Ethan let go of her hesitantly, keeping a close eye on her as he gradually moved away. He got to his knees then, turning around to adjust his longjohns and denim pants, which he had only opened at the buttons. He had not intended to do any of this when he came in here, but once he held her in his arms, the way she had relaxed against him…He meant only to get the painful part over with tonight, to move gradually with her. He figured if he had tried to get her completely out of her clothes and do even more intimate things, she would most certainly have gotten frightened and would have protested. He thought after tonight it could all be different between them, new and wonderful, but there she sat, shivering and sobbing.
“Please get out,” she groaned. “I don’t know…what happened to me. You tricked me…with the whiskey.”
“Ally, I didn’t trick you. I only wanted you to relax.”
“You wanted the same thing all men want, and you’ll never do that to me again! It hurts!”
“Of course it hurts. It usually does the first time, but most women don’t cry about it. After a few times it begins to feel as good for the woman as the man. How in hell do you think women have five and six and eight children? They don’t get pregnant by a kiss on the cheek. They get pregnant out of passion and love, out of allowing their husbands to—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” She put her hands to her temples. “My head is spinning. You…you tricked me somehow. You’re no different from the boys in the streets of New York…when I was little…and Henry Bartel and—”
Ethan grasped her arms. “I am not like them and you damn well know it! I just wanted to love you. What the hell is wrong with that?”
She studied his dark eyes. Where had her reasoning gone? He was Indian! She had let an Indian man touch her intimately, put himself into her body. Quickly she pulled her chemise and dress back over her breast, only then realizing it was still exposed. Oh, the shame of it! “Get out!” she sobbed. “You’re the same! You’re all the same!”
“Goddamn it, Ally, I love you! I want to marry you. I’m not trying to hurt you!”
She scooted away from him, pulling a blanket over herself. Deep inside a little part of her wanted to believe him, wanted to try again; but the memories were too ugly, and she was tired of being looked at as some helpless thing a man could use however he wanted. “I don’t want this,” she told him, her eyes wide, her body shaking. “Besides, you’re…you’re Indian! It isn’t right.”
Why had she said that? For some reason she suddenly wanted to hurt him, and since she couldn’t do it physically, she would do it verbally; but the look in his dark eyes! At first it was hurt, then they showed a fierce pride. He said absolutely nothing. He simply turned away and pulled on his boots. A little voice deep inside told Allyson to apologize, but another voice told her to keep silent. She had found the best way to get rid of him, and so be it. She was not some sniveling, weak female who was going to be defeated by men like Nolan Ives; nor was someone like Ethan Temple going to talk her out of having something of her very own. She didn’t need taking care of, and she didn’t need some man sticking himself into her every night just to get his pleasure. He had brought the whiskey, used it to take advantage of her. Maybe it was a different approach than someone like Henry Bartel would use, but the result was the same. He deserved to be hurt, didn’t he?
She watched him grab his slicker, gun, and hat. “Ethan—” He did not turn around or reply. He only strapped on his gun, then crouched through the entrance to the tent and disappeared into the rainy night.
Allyson slept fitfully, all kinds of visions parading through her head as the whiskey played games with her dreams. Sometimes Henry Bartel appeared, leering at her, touching her, making her want to scream. Then his face would become that of Nolan Ives. The man was laughing at her, his fat chin and jelly stomach jiggling, his eyes telling her she had better be afraid. Toby was in those dreams somewhere, calling for help. And then two Indian men appeared, one looking evil, a painted warrior who threatened to plant his tomahawk in her belly; the other was handsome, gentle, reaching out to comfort her. She wanted to go to him, but her feet seemed to be caught in clay. They would not move.
Throughout the night the dreams plagued her, interrupted only by fits of wakefulness, when she was sure she was not sleeping, yet she could not quite grasp her surroundings or get up. When she was awake she thought she heard voices, men talking close by, strange noises. She was subconsciously aware that it had stopped raining, then finally came more fully awake to realize it was morning.
She sat up, looking around the tent. Was last night real? Had Ethan really been here, tried to make love to her? She looked down to realize she still had a dress on, but all the buttons down the front were undone. “Dear God,” she whispered. She carefully opened it to see her chemise untied at the front. Yes, Ethan Temple had been here. He really had touched her breast, tasted it. She looked to see her bloomers lying off to the side of her bedroll, and she put her head in her hands. What had she done?
She felt sick and her head ached, and right now she hated Ethan Temple for giving her the whiskey. One thing was sure, she was never drinking any of that stuff again! Why men liked it, she would never understand. She only knew that Ethan had used it to try to get his way with her, and she would never forgive him for it. Then again, she recalled that at first the things he did to her had felt more wonderful than she ever imagined such a thing could feel. He had told her he loved her, hadn’t he? He’d said he’d marry her. Were the words just a ploy to get what he wanted? Maybe not. Now she remembered the hurt in his eyes when she called him an Indian, in a tone to imply that no white woman in her right mind would let an Indian man touch her. She remembered he had left without another word. Her remark had cut deep, but then he had hurt her, hadn’t he? He had tried to do that ugly thing to her. He had done it! She still felt an aching sting in private places, and her mind raced with confusion over how right or wrong it had been to give herself to Ethan Temple.
