When the trumpet sounded, McKay just rolled over and went on sleeping.
    Alison put her arms out of the warm blankets, stretched and blinked in the morning light. She turned to look at him. He had some hours off to make up for the night on the battlements, and she would have wanted nothing better than stay there and cuddle with him while he slept, maybe wait for him to wake up and share a little tender moment... but Ma Hopkins had very firmly hinted to her that it would be a bad, bad move if she didn't show up to do the laundry with the other women.
    She sighed. She bent down to kiss his hair, thinking how unbelievably good he looked even like that, curled up with an arm over his face, then got up.
    While she prepared to get out, she considered how unfair it all was. She didn't cut herself any slack at her farm: but usually, if she had him home for a couple of days and they wanted to stay in bed, they did, and made the most of it. Her heart melted at the memory of certain sleepy and voluptuous late mornings - followed by a quick lunch at Grace's and a horrible rush to get the day's work done, but it was no strain, because she sang all the way... Here she could have done the same, doing the laundry afterwards and eating at the mess (as dismaying as the prospect was at the moment). But no, she had to consort with the other women, otherwise she was going to get herself a bad name! She braided her hair with quick moves, thinking with annoyance that she couldn't care less about what they thought of her, and that she did it only out of respect for Ma Hopkins. And maybe, once she found her niche and gained some respect herself, she would gain a little more freedom too.
    When she left the room with basket of clothes, soap and washboard, McKay hadn't stirred yet. She went to the sentry at the corner of the barracks. "Look here," she said, "I know I'm probably going to disrupt the routine, but Sgt. McKay's having a good sleep for once, and I don't want Mrs. Jenssen to go in and wake him up before he's fully rested."
    She expected some sarcasm; for a moment she was even worried that she had done a bad service to McKay, championing him like that, he that prided himself on not calling sick for so little as a headache - but to her relief the private lighted up. "Sure, ma'am! I'll steer her away. I'm the one who'll have to wake him up anyway. Tell ya the truth, we're all watchin' each other's back for Mrs. Jenssen - the woman's a nuisance for everybody, poor thing."
    "Why poor thing?" Alison asked instinctively.
    "Injuns killed her husband," the young trooper answered.
    "I'm sorry."
    He told her all about it, providing more details than Alison would have appreciated. When she started away, she was shaky and a bit sick. She wanted to go back to McKay's quarters in a hurry and sneak into bed beside him, until she was convinced once again that he was still alive and nothing of that sort would ever happen to him.
    Luckily, an unusual sight distracted her: Ma Hopkins smiling a schoolgirl's smile by the main gate. She was saying goodbye to her husband, who was about to lead the weekly round at Windy Creek. He and his squad of ten were already mounted, and he nodded solemnly at her like an ancient knight. Then he lifted his arm, and gave the command.
    Alison climbed the ramparts with her to see them go. She watched them file out of the gate in the brightening dawn. The sky still looked wet, but the sun was breaking through the clouds and warming the air, and the steady breeze brought the smell of sodden earth and grass and flowers. The hooves plunged into the iron-like puddles, spattering mud everywhere, but they rode out looking straight ahead, tall and beautiful, the boys of summer. Watching them disappear along the trail between the trees, Alison felt a strange melancholy, a feeling of bereavement, like when she was a child and dreamed about something so sweet that even in the dream she knew it wasn't for real, that she would wake up and lose it forever - or worse, discover that she had never really owned it.
    Ma Hopkins touched her shoulder. "Come, girl." She led the way down from the battlements and out of the still-open gate, holding a basket under her arm.
    They walked a little down the grassy hill, into a small shadowy vale that the sun hadn't touched yet. A stream ran through it, a little Colorado affluent, cold and rushing. Some of the women were already there in their favourite spots along the water.
    Alison walked carefully on the long green grass and the squashy soil. Mud had never frightened her: she had good shoes, and she wore the "laundry gown", a tough brown skirt that had taken the brunt of many soggy mornings kneeling by the stream behind her farm, before Sully had built her a large wooden washbasin beside the shack. Ma Hopkins had a very good place, of course: a flat stone that jutted out on the water. She motioned Alison to a spot a little downstream, with a gravelly bank that right now was still wet, but at least was reasonably free of mud and not too uncomfortable to kneel on. The sun peeked suddenly behind a group of trees, and the setting improved enormously. Ma Hopkins' stone began warming up, the water itself already seemed less icy, and the play of the sunbeams on the foam seemed to entwine with the sweet scent of flowers. There were a couple of troopers too, ostensibly on guard, actually chatting with the ladies. Bill Coverdale wandered by to give his wife something she had forgotten.
    Alison began to relax. She had hoped to get friendly with Mary Coverdale, and was glad the girl was there. She didn't want to think about what had happened the previous evening. She hoped that her nightly tenderness for McKay was a good sign, and that Flaherty's coarseness hadn't scared her away from the joys of the flesh. She picked up McKay's shirt, and remembered the last time he had worn it, the day before. She felt desire surging again within her, and for a moment felt reassured. Then she remembered that the evening before she had believed she desired his kiss, until she had pulled away from him. But no, she shouldn't get scared. It had to be normal in a marriage, not to feel always the same way. They had been married six months, of which they had spent maybe two together; they still had to learn so much about each other. So she was telling herself, wanting to believe, to stifle the fear as she had become so adept at doing.
    "Mrs. McKay!" someone called her.
    She turned, and saw Flaherty coming towards her with a bundle in his arms. "I was wonderin', would ye be so kind as to wash me clothes?"
    Alison felt a rush of aversion. Not for anything in the world she wanted to have something to do with Flaherty again. She stared hard at him, hoping he would get the hint. No use: he just stood there, expectantly waving his dirty underwear.
    Alison had to find an excuse. The other women were looking at her, some had been present at the awkward dinner, and she couldn't let them understand how much the happenings had upset her. She lifted her chin and shook her head. "Sorry, Sgt. Flaherty," she said, as nicely as she could, "but I have already my husband's clothes to wash, and that's enough for today."
