Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

“I intend to, Tsé-ditsirá-tsi. Until you tell me yes.”

  “Just what I need,” Adam said with a roguish smile. “A woman with a mission.”

  “My determination will help you keep your fine edge,” she replied with a smile. “Expect the children and me for breakfast.”

  He groaned and then broke into a wide smile. “Are you cooking?”

  “As if I’d let my children eat your cooking. And afterward you can help Bear Cub with his riding.”

  “Anything else?” he sardonically inquired.

  “You can comb my hair,” she sweetly said.

  “Not likely,” Adam answered with a pleasant smile. “Get someone else to comb your hair.”

  “I thought I’d try.”

  “I’m still awake enough for clear thinking.”

  “Did you comb the yellow-eyes’s hair?”

  He hadn’t, he thought with regret. It was a sign of great affection for a woman in the Absarokee culture when her lover combed her hair. “No,” he softly said.

  “She wounded your heart, Tsé-ditsirá-tsi.”

  He slowly shook his head. “Nothing so serious, Lily. She was only a short-lived fire in my blood.”

  But her memory stayed with him that night after Spring Lily left, and he dreamed of violet eyes and a courtesan’s mouth and a smile that made his heart sing. And he wondered what she was doing when he woke from his dreams with a start. Deliberately forcing away the unwanted memories, he methodically began a mental checklist of the scouting parties necessary to guard the camp—where they had to be posted, their range, the number of men. He wouldn’t allow himself to dream of Flora Bonham. But he was gratified when the lodge walls slowly took on the translucent sheen of sunrise. Throwing aside his fur robe, he raised the door flap to the morning light and gazed out over the peaceful camp. Dew sparkled in the sunlight, the scent of juniper perfumed the air, the sky was clear blue—promising a warm day. Everyone was safe, the mountain valley secure against attack. A child giggled in a nearby lodge, bringing an answering smile to his lips.

  To preserve his clan, his land, vas the reality of his life, his support, his cause, his duty.

  He had no time for dreams.

  Chapter Eight

  Flora and her father stayed at the ranch for three more days before they moved on to Four Chiefs’s village. Joining their entourage at their base camp near the mouth of the White River, they traveled east for two days over the grassy plains bordering the Yellowstone. With the familiarity of long practice, Flora and her father’s secretary, Douglas Holmes, began transcribing notes on the native fauna and flora into the large leather-covered ledgers. Alan McDonald, the expedition’s artist, was busy at work capturing the landscape in pale watercolor washes while the earl’s valet, Henry, saw to the comfort of their journey. They paused occasionally to add to the collection of plant life or to allow Alan the time he needed to capture a particular scene in more detail. Both Douglas and Alan had traveled with them for years; the delegation of tasks was accomplished with ease. Plants were carefully wrapped to preserve them and placed in compartmented boxes; local birds and animals were studied, described, sketched; weather was noted at various times of the day—temperature, wind direction, cloud formations. Everyone knew, after decades of traveling the globe, what was needed to record their journeys.

  Once they arrived in Four Chiefs’s village, Flora began interviewing the women, documenting their roles, their daily routines, their leisure activities, learning the rudiments of the language through an interpreter so she could ask simple questions. She had an ear for languages, nurtured by her travels, and she took pleasure in learning the soft-spoken Absarokee. Interested in the native foods, she helped with the cooking and tried her hand at curing hides; she learned to play the gambling games enjoyed by the women and marveled at the skill needed to create the beautiful decorative beadwork and leatherwork. In the households with multiple wives, she studied the shared domestic activities, the interaction between members of the family, the diverse forms of address.

  She interviewed two women warriors with positions of stature in the community, their exploits in battle honored with the same pride as those of the men. And she spoke with a berdache, a man who’d chosen to live life like a woman. He dressed like a woman, participating in the female activities of the village, his decision to adopt the role of a woman fully accepted by the clan. Flora conversed with the medicine women, who were as highly revered as their male counterparts, and she heard with wonder the stories of women chiefs among the Absarokee. Not the stuff of legends either, she discovered, for Red Plume had participated in the councils of the clan only a few years earlier.

  Many stories featuring Adam emerged over the weeks she spent at Four Chiefs’s village. He had great medicine, she was told; his war parties were always successful—not many warriors could paint as many coup stripes on their horses. Tsé-ditsirá-tsi brought good luck on his raids and added many Lakota, Blackfoot, and Cheyenne horses to their herds. He was wise in the councils too, his advice on dealing with the yellow-eyes sensible. When the women mentioned Tsé-ditsirá-tsi, they all expressed pleasure in knowing his wife had gone away with another man.

