Into the Wilderness. Laura Abbot

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      He assisted her to her feet and then gathered the books and laid them on a shelf. “Mine, too. No matter the post to which I’m assigned.”

      Looking over his shoulder, she noted his book, abandoned on the chair. “What were you reading when I disturbed you?”

      “First of all, you didn’t disturb me. Besides, Tennyson’s ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ is rather gloomy. In truth, I was daydreaming rather than reading.”

      She crossed the room, picked up the poetry collection and skimmed it. “I do so admire his work. ‘Flower in the Crannied Wall’ is one of my favorites.” She closed her eyes and recited, “‘Little flower—but if I could understand / What you are, root and all, and all in all, / I should know what God and man is.’”

      “A big if. Can we ever know about God and man? Would we even want to? Man has a habit of mucking up things.”

      She smiled, a glint of humor in her eyes. “Not only ‘man.’ In rare instances, ‘woman’ can also create problems.”

      Rather than going to the unhappy place where a woman had created a problem for him, he chose to respond to her lightheartedness. “In rare instances? My dear miss, have you forgotten Eve?”

      She laughed, a delightfully musical sound. “I fear, sir, that any discussion of serpents and apples might take an unpleasant turn.”

      “Perhaps, instead, we should both pledge to reread Milton’s Paradise Lost and compare our reactions later.”

      “He is a marvelous poet, isn’t he? Such descriptions of the Garden of Eden. Why, I myself might have bitten into the forbidden fruit.”

      He had a sudden image of her rosy lips grazing a red-ripe apple. He mentally erased the charming picture. “Did you come for a particular title?”

      She moved to the bookshelf, where she hesitated. “No, I’m browsing.” She laughed again. “That’s not exactly true. I’ve read nearly everything here.”

      “Then I shall look forward to hearing your recommendations.” He was pleasantly surprised. From his brief exposure to her at the Hurlburts’, he hadn’t figured her for a bookworm. Discussing literature with her would provide at least one antidote for the boredom that was part of military life.

      “I favor Mr. Dickens and the Romantic poets,” she said.

      “My, quite a divergence of taste.”

      “And why not? Fiction, poetry, biography, essays—we don’t have sufficient time to read everything, but I try.”

      He inclined his head in an abbreviated bow. “Permit me, then, to take my leave so you may find the hidden gem that you have not read.”

      She bestowed a smile that banished any thought of the Crimea. “Good night, Captain.”

      “Good night, Miss Kellogg.” Then as an afterthought, he added, “I shall look forward to sharing our opinions concerning Paradise Lost.”

      “As shall I,” she said.

      Walking toward the officers’ quarters, Caleb pondered the if in Tennyson’s poem. To understand God and man. He longed to understand God, to find answers to his questions. As for “man,” they were a mixed lot. As he had to admit women were, too. Even on short acquaintance it was clear that Lily bore no resemblance to Rebecca, the faithless woman who had broken his heart.

      * * *

      “In like a lion, out like a lamb,” Rose announced on the last day of March as she and Lily made their way to the sutler’s to buy provisions and collect the mail.

      The day was warm, and wagon wheels and horses’ hooves had churned the ground into dust that clung to their boots and the hems of their dresses.

      “We’d best enjoy days like this,” Lily observed. “Remember last summer? I swear equatorial Africa couldn’t be any hotter. In mid-July, we will look back on this weather with gratitude.”

      Rose linked her arm with Lily’s. “Enjoy the day, this day. God’s day.”

      Lily squeezed Rose’s hand. Their mother had often uttered those very words when her impatient daughters peppered her with questions: “When is Papa coming home from the war?” “How long until my birthday?” And more recently, “How are you feeling this morning, Mama?”

      When they entered the store, enlisted men buying tobacco and assorted medicinal items made way for them. Several tipped their caps, a few ventured mumbled hellos and one insolent corporal winked leeringly. Jake Lavery, the proprietor, beamed as they approached. “Ladies, what can I do for you?

      After placing their grocery order, Lily ushered her sister to a corner where yard goods and sewing notions were displayed. Thus removed from the prying eyes of men, the sisters studied some newly arrived bolts of cloth.

      Rose stroked a brown calico covered with sprigs of tiny yellow flowers. “I rather fancy this for my summer dress.”

      Each summer and winter, their father provided them with money to make one serviceable gown apiece. Lily always had difficulty making up her mind, and today was no exception. She draped a navy blue muslin across her shoulders.

      Rose shook her head. “Too drab. Try the gingham. It reminds me of the ocean. That is, if I’d ever seen it.”

      Lily unrolled a couple of yards and carrying the bolt to the small mirror on the wall, held the gingham to her face. The color did something magical for her eyes, tinting the usual blue with a hint of sea-green. She turned to Rose. “I like it.”

      “That was easy. I do, too. Have we need of patterns?”

      Lily shook her head. “I have some ideas about adapting ones we already have.”

      “I trust you. You’re the expert seamstress.”

      Mr. Lavery’s wife measured and cut the material, then wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with string. “Come show me when you’ve finished the gowns.” A wistful expression crossed her leathery face. Observing the woman’s worn gray dress, Lily ached for her. Frippery was hard to come by on the prairie where simplicity and practicality were both necessary and valued.

      Lily tucked their purchases in the mesh bag they had brought with them. Their last stop was the mail counter. “Kellogg. Anything for us?” Rose inquired of the red-bearded postal agent, recently arrived at the fort.

      “I know who you are,” the man said, as if offended that they would identify themselves to someone with such a brilliant memory. “You’re those girls the men are always talking about.”

      Rose bristled. “I hardly think so.”

      The man leaned on the counter and folded his gnarled hands, peering at them with beady eyes. “Bet on it, miss. It’s just as well your papa don’t hear some of what they say.”

      Lily drew herself up to her full height. “Sir, our mail, if you please.”

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