that Ben would have freely given his own life to save her and Dixie. Still, she couldn’t dismiss the fact that his was a bravery with little regard for the sanctity of human life.
Purposefully shoving the disturbing thought aside, Lydia turned to her daughter. “The time has come to retire for the evening. Say goodnight to Mister Strong.”
Dixie dutifully rose from where she’d been sitting at the evening campfire. Attired in her ankle-length nightdress, she looked like a dainty, pint-sized ghost. To Lydia’s utter surprise, she stepped over to where Ben sat on a wooden camp chair, looped her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek.
“Goodnight, Mister Strong.”
Her big rugged husband appeared downright flustered.
“ Be sure to get a good night’s sleep, young lady. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” Ben said, taking a moment to smooth a red curl from Dixie’s cheek.
Clearly reluctant to leave just yet, Dixie impishly smiled at him. “How many more days before we get to your farm in Kansas?”
“Oh, six or seven, I’d say.”
“That’s a long time. Do you think I could help you drive the wagon?”
Ben cocked his head to one side. Running a hand over his cleanly-shaven cheek, he thoughtfully considered Dixie’s request. “Hmm, it’s possible.” He turned to Lydia, unexpectedly including her in the conversation. “What do you think? Should we let her assist with piloting the wagon?”
Lydia didn’t know which was more astounding: the fact that Ben had asked her opinion or that he’d used the word ‘we’ in connection with the two of them. We as in mother and father. Man and wife.
“I don’t see why not. Provided that she wear s her gloves,” Lydia answered. “It would never do for a lady, even an eight-year-old one, to have her hands marred with blisters.”
Hearing the verdict , Dixie gleefully clapped her hands together. “Oh, Mister Strong, I can’t wait until tomorrow,” she enthused, her cheeks flushed with cherubim color.
“Now don’t you think it’s about time that you called me ‘Ben’? Mister Strong is awfully formal.”
A bewildered expression stole its way onto Dixie’s face. “But Mama calls you Mister Strong.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask her about that ,” Ben muttered, rubbing at his shoulder as he stared at the fire.
Ill-at-ease with the unforeseen twist in the conversation, Lydia primly folded her hands together. “I call you ‘Mister Strong’ because it is proper to do so. If you must know, my mother never referred to my father by his Christian name.”
Ben lifted his gaze from the fire, one dark eyebrow raised in disbelief. “ Never ?”
“Well, perhaps she used his first name when they were . . . when they were alone together.”
“Alone together at night, you mean?”
On the verge of chastising Ben for his unseemly intimations, Lydia instead walked over to where he sat and lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Did you injure yourself?” she inquired, having noticed the way in which he repeatedly rubbed at the ball of his shoulder.
Ben sheepishly glanced at her. “I’m not injured. I’m just suffering from a case of old soldier’s disease.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what we always called it the army. My right shoulder gets a little stiff from time to time, that’s all.”
“But only your right —” Lydia stopped, suddenly recalling how, earlier in the day, his powerful rifle had jerked against his right shoulder each time he pulled the trigger. “Ah, yes. The recoil from the rifle. And, undoubtedly, four years of sleeping outdoors has only compounded the problem. Is there anything that you can take to dull the pain?”
“I’ll be fine,” Ben said gruffly, returning his attention to the fire.
“Very well, then. Suit yourself.” Lydia reached for the lantern, using it to motion Dixie toward the wagon. If the man wished to suffer in stoic silence, that was his prerogative. He
Purposefully shoving the disturbing thought aside, Lydia turned to her daughter. “The time has come to retire for the evening. Say goodnight to Mister Strong.”
Dixie dutifully rose from where she’d been sitting at the evening campfire. Attired in her ankle-length nightdress, she looked like a dainty, pint-sized ghost. To Lydia’s utter surprise, she stepped over to where Ben sat on a wooden camp chair, looped her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek.
“Goodnight, Mister Strong.”
Her big rugged husband appeared downright flustered.
“ Be sure to get a good night’s sleep, young lady. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” Ben said, taking a moment to smooth a red curl from Dixie’s cheek.
Clearly reluctant to leave just yet, Dixie impishly smiled at him. “How many more days before we get to your farm in Kansas?”
“Oh, six or seven, I’d say.”
“That’s a long time. Do you think I could help you drive the wagon?”
Ben cocked his head to one side. Running a hand over his cleanly-shaven cheek, he thoughtfully considered Dixie’s request. “Hmm, it’s possible.” He turned to Lydia, unexpectedly including her in the conversation. “What do you think? Should we let her assist with piloting the wagon?”
Lydia didn’t know which was more astounding: the fact that Ben had asked her opinion or that he’d used the word ‘we’ in connection with the two of them. We as in mother and father. Man and wife.
“I don’t see why not. Provided that she wear s her gloves,” Lydia answered. “It would never do for a lady, even an eight-year-old one, to have her hands marred with blisters.”
Hearing the verdict , Dixie gleefully clapped her hands together. “Oh, Mister Strong, I can’t wait until tomorrow,” she enthused, her cheeks flushed with cherubim color.
“Now don’t you think it’s about time that you called me ‘Ben’? Mister Strong is awfully formal.”
A bewildered expression stole its way onto Dixie’s face. “But Mama calls you Mister Strong.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask her about that ,” Ben muttered, rubbing at his shoulder as he stared at the fire.
Ill-at-ease with the unforeseen twist in the conversation, Lydia primly folded her hands together. “I call you ‘Mister Strong’ because it is proper to do so. If you must know, my mother never referred to my father by his Christian name.”
Ben lifted his gaze from the fire, one dark eyebrow raised in disbelief. “ Never ?”
“Well, perhaps she used his first name when they were . . . when they were alone together.”
“Alone together at night, you mean?”
On the verge of chastising Ben for his unseemly intimations, Lydia instead walked over to where he sat and lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Did you injure yourself?” she inquired, having noticed the way in which he repeatedly rubbed at the ball of his shoulder.
Ben sheepishly glanced at her. “I’m not injured. I’m just suffering from a case of old soldier’s disease.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what we always called it the army. My right shoulder gets a little stiff from time to time, that’s all.”
“But only your right —” Lydia stopped, suddenly recalling how, earlier in the day, his powerful rifle had jerked against his right shoulder each time he pulled the trigger. “Ah, yes. The recoil from the rifle. And, undoubtedly, four years of sleeping outdoors has only compounded the problem. Is there anything that you can take to dull the pain?”
“I’ll be fine,” Ben said gruffly, returning his attention to the fire.
“Very well, then. Suit yourself.” Lydia reached for the lantern, using it to motion Dixie toward the wagon. If the man wished to suffer in stoic silence, that was his prerogative. He
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