Gokhlaya said nothing when he heard the reply, but went to his tipi and returned carrying his medicine pouch and an assortment of colored powders.
"May I come with you?" Hart asked as Gokhlaya gathered wood for a fire and tied it to a travois behind his pony. The old Indian nodded but didn't speak, and Hart knew by his silence that the man's Power already walked with him.
On the edge of the desert, several miles beyond the town, Gokhlaya built a fire. For more than an hour, the old shaman sat cross-legged before the pile of kindling, eyes closed, face lifted to Usen. The chant he uttered was eerie, reminding Hart of the sound that had drawn him to the Apache, long ago in the desert.
Gokhlaya poured the colored powders onto the sand beside him in glyphs Hart couldn't distinguish. Then he made an offering to the Four Sacred Directions and gathering up the sand picture, threw it into the fire, A column of dense black smoke rose and seemed to gain momentum as an odd roaring sound arose from nowhere; the smoke began to whirl and grew into a monstrous column, mingling with the desert wind, which was suddenly whipping up the sand to cyclone intensity. To Hart's astonishment, the column rose skyward, lifted itself from the fire altogether, and began to travel in the direction of the Mexican village until there could be no mistaking the cyclone's path.
Gokhlaya never ceased his chanting, which grew ever louder, nor did he look once at the cyclone he had summoned, but Hart, unnerved and fascinated, rose and grabbed his horse's reins. Mounting, he followed the cloud on its course toward Sonora.
The townspeople ran ahead of the cyclone that headed straight for the jail. He could hear the screams and see the people running; he saw, too, a bewildered Apache boy thrust unceremoniously out of the jailhouse into the street. Riding swiftly, Hart reached a hand down to the astonished boy and pulled him up behind him on the galloping horse. Hell-bent for leather, they rode beyond the outskirts of town, with the sounds of splintering wood and glass, shrieks and curses, ringing in their ears.
***
Destarte participated in all her usual chores with an amazing strength, despite her pregnancy. Hart grew anxious about her as her time drew near, but she simply laughed at him as if he were a simpleton to worry about woman's business. He thought perhaps this bravado was expected of her by the older wives, and one night awoke to find her crying softly.
"Why do you weep, Destarte? Are you afraid?''
"My friend's child died today. The mothers cut the cord too close to the baby and death entered through his belly."
It took Hart hours to calm her enough for sleep, but it was clear to him that she worried not for her own safety, but for their baby's.
Destarte's birth pangs began while Hart was hunting far from camp; by the time he returned home he was alarmed to see his wife with her hands lashed to a tree high above her head, obviously in great pain. Hart ran from his horse to free her, cursing the fools who had treated her so cruelly. Her legs were wide apart and her face contorted by pain as he rushed to her side, but the midwives shooed him away forcefully. Destarte opened her eyes and gasped at his intrusion; he could read the confusion in her face, for it seemed to him some part of her wanted desperately to be comforted, while another strove for bravery. "I, too, am a warrior today," she gasped, her voice ragged with suffering. "I battle for our son."
The old men grabbed him by the arms and pulled him from her. "This is the way of the Apache woman," they told him. "You must stay away until the ordeal has passed, or you will shame her."
Hart paced for hours outside his wickiup, which occasioned much mirth among the men. All through the night he could see the bustle of the midwives, and several times he came close enough to see Destarte, but she looked so ravaged by her ordeal that he couldn't bear to watch.
To his astonishment and relief, Destarte herself came to him early in the morning to present his son. She was pale and trembling when he took her in his arms.
"Your child has been bathed with water warmed in the midwife's mouth, my Firehair, and he has been dried with soft moss and grasses," she said triumphantly, holding out the baby to his father.
"The sacred pollen has been sprinkled and the appropriate prayers have been said for your son. He is strong and well, my husband." Destarte's voice was tremulous with shy excitement. "He will grow to be a fine warrior... there is no need to fear for him now."
