As time passed, Mary began to hear rumors that Frank was having an affair with the daughter of one of Chicago's wealthiest men. She refused to believe it. Frank might enjoy flirting, but he would never be disloyal to her. Women who were supposed to be her friends couldn't wait to tell her the latest bit of juicy gossip.
"I knew you'd want to know," they said.
Or, "I wouldn't dream of telling you this, but we're such good friends . . ."
Mary told herself over and over again that it was all a lie, until the morning she picked up the newspaper and saw a picture of her husband dancing with Caroline Sinclair at a fund-raising dinner in one of Chicago's swank nightclubs.
Mary stared at the picture for a long time, her heart aching with such pain she was certain it would shatter within her breast. It was not a particularly clear photograph, but Mary could see the way her husband was gazing into Caroline's eyes, the look of adoration on his face, the way his arm held her a little too close. This was no casual flirtation, Mary thought, no innocent friendship.
She cried all that day. Locked in her bedroom, she let the tears flow freely. Frank had been unfaithful to her. She had left her home and family to spend her life with him. She was carrying his child beneath her heart.
Fresh tears welled in her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. How could he hold their marriage vows so cheaply? How could he hold her and say he loved her when he was seeing someone else? How would she ever trust him again?
She cried until she had no tears left, and then she sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly out the window. She felt empty, numb, as if a part of her had died. Frank had been unfaithful to her. Frank loved someone else. Frank had lied to her.
She was quiet at dinner that night, hardly touching her food. Perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps she shouldn't say anything and the whole dreadful mess would just go away.
And then Frank said, oh so casually, that he was going to the club that night, and suddenly Mary found herself screeching at him, her hurt and anger rushing out in a torrent of hot words and bitter tears.
Frank did not deny her accusations. Kneeling beside her, he took her hands in his and begged for her understanding and forgiveness.
''It will never happen again, Mary, I swear it," Frank vowed. "I love you. I know I've hurt you terribly and I'm sorry. It was all a mistake. She doesn't mean anything to me, I swear it."
And because she loved him, Mary believed him.
Frank stayed home nights after that, and Mary was content. They read the latest novels together, played cards, occasionally had a few friends in for dinner.
Mary's child was born on June 3, 1899, at three o'clock in the morning. It was a girl, with straight black hair, tawny skin, and dark blue eyes that were almost black.
Frank stared at the baby, a look of dismay on his face. "It's Indian," he said flatly.
"I'm Indian," Mary said, cradling her daughter closer to her breast. "Had you forgotten?"
"No," Frank said quickly. "Of course not. But . . ."
"But you didn't think our children would look Cheyenne," Mary said coldly.
"I guess I never really thought about it."
"Don't you want to hold your daughter, Frank?"
He took a step backward as though she had suggested something repulsive. "Later," he said, still staring at the child. "Later."
Mary gazed out the window after Frank left the room. Her marriage was a failure. All her bright hopes and dreams for a happy life with Frank had disintegrated like a dandelion in the wind. Perhaps they had never been right for each other. Perhaps she should never have married Frank at all. And yet, back in Bear Valley, it had all seemed so right.
Suddenly homesick, Mary picked up her mother's last letter. She had received it shortly before Katherine was born.
"Dear Mary," the letter read, "It is so hard to believe a whole year has passed since you and Frank were married. The days do fly by, though I miss you very much. Blackie is growing taller each day, and though he is turning into quite a handsome young man, he is still bringing home every stray he finds. Just now we are nursing two squirrels, a black bird with a broken wing, an orphaned foal, and a fawn with an injured leg. And we have the usual assortment of dogs and cats underfoot.
"Jason and Jacob are thriving. They're already seventeen months old and as cute as can be. They keep Victoria busy day and night, but they are adorable. And so smart. I hope I have dozens of grandchildren to keep me company in my old age.
