The Pride of Hannah Wade Read Free Page B

Mexico to provide protection for the miners and settlers around Silver City, but few were keen to be protected by colored soldiers—and they made no secret of their feelings.
    Jake Cutter was a man slow to rile, but when pushed, he shoved back hard. “What’s the matter, Reynolds? Do you think he might contarminate your water? Maybe you’re afraid the black rubs off? Well, it doesn’t!” Hereached out and roughly wiped his hand across the trooper’s sweat-shiny ebony cheek, then held it palm up toward the trader. “See,” he challenged. “But don’t worry. We won’t drink your damned water.”
    Apache Jack Reynolds backed away from Cutter, wary of that cold temper. He looked over his shoulder as the women filed into his store. “Best see if I can help the ladies,” he muttered, and left quickly.
    Through it all, Grover had stood silently next to Cutter, his sergeant on his other side. As his rancor eased to a grim tolerance, Cutter glanced at the colored soldier. A flare of pride and deep resentment was in the answering looks of both men.
    Cutter released a heavy breath. “Wiping your face like that embarrassed you, didn’t it, trooper?” he guessed.
    “Yes, suh.” It was confirmed with defiant stiffness.
    “I was trying to make a point—“ Cutter began, then stopped and gave a small shake of his head.
    “Water the mules, Grover,” Sergeant Hooker inserted quietly, dismissing the soldier.
    Cutter watched him walk away. When he spoke again, there was a hard edge to his voice. “I’m tired of hate, John T.” He dropped the military formality. “I’m tired of Rebs hating Yanks, whites hating blacks, white men hating red men. Such unreasoning hatred . . . it makes no sense. It’s like hating the desert because there’s no water in it.”
    “Yes, suh,” was the noncommittal response.
    Across the clearing Cutter saw Mrs. Wade pause in the doorway of the store and look back in a questioning manner. He touched his fingers to the brim of his hat and feigned a slight bow, assuring her all was well.

CHAPTER 2

     
    L ESS THAN AN HOUI LATER, H ANNAH FELT THE SIBBLY strength of Cutter’s gauntleted hand as he assisted her aboard the army ambulance and waited while she arranged her skirts to sit on the seat. When she was comfortably settled with Mrs. Bettendorf and Mrs. Sloane, he walked to the back of the wagon and untied his horse. She watched him swing onto his McClellan saddle and wished, for an instant, that she had ridden her blooded thoroughbred. Army ambulances did not provide the gentlest of rides.
    “Do you ride, Mrs. Sloane?” she inquired with interest.
    “I have,” came the hesitant response from the young wife.
    “I ride almost daily. There are some lovely trails close to the fort. You must have your husband find a gentle mount for you, and we’ll ride together some morning,” Hannah urged.
    “Mrs. Wade is a most accomplished horsewoman,”
    Mrs. Bettendorf volunteered in endorsement of Hannah’s skill, although she herself had long since given up the pleasures of the sidesaddle for something a little more settled. “Naturally the colonel insists she never leave the fort unescorted, for her own protection.”
    “I don’t let that stop me.” Hannah’s voice had a carefree, lilting sound to it. “Even when Stephen is on duty, there is never a lack of officers to ride with. An escort can always be arranged.”
    “I’ll mention it to Dickie—Richard.” Mrs. Sloane hastily corrected her usage of the familiar nickname.
    The scrape of the brake being released was followed by the jangle of harness and bridle bits. Hannah gripped the seat for balance as the mules lunged into their collars. The wheels rattled over the stony ground, rolling and gathering momentum to sweep the wagon along.
    The track led into the mountain-wrinkled desert and took a northerly course toward Fort Bayard, which lay at the foot of the Pinos Altos Mountains. The two troopers deployed to their respective