She quickly changed and washed, frightened by the sight of blood on her inner thighs. What kind of terrible thing had that Indian done to her? Was it supposed to be like this? Was she injured? Would she die? She wished she knew one of the women around here well enough to ask if it was supposed to be this way, but even if she could ask, what would they think of her, drinking whiskey with an Indian, letting him get between her legs? She longed for another hot bath, but for now she would just have to wash herself. She pulled on clean bloomers, telling herself that she was glad she had hurt Ethan and chased him off. It served him right for injuring her like this.
She didn’t need any man “taking care” of her, expecting recompense in the form of letting him have sex with her whenever he wanted. She had plans of her own, and she could do it alone. It had apparently stopped raining. Maybe she could salvage some of her bread dough, build a fire, and get some of her baking done today. She had to do something, anything, to stay busy and try to forget about last night. If Ethan came around, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him, and that she no longer needed him. He could go on back to Fort Supply or go see his father or whatever it was he needed to do. He had tricked her, used her, injured her. She no longer wanted to be his friend or anything else!
She rinsed her mouth and put on clean clothes, rolled up a blanket that showed more blood stains, wondering when she was going to find time to scrub her laundry. There was so much for an independent woman to do. She brushed her hair and tied it into a tail, then put a bib apron over her head and tied it at the back. She could see the sun filtering through the cracks in the tent opening, could hear the bustling sounds of a town awakening to another day. That was just what this was—another day—another beginning. Last night was behind her—forever.
She emerged from the tent to a warm spring morning. She breathed deeply of the fresh air, and she realized that she felt very different. Was it because she was a woman now? One thing was sure, she knew now how all men thought, what they all wanted. No
w she understood the power a woman held. All a man needed was a hint of a promise that he could get between her legs, and he would do anything for her. She would learn how to use that power.
She turned then to notice there was another tent beside her own, a bigger one. A stovepipe was sticking through the top of it. Who had dared to put up a tent on her lot? She rushed over to it, charged inside. To her surprise, a cast iron stove sat in the center of the tent, not the new one she had wanted to buy the day before, but a good one, nonetheless. It was very warm inside, and she realized the stove was already lit. “What on earth?” She hurried to open a feed door beneath one of the ovens, to see red-hot coals glowing underneath. A coal scuttle sat nearby, loaded to the top with more coal. On it lay a note. She picked it up and unfolded the sheet of paper.
Ally, it read. The stove is yours. Got it from another couple who was heading back to Missouri and didn’t want the extra weight. If this is what it takes to make you happy, then I wish you all the best. By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I’m sorry if I frightened or hurt you. I only meant to love you. If I never see you again, I have to admit I’ll never forget Ally Mills, and I hope you’ll keep the good memories about this Indian and not the bad ones. You have too many bad memories already. Hold on to your dreams, Ally, and don’t let Nolan Ives or anybody else stop you. Ethan.
Allyson felt an odd sense of loss. This was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? Why did she feel so sad and empty? She had hurt him so deeply, yet he had gone to all the trouble and expense of finding a stove for her. This must be the reason for the voices and noise she thought she heard last night. Her eyes teared as she studied the stove, part of her feeling joyous at having it, another part of her wanting to run out and find Ethan and beg his forgiveness for her cruel words; but she knew that he was probably already many miles away. After what she had done and said last night, she wouldn’t blame him if he never came back. She remembered that look of fierce pride in his eyes when he left.
Now the tears began to slip down her cheeks, and she was filled with a new kind of grief. “Ethan,” she whispered. She folded the letter and shoved it into a pocket of her dress, wiping angrily at her tears. He was gone, and that was the end of it. How strange it all felt, to have given herself intimately to a man who was now like a ghost to her.
Several short blasts from a train whistle nearby startled her, and she straightened, quickly wiping at her tears. This was no time for crying. She hurried back to her own tent to see about salvaging bread dough from the day before. She had a business to build, and all other things—grief, love, her own emotional state…and Ethan Temple…had to be put aside. There were more important matters at hand.
8
Allyson joined the crowd of thousands who were headed for the gathering on a hill east of the Santa Fe station house. Today was the first official town meeting, called by men who already considered themselves leaders of the new city of Guthrie. Decisions had to be made, since the estimated ten thousand settlers had spread out well beyond the allotted 320-acre town site. Boundaries had to be drawn, leaders had to be chosen, laws had to be made.
Because of her size, it was difficult for Allyson to see above the men, and she was one of few women present. Men who knew her and frequented her establishment helped walk her to the front of the crowd, where she saw that Nolan Ives was one of the men in charge of the meeting. She quickly shrank back enough to avoid his attention, and she worried what kind of rules he would devise that might help him get her property. She did not doubt his promise that he was not through trying to get hold of her land.
