Mary was amazed that he wanted anything to do with her, after she had cried all over his greatcoat and made a spectacle of herself. She looked around cautiously, happy to see no one else on the street except two cowboys arguing in front of one of the saloons, and an old dog scratching himself and looking supremely indifferent.

“Where are we going?” she asked when he returned from the ambulance and offered his arm.

“There’s a dressmaker I know . . .”

“You know a dressmaker?” Was this man always going to surprise her?

“Her brother was a corporal in the Tenth Cavalry, a Negro regiment,” he said as they walked along. “I taught him to read, and he made sergeant. My Fifth and his Tenth were garrisoned at Fort Davis in Texas.”

“He couldn’t read?”

“Mary, he spent the first twenty years of his life as a slave on a Louisiana plantation. Reading was against the law.”

“At least that never happened to Indians,” she said.

“He came up to me one morning after guard mount and asked me if I would teach him. Said his lieutenant told him he could make sergeant if he could read the manual of arms, call roll, and fill out reports.”

“Why did he ask you?”

Mary watched the color rise from the sergeant’s neck to bloom on his face. “It can’t be that embarrassing, Rowan.”

“Maybe not to you . . . He said I had a kind face, and there weren’t too many of those at Fort Davis,” Rowan said, after taking his turn to look around. “A sergeant with a kind face . . . I didn’t know what to say. Well, except yes, of course I would help him. And I did. He’s a first sergeant now. His sister used to live with him before she married a railroad man.”

He appeared disinclined to say more, which suited Mary well enough. It was still before noon, and she had already examined her motives and character in light of the uncomfortable reality that she was probably as spoiled, in her own way, as Victoria Masterson, and also sadly lacking. Why Sergeant Blade continued to be so kind to her was a question for the ages.

One short block and one more took them nearly out of Cheyenne. Rowan stopped in front of a modest clapboard house with a sign in the front window: Mrs. William Washington, Dressmaker.

“Sukey told me that she wrote Modiste first, but no one in Cheyenne knew what that was,” Sergeant Blade told Mary. “This is more of a dressmaker kind of town.” He knocked on the door, listened, then opened it and ushered her inside.

Mary looked around in delight at the neat-as-a-pin parlor on one side and the business side with its cutting table, Singer, and mannequin wearing a dress she would happily commit a felony to own, if she thought she could get away with it.

“My goodness, but I want that dress,” she told Rowan, who laughed, then swept off his forage cap when a tall, supremely elegant black woman came into the room, tape measure around her neck, shears in her hand, and a smile of welcome on her face.

“Sukey Washington, are you ever going to look a day over twenty?” he asked, by way of greeting. “And where is that useless husband who should protect you from scoundrels like me?”

The dressmaker laughed. “Sergeant Blade, he’s down at the railyard, and you know precisely how old I am!” she exclaimed. “My goodness, did you finally do the wise thing and marry?”

I won’t look at him, I won’t look at him, Mary told herself as her own face turned rosy enough for two people.

Sukey Washington glanced from Rowan to Mary and back. She rolled her eyes. “Forgive me, then, for assuming, but who is this lovely lady?”

That was all the impetus the sergeant needed to draw a deep breath and move right along. “This is Miss Mary Blue Eye. We have quite a story to tell, haven’t we, Mary?”

If she lived to be eighty, Mary knew she would never forget the sweetness that was Sukey Washington. After enduring months now of wary looks and second glances as people wondered just who and what she was, this dark woman gazed at her with no guile and no hesitation.

“Blue Eye. What a beautiful name,” she said.

“I have always thought so,” Mary replied, then couldn’t help herself. “At least until I came out West. It’s kind of hard here.” And then she horrified herself by bursting into tears again.

Feeling helpless and stupid, Mary turned for the door. She could wait outside while the sergeant visited with his friend. Why was she so foolish?

She got no farther than the thought.

“My goodness.” Sukey Washington put her arms around Mary. “It’s not easy, is it?”

“I don’t mean to be a baby,” Mary said when she could speak. Sukey was soft and comfortable, and she never wanted to move. “I’m tired of people looking at me. I really don’t want to sew fifteen dresses, even though I have to.” She stepped away. “Here I am telling you this when you already know how it is. I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

Sukey pulled her close again. “A hurt is a hurt. I also wish people could see the me that I see.”

Mary nodded. The me that I see, she thought. Yes, that’s it.

She blew her nose and felt herself in control, even if too immature to be seen around grown-ups. “Let me wait outside while you visit with Sergeant Blade. I’m sorry I was so childish.”

“Stay here,” Rowan said. “I wanted to say hello, but also to ask Sukey if she has any calico.”

“We already have what we need,” Mary reminded him.

“But no fabric for you. I still want you to go to the calico ball with me.”

Oh dear, he hadn’t forgotten. “I have too many dresses to sew, Sergeant. Thank you, though, for the invitation.”

“What do you have here?” he asked Sukey, obviously intending to ignore Mary.

“Follow me.”

He did and motioned for Mary to come too. She shook her head, and he gave her what was probably a kinder version of The Stare.

“Very well, although I do not have time to sew.” She might have been a cricket chirping on the hearth, for all the attention he paid.

Still, a lovely bolt of cloth caught her eye, one of five equally lovely ones stacked next to more expensive fabrics. She couldn’t help her sigh of appreciation.

How strange that the sergeant pointed to the same bolt. Sukey pulled it out from between two others and carried it into the front room. She stretched out two yards, then looked from Mary to the material and back.

“I wouldn’t have thought this, but dark blue with white polka dots is perfect for your complexion,” Sukey said. She held up the fabric to Mary’s face. “And black hair? My dear, you were born to wear this.”

Sergeant Blade was reaching in his back pocket. Mary stopped him, her hand on his arm.

“You will not pay for this, Sergeant Blade,” Mary said, and gave him what she hoped was an approximation of The Stare. “I will.”

Their stare-down lasted a few seconds, and she won. He held his hands up.

Her eyes lively, Sukey named a price. Mary said, “Ten yards,” and handed over her own money.

“I personally hope that was your train fare back East money,” he whispered in Mary’s ear while Sukey cut the fabric, humming to herself.

“I’m keeping my ticket money safe,” Mary replied, flattered that it mattered to him.

“You know you’ll miss me,” he teased.

I believe I will, she thought.

“You’ll let me carry your purchase, Miss Blue Eye?” the sergeant asked most formally, humor in his eyes, too, once they were on the street again, after tea with Sukey Washington and sandwiches to take along.

“Certainly you may,” Mary replied. She took a deep breath. “And yes, I will go to the calico ball with you.”