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trained nurse.”
    â€œNurse?” Connor didn’t like this turn. “Miss Marshall, if you wish to tour the prison, you ought to know you need my permission, not Mrs. Lawrence’s. With her husband away, I am acting commander here at Rock Island Prison Camp.”
    Opal appeared bewildered. Miss Marshall set her square jaw. And Connor waited for the nurse-sanitarian’s comeback.
    None forthcoming, he pressed, “Miss Marshall, are you asking my permission?”
    The second hand on the grandfather clock in the corner made a quarter sweep before the grayed woman spoke. “I certainly do not wish to circumvent your authority, Major O’Brien. May I, please, sir, have permission to inspect the prisoners’ barracks?”
    â€œNo. Not no. Never no.”
    â€œJoe? Who is Joe?” Opal shook her head, perplexed.
    Before Connor could put the lady at ease, India Marshall launched the cannonball of her tongue. “By order of the Surgeon General, I have the authority to inspect this camp, Sonny Boy. Nary a general in the Union Army can stop me, much less a mere major. As soon as the sun rises on the morrow, I will proceed.”
    â€œNo, you won’t. No female will enter the barracks. You may be up in years, ma’am, but you’d be the first female those Rebels will have seen in months, if not years.”
    Out of loyalty Connor didn’t add the ancient Iowan reservists to his list, though some oldsters might show unseemly interest. On the other hand, it would give those guards something to do beyond complaining about hemorrhoids or bunions.
    â€œThere could be trouble,” Connor added on a prudent note.
    â€œThen assign a soldier as my escort. Of course, I’d rather have the camp physician.”
    â€œVernon Hanrahan is busy.”
    â€œDoing what? Building a snowman?”
    Inwardly, Connor chuckled, but no way would he show it, and she did have the grace to appear embarrassed when he said somberly, “You, as a sanitarian, ought to know no medical man in these times is building snowmen.”
    Actually, Hanrahan stayed busy nursing the bourbon jug, a habit not unfamiliar to the dimpled darling, Roscoe Lawrence.
    Connor returned to the crux of it all. “Miss Marshall, you may not enter the gates without my escort.”
    â€œWho hates? You don’t hate each other, do you?” Mrs. Lawrence fiddled with the trumpet. “Pity, why would you hate each other? We’re all on the same side.”
    Connor compelled a smile at her. “Pardon our rudeness.”
    â€œNeither of us hates the other,” Miss Marshall assured the lady, then took a different strategy, addressing Connor. “I beg your indulgence and prudence, sir. You would expose yourself to disease. I wouldn’t dream of endangering a United States Army officer. Provide a common soldier, one who’s survived smallpox.”
    â€œI’ve survived smallpox. Got pockmarks to prove it.”
    She set her cutlery down, and the appearance of her long, slender, unblemished fingers reinforced his earlier suspicions.
    â€œPulling you away from your duties is a needless expense of time,” she said. “Surely you’ve got more important chores.”
    Chores. That about summed up his present functions for the Army. Lawrence took uncommon delight in handing out menial tasks unbefitting a major. It wouldn’t surprise Connor should the dimpled darling someday order him to extend a lower lip for service as an ash repository. Lawrence favored cheap cigars.
    Connor sucked on the bitter root of bad luck. There was nothing he could do to get out of here, barring a reprieve from Stew Lewis, so he had tried, and would continue to try, to make the best of it. And keep the peace with Dimpled Darling.
    No mean feat.
    Eyes on the suspicious sight of India Marshall, Connor frowned. This interloper could pass unfavorable reports to Washington. The official sort. Under no