Hart was overwhelmed with relief, and with the heady magic of new fatherhood. Scarcely able to breathe with the excitement of the prize, Hart took the baby from his wife's arms, and tried to understand that this small life was his firstborn son. The boy's hair was straight and black as any Apache's; his features were a combination of both races that had spawned him, his skin the rosy amber of his mother, the features not quite Apache, not quite Caucasian. His perfect little arms and legs, no bigger than a plump doll's, moved constantly, and as Hart kissed the soft velvet cheek, the baby smiled toothlessly at his father.
They had lain together so many nights, feeling him kick and leap within his mother's womb, yet the miracle of his existence thrilled Hart beyond all expectation. He reveled in the perfection of fingers and toes—he unwrapped his son from his swaddling cloths so often to admire his strong body that Destarte finally ordered him to occupy himself elsewhere. So Hart began to draw the baby in every conceivable movement of head or hand, until dozens of sketches littered their tipi.
"We must name him with great care," Destarte told her husband as she bared her breast and led the baby's questing mouth to her overflowing nipple. "He will not have his true name for many years, but his baby name will have power, too."
"We will call him 'One-who-has-the-most-perfect-mother-in-the-world,' " Hart teased her, thinking the sight of the newborn boy at his mother's breast exquisite. She laughed, low and musically, for she knew now beyond doubt that her husband loved her as she loved him.
"Later, when we know his talents, we must find a name that describes them. Or perhaps a great hunter or warrior will promise our son his name."
"What will we call him now? 'He-who-has-stolen-his-mother-from-his-father's-bed?' " Hart made the small joke, but regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth, for he saw Destarte's stricken expression.
Apaches considered two or three years between children to be appropriate spacing, and any man who made his wife pregnant sooner would be considered irresponsible. There were certain herbs and plants that could be chewed as protection against pregnancy, but for a time after a baby's birth, abstinence was the unhappy necessity. He saw clearly in that instant, in Destarte's eyes, how much she, too, missed the pleasures of their love, and he scooped her and the unnamed baby into a great bear hug of happiness, and whirled them around and around until his wife forgot her worry and laughed with glee.
Paint-the-Wind was the baby name the parents settled on, for Destarte insisted that the baby's hands made the same swift movements in the air that her Firehair's did when he sketched. But in his heart of hearts, the new father christened his son Charles McAllister, after his own father... and wondered if one day he would see signs of his own heritage in this Apache child who was his son.
"Paint the Wind," Hart wrote in his journal that night. "Isn't that what we all must try to do? Paint our own unique colors on the ephemeral face of nature... and leave behind us something of value?
"Oh, Great Spirit, before I die, let me paint at least one great color on the wind..."
Chapter 87
Blackjack and Aurora listened restlessly to the latest nanny, Mrs. Cribbet. She was lecturing them on what was expected of a lady or a gentleman.
"What is it, Jack, that makes one a gentleman?"
"Getting born into a rich family, Mrs. Cribbet," he said with a winning smile. Aurora giggled.
"That's part of it, to be sure, dear." He was such a delightful little boy, she hated to dampen his enthusiasm. "But to be a real gentleman, one must follow certain very strict rules of conduct, don't you see? These include honor, integrity, and kindness to one's inferiors. One must be
generous, courteous, and not indifferent to one's dress. Can you think of any others?"
"A gentleman should be brave," Blackjack said earnestly. "And he should know about a lot of things." He'd started to say he should be a great cardplayer, but he thought that might cause trouble.
"Yes, of course he should. That's another way of saying that a gentleman should be well educated." Blackjack wrinkled his nose at that distasteful thought; education was not what he'd meant at all. Craps, poker, horses, these were the manly pursuits he'd had in mind.
"The nature of a man's occupation, his breeding, his connections, and his character are each matters of consequence," Mrs. Cribbet continued. "And perhaps most important is noblesse oblige."