    A chill followed her words. The women were looking at each other, exchanging whispered words. Flaherty looked crestfallen, and a lady waved at him. "Come here, Sarge," she said, "Her Ladyship's too snotty to wash your clothes."
    There was some snickering. Flaherty lifted his shoulders and smiled guilelessly. "Thanks all the same, ma'am, maybe next time," he told her, and turned towards the other woman.
    Alison had no time to appreciate the fact that Flaherty was unable to think ill of anyone. She was suddenly the centre of the ladies' mean looks.
    "We use ta do the laundry for unmarried soldiers," Ma Hopkins quietly told her. "It's normal. They ain't got the time ta do it themselves."
    "I didn't know that," Alison answered. As a matter of fact she probably did, or if she didn't, it was logical to assume as much. But she hadn't considered it till that very moment. All right, she thought, more furious than ever, and feeling even worse for the fact that she couldn't explode, whatcha gonna do, shoot me? She looked around, and didn't find a single understanding gaze. Even Mary Coverdale lowered her eyes.
    "Hey, listen," said a woman, "who's the last one here who washed McKay's underwear? Watch out, Her Ladyship could get jealous."
    Some laughed. "Just wait till you have a baby, ma'am," said another, "then your pretty hubby's sweaty shirt won't be so romantic no more."
    "You'll avoid him like the plague."
    "An' then of course he'll start sayin' his wife don't understand him, an' goin' to spend his pay in Manitou."
    Alison tightened her jaws and concentrated on the laundry. The wind blew a stray curl on her cheek and she brushed it away annoyedly.
    "Don't listen to 'em," Ma Hopkins told her in a low voice. "This is a far better place fer raising children than a lot of stinkin' holes I seen. An' I raised six beautiful children. All women are different." She laughed. "I had 'em like piglets, an' you bet I didn't stay away from my man. Never had ta go spend his pay someplace else, he did." She eyed Alison. "Now, ya ain't a young girl an' yer hips ain't that wide, so ya'll have ta be careful. But ya look strong an' healthy. See what happens with the first. Then, if ya wanna wait a li'l, come ta me an' I'll teach ya a coupla tricks to keep yer man happy without gettin' in the family way agin. An' a couple fer him ta keep you happy!"
    Alison blushed deeply. Ma Hopkins smiled.

    McKay woke up with the sun shining in his eyes through the slits in the shutters. He held out a hand towards the other half of the meagre double bed. He did that every morning, but this time he remembered that he should not be alone, even if the bed was empty. "Alison?..." he said, turning around. But there was nobody in the room.
    For a moment he was puzzled, then recalled something about laundry. He lay back on the pillow, waiting for his eyelids to stay up on their own will. He had slept five or six hours, it was enough to feel well rested. And with this thought came the memory of Alison's sweetest welcome that night. It ranked along with her lulling him asleep after his nightmare. Nobody had ever been so good to him.
    And she had had to endure the embarrassing evening with the soldiers... His eyes snapped open. God, she didn't even want to kiss him any more. Alison was a mystery - a delicious mystery. He would remember to the end of his life the day she had told him she wanted to spend the night with him. And yet she was so reserved and even shy. No wonder... judging from what she had told him of her old fiancé, and from what he had gathered about it, men had never been popular with her. Apart from some she called her friends, and him, Terence McKay. She had felt safe with him, she had not been afraid of him... How could she have known? And yet she had been right. He could never hurt her, betray her, or be disrespectful to her. He wanted to cherish her and give her all his best, to protect her and reward her in kind for the tenderness she gave him. He needed harmony and gentleness in his private life, and now he had found the perfect someone to take care of. It was the only way to make up for all the blood and the pain.
    And this had looked like the perfect occasion, the perfect beginning for a life they could really share. Sure, he knew it would be only four days, but if she had to be willing to come back when they could afford it, she had to get a good impression. And what was coming of it? McKay pressed his hands on his eyes. Nothing was going as it should. Winters, Mrs. Jenssen, that dumb rotten bastard Flaherty, they all seemed to conspire to make her life miserable. He himself had been lacking in the romance department. He couldn't even think about some of the things he had done, or not done, since she was there.
    He laughed a little at himself. That was not so important - provided it didn't become a habit. But he really felt there was something wrong with him. He was  continuously on edge. He felt he had been right in opening his heart and his fears to her, and maybe it all could be ascribed to his uncertainty of the future. But he wished he could put it to rest at least a little... he was making her nervous with his own uneasiness. He was so close to the goal - he couldn't afford to lose it by losing his nerve.
    "Hah," he said aloud, pushing back the bedclothes. He suddenly felt he had to get busy.
    He was ready to get out by the time the trooper knocked on the door. He walked across the courtyard, going through the chores of the day in his mind. The matter of the telegraph line was still unsolved...
    There was a strange commotion by the main door. He had already started towards it, when he saw one of the sentries waving towards him. He hurried his step. "What's the matter?"
    "He wanted to talk to you, sir, but I wasn't sure..."
    McKay turned, and the soldiers parted and there was Sully, with his worst scowl.
    "Sully!" he said, absurdly glad to see him.
    "McKay," Sully answered, coldly. "Got a place where we can talk?"
    "Sure. Come with me." He gestured towards the other soldiers, who had never lost a sort of diffidence around the mountain man. He led the way to the stables. "What's the matter?"
    Sully did not wait for pleasantries. "What the hell did you say to Brian?"
    He had to be upset to resort to swearing. The sergeant stared at him, unable to understand the reason for his anger. "What d'you mean?"
    "Yesterday he did nothin' else but rave 'bout the fort an' the horses an' all the rest. Told me you'd given him a tour. You outta your mind?"
    McKay stopped in the middle of the courtyard and faced him. "Why? He just asked to have a look. He was mainly interested in the colonel's fossils, an' he liked the horses. I see nothin' wrong in that."