"Do write the minute your baby is born. Your father and I were delighted with your invitation to come for a visit. Expect us in the summer after foaling season is over. You know your father. He always likes to be on hand when the new foals are born."
Mary grinned. Her mother always liked to be there, too, she thought. There had been many a night when her mother and father had camped out in the barn or the pasture to keep an eye on a mare that was due to foal. Mary, too, had experienced the awe and excitement of watching a new life make its way into the world. It was a feeling beyond description, the wonder of seeing life renewing itself.
Smiling, she read on: "Rebecca's daughter, Beth, gave birth to a daughter last November. Pa said the Chatsworths were a little disappointed that she didn't have a boy to carry on the family name, but Pa said Jason is thrilled with his little girl.
"Pa and Rebecca came home in March, happy to be back in Bear Valley after spending such a long time in the East. They were sorry to have missed you, but apparently you were in New York when they stopped by. Both send their love.
"We have a new man working with the horses. His name is Cloud Walker, and he's a Cheyenne. Your father likes him very much, as I do. He seems to be a fine young man.
"Do write when you can. We love hearing from you. Give our love to Frank, and do take care of yourself. Your father sends his love . . ."
Mary pressed the letter to her heart. If only she could go home. If only she could pour out her hurts to her mother, and feel the comfort of her father's arms about her. But she was a grown woman now, married with a child of her own. She could not go running home to mama anymore.
Picking up her pen, she wrote her mother a long letter, telling her about Katherine's birth and how beautiful she was. She mentioned the latest fashions, and how warm it was in the city, and described the new lamps she had bought for the parlor. She wrote that Frank was doing well in his business, and related how exciting it was to associate with so many rich and famous people. She wrote about everything she could think of, except what was troubling her most.
For the next two months Mary tried very hard to be a good wife. She was always agreeable, she always had a smile for Frank when he came home from work. She kept their house immaculate, prepared dinners that bordered on gourmet feasts, dressed with care. She went out with Frank whenever he asked her whether she wanted to or not.
Going out was the hardest part of all. The women she had thought were her friends rarely called on her any more and she felt uncomfortable in their presence. Somehow, the birth of her daughter had brought Mary's own mixed heritage to her friends' attention. The men looked at her differently, too, now that they knew she was half Cheyenne.
Mary didn't understand what had changed. She was the same person she had always been. What difference did it make that she was half Indian? She looked the same, she talked the same. But it did make a difference. The women looked at her with scorn, the men eyed her with lust instead of admiration.
One night, at a large birthday party, one of the guests began to do his version of an Indian war dance. The fact that the man was drunk did not lessen the embarrassment Mary felt when he dragged her out onto the dance floor with him.
"Come on, honey," he said, "show us how it's done on the reservation."
"Please let me go," Mary said, trying to dislodge her hand from his.
"Hey, don't get uppity on me," the man chided. "Just give us a little dance. Like this, honey," he said, and began whirling around the floor, whooping and hollering
, until he passed out.
Mary had never been so humiliated in her life.
Gathering her dignity around her, she walked out of the room.
"Forget it," Frank said as he followed her out. "Gus didn't mean anything by it."
"Didn't he?"
"Hell, you have to expect that sort of thing. You are half Cheyenne. No sense being thin-skinned about it."
"Take me home, Frank."
"I'm not ready to go home," he replied, shrugging indifferently.
Mary didn't argue. Getting her wrap, she left the party and walked the two miles home. It was a long walk and the night was cool, but she didn't care. She could not face those people again.
There were other parties after that, other remarks, other jokes. Everyone expected her to be a good sport while they made fun of her people. Everyone knew that Indians were inferior. The men were lazy and drank too much; the women had no morals; the children were thieves. Everyone knew that.
Secretly, when she was alone, Mary wept bitter tears. Her marriage was a failure. Frank never made love to her anymore, he never looked at their daughter, even though the child was beautiful and good-natured. He had not even cared about giving the child a name.
"Call her whatever you want," he had said indifferently.