"What's that?" asked Aurora, who hated her French and German lessons more than any of her other odious studies.
"It means be nice to poor people," Blackjack offered in translation; he had his father's gift of total recall.
"Oh, I always forget. But it doesn't matter anyway, because I don't have to be a gentleman!"
"Ah, but you must be a lady, Aurora. And that is a far more exacting task," said Mrs. Cribbet. "You see, a lady must share most of a gentleman's virtues, but she must possess other qualities as well."
"Like what?" Aurora asked curtly. She hated all rules, but was canny enough to know that while she might get away with a great many failings, being unladylike was not one of them.
"A lady must be cool and quiet as a sylvan pool," Mrs. Cribbet said pompously. "She must be an island of serenity for her husband and children. She must never run, nor raise her voice nor make undignified gestures with her hands. She must be decorous at all times, and must never make a show of her intelligence. And, of course, she must be pure, but that goes without saying."
Aurora nodded absently... what a bore it was to listen to the woman's prattle. All this nonsense about ladies and gentlemen didn't matter in the least. Everyone knew if your father owned a silver mine, you were a lady.
Fancy was an early riser; she'd always loved the morning because it belonged to her alone. She and Atticus had risen with the woodland birds and he'd told her those extra hours were a gift the gods had given them, so that their day could hold more than everyone else's. The morning hours were free... no obligations, no visitors, no needs but her own. She tapped her pencil on the list of things that needed doing and remembered she'd promised Aurora she would have the little jewel box Chance had given her repaired. Feeling inexplicably cheery, Fancy left her own room to go to her daughter's, humming softly as she walked down the wainscoted hallway.
The jewel box lay on Aurora's dressing table, glinting prettily in the sunlight. Fancy opened the cover to empty it and the song she'd been humming died in her throat. She stared dumbly at the aquamarine earrings that lay twinkling beneath the other, childish trinkets. The missing earrings caught a glint of sun and winked up at her from the bottom of the box.
"Oh, Aurora..." she said aloud, as the full implication of the child's perfidy hit her. "How could you do such a dreadful thing?" Fancy saw again the tearful, injured face of the maid she'd sacked for theft and felt quite ill at the realization of the wrong she'd done the woman. Aurora was well beyond the age of reason—she knew good from bad, truth from lie—or did she?
This must be dealt with, and swiftly. She thought of turning to Chance, but instinct told her he'd be useless in such a confrontation; she must discipline Aurora herself.
Fancy left the dressing room, the earrings still clenched tightly in her fist.
"I didn't take them, Mother." Aurora's gaze was steady and unblinking.
"They were in your jewel box."
"Nanny must have put them there."
"Why would Nanny steal my earrings and then not sell them, Aurora? They're worth more than she earns in a year."
Aurora's face hardened into a vindictive little knot. "She probably did it just to get me in trouble. Remember how Miss Powell was always trying to do that, too?"
Fancy's stomach tightened; the new nanny hadn't said much in the time she'd been with them, but she could tell the woman was displeased with Aurora on nearby every level.
"You're lying to me, Aurora," Fancy persevered, hating herself, wishing with all her heart that she was wrong.
She watched the angelic face dissolve into misery; tears welled up and spilled on cue.
Sweet Jesus, what an incredible actress she is, Fancy thought. How could I not have seen this in her before?
Enraged at the girl's performance and her own stupidity, Fancy slapped Aurora full in the face. The blow startled the girl for an instant, then she set up such a howl of rage and pain, Fancy was again stunned. The hatred that looked out at her from Aurora's eyes was not new; it had been freed by the slap, not caused by it. But where in God's name had such hatred come from?
"You will remain in your room for the rest of the day," Fancy shouted at her daughter over the girl's sobs. "Until I decide what punishment is appropriate to what you've done. You've not only stolen from me and lied about it, Aurora, but you've caused Maria to lose her job with your dishonesty—that young woman may not be able to feed her family because of what you've done to her. This is very, very serious."