    "He's beginnin' to wonder how old one must be to enlist, height requirements, an' so on."
    McKay almost laughed. "I'm sure Brian got no intention of enlistin'."
    Sully stared at him a little, then turned away, his hands in his pockets, looking around. "You know," he added in a softer tone, one which McKay could recognise more easily, "Michaela once had a sort of dream, or a hallucination, out of fatigue, I don't know. She told me she had seen her future Christmas. An' Brian was a Navy cadet."
    "Cute. So what?"
    "So I don't wanna see Brian in a uniform. Yours, the Navy's, or any other."
    "Sully, you know how kids are. They get curious, then don't think 'bout it anymore."
    "Brian ain't gonna be a kid for long. Soon he'll decide whether he wants to go to college or make another choice."
    "Then it's up to him. Ain't nothin' we can do."
    Sully looked down and nodded, then gave him a tight smile. "I'm afraid it's true. But at least I can try to keep him away from the wrong influence."
    "Hey, wait a moment," McKay exclaimed, wounded in his pride. "Am I a wrong influence, now?"
    Sully snorted. "Don't take this personally, McKay. You're alright." He gestured around. "It's this world I wanna keep him away from."
    "That's my world, Sully!" the sergeant said, hand on his chest. "Your son just got involved in a saloon brawl. You find nothin' wrong with the fact that he hangs out with our esteemed Hank Lawson? Isn't that a rather dubious influence? Or you wanna tell me dealin' with drunks an' whores is better 'n being a soldier?"
    Sully looked at him. "I've been a soldier for less than a year, McKay. I can't answer your question. But I'm tellin' you, I don't want that for my child. Not even for a day."
    In his eyes, McKay saw the depths of his pain. He knew Sully had been in the Army, but he had never wondered about it. He thought all his diffidence towards the Army came from their involvement with him and the Cheyenne. "I didn't know that," he said softly. "Wanna talk 'bout it?"
    Sully answered the look with the same openness. "Not today," he said. He nodded at him, then turned and went back towards the gate.
    McKay gestured at the sentries to let him pass, and stared after him, hands on his hips. He had hoped Sully was there on some harmless errand - they could have done some man talk, and he could have asked him whether Dr. Quinn had ever refused to kiss him. But no, Sully was too angry to talk... and McKay didn't feel like opening his heart to Winters, given the present circumstances, and he sure as hell wasn't going to go crying on his colonel's shoulder. He wasn't close to any of the other men, O'Malley was a good chap, but too pessimistic in such matters, and his own favourite confidante was also the object of his worries. In short, there was nobody he could turn to.
    As he walked back towards Headquarters, he saw Mrs. Marlowe marching straight towards him. He braced himself - that worthy lady was a force to be reckoned with.
    "Dear Sgt. McKay," she cried, "I'm proud to invite you to a little informal dinner."
    "Oh," he answered. "I mean, thank you, ma'am. To be held when?"
    "Why, tonight, of course! So that your wife will be able to attend."
    "Of course," he sighed. All right, on top of it all he had to get ready for one of Mrs. Marlowe's dreaded little informal dinners.
    At least, Alison would have a little fun. But then, he had thought the dinner at the mess would be fun, too.

    That morning, Flaherty had been as far as Colorado Springs with four men, and had not found any ruptures of the telegraph line. After lunch he reported to McKay, judged by Marlowe as the brightest intellect among the NCOs who could unravel the mystery. But McKay, hands on his hips, just stared at Flaherty, and at Winters that had taken part in that morning's expedition, all rancour forgotten in the face of a problem they didn't seem to be able to solve. He had eaten lunch with Alison and Ma Hopkins, the latter trying to cheer up the former. He  hadn't even tried to discover what was wrong, this time.
    "Been up an' down from trees, all the time," Flaherty explained. "I'm beginnin' to think they gave us defective materials or somethin'."
    "But it worked sometimes, an' now it doesn't," said Winters, with all the respectful caution of someone who's on probation and hanging by a thread.
    McKay shook his head. "I've run out of ideas." The four troopers, one of them the resident telegraph operator, looked at him without a clue.
    "But after all," said Flaherty lazily, "why are we doin' all this?"
    "Because the colonel ordered us to," answered Winters helpfully.
    "Yes, but why the hell the fort needs a telegraph line?"
    "To communicate with Colorado Springs," said McKay impatiently.
    "Colorado Springs is less than a twenty minutes' ride from here."
    "Yes, but in emergency..." said Winters.
    "What kind of emergency? If some settlers 'round here are attacked by renegades, for instance, they sure don't send a wire to Colorado Springs, they send somebody here. Anythin' that needs a wire to reach us is out of our jurisdiction."
    McKay stared at him, searching for the weak ring in that reasoning. His head was beginning to throb once again with that bothersome headache.
    Flaherty looked up. "I'm ponderin'."
    "An' what may you be ponderin'?"
    "Who wanted this line in the first place?"
    They all looked at each other.
    It was Winters who dared to pronounce the fateful name. "Captain Coleman."
    "Yeah," said Flaherty, nudging McKay, "he who almost got us both killed with the Red Needle thing."
    McKay glared at him. "He almost got only one of us killed, an' that honour fell to me."
    "Anyway. He wanted the line so he could boast his fort got a telegraph line, but now he been busted. Let's face it, this fort is Coleman's folly. Who cares about the telegraph line."
    McKay shook his head again, looking up in frustration. Suddenly his eyes widened, his arms fell along his sides. He was staring upwards, and Flaherty turned to see what he was looking at. "You seein' angels, McKay? Thought you been seein' 'em in yer room at night, lately."
    McKay didn't even acknowledge the jibe. He pointed at the telegraph pole that stood against the wall of the fort, close to one of the storerooms. The wire wrapped around it was neatly torn, and the ends were hanging down unhappily.
    "Well, ain't we dumb," said Flaherty. "It was under our eyes all the time."
