But how did a body find an opportunity to get to know such a man better? Mary still stood before the mirror, which was not getting any silver polished. She sat down at the dining room table and applied herself to tarnish.

It wasn’t a dining room. Second lieutenants were entitled to four rooms, if available, and none were. The Mastersons had crammed the table into a corner of the tiny parlor. Victoria had made quite a show of insisting that they call this side the dining room and the other side the parlor.

Mary knew better than to argue. She had known Victoria all her life, well aware that once she dug in with an idea, it was there to stay, no matter how ridiculous. A new husband, Silas hadn’t learned his lesson yet. Mary had to pretend she didn’t hear a spirited argument that night. By morning, he was calling that corner of the room the dining room, and peace reigned.

Mary’s room was a curtained alcove off the kitchen, probably meant for a cook. Once a bed had been crammed into the small space, there was room for little else.

A cook. Another lively fight involved a question from the lieutenant, sounding both aggrieved and aghast: “You can’t cook anything?” At least, that was all Mary heard before he slammed the bedroom door.

The Mastersons had solved that thorny issue by hiring a corporal’s wife from G Troop who claimed she could cook. The wary woman appeared for dinner, but took Mary aside to give her a shake and order her to manage breakfast and luncheon for Mrs. High-and-Mighty. “Boil eggs and make biscuits,” she snapped, then made it worse. “Even an Indian can do that.”

Mary had set the last of the spoons in warm water when Victoria Masterson came home, quite the reverse of the confident woman earlier, answering a summons from the company commander’s and post surgeon’s wives, acknowledged leaders of Fort Laramie’s elite, at least according to them.

The lady of the house sank into a chair and stared at the dishpan holding her spoons. Mary waited, confident that her friend/employer/who knew? would eventually speak.

A massive sigh came first, followed by the drama. “I do not know what I have got myself into,” she said.

Mary remained silent. Her mother had taught her the virtue of silence when dealing with “those of lighter skin,” as Mama put it. She waited.

“Or rather, what two perfectly capable women have got me into,” Victoria amended, and glared at Mary, probably because she was handy.

Silence still seemed wise to Mary.

“Mary, have you heard of a calico ball?”

Mary thought of an excruciating time ten years ago when she was eleven and her tribe had suffered through a poor harvest, followed by diphtheria. The Blue Eye family had been largely immune, since they lived on Judge Wilkins’s property, away from contagion.

“Yes, I have,” she said. “Remember that bad winter when so many babies died?”

Victoria shook her head, which came as no surprise to Mary.

“Some of the ladies in the First Presbyterian Church held a calico ball, with proceeds and dresses going to my people,” Mary told her. Mama had politely handed back the dress Victoria’s own mother thought to give her, after the ball. She didn’t need it. When Mrs. Masterson insisted, Mama cut it down for Mary, who didn’t need it either.

“I remember now. That was so kind of the church ladies,” Victoria said. Another sigh, then, “Mrs. Hayes and Mrs. Stanley are organizing a calico ball, with dresses and proceeds for the poor of Chicago, who lost everything in that fire.”

Mary had a sudden vision of thousands of poor ladies lined up for perhaps twenty dresses headed their way from a four-company garrison in the middle of nowhere. “It might be a worthy project,” she said cautiously.

“Might be,” Victoria said, with barely controlled distress. “Who is put in charge but the wife of the lowest-ranking officer on post? Me!”

“Hmm,” seemed like the wisest reply.

Then came The Look, which Mary recognized. She steeled herself.

“I assured those two biddies that I have the perfect solution to calico dresses on demand. Surely you can guess.”

“No, I can’t.” Mary said. Dread began to loom over her shoulder like a perched vulture.

“You can make the dresses!”

Mary stared at her employer and perhaps by this time, former friend. “But . . . With only a needle and thread? Victoria, I . . .”

“Better call me Mrs. Masterson. I know it seems so formal, but you do work for me now,” Victoria said. “Mrs. Stanley has already corrected me about that.”

Definitely former friend. Thank goodness the Union Pacific ran both west and east throughout the coming winter. “How many dresses?”

“Perhaps fifteen. That would take care of the officers’ wives, who, I scarcely need tell you, don’t sew.” She laughed. “Don’t look so stunned! Heaven knows why, but Mrs. Hayes has a sewing machine. You have plenty of time. The dance is in four weeks.”

Four weeks. Mrs. Masterson obviously had no idea how long fifteen dresses would take. “And my other duties?”

“Oh, pish posh. You’ll have time.” Victoria looked at the clock. “Let’s go to the sutler’s store and look over the calico.”

After which I will run away, Mary thought. Too bad Fort Laramie was surrounded by hostiles who wouldn’t stop to politely inquire if she had any Indian blood before scalping her.

The sutler’s supply of calico proved to be nonexistent. Mary watched Victoria stand in front of the dry goods counter and stare, as if hoping that bolts of fabric would suddenly—poof!—materialize. Alas, no.

Next stop was Mrs. Hayes’s quarters, where Victoria gave the captain’s wife the sad news.

Mrs. Hayes took it in true army stride. “Simple. We’ll send uh—Mary, is it?—Mary to Cheyenne with a cavalry troop in a day or two. She can pick out fabric, hurry back here, and start sewing.”

Mary knew better than to look around. Am I invisible? Can you ask me? she thought.

“I should go, too,” Victoria said.

“Heavens no, my dear! Hostiles are out and about. It would never do if something happened to you,” Mrs. Hayes said. “Mary can go.”

Mary realized two things: first, she was expendable; second, perhaps Mama and Papa shouldn’t have spoiled her so much, going so far as to assure her that she was as good as a white woman. Maybe there was a third matter. In the eyes of these people, Victoria Masterson included now, she was an Indian servant in a place with no use for Indians.