However, there was a sentry at the corner of the barracks... looked safe enough.

    The store was situated on one of the fort's short sides, almost hidden among storerooms and stables. Alison had never had any need for it in her previous brief stays. She went in, and the tinkling of a doorbell almost made her feel like she was at Loren's. She thought how much she missed Colorado Springs already.
    The store owner was talking to a couple of other ladies. She nodded in their direction and looked around. There was no cloth in sight. She had to ask.
    The man was smoking an objectionable cigar and was talking animatedly to the ladies about a bonnet just arrived from the East. "So, you're mad if you don't give it at least a thought. Just imagine how it would set off your eyes and your lovely faces. Don't you think it's time? Come on, your husbands deserve to have a pretty sight around! They risk their lives for you! "
    As happened much too often for her liking, Alison found the man grating. She hated ingratiating pushiness. She approached with the firmest step she could manage. "Excuse me..."
    The ladies turned to stare at her. The man, a ruddy and cheerful fellow, gave her a wide smile. "Look what we have here, a newcomer! But I think I've seen you already. Are you the wife of some officer, ma'am?"
    "No. I need some cloth, if you please."
    The ladies wandered off, whispering to each other, and pretended to be engrossed in cleaning rags.
    "Sure," said the man, put off at first, then again ceremonious. "What kind of material?"
    "White cotton. And I'd like to see some chequered too."
    The man opened a big drawer under the counter. "Here it is. You really don't want to tell me who you are?"
    Alison just smiled. "That will be perfect. I need three yards. Can I see that chequered blue?"
    The man put it on the counter. It looked fine for the table. Alison held out a hand to feel it. The man put his hand on hers. "With such a dainty hand, your work will come out delicious."
    Alison pulled her hand away, sickened by the corniness of it all. She didn't have a dainty hand. She had a worker's square hand, barely smaller than her husband's. Flustered, she couldn't remember how much she needed for the tablecloth. She pulled out her little black notebook.
    "Oh, my, the perfect little lady. Pretty and industrious, and can write, too. Maybe you don't have a husband here, after all? Maybe I could take you for a tour of the fort?"
    Alison was furious. She was all the more furious because she felt the rage was all her fault. She didn't know how to flirt, she hated it, and not just because she was a married woman. She hated it since the day her flirting had flung her into a bottomless spiral of unhappiness and self-hate. She had started liking herself again when she had begun working on her farm alone and forgetting all about flirting. She had thought she had got over her fears and quirks when her handsome and totally un-flirtatious cavalryman had come her way. She had not expected to be so annoyed again by such an occurrence.
    "I need one yard and a half, please."
    The man laughed. Clearly he thought he was irresistible. "Ah, but you didn't answer my question. If you don't tell me who you are, I won't cut the cloth for you."
    Alison's blood shot to her cheeks. She fought to keep control of her voice. "I don't have much time, sir."
    The man didn't know when the joke was over. "So, tell me and be done with it."
    Alison grabbed the scissors from the table. "Shall I do it myself?"
    Enjoying the sparring match, the man grabbed the rolls of cotton and pulled them away. "Sorry, ma'am," he said, "you're just not qualified for this."
    Without a word more, Alison turned her back on him and went out of the shop. She saw a couple of comely troopers stroll by. "Hey, you!" she called. "The gentleman inside won't sell me his material."
    The two young men looked at each other. They entered the shop on Alison's heels and looked at the stunned merchant. "What's the matter here?"
    The man put back his cotton on the table. "We were just having some fun here," he explained contritely. Alison began feeling bad.
    The two looked awkwardly at her. "Seems everythin's alright, ma'am," one of them said. The other gave a warning look to the merchant. "Told you a hundred times, Corty, not everybody's in the mood for fun all the time."
    "Sure," said the man, and began cutting the cloth. The two troopers saluted Alison and went out.
    The other two ladies had followed the scene, horrified. The pitch of their murmuring increased, as did the intensity of their stares. She squared her shoulders. She had shown 'em who was in charge.
    She felt miserable.

    "Old Corty? He's harmless. Believes he's a big comedian. Sometimes he overdoes it." Sergeant Major Hopkins took another bite of steak. He was a tall, bald, bony man, very serious and intense. "Sold some whisky an' weapons to the Cheyenne in the past - but since he's here ain't done no mischief."
    "Maybe I overreacted too," admitted Alison.
    "Did him good, I reckon."
    Ma Hopkins was staring at her. "Watch yer back fer the ladies now, girl," she said. "Prob'ly wondered who ya think y'are."
    Alison sighed.
    "Come on, cheer up, have some more salad," said Corporal Winters. Alison had been quite glad to discover the young man was one of Ma Hopkins' "stragglers". Sgt. Flaherty had dismissed the training group at dinner time, but the corporal had detained some of them and had had them practice pulling apart a rifle and putting it back together once again. Then the men had gone to join the others at the mess and gulp down whatever was left, and Winters had been intercepted by Ma Hopkins, who thought he had to put some more flesh on his bones.
    The other straggler was Private Coverdale's wife, a lively girl who would have eaten alone too because her husband was on duty with McKay. She and Alison had exchanged comments on their quarters - the girl's were little more than a shack, but she didn't complain: she seemed to have experience of worse places. And she had been invited to Mrs. Marlowe's little after-dinner too: she was a good conversationalist, and would not shame the colonel's wife.
    At the end of the dinner, Winters excused himself quickly, and was gone before Alison could ask him some tips about life at the fort.
    "Really in a hurry," she said, amused. Then she noticed nobody else at the table was smiling. Mrs. Coverdale looked positively disgusted.
    "What's the matter?" Alison asked.
    The usually courteous sergeant major cleared his throat, then practically ignored her question. Ma Hopkins looked straight at her. "If yer his friend, ask him," she said curtly, and there was no way to dig anything else out of her.

