They didn’t, except that Mary learned something about herself on that last day’s travel to Fort Laramie. She also learned more about Sergeant Blade.

She had resumed her place in the baggage wagon, seated this time on the open tailgate because it was cooler. To console herself, Mary indulged in a hearty round of self-pity, wondering how soon she could leave. Mama had sent her West with enough money for a return ticket.

Here she was now, hanging on for dear life to the chain that lowered the gate. Mary hadn’t dangled her feet over the edge of anything in years. She was happy to face away from trail dust and breathe better air.

She hung on tighter when the wagon began its descent into what was probably a reluctant creek that had been emboldened by a recent series of gully-washing rains. Muddy water swirled around the wheels, and two things happened at once.

The nearest crate slid off the end of the wagon and pulled her with it, plopping into the water and sucking her down. Frantic, she tried to scream and ended up gargling mud. She bloodied her fingers, feeling for a hold on the rough wood of the crate, then forcing her fingers through a small opening.

Trouble was, the crate held china—she felt sodden newspaper and ceramic—and began to sink as it bumped along. She turned her attention to worming her fingers out of the slat, ready to strike out for the bank. The weight of her dress wore her down, too. Her shoes were already gone, which helped, but the dress was heavy.

She shrieked when a horse blocked her view, then realized salvation loomed. She yanked her hand free and held it up, to be grasped by Sergeant Blade, who leaned down and grabbed whatever else was handy, which turned out to be her shirtwaist. With no ceremony, he threw her stomach-down over his lap and transferred his spare hand to the back of her skirt, working his gauntleted hand into her waistband.

“Hang on.”

To what? she asked herself, then grabbed his leg, which he obligingly raised a little so she could put her forearm between his thigh and the saddle.

“Damned steep bank,” he muttered, then up they went, after crossing the swollen stream and charging up the other side.

Safe now, she let him gently lower her to the ground, her sodden dress and petticoats sticking to her, and the buttons gone from her shirtwaist where he had grabbed her. She didn’t care. She was alive.

She covered her face with her hands. Perhaps it was vestigial memory—heaven knows the Seneca had little to fear recently except prejudice—but her mother had taught her never to cry in times of struggle, never to invite unwelcome sound into any fraught situation. She stood there in silence, alone until Sergeant Blade dismounted and pulled her close.

“You all right?” he asked.

She nodded, not all right a bit and wanting her mother in the worst way.

“Liar,” he said, which made her laugh, too. Maybe she was all right.

Victoria Masterson came running, but not too fast, because she was a lady, and not too close, because of all the mud.

Then Sergeant Blade astounded Mary, amazed her, and warmed her heart to a profound degree. “Mrs. Masterson, Miss Blue Eye leaped into the water to save your china.”

Two thoughts seemed to collide inside Victoria Masterson’s admittedly roomy brain: Her china was gone. Her servant-friend had risked her life for it.

Victoria gasped and started to cry. She didn’t go so far as to embrace her soaking wet servant, but she held out her hand. “Thank you, Mary,” she said. “I’ll never forget this.”

Yes, you will, Mary thought, even as she wanted to laugh at the sergeant’s adroit interpretation of the event. And you, Sarge, should be a diplomatist.

“Do you have dry clothes in the baggage wagon?” Sergeant Blade asked.

Mary nodded, her face warm because it was a delicate subject. He helped her into the wagon, told the driver to back away, and organized a few troopers to travel downstream to see what they could salvage from the crate, if anything.

Dry except for her hair and at least partly clean, Mary took a seat beside the driver, who looked at her with some awe now as the selfless attempted rescuer of a doomed china crate. She watched Sergeant Blade ride to the head of the column beside his officers, touched in her heart that his artless lie had made her a heroine and smoothed a path.

She was certain the army didn’t pay him enough.