    McKay shot him a look. "I think not, Flaherty. I think it was frayed an' it didn't make contact anymore, but it was hidden behind the pole. Last night's storm just worsened things." He looked around. "Need a volunteer. Winters, up the pole."
    The corporal complied without a word.
    "Ah, youth," sighed Flaherty. "The likes o' you an' me can't do that no more, McKay," he said, elbowing his colleague.
    Flaherty was two years younger than him. McKay fizzled for a couple of seconds, then turned sharply. "Flaherty, just as a guideline for the future," he said, with a calm that could have rattled the mountains, "next time you want to say anything, count to twenty an' then don't say it. For the record, I climbed my own tree yesterday, when we suspected the line was broken in the grove beyond the stream. If you spent less time in the saloon, maybe you'd be able to do that too."
    "My, my, my," said Flaherty very softly.
    Winters had reached the top of the pole. He studied the broken line for some moments, then, knees and feet and an arm solidly wrapped around the pole, he took the ends of the wire, conscientiously fashioned little hooks at the ends and joined them together. It looked solid.
    "Good, Winters," called McKay. "Come down."
    They all went into the small room close to the colonel's office. By the way they looked at him, McKay was beginning to think he was the only one around there to have some notion of electricity, telegraph operator included. In fact, he had read a little about Mr. Maxwell's latest theory, nothing more. It could be imprudent to do this without Mr. Bing's supervision. But Winters hadn't been electrocuted, he thought with a little guilt, so it seemed everything was all right.
    The operator sat down at the desk and tapped a brief message. They waited... Then the small machine started tapping on her own, and the trooper repeated the answer aloud as it came in. "Welcome back, Fort Lafayette, we got your message, signed Horace Bing, Colorado Springs."
    "Yeah!" Winters shot his fists towards the ceiling. Flaherty gave him a pat on the back, and even McKay seemed pleased.
    They came out in the sun. "This was good, lads," the sergeant said. "Flaherty, write a report, put in evidence the work of all the squads and of Corporal Winters."
    "Wait," said Flaherty, lifting his hand.
    "I hope it's not another dumb joke," McKay said darkly.
    "I smell smoke."
    "What?!"
    They looked around alarmed, then Winters pointed at the storeroom's open window. "There! Somethin' burnin' in there!"
    A dark, oily smoke was pouring out of the window. McKay blanched. "It's the recruits' weapons' storeroom," he exclaimed, starting to run towards it. "There's rifles an' powder an'..." He pushed the door open and started coughing in the smoke. The room held a lot of paraphernalia that could catch fire - documents, uniforms, wooden trunks, and the rifles and ammunition. McKay grabbed the first barrel of powder and began rolling it towards the door.
    "You crazy, Sergeant?" shouted Winters, following him inside. "Get out!"
    "If this blows up, up go half the barracks!" McKay answered. "Flaherty! Evacuate the block!"
    Winters grabbed another barrel and rolled it out. Flaherty ran away with a trooper, and another one stayed to help, while the others went to fetch water. They dragged out boxes of rifles, guns and ammunitions. There were no more barrels of gunpowder, so that danger at least was averted, but there were more boxes, and by now a whole side of the room was burning steadily.
    "Where's the water?" shouted McKay. He saw the fire reach the nearest box of ammo. "That's enough, Winters, get out of here!"
    "Just one moment," the corporal said. He grabbed the box, lifted it up in his arms and turned to go. McKay pushed him out of the door, and as soon as they were out Winters threw the box as far as he could, regardless that it smashed on the ground, spilling rifles. They ran as fast as they could away from the burning storeroom. Suddenly it was havoc, like being inside the Fourth of July fireworks, burning and booming and crackling everywhere, and McKay was slammed against the ground, all breath knocked out of him, and when he next tried to breathe he inhaled only smoke. Coughing his lungs out, eyes full of stinging tears, he saw Winters lying still. He pushed himself on his feet and grabbed him, while a trooper made his way inside with a bucket and started splashing water everywhere, and then another trooper and another.
    McKay started shaking the corporal, then stopped because he saw he was bleeding from a deep wound in the shoulder. His face too was sooty, bruised and bloody, and he was unconscious. Scared, McKay put his fingers on the young man's mouth and the other hand on his chest, and was vastly relieved to find breath and a heartbeat, albeit faint.
    "Where's the doctor?" a female voice called. McKay turned and saw Alison. He was about to wave her away, when he noticed the troopers coming out of the storeroom, dirty but reassuring. The fire was out, and the explosions hadn't been enough to significantly damage the barracks.
    "Fort ain't got a doctor," he said hoarsely.
    "Wire Dr. Quinn..." a trooper said instinctively.
    "Wire Dr. Quinn with what?!" For a moment, despair almost overcame him. Then he snapped at the trooper: "Get a horse, go fetch her!"
    Alison knelt beside him, carefully touching Winters' brow. In McKay's face, blackened by soot, his eyes blazed silvery-hot. "Damn," he said through clenched teeth, and slammed his fist on the floor.

    McKay leaned on the outside wall of the infirmary, still dirty, arms crossed. "No sir, no doctor, I could quote you the number of the disposition," he said bitterly to Alison. "This year the government decided to cut some expenses." He looked up at Marlowe, leaning against a pole. Of course he wasn't blaming the colonel. But the older man turned his face away, staring at the sand of the yard through narrowed eyes. Sitting on the rim of the well some meters away were Mrs. Marlowe and Captain Shelby, and some troopers were walking up and down.
    "I can't explain what happened," Flaherty said.
    "I'm beginnin' to," McKay answered, rubbing his mouth with his hand. "Probably the wire had to be mended differently, insulated or somethin'. Not Winters' fault - I shoulda thought about it, but I didn't imagine it either. When we sent the message, electricity passed through it, an' it musta given off some sparks. With this breeze, the sparks set fire to the storeroom. Weird, but not impossible."
    The door opened, and Michaela Quinn came out with a smile. "He's all right," she said. "I stitched up his shoulder and disinfected the other cuts. He suffers from a light concussion, so let him rest for a couple of days."