And so Mary had named her daughter Katherine, after her maternal grandmother.
When Katherine was three months old, Mary admitted defeat. Her marriage was over and she wanted only to go back home.
On the last day of August, Mary asked Frank for a divorce. He refused. A divorce would cause a scandal, he said, and he couldn't afford a scandal just now. He was on the verge of another promotion at the bank.
Mary did not argue. Instead, she waited until Frank left for work the next day, then she packed her things, bought a ticket for Steel's Crossing, and boarded the train bound for home. The trip, which had once taken months by wagon, would take less than two weeks on the train.
Mary left Frank a short note advising him not to come after her, though in her heart she hoped he still cared enough to try to get her back.
"Just tell your friends I've gone home for a visit," Mary wrote. "That won't cause a scandal."
16
I could not have been more surprised when I opened the door and saw Mary standing there, a child cradled in her arms, a suitcase at her feet.
"Mary! Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" I threw my arms around her and hugged her, baby and all. "Where's Frank?"
"I've left him," Mary said.
I took Mary's bag inside, and a few minutes later we were sitting side by side on the sofa. She smiled up at me as she placed the baby in my arms. "This is Katherine," she said proudly.
My heart swelled with love as I gazed at my granddaughter. She was beautiful. Her hair was thick and black, her eyes a dark, dark blue, her skin a tawny brown. When she smiled up at me, I was hooked.
"She's lovely," I said, stroking the baby's downy cheek. "Just lovely." I looked at Mary and saw the sadness in her eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Mary nodded, and I listened with growing dismay as she told me all that had happened in Chicago. I found it hard to believe that Frank Smythe had changed so much. He had always been a quiet young man, polite, kind, crazy about Mary, or so it had seemed. I had been so certain that they were right for each other, that they would find happiness together. What had gone wrong?
"I had to come home," Mary said. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Of course not. Your old room is waiting."
Shadow was furious when he heard about Frank. He threatened to go to Chicago and skin him alive, and I knew that, if Mary but said the word, Frank Smythe was as good as dead. My husband had lived as a civilized, law-abiding citizen for many years, but he was still a Cheyenne warrior at heart. Frank had shattered our daughter's life, and I knew that Shadow would not hesitate to make him pay, and pay dearly. But Mary did not want revenge, she wanted only to be left alone.
She spent the rest of the day in her room. Once, I heard her weeping softly. The sound tore at my heart.
Mary was quiet and withdrawn during the next few days. She spent most of her time with Katherine, nursing the child, singing lullabies, speaking to her softly in the Cheyenne tongue.
I wondered why she spoke to the baby in Cheyenne and remarked on it to Shadow.
"I think she is trying to understand her own heart," Shadow mused. "I think Frank hurt her deeply when he rejected the baby, and now Mary is confused about who she is and what she wants out of life." Shadow smiled at me, his eyes dark and sad. "Mary never had to deal with being a half-breed before. I think if she were a man she would go out into the hills and commune with her special spirit, but she is a woman, and so she must follow her heart."
During the next few weeks, I noticed that Cloud Walker could not keep his eyes off Mary. He rarely spoke to her, but his eyes followed her every move.
It was on a warm Tuesday morning that Cloud Walker and Mary first spoke to each other alone. Cloud Walker was breaking one of the young colts when Mary happened to walk by the corral. She paused, intrigued by the sight of the handsome young man astride a wildly bucking horse. Usually the horses were calm and easy to break, but every now and then Smoke sired a colt with a wild streak.
Mary smiled as the young spotted stallion dropped its head and began to crowhop from one end of the corral to the other. When that failed to dislodge the unwelcome burden on its back, it began sunfishing and swapping ends.
Cloud Walker let out a wild cry, his long black hair whipping around his face as the animal galloped toward the far end of the arena. Mary felt her heart drop as the horse headed straight for the corral fence. At the last possible moment, the colt swerved to the right and bucked, but Cloud Walker kept his seat, a broad smile lighting his face.