As she turned to go, Fancy realized she had never before punished either one of her children herself; there had always been a housekeeper or nanny to reprimand them for infractions of the rules. She had no idea what an appropriate punishment would be, but whatever she decided on, she knew instinctively that it must be serious enough to fit the ugly crime, for she could see in Aurora's eyes that her distress was caused by being caught, not by what she'd done.
Aurora flicked the whip over the pony's flank and shot out of the stableyard like a hunter on the fox's trail. The groom yelled a warning but knew even as he did so, that the spoiled child would pay him no heed. He wondered if he should find Aurora's governess and tell her of the girl's behavior, but the poor woman had her hands full enough with the brat, so perhaps he'd best stay out of it.
"Stupid Mother!" Aurora hissed over the pony's head into the wind whipping past her. "How dare you treat me like a common criminal!" She had remained in her room only long enough to be certain Fancy was out of earshot. "She doesn't even remember I'm alive except to yell at me over some trifle. She has a thousand earrings and I only took one pair."
The high-strung animal sensed the anger and fiddle-string tension in the rider and sped along the edge of the meadow. The legs that ordered him on were hostile, agitated, but they were the legs of a superb horsewoman. Despite her size, Aurora could handle her pony with the skill of a polo player.
I'll hurt you, Mother, one of these days, Aurora thought savagely in the depths of herself, and the thought gave her comfort. I'll make you pay for the way you've hurt me.
Chapter 88
The tall, statuesque young woman stepped off the stage and adjusted her traveling suit, wrinkled from the long, dusty ride. She was elegantly dressed and refined, but there was also something sensual about her that made every man on the street turn around and take a closer look. Her chestnut hair was done up in shining ringlets, under a tiny hat perched at a precarious angle. Her eyes were dark, under luxuriant brows, and her full mouth twitched, as if she had difficulty keeping it from smiling. Her skin was flawless and tawny as a Spanish dancer's; but for the indefinable duskiness of her complexion, her features might have graced the social pages of a metropolitan newspaper.
She looked around, as if taking her bearings from hearsay rather than memory. Finally she asked the man seated in front of the sheriff's office for the address that had graced a thousand letters, and set out determinedly in the direction he pointed.
She stopped, puzzled, in front of the Crown of Jewel's and glanced again at the street number over the swinging doors. How odd that her mail was being posted to a saloon. She lifted her skirts, as any well-bred young lady would, and walked over the boardwalk, through the doors and into the Crown to inquire.
Rufus spotted the unlikel
y arrival and called out to her, "You lookin' for somebody, miss?"
"Yes. Yes, I am. But there's been some sort of mistake, I think. I'm looking for Julia Jameson and this is the right address but..." The bar had quieted to a whisper.
Rufus looked to Jewel, who stood transfixed in her purple satin and black lace. There was only one person besides Ford who would call her Julia Jameson. Intense compassion was written in the black man's eyes.
Jewel thought, for one horrified instant, of fleeing, of pretending to be someone else... then she took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and walked across the floor to the uncertain figure.
"Welcome home, Dakota," she said as steadily as she could. "You're even more beautiful than your daddy said."
The girl's eyes widened, straining to understand who this amazing creature in the whalebone-corseted dress might be.
"Do I know you?" she asked confusedly.
"Not near as much as I hope you will, Dakota. I'm your mama."
The young woman blushed, tried to cover her embarrassment by averting her eyes. When she looked up again, her own were full of tears.
"I don't know what to say..." she stammered. "I thought... oh, I'm so sorry. I don't know what I thought. I only meant to surprise you." She put her gloved hand to her mouth, to keep in the words that sought to tumble out, then she turned and fled back onto the street.
Stricken, Jewel stood still as a pillar. Rufus thought she looked like the decoration he'd once seen on the prow of a ship.
"What you cain't duck, you might as well welcome," she said, finally, but her voice was hollow and afraid as she started for the door.
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