    Alison felt McKay hold her hand tighter. Michaela walked up to him "Are you all right?"
    "Yes, ma'am," he said, "I ain't hurt."
    "But are you sure you didn't hit your head or..."
    While they talked, Alison noticed Mrs. Wainwright peeking around the infirmary. She tightened her jaws, and marched up to her. "You could come in and say something to him."
    "Is he all right?" Mrs. Wainwright asked.
    Alison stared at her. "Go and see for yourself."
    The woman looked behind her. "I can't. There are so many people around." She noticed McKay getting into the infirmary. Marlowe was following him, and stopped a moment on the threshold, then looked at the two women.
    "Should have thought about it before," Alison snapped.
    "If he's all right, I'll see him later," Mrs. Wainwright concluded.
    "But I think he'd like to see you now."
    Flaherty appeared at her side. "I think she's upset, now, ma'am," he said, supportively taking Mrs. Wainwright's arm. The woman nodded miserably.
    Alison watched them go away, unbelieving. Feeling rage build up inside her, she turned sharply. McKay was already inside the infirmary; on the threshold, Marlowe stared at the retreating Mrs. Wainwright, then went in too.
    Michaela was gathering her things, ready to mount Flash and be off. She looked at Alison. "You look a bit shaken."
    "It's nothing," Alison shrugged. "Is Winters all right? Can he talk?"
    Michaela snorted. "He's already talking more than he should."
    "But, what I mean is, is he really all right? Won't he suffer any consequences for this?"
    "None at all. He's a strong young man."
    "Can you assure me about this?"
    "But of course, Alison! What's the matter?"
    "Tell you later," she said, and burst into the infirmary.
    McKay and Marlowe stood on each side of Winters' bed. There were no other patients at the moment. The corporal looked faintly embarrassed, and was running the unbandaged hand through his hair. He lifted his head expectantly when she came in, then fell back again. "Oh, it's you," he said, disappointed. His seniors glared at him.
    "Can you leave us alone, gentlemen?" Alison asked sweetly. They looked at her in surprise, but complied.
    When the door was closed behind her, she came forward and took a chair. Winters avoided her eyes. Then couldn't contain himself. "Where is she?"
    "Oh, she was too ashamed to come in," Alison said flatly. The pain in the young man's eyes pierced her, but she didn't want him to live an illusion a moment more.
    "You'll think I'm a fool," he sighed.
    "No, I think she's a slut," she answered.
    "I had to try," Winters said, turning to look into her eyes. "Can't you see it?"
    "I'm not sure I do."
    "No, I don't think so," he sighed. "You're different from me. You're lucky."
    "Now, this means nothing..."
    "No, you don't understand. You're lucky, because you're patient. An' Sgt. McKay is, too. You waited for each other. I try to wait, to use my head, but I'm just too... too scared. I'm scared of bein' alone. I'm scared that next time somethin' like that happens, next time they boot me out against a band of Dog Soldiers, I'll get killed an' that'll be the end of it." His eyes filled up with tears, and he grasped Alison's hand. "An' when I think that, I just can't be patient. Can you see it, now?"
    "More than you can imagine," she whispered.
    The young man looked drained. She smoothed his hair back. "Rest, now."
    He nodded, closing his eyes. She kissed his brow and rose silently, backing towards the door.

    Marlowe remained in his office with Shelby for almost an hour. At the end, they reached a decision. Shelby looked out of the porch, and there was Wainwright, waiting glumly. The captain nodded at him. The lieutenant came in, and Shelby left him alone with the colonel.
    "I'm sorry, Nick," Marlowe said. "I gotta ask you to make a choice."
    "What choice, sir?" said Wainwright in a faint voice.
    "Don't play the fool with me!" shouted Marlowe. "You been aware of your wife's horseplay all this time. First there was that lieutenant that asked for a transfer, don't remember his name... you were lucky that time. Then the men talked about a trooper I still haven't identified - this could even suit me. I ain't in favour of cheatin', but as far as the life of the fort goes, I coulda stood it, had she kept it discreet. But no, she had to bed the chatterbox of the 6^th. Please!"
    Wainwright looked down. Marlowe wanted so badly to punch some pride in him. "Makin' Fort Lafayette the talk of Colorado was bad enuff," he growled. "But yesterday she almost caused a row between the NCOs at dinner. An' today... You know what bugged me most? After all the bustle, she chickened out when he really needed her. I don't accept this from anybody here. Anybody, trooper or civilian, man or woman, that clear?"
    "I'll talk to her," Wainwright said.
    Marlowe smouldered. "Bullshit, Nick. She's outta here."
    "But sir... you said I had a choice..."
    "Yes. Ain't she got a mother, a married sister, someone somewhere? Send her to stay with her folks, no fuss, you'll see her when you're on leave. Otherwise, I'll get you transferred. No reflections on your career, a clean job, I could even put in a good word for you. What do you say?"
    Wainwright exhaled slowly. "I can't leave my wife," he said wretchedly.
    Marlowe couldn't believe his ears. "After all she done to you?"
    "Things'll get better, sir. Maybe... maybe you're right. I need to take her away from here. Maybe in Denver. She'll be less bored."
    "Sure," Marlowe said, too disgusted to be still angry, and feeling those words hauntingly familiar. "So, you accept the transfer?"
    "Sir... yes, I accept, colonel. Maybe from Denver they'll send me some place else."
    Sure, some place where you can see a little action. The colonel nodded. "I'll write the papers for you, Nick."
    He watched the lieutenant go out with hunched shoulders. After the man had been gone for some minutes, Shelby poked his head in again.
    "God Almighty," whispered Marlowe.
    "He chose the transfer?"
    "Yeah." He ran his hands through his black hair. "Couldn't believe I was lookin' at a human being. Is it our job that makes us that way, Robbie, or is it somethin' in our heads that just snaps at random?"
    "I'd go with the second option, John."