The horse let out a squeal of rage and then, abruptly, dropped to the ground. Cloud Walker jumped clear as the horse rolled on its side, but he was back in the saddle as soon as the horse scrambled to its feet.
The colt bucked a few more times and then, admitting defeat, it stood quietly in the center of the arena, head hanging, sides heaving. Cloud Walker spoke to the horse, stroking its leathered neck and flanks, before vaulting lightly to the ground.
''You looked like you were enjoying that," Mary remarked.
Cloud Walker turned to face her, his heart beating faster at the mere sight of her. She was a lovely creature. Dressed in a pink-flowered cotton dress, she was the picture of what a woman should be, neat and clean and beautiful. She had a trim waist despite having recently borne a child, and her curves were soft and feminine. Her hair was as brown as mother earth, her eyes were a lovely shade of gray, always a little sad, even now, when she was smiling at him.
"It is good to ride a fine horse," Cloud Walker said.
"He doesn't act like a fine horse," Mary remarked. "He acts more like a loco bronc than a saddle pony."
Cloud Walker grinned as he gave the colt an affectionate pat on the neck. "He has a lot of spirit, this one, but he is not mean. Only young and confused."
Like me, Mary thought. She said, "My father is very pleased with you. He says you are one of the best horsemen he has ever seen, and he has seen many."
Cloud Walker smiled, pleased by Shadow's words of praise. "Your father is the best horseman I have ever seen. He rides like a young warrior. All the horses know him and trust him, and he knows each of them by name."
"He is wonderful, isn't he?" Mary agreed, her voice filled with love and pride.
Cloud Walker nodded. Two Hawks Flying was a good man, someone to admire and respect, someone to emulate.
"Are you going to stay with us long?" Mary asked.
"As long as your father will let me. I have nowhere else to go."
Mary detected a note of sadness in the young man's voice and she wondered what had happened in his past to cause him unhappiness.
She lingered at the corral, watching as Cloud Walker cooled the colt, then stripped
off the saddle and rubbed the animal down. Cloud Walker's movements were quick and sure as he handled the colt, and she watched, fascinated, as his muscles bulged and relaxed beneath his faded blue work shirt.
Mary turned away, suddenly ashamed of the direction her thoughts were heading. She was a married woman. She had no right to be admiring another man, no right at all.
Mumbling a hurried good-bye, she returned to the house.
"He's a fine young man," I remarked as Mary entered the kitchen.
Mary nodded, and I saw the color rise in her cheeks.
"There's nothing wrong with being friendly," I said as I placed a pan of bread on the stove to rise. "Cloud Walker needs a friend, and I suspect you do, too."
"Why is he so sad?"
"His wife and baby died not too long ago. He came here looking for work. I imagine the reservation holds too many bad memories for him to stay."
"How awful for him," Mary murmured. She gazed out the window, her eyes going to the corral. Cloud Walker had brought a new horse into the arena. It was a leopard Appaloosa filly. Cloud Walker swung effortlessly into the saddle and began to put the animal through its paces, now walking, now trotting, now a slow lope around the corral. The filly was a lovely creature, docile and sweet-tempered, eager to please. Man and animal made a pleasing picture as they circled the corral.
"Cloud Walker reminds me of your father when he was young," I mused, smiling. "He sits a horse with the same lazy grace, almost as if he were a part of the animal."
Mary nodded absently, and I wondered what she was thinking. Then Katherine woke from her nap and Blackie came in clamoring for something to eat, and Mary and I stopped admiring Cloud Walker's riding ability and went to look after our children.
It was a beautiful fall day when Mary took Katherine down by the river crossing. Spreading a blanket near the water's edge, she made the baby comfortable, then took off her shoes and stockings and dangled her feet in the cool water. It was peaceful there, quiet save for the baby's happy cooing and the occasional song of a bird.
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