Marrying the Major. Victoria Bylin

brow wrinkled in sympathy. “It’s a good thirty miles.”

      She turned ashen. Tristan almost felt sorry for her. He’d been afraid many times in his life, ironically less often on the battlefield than in his own home. He’d been afraid of his father when he was boy, and he’d been afraid when Molly had fallen ill. Now he was afraid of the malaria. He tried to offer consolation. “You’re obviously a resolute woman. You’ll be fine with Jon. He’s an excellent horseman.”

      “I’m sure he is. It’s just that …” She shuddered. “There’s no choice, is there?”

      He shrugged. “You could walk.”

      Bessie touched her sister’s shoulder. They exchanged a few quiet words, then the nurse turned to him. “I think it would be best if my sister and I shared the gray as you first suggested.”

      Tristan preferred his second idea, but he was tired of arguing. “Very well. Let’s get moving.”

      When Caroline hesitated, Jon gave her the reassuring look he often gave Dora. “The horse’s name is Grandma. She couldn’t be gentler.”

      She managed a smile. It was tentative and sweet and so full of courage Tristan wanted to give her a medal. But they really didn’t have time to dawdle if they wanted to get home before dark. “We need to go.”

      She glared at him. “I need to finish emptying the trunk.”

      Without waiting to be dismissed, she took her sister’s medical bag out of the trunk and set it close to her feet. Tristan had to admire her priorities. Except for Molly, the women he’d known would have reached for their jewelry before the medicine. Bessie reached into the trunk to help, but Caroline shooed her away. “Rest your ankle,” she murmured. “We have a long ride.”

      So did Tristan and he already felt done in. He wanted to encourage the camaraderie between Jon and Caroline, so he offered Bessie his arm. “Come with me.”

      He escorted her to a flat boulder where they sat and watched the packing. Almost clandestinely, Caroline lifted a framed picture from the folds of her gowns. She put it with the precious quinine, then handed the bag to Jon. “This requires special attention.”

      “Of course,” he answered.

      Tristan called to his friend. “Bring it here. I’ll carry it.” He trusted Jon, but he didn’t trust the packhorse to cross the river without balking. Tristan wanted the medicine in his care alone.

      Caroline shot him a look. He figured the photograph was of her parents, though he wondered if it told other tales. Seated on the rock, he watched her expression as Jon set the bag at his feet and returned to help her. In a separate drawstring bag she stowed a black-bound volume he supposed was her Bible, a smaller book bound in cloth and what looked like a doll. She gave the bag to Jon and said something. Looking pleased, he tied the bundle to Grandma’s saddle.

      Just as Tristan hoped, the two of them quickly developed an easy rapport. Thirty minutes later, a packhorse was bearing all the women’s possessions.

      The time had come to mount up. Tristan leveraged to his feet and offered Bessie his hand. Together they ambled to the horses where Jon and Caroline were standing in front of Grandma. Jon was stroking the horse’s nose, but it was the woman at his side who needed comforting. Looking tentative, she raised her hand to pet the horse.

      Surprised, Grandma raised her head. Jon controlled her, but no one was there to control Caroline. She skittered away like a leaf in the wind.

      The terror in her eyes reminded Tristan of Dora and how she came to him in tears after Molly’s death. Dora expected people to help her. Caroline clearly had no such hope. She was staring at Grandma as if she were looking at a mountain. He felt sorry for her, but she had to get on the horse.

      Jon motioned to Bessie. “Let me help you up first.”

      Leaning on Tristan’s arm, Bessie limped to Jon’s side, gripped the horn and put her good foot in the stirrup. With Jon’s help, she landed gracefully in the saddle. Grandma didn’t mind at all.

      Jon looked at Caroline. “Are you ready?”

      She looked close to tears, but she marched back to the horse like a soldier facing his second battle, the one where experience replaced ignorance and a man discovered his true mettle. Looking at her, Tristan wondered if she’d been thrown before. He could understand her reluctance to try again. He’d felt that way about love after Louisa rejected him.

      Molly had mended that hole in his heart. It had threatened to open again with her passing, but she’d been adamant with him.

       Don’t you dare leave our children without a mother! I want you to marry again.

      He’d made the promise, but he’d done it halfheartedly. He would give his children a mother, but she’d be Jon’s bride, not his. Never his. The malaria had seen to that.

      He studied Caroline as she listened to Jon, noting the tilt of her chin and the way she held her shoulders. Her demeanor struck a chord of admiration. So did the way she swung up behind her sister in a flurry of petticoats and courage. When she rewarded Jon with a quiet thank-you, Tristan felt a surge of jealousy. Jon had his health. He had a future, and if the woman’s smile was any indication, he’d have a wife as Tristan hoped and now envied.

      Annoyed with himself, he lifted Cairo’s reins from a tree and swung into the saddle as if he were a healthy man and not a feverish weakling. Frowning, he called to Jon. “Let’s go.”

      He led the way, keeping the pace slow for the ladies but itching to nudge Cairo into a run. He wanted to leave his weakness behind—the illness, his worries—but he couldn’t. All he could do was ride at a leisurely pace, listening to a pretty woman laugh at Jon’s banter. The pleasantries should have given Tristan comfort. Instead he had to grit his teeth against the urge to one-up Jon with stories of his own.

      For two hours he said nothing. When they arrived at the downed bridge, he turned to look at the women. Bessie had a steady way about her, but Caroline went chalk-white at the sight of the trail zigzagging down the canyon wall. Without a word, he led the way on Cairo with Grandma following and Jon at the rear with the second packhorse in tow. He could hear Caroline’s unsteady breathing, but she didn’t utter a word.

      When they reached the water’s edge, Tristan turned again to look at the women. Bessie had the stalwart expression of a veteran soldier. He suspected she’d experienced more difficult challenges than crossing a river. Caroline, however, could have been looking at a man-eating grizzly. Tristan followed her gaze to the rushing current. The knee-high water hadn’t gone down since yesterday. Cairo could handle it, but Grandma would be skittish.

      He slid out of the saddle. “I’ll ferry the women across.”

      It was the first time he’d spoken in two hours. Caroline stared as if she’d forgotten him. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

      “Positive.”

      Jon dismounted, then lifted her off Grandma’s back. She landed in front of him with her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Envy poked at Tristan again. Next Jon assisted Bessie, and the four of them stood in a square of sorts. As if the women weren’t present, Tristan addressed Jon. “I’ll take Miss Bradley first. You’ll wait here with Miss Caroline. When I take her across, follow on Grandma with the packhorses.”

      To Tristan’s consternation, Caroline took a step back and turned away from them. He followed her gaze to the river and saw a tree branch floating by. Bessie put an arm around her sister’s waist and murmured something. The younger woman murmured back loud enough for Tristan to hear. “I can’t do this,” she said. “It’s just too much.”

      Bessie patted her back. “I know, but it’s just a river. You can do it.”

      “But I don’t want to!” Her voice rose in volume and pitch. “First we get robbed. Then you sprained your ankle and the wolves kept howling—”