    After dinner, Mrs. Marlowe greeted Alison and Mary Coverdale on the porch and led them to the Headquarters backyard. Amelia, the plump, vain, talkative wife of First Lt. Carrington, was already there. The men were in the parlour, smoking and making man talk. The evening was warm, and it was comfortable to sit outside on the chairs that Mrs. Marlowe had thoughtfully prepared. There was a pleasant smell of early roses: the lady had managed to grow some bushes along the fort's wall.
    Drinking lemonade, the four women chatted about the marvels of Loren's store and of the latest fashion in Colorado Springs and Manitou, briefly touching on McKay's new look - which Alison dismissed as utterly incidental - until they were joined by the men who clearly were not having such a big time just between themselves in a smoky parlour. Alison noticed that Mrs. Marlowe garnered her lady friends from all ranks, but the men were all officers, from the portly, grey-haired Carrington, the oldest officer of the fort, to the battle-scarred Shelby. Marlowe and Carrington each took a chair and rejoined their wives, and the captain remained on the sidelines. The conversation veered on a topic which seemed customary - finding a wife for Shelby, who, according to his comrades and their ladies, had let himself go a little.
    The men brought a bit of fresh - if slightly profane - air into the discussion, and Alison found herself really enjoying it. She looked forward to telling McKay about it: the nice evening had all but dispelled her uneasiness over the Corty incident. As the evening progressed, she felt bolder. During a lull in the conversation, she dared to ask a question. "I haven't seen Lt. Wainwright and his wife. I seem to remember last time he too had dined with you, Mrs. Marlowe?"
    A chill fell on the congregation. Shelby patted his pockets, an old gesture, because he didn't smoke anymore. The ladies avoided each other's gaze. Now what's the matter? thought Alison, exasperated.
    Mrs. Carrington got up. "I think it's time for bed." She made the round of goodbyes, kissed Mrs. Marlowe and let her husband escort her away.
    Shelby seized the chance to excuse himself too. From the darkness emerged Bill Coverdale to claim his wife - which slightly reassured Alison, both because McKay too would presently appear, and because it seemed the evening had reached its natural end, and it was not she who had disrupted it with her still-unexplained embarrassing remark.
    She was about to set off for her quarters too, when Mrs. Marlowe detained her with a hand on her arm. Colonel Marlowe bid her goodnight, told his wife he'd be waiting for her, and retired.
    As soon as they were alone, Alison looked expectantly at Mrs. Marlowe.
    "It's an awkward topic," said the older woman with dignity. "There's no way to say it gently. Mrs. Wainwright has an affair with another man."
    Alison stared at her. While she was trying to decide whether to appear mundanely jaded or to express her sincere disappointment at something she deemed inexcusable, Mrs. Marlowe added, "And he's an NCO too."
    Alison blinked. This side note seemed rather hypocritical and snobbish. For a moment, she thought about Corporal Winters' escape from Ma Hopkins' quarters, and amusedly toyed with the idea he was the adulterous NCO. She was fishing for a way to tell Mrs. Marlowe of her feelings on the topic, when the lady added in a whisper, "And what's worse, he's much younger than she is!"
    "Good Heavens, it is Corporal Winters," Alison blurted out.
    "Were you apprised of this?" asked Mrs. Marlowe, raising an eyebrow.
    "Let's say I know the man. Ma'am... Winters is a nice lad, wouldn't hurt anybody on purpose. I think it's their concern."
    Mrs. Marlowe looked severely at her. "I hope they keep it as such," she said.
    Alison had no time to think of an answer, because at last the shadows of the night yielded McKay. He smiled at her, said goodbye to everybody and started towards their quarters, an arm around her waist. She appreciated it in the night that was getting chilly, and tried to shrug all her worries away, pressing against her husband's lean, warm side.