She was becoming more confident that that could never happen. She had been right about the power that could be gained from being a pretty woman in need of a man’s help, especially a supposed widow. The progress she had made in the ten days she had been here was phenomenal. Once men began buying bread from her, and sampling her cooking, they began gathering around her like flies, almost stumbling over each other to help her in any way they could. Already a wooden building that would house her restaurant was nearly finished, most of the lumber donated, all of the labor free. A lot of the single men in town appreciated being able to enjoy “woman-cooked” food, and they were willing to do whatever it took to keep her in business.
On every street there were already other buildings, many of them finished, housing liveries, hotels, banks, lawyers’ offices, supply stores, every kind of business imaginable. At an astounding rate, tents had been replaced by wooden structures, and Guthrie was a real town now. All that was left was to bring in law and order, decide on a sewer and water system, and settle some still-lingering arguments over ownership of town lots. She still worried that Nolan Ives might challenge her in that respect, but each day that he left her alone, she was more sure she was safe.
Besides that, she was making good money, which made her feel even more relaxed. Single men were willing to pay ridiculous prices for hot meals. Trains brought in fresh meat and produce, as well as blocks of ice. She had an ice box now, and was able to store more food and expand her menus. She had bought herself more “respectable” clothing, careful to keep her wardrobe in dark colors for the time being. After all, she was still a grieving widow. She wore her plainer dresses when she was working over a hot stove, but had more elegant dresses for occasions like today, hoping they made her appear a little older and more confident.
She pushed away the thought of the pretty blue dress with yellow flowers Ethan had bought her. It was still wrapped and untouched. She had not been able to look at it since he left. She forced back the pain it brought her to think about him, and she reminded herself she was doing just fine without him. She had even bought a second stove, and had hired an old man and a woman who had been recently widowed to help her with the work. The woman had lost her husband in the land rush when their wagon overturned and crushed him. They had sold everything back in Kansas, and she had no choice but to stay in Guthrie.
Overnight the little watering hole called Guthrie had turned into a city of ten thousand. The smell of fresh lumber filled the air. She had plans to build a rooming house around her restaurant, where travelers could get a room for a night, or citizens without a home could live for longer periods. With the money she was bringing in, and the constantly growing business she gained from being near the railroad depot, in no time at all she should have enough to start expanding. If she wanted to build even sooner, a banker in town, Harvey Bloomfield, would probably loan her anything she wanted. Every time she came into the bank, he scrambled to please her.
It was amusing to think how easily she could use her feminine wiles to get what she needed, and she didn’t even have to do those other ugly things to get it. She only had to let the men fantasize about doing them, while keeping her distance and an air of dignity. Being recently “widowed” helped keep the men at bay. She was glad none of them knew what she had let Ethan Temple do to her. She had not let herself think about it too much, part of her feeling ashamed, another part wondering if she had lost something precious in letting Ethan ride out of her life. He had awakened something in her that left her restless, left her feeling confused about her role as a woman, but she had convinced herself that Ethan’s leaving was the best thing for both of them. The memory of Ethan Temple would eventually fade into the past.
Several men scrambled to find a crate for her to stand on so she could see better, but the commotion, and the fact that she was as tall or taller than the others when she got on the crate, attracted Nolan Ives’s attention, which she had been trying to avoid. Now that she had come to his attention, she decided to face the man squarely and show no signs of being at all intimidated. She was well aware he had already set up law offices in Guthrie, was building the biggest home around just outside of town, and was buying up all the town lots he could, offering the owners more money than they could resist.
You won’t get my lots, Mr. Nolan Ives, she thought. Not for any price! She would never sell, for to her it was an insult to Toby. Beside
s, not only did her idea have the potential for great financial gain, but she took great pride in knowing she was succeeding all on her own, and she was barely seventeen! She remembered reading in a newspaper once back in New York about the Great American West being the land of opportunity. Now she knew what that meant. Her only regret was that Toby had had to die. It still hurt terribly to think of her brother or visit his grave.
She took a deep breath and gave her attention to what was taking place in front of her, as one of the men in charge shouted for everyone to quiet down, a difficult task with so many people gathered. Another man, introduced as Charles W. Constantine, an ex-mayor of Springfield, Ohio, climbed into a wagon and stood in its bed so he could be seen by the crowd. It was announced that he would preside over the meeting. A Reverend Robert Hill from Oregon would take notes and act as secretary.
Mr. Constantine announced that at least thirty states were represented in the crowd, but most were from the neighboring state of Kansas. A huge, roaring cheer went up from those from Kansas. People began shouting out the names of other states. Michigan! Indiana! Wisconsin! Texas! Mississippi! Georgia! Ohio! Constantine allowed them a few moments to out-shout each other, then commanded the crowd to try to quiet down so they could take care of matters at hand.
“Well, now you’re in a new territory,” the man yelled. “And once all these new settlements get organized, like Oklahoma City and Kingfisher, we can all come together and make this territory a new state, one of the last frontiers in America, and you’re all a part of it!”
Again the crowd cheered. Allyson found herself cheering with them, caught up in the excitement of the day. Constantine reviewed decisions those in charge of the meeting had made, asking for “yes” or “no” votes from the crowd. Nolan Ives joined Constantine in the wagon then, helped up by two other men because of his obese condition. Once situated, he smoothed his silk suit and took a moment to look directly at Allyson.
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