    "Maybe I'd better tell the missus to cancel her damn informal dinner. The news'll get around fast, an' the men're gonna be bitchy tonight, 'specially the NCOs."
     "I wouldn't cancel it," Shelby said, regaining his favourite place beside the fireplace. "The men are also upset about today's accident. A little distraction will do them good. Besides... they'll barely have time to think about anything else all afternoon but the little informal dinner."
    Even Marlowe laughed at Shelby's smirk. "True, by God. Shouldn't ya be off cleanin' yourself too?"
    "Oh, there'll be time," Shelby stated, picking up the Gazette.

    It was just two hours and a half before the informal dinner, and Alison went to Ma Hopkins' quarters. She was surprised to find a queue of officers and NCOs on the porch, who looked at her apologetically.
    "If you're here to take a bath, ma'am," Captain Shelby said, "you're a little late. Well, I can leave you my place, but I'm afraid the water is already not very clear."
    "Thank you, captain," she said, "but I wouldn't want you to waste your time..."
    Ma Hopkins put her head out. "Come inside, girl," she said, letting her into the kitchen (the bathtub was in the back). "We got an unfailin' emergency system ta provide all ladies with dresses for Mrs. Marlowe's informal dinners." She rummaged in a trunk. "Here, this should fit ya." She handed her a peach-coloured gown. "But I'm afraid if ya don't wanna step on the toes of all those officers outside, ya'll have ta do without a bath. Mine's one of the only two bathtubs in the fort."
    Alison nodded. Then looked impishly at her. "Who has the other one?"

    When Mrs. Marlowe opened the door, Alison greeted her with a wide smile. "I was wondering if you would be so kind as to let me use your bathtub."
    The lady blinked. She was already wearing her dinner dress, a white and blue gown, wide and bordered with soft lace. Her hair still hung on her shoulders. "Oh, well... of course. I have already emptied it... but we can take care of that. You! And you! Bring me some hot water, quick!"
    "Thanks," Alison said warmly. "You know, it's not easy to get oneself in order, with so many people who have to get clean, only one bathtub, and so little time."
    Mrs. Marlowe looked as though it was the very first time that somebody pointed out to her the irrationality of her little informal dinners. "Oh, really?" she said wonderingly. "Do you think I should allow more time to get ready?"
    "Maybe the organisation can be improved," cooed Alison.
    "Hmm, I'll think about it," she said. "Come upstairs. I'll have the bathtub ready in a moment."
    Alison McKay bringing democracy to Fort Lafayette... Marjorie Quinn would be proud, Alison thought.

    While Alison took her bath, Mrs. Marlowe fixed her own hair. She had become very good at it, in so many long mornings without anything more fun to do. At last Alison came down the stairs, wearing the peach dress, hair clean and still slightly wet. "Thank you," she said.
    Mrs. Marlowe put on the last pin. She stopped Alison before she went out. "Mrs. McKay," she said, a bit shyly, just like Susan when she used to ask the other girls on the block if she could play with them, twenty years before, "may I fix your hair?"
    Alison smiled in pure surprise. "Of course! I'll be honoured."
    "Sit down here, before the mirror. Wait a moment, just a moment, I'll get my things." She ran upstairs, under Alison's astonished look.
    While working on her hair, Mrs. Marlowe told her all about the politics of Fort Lafayette. That Carrington smarted at being outranked by younger officers - too dumb even to realise that there had to be some reason if he was still a first lieutenant - and at Fort Lafayette too, the dump of the undesired - Wainwright a good riddance, Shelby ill, Marlowe a troublemaker - unusual to have a colonel in command of a fort, but they wanted to get rid of him any which way - since Carrington was such a whiner, Shelby too could have protested that the command of the fort should have been his - only thing the captain cared about was the healthy air of the Rockies and being away from Washington - people said he left a lady there, that's why he was impervious to local beauties - now, nobody was going to miss Mrs. Wainwright - hoping the kid had learned his lesson - shouldn't they find a local beauty for the kid too? - not meaning by this the objectionable ladies in that saloon - stayed once in a fort which had a brothel within its perimeter - yes, let's not be afraid of words - of course the colonel, then first lieutenant, had no use for it, at least while she stayed with him -
    Alison had nothing juicy to recount. Except something that had burned her since the first day, and that maybe could qualify as gossip. "Mrs. Marlowe," she asked. "have you got any clue as to why the ladies of the fort hate my guts?"
    Mrs. Marlowe stopped a moment, looking at her in the mirror. "Do they?"
    Alison told her what had happened, from the incident at Corty's to the laundry debacle. "It seems I can't get anything right," she concluded. "Now, I know I'm thoughtless sometimes, and I'm no diplomat, but they didn't give me the ghost of a chance, apart from you and Ma Hopkins... And this means a lot for me, but I don't know what to do with the others. I'm trying so hard to blend in, but it seems an uphill run."
    Mrs. Marlowe nodded slowly. "I think they feel you're different from them."
    "Different?! How?"
    "You're educated, for one thing."
    "Well, all right - but so is Mary Coverdale, and others too."
    "And you're independent. You own a farm."
    "My husband owns it, now."
    The lady smiled. "Has Sgt. McKay ever said a word about the running of the farm?"
    "Well... not really. He says since I've run it up to now, I can keep doing that."
    "Exactly. Then, I think most of the ladies resent the fact that you're married to an attractive man and you're friendly with more attractive men."
    "Uh?"
    "Winters and Flaherty, for instance, not to mention the Colorado Springs gentlemen."
    "I'm not Flaherty's friend!"
    "He thinks you are. And last but not least, women on the fort tend to care little about their appearance, especially after their first child. You, on the other hand, are beautiful."