    In the depths of the night, in the darkness and silence of the room, McKay kissed her mouth softly. "I love you," he whispered. He kissed her throat as though he could not quench his thirst of her, then settled in her arms, laying his head on her shoulder.
    Alison sighed and closed her eyes, while her fingers kept roaming through his damp hair and over his naked shoulders. They had waited so long to be together and alone, between the sheets warmed by their bodies. And yet her thoughts had kept coming back to her farm, Bella having to get up earlier to milk the cow and gather the eggs, young Toby working all day without pay, nobody down there at night and the lock they had bought from Loren wouldn't have been much of a deterrent if somebody wished to break in. She had felt furious at not managing to get those thoughts out of her mind. Given McKay's blissfully unsuspecting reaction, she hoped she had disguised her rage as passion.
    Yet McKay was not sleeping. She couldn't find in him the quiet breath and relaxation that comes with the repose of the senses. She felt his eyelashes brushing against her skin. "Alison," he said at last, "somethin' wrong?"
    "What?" she asked innocuously.
    "Well, you - you don't feel to me like usually."
    She turned her head, though she couldn't see him in the shuttered room. "Why, McKay, how do I feel to you... usually?"
    "Well, it ain't always the same. But most of the times, after we make love, you... you're all full of sweet little quivers, an' your body is mouldin' to mine." He kissed her along the collarbone. "You're all salty wet, yet your lips're dry. Your heart thumps like crazy, an' you whisper my name. My first name."
    Alison remained silent, guiltily. Her worries had been bad enough - but the last straw had been his amused advice before they got into bed: No yellin'. This had destroyed her mood.
    He pulled up on one elbow. "It wasn't that good for you this time, was it?"
    "Doesn't have to be good every time, I think. I'm just nervous."
    He didn't know what to say.
    She wanted to reassure him that none of this was his fault. "I'm afraid I started out with the wrong foot here. I shouldn't have been so mean to Corty..."
    He gently stroked her shoulder, a smile in his voice. "Corty's used to all sorts of abuse. Bet he ain't thinkin' 'bout it no more already."
    "I looked bad with the other ladies!"
    "Ha!... well, with all due respect, most of the other ladies can't hold a candle to you."
    For some reasons this did not reassure Alison. She went on to her last and by no means least worry. "You know about Mrs. Wainwright?"
    The temperature of McKay's voice dropped several degrees, which told her he knew also about the unspoken. "Yes."
    "And...?"
    "I talked to him. No use. He ain't breakin' no military rules... but if he shames the regiment, somethin'll have to be done."
    "Such as?"
    "I don't know."
    Alison sighed again. He gathered her in a tighter clasp. "Let's sleep, now," he whispered against her hair. "Unless..." He moved a little against her. "Givin' me a second chance?"
    She squirmed. "Another time, hm?" She thought it was a bit selfish, and laid a hand on his thigh. "But if you feel like it..."
    He took her hand away. "Come on, you need to sleep." He held her close, his voice soothing. "Everythin'll straighten out. Has to."
    By now, Alison knew him well enough to say he wasn't so sure about it.

    Alison was shaken out of a deep sleep by something, some movement. McKay's arm was not lying across her anymore. Turning, she saw him sitting up in bed by the glow of the last embers in the stove. Apart from that, the room was utterly dark.
    "Terence...?" she asked sleepily.
    "Shhh," he said, putting a finger on his lips. He listened. All was quiet. "It's the Indians."
    "What Indians?!"
    "I heard the alarm," whispered McKay. He looked at her with anguished eyes. "Get a gun an' try to run into the woods." He got out of bed and pulled his pants on. "You know what to do." She did - he had told her once, hard and aloof, without touching her, as he would have done with another trooper: if they find you, shoot yourself. But now the advice sounded grotesque in her mind, since it was clear that the fort was under no kind of attack!
    "Where you goin'?"
    "Out to help the others." He finished buttoning up his pants and grabbed his rifle.
    Alison listened. "McKay, there's nothing out there," she said.
    He looked at her, his features drawn. "Just do as I say," he urged her. Then he checked the ammunition and ran out.
    Alison sighed and lay back, pulling up the covers.
    A couple of minutes passed. Then McKay came back. She watched him from over the rim of the covers. He closed the door again silently and left the rifle beside it. Then he turned and looked at her. "Alison, I - it's not that I didn't believe you," he said, coming towards the bed. "It was such a... a vivid dream. I could hear 'em screamin' an' howlin'. I could hear every single word of my comrades outside this room, I recognised every voice. Winters was shoutin' to check the doors - I heard everythin'." He sad down heavily on the bed. "It felt so true."
    Alison held out an arm. "Come back to sleep, now," she said. "You're just very tired." When she touched him, she felt him trembling slightly, tense. His skin was cool from exposure to the night air. He breathed deeply, then turned, gave her a tight smile and lay down beside her under the covers.
    She waited for him to fall asleep again. It took patience. She knew he wasn't sleeping, though he said nothing else. She leaned over him, slid an arm under his head and kissed him. She felt his taut lips soften under hers. "Shhh," she said. She kissed his face as he did with her when she could not sleep, all the while caressing his hair, holding his head close to hers with both arms.
    At last his breathing told her that he was asleep. His languor had made her drowsy too. She slept holding him, all cares fading away for a little while.

End of Day One