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Quapaw Post's CO, a captain by the name of Valdez, met him personally at the gate. Valdez varied his Guard uniform in that he wore camp shorts and leather sandals. Valentine got the impression this corner of Southern Command was not frequently inspected.
"A walking major?" Valentine heard the sentry ask his captain.
"Ex-Wolf. I checked him out; he's a good man on leave," Valdez said. "Oh, he can probably hear you by now, Crew."
"Long as it ain't a Bear, is all."
The Captain hallooed a greeting with Valentine a few strides away.
"Welcome to the Quapaw, Major," Valdez said. "You're welcome to my room, as I've got a cot in my office, or there's all kinds of space in the barns."
"If you don't mind flies and horseshi-" the sentry started.
"The barn is fine, Captain," Valentine said. The captain shook his hand and led him past some weedy sandbags to the official starting point of the base, a line of painted rocks. Valentine looked around. "Do you train the mounts here, or just feed them?"
"Both. That widow you asked about, Molly, she's one of our civilian trainers."
"Widow?"
"MIA technically, over six months, so that makes her a widow on the books."
"Does she know I'm coming?"
"I kept my mouth shut. But you know a small post."
"No sense wasting time. I'd like to see her."
"You're invited to a dinner with the other officers. Unless you'll be umm, otherwise occupied." Valdez made a point of nudging a path-bordering rock back into line, where it guarded some fragrant tomato vines.
"Tell your officers to dress down, this isn't an official visit. If they'd rather play cards over beer-"
Valdez brightened. "Your credit's good here, if you want to get in on a game. My kebabs are very popular if you like finger food."
"Sick horses have to go sometime. Glad to see border station duty's still the same." They turned up a little row of what looked like trailers with the wheels removed.
"You will want to get back to the electricity soon enough, I'm sure. Here we are."
Valentine recognized the bunkhouses. Known as "twenty by eights"-though a screened-in porch that could be opened on one end gave them dimensions closer to thirty feet in length-the easily constructed prefab bunkhouses were the backbone of Southern Command's dependant housing.
This one had the screened porch, and a thriving band of hostas living in the semishade under the floor, set a foot off the ground by concrete blocks.
Molly stood on the other side of the screen door. She seemed to shimmer a bit. Perhaps it was the water in his eyes.
A tiny, dark-haired figure clung to one of her legs. A tabby cat watched the drama from the tar-shingle roof.
"David?" she said.
"Hello, Molly." Say something else! "How are you?"
"I'll take your rig over to the barn," Valdez put in.
Valentine released his pack, grateful for something to do with his body.
When he'd had the barn office pointed out and said good-bye to the captain, Molly had the screen door open. She stood a few pounds heavier, her eyes were a little more tired perhaps, but her hair shone with its same golden glory. If anything, it was a little longer and fuller, drawn back from her cheekbones into a single braid. Some of the wariness that he'd come to know all too well on their trip back to the Free Territory still haunted her. She wore a civvied version of the old female Labor Regiment top, cheered up by a set of silver buttons, and a simple jean skirt with a built-in apron-pouch. She smelled like lavender.
The child had her creamy skin, or maybe it just looked light set against the boy's dark hair and eyes. If he and Molly had had a child the boy might have ended up looking like that.
"I'm sorry about Graf," Valentine said.