    This struck Alison more than all the other bizarre things that were happening that day. She looked at herself in the mirror. She thought about the very pretty Susan, how it had been a matter of fact that she had got the looks and Alison the brains. She thought about Harmon Fraser making clear that she had a fetching figure but that her face and carriage wouldn't do for good society. She remembered years of feeling ugly, until her pride had raised her head and given her a motive of satisfaction in being strong and stylish in her way. She had never really thought how her recent passion and happiness had made her bloom from inside, making her look younger and healthier. "I don't know..." she said.
    "Doesn't your husband find you beautiful?"
    "He's a silly fool," Alison said bashfully.
    Mrs. Marlowe shook her head, smiling in the mirror. She laid her hand on Alison's cheek. "These are the reasons you're different, dear."
    "You think I'll manage to make friends with them?"
    "I don't know. I hope so. It will take time."
    She sighed. "I don't have time. Tomorrow I'll be back home. I don't know when I'll be able to stay here again for a significant length of time."
     "Have you ever thought about giving up your farm?"
    "Yes," she said. "My neighbours would buy it gladly, with a little help from the bank. Eldest daughter's of age, soon she could be thinking about marrying. But I'm so proud of that little place. Me and Susan, we put it in order, we made it profitable... well, almost. I'd be giving it up, for what? Yes... for being close to my husband. And I think I could even manage to earn the ladies' respect, just like Ma Hopkins. But would it be a fair exchange? That farm's all my life. Oh, God... so is McKay. But if... if something happened to him, at least I'd have a place to go back to. I'm so scared sometimes, and my farm is my only comfort... would that be the same here? Would I find so much help in the other women's company while he's away?" She sighed. "I don't know. Even now, he's supportive of me... but he's also so nervous. He admitted that he feels better when we're at the farm - that there he can stand better the tension of his trade. Sometimes I'm even afraid that by staying here I've made things worse for him. I don't know what to think any more."
    "Have you ever thought about leaving him?"
    "Leaving him?!" Alison stared at her, horrified.
    "I left my husband four months after we were married," Mrs. Marlowe said sadly.
    Alison's astonished look shot instinctively in the direction of Marlowe's office. "Yes, that husband," the lady added. "1853 - we were posted in California. There had been some ugly incidents with the Indians. The Apache had been taught by the Spanish settlers to scalp prisoners, burn them alive, or do bad things with their... you know. I couldn't take it anymore and went back to my mother. I was determined to stay there. And then... guess what I discovered."
    "Uhm," Alison said with a smile.
    "Exactly. The young lady who last year got married to a nice guy in Washington was then just beginning to give her first kicks. When he learned about it - not through me - he joined me and stayed until she was born. When the war broke out I took the children and went again to stay with my mother. At the end of the war I tried once again, I couldn't stay away from him, and yet I kept running away. Now that the girl is married and the boy is at West Point, I'm trying to stick to him. It's nice, here at Fort Lafayette. Nothing happens. It's cowardly, I know, but I'm trying to make up for all those years I left him alone." She fell into an unhappy silence. "He never said a word against me, can you believe it? He always took me back as if nothing had happened. I don't know if I'll ever be able to give back to him all that patience."
    Alison stared at her, stunned. She hadn't imagined that big and ugly Colonel Marlowe (his own words) could elicit such passion and misery. She looked as the lady finished the nice little bun on top of her head with curls dropping down gracefully around her face.
    "Until you make your decision... will I see you in Colorado Springs sometimes?" Mrs. Marlowe said. "I loved talking to you."
    Alison smiled. "I think that can be arranged."
    
    The little informal dinner had barely started when McKay and Alison made their appearance. He was rather low in the bathtub chain, so he had had to hurry; but now his sideburns were carefully trimmed, and he wore his dress uniform. Under his arm he kept his ceremonial helmet, a rather bulky thing with a cascade of horse hairs that he preferred not to wear. His saber hung at his side, and under the belt he had tied a wide red sash. The blue jacket looked like his usual one, but it had a high old-fashioned collar, epaulettes on the shoulders and a cordon on the right side of the breast. On the sleeve, under his sergeant's chevrons, were three narrow stripes, each for five years' service. The red-lined one indicated service during the war. He thought ruefully that soon he would add a fourth.
    The little informal dinner, like Mrs. Marlowe's after dinners, was held among the torches in the backyard of HQ. The evening was warm, and the roses smelled more keenly after the rain. A long table covered by a white cloth held the refreshments, put together in record time by Ma Hopkins' trustiest sidekicks. The wine came from Corty's private reserve. The musicians were all troopers with an artistic disposition, able to switch from classical themes to popular reels and songs, and glad to be hidden behind the instrument of choice and not down on the dance floor making small talk and being all proper. Luckily Mrs. Marlowe loved square dances as much as the youngest private did, so usually everybody was happy.
    At McKay's side, Alison looked resplendent. They paid their homage to Mrs. Marlowe and to the officers, all of them in dress uniform, all of them looking great - except for Carrington, whose thin days were well behind his back. Sergeant Hopkins was still out on his round, and Winters, even when healthy, had never made it on Mrs. Marlowe's roster, and it was unlikely that he ever would in the future.
    McKay had written personally a report about the accident with the telegraph line. He had traced his own responsibilities as far as not calling a competent person to oversee the proceedings, such as Mr. Bing. For the rest, he honestly felt he had done his best. Colonel Marlowe had taken mild disciplinary measures only against Corporal Morrow, who had allowed the weapons to be stored in a potentially unsafe place.
    Alison was being nice with everybody. Right now she was talking to Mrs. Marlowe and Ma Hopkins, who incredibly had managed to get herself in order, after cleaning up the whole staff. McKay looked at his wife from the buffet table.
    "Wipe away that gloomy face," said Marlowe, appearing at his side. "Stop thinkin' 'bout the explosion. The lad's gonna be alright."
    "I know," he answered.
    "So what's the matter?"
    "Nothin', really."
    "She havin' a bad time?"
    McKay shrugged. "Must get used to this kind of life, I s'pose."
    Marlowe nodded. "I'm glad she's here. My wife finally found someone to talk to."
    "Really?"
    "Yeah. She was bored to death. But now she found someone who stands up to her if necessary - an' she likes that."
    "I'm glad for Alison too."
    Marlowe looked at him. "Listen, lad, I'm sure you did all that was humanly possible to make her comfortable. Now there's only one thing you can do for her."
    "That is?"
    "Court her."
    "...?"
    "Come on, I suppose you know how to do that, don't you?"
    "Yes, but..." McKay lowered his voice. "She doesn't seem to be much in the mood for courtin', lately."
    "That's the tricky part. You must find a way. Maybe with your gal the secret is doin' it without her noticin'."
    "But how can I - "
    "Oh, hell, lad, it's your wife, you're supposed to know how!"
    "Maybe I shoulda sent for my kilt," McKay wondered absently.
    Marlowe took the question seriously. "Nah," he said at last. "Don't overdo it. Stickin' to the ol' dress uniform is a sure-fire way to win a lady's heart."
    McKay looked at him, mildly surprised. "You talk as though you had a vast experience in such matters, sir."
    Marlowe looked at him long-sufferingly. "You bet I have. Always with the same lady. An' now that I'm thinkin' 'bout it..." He left McKay by the buffet and went to invite Mrs. Marlowe to a dance.
    The sergeant wondered about it, chewing the inside of his lower lip. "Can't hurt," he concluded, and started towards Alison, who was still chatting with Ma Hopkins. He patted his hair, straightened his tunic and stepped up to her. "Hi," he said huskily. "Enjoyin' yourself?"
    Alison did a small double-take. "Yes, thank you," she said. Then a twinkle lit up in her eye. "Do I know you?"
    Great, she was playing along, he could stage an impeccable seduction now... That was his last thought before he started chuckling uncontrollably, at the absurdity of the situation, at Ma Hopkins' look, at his own foolishness. "Don't think so, want somethin' to eat?" he blurted out.
    "Hey, you're merry, whoever you are," she said with a quirky smile. "Somethin' to eat, sure, what have you got?"
    "I'd tell you, but I got no idea how it's called," McKay said, motioning towards the buffet. "Small triangular things, prob'ly straight from the colonel's fossils cabinet." He went serious all at once. "Do you want to dance?"
    "Yes," she answered simply.
    He drew her to the dancing lines. The musicians were playing a quadrille. They took place one in front of the other and started going through the figures. He danced it with hands behind his back, except when he had to take her hand or her arm or encircle her waist.
    Alison didn't know what he was up to, she hadn't even seen him drinking, but she was happy his mood had improved. And besides, she couldn't take her eyes off him. "You're good," she told him admiringly when they crossed once again.
    "You're lovely," he answered. "What's your name?"
    She laughed. "Guess," she said, and flew again out of his reach, to weave among the other dancers. When they met for the last round, she whispered in his ear, "How about getting some fresh air?"
    He thought about it. "Gotta tell you a secret, we're already in the open," he whispered in his turn.
    She almost lost it, pressing her lips together and making a funny noise through her nose. "Right. Then, how about getting indoors?" Her breath tickled his ear, her words flipped him inside out.
    Around them, the couples were dissolving their formation, applauding each other.
    "Can I get you somethin'?" McKay said, seriously.
    Alison nodded. "Some water, thank you, good-lookin'."
    He smiled, and went to fetch a couple of glasses. She pressed her hands on her burning cheeks. Her breath was coming faster from the dance, and her heart was skipping in her breast.
    They sat a little on the steps of the porch in front of Headquarters, away from the others. The water was cool and tastier than any wine. He sat still, while she sipped in silence, brushing his shoulder with hers. There were some sentries on the ramparts and some lights in the barracks, but the yard was empty. McKay was surprised to discover that all the words he wanted to tell her had disappeared. Too complicated. Much better to stay there looking at the stars. When the music started again, he got up and held out her hand to her. "Wanna dance this waltz with me, Alison?"
    She put down the glass and came to him, putting her hand in his and the other on his shoulder. "You're not supposed to know my name, Terence."
    "Whoops." His hand was warm on her back. They turned a little in front of Marlowe's office door, slowly, away from everybody's eyes. They could still smell the roses in the backyard.
    Their momentum faded with the music. There was a faint sound of applause and laughter behind Headquarters. McKay looked down into her eyes, then leaned back against the wall. Alison leaned shyly against him and nestled her head against his shoulder and neck.
    He held her in silence. He didn't know what to do now. There had been no time for courting before their marriage. Things had always been so clear between them. What now? How could he know the best way of healing her wounds? Well, he thought of a way, but how could he be sure that he wouldn't make things worse?
    Please, lift your eyes, he prayed silently. Just look at me, let me know what you think. Like you did that night at Windy Creek. Like that evening on the porch of your home. Please, Alison, my love. Look at me.
    Alison felt utterly safe, there in his arms. She nuzzled the cloth of his jacket. He never used cologne. He smelled of soap, camphor and wood smoke - just for once not of horses, although the aftertaste never really left him... She smiled. She placed her hand on his breast and felt his heart thumping fast. She thought she held his very soul under her hand. She looked up and found him gazing at her with such a look of longing, of sadness and love in his eyes, that her own filled with tears, and one solitary salty drop rolled down her cheek.
    He looked at it glistening in the moonlight. He bent his face towards her. She didn't move - then he laid his lips on her cheek, kissing away her tear. She looked at him, stunned, and leaned closer. Finally he lowered his mouth to hers and was relieved to feel her melt in his arms, her lips sweetly yielding to his, softly parting, welcoming him.
    Captain Shelby and First Lieutenant Carrington walked by under the porch.
    "Evening, Mrs. McKay, Sgt. McKay," saluted the captain. There was no answer.
    "What's the punishment for neglecting to salute an officer?" Shelby asked, eyebrows raised.
    Carrington pretended to think about it. "You should ask, what's the punishment for neglecting to notice an officer?"
    Shelby shook his head. "Ah, spring," he said, breathing deeply the clean Colorado air.

End of Day Three