  “He’ll sleep with us again,” they said with smiles and laughing eyes. “And play the flute at night for his lovers the way he used to.”

  Flora didn’t doubt he would. Adam Serre wouldn’t go long without a woman. She always found it difficult to maintain the casual detachment of a researcher when they gossiped about him. He’d been much in demand before his marriage, the women affirmed with giggles and knowing glances; he’d pleased a great number of them. They were hoping he would come to the summer gathering of the clans so they could flirt with him, dance with him, seduce him.

  The egalitarian sexual freedom of the Absarokee evidenced a culture of unusual parity. Gender roles appeared equal in many areas: marriage was a mutual decision; divorce was simple, an identical procedure for both; either sex had the prerogative to take a lover; children were shared and nurtured by both parents and by a large extended family. Conjugal love was revered; most marriages were monogamous and permanent, but no prejudice was attached to those that weren’t.

  As the days passed, she found it easier to consider Adam with equanimity. His name didn’t evoke that sudden heated rush of memory any longer; she could recall the tempestuous days at his ranch with a moderately philosophic spirit. They had shared a wildly passionate encounter, and like a feverish tempest, it was quickly over. Adam’s life didn’t turn on impetuous passion, nor did hers. There was no need to magnify or overcolor the incident. They were adults with adult concerns. And their lives went on.

  Flora found the systematic routines of her research brought a kind of peace. The process of interviewing, transcribing notes, collating stories, myths, songs, was familiar, a personal continuum in a world of change, like a melody from childhood that conjured up happy times. Vitally interested in documenting the history of a culture without written records, she derived a satisfying sense of achievement from her work.

  Her father was immersed in the complex structure of the military societies, the training of warriors, the protocol of buffalo hunts and raiding parties, the intricate procedures in the Absarokee training of race horses, buffalo ponies, war ponies. The days flew by, and then the weeks, until in the middle of June Four Chiefs moved camp to pastures farther north.

  When the camp passed within two days’ ride of Helena, Flora and her father took the opportunity to travel into town and replenish their supplies.

  Since moving their clan into the mountains, Adam and James had divided their time between the camp and Adam’s ranch. Three of Adam’s best racers were being groomed for the races at Saratoga, the cycle of planting had begun, new orchards were being planted, the perpetual improvements to the stables required attention. And constant patrols had to guard the mountain camp and the boundaries of Adam’s property.

  After the militia moved from their camp near Moon Creek, and there was less
risk of meeting them, Adam and James rode north to Fort Benton to collect the Winchesters they’d ordered. Choosing a circuitous route, distant from the mountain camp, they arrived in the river town two days after a recruiter for Meagher’s volunteers had set up shop in one of the local saloons.

  That night, as they gambled with Judge Husmer and the sheriff in Bristol’s Saloon, the topic of conversation centered on the acting governor and his problematic militia. With the recent redistricting, supported by Meagher to control the power of the dissenting federal judges who had declared the last two legislative sessions invalid, Judge Husmer had been relocated to the outlying Fort Benton area. Because judges’ salaries depended on the number of cases they tried, banishment to the sparsely populated hinterlands had resulted in a drastic decline in his income. Husmer was furious. Every Republican in Montana was furious at having their political maneuver of voiding the legislative sessions outmaneuvered. And while the majority of the population was Democrat, enough influential men had been appointed by the Republican administration to make a serious and dangerous opposition party.

  “Damn his scurvy hide,” the judge fumed, discarding an excellent card in his distraught state of mind. “If he thinks I’m going to starve up here in this outland river town, the Acting One,” he said with sneering emphasis, “had better get himself a real good bodyguard.”

  Picking up the queen of spades and adding it to his other queens, Adam calmly said, “I hear Meagher’s planning a junket up this way next week.”

  “Upstart prick!” the judge exploded. “We should extradite him back to England so they can fulfill sentence on him. I can’t think of a better man to be hanged, drawn, and quartered.”8

  “When next week?” the sheriff softly asked, his salary paid by a group of local businessmen bitterly opposed to the acting governor.

  “Saturday or Sunday,” James said, before putting the glass he was holding to his mouth.

  “Berger mentioned it at the north-pass stage station,” Adam casually added.

  “That should be plenty of time,” the judge declared with unguarded ambition, “to plan a reception for the acting governor.”

  “Four queens and three threes,” Adam said, placing his cards on the table. “Sorry to take your money again.”

  “Hell no, don’t feel bad,” the judge magnanimously replied, waving his cigar in a flutter of dismissal, a cheerful smile on his rotund face. “This has turned out to be a helluva good evening.”

  “Are you thinking that Montana’s volunteer militia might be without a leader soon?” James murmured as he and Adam were walking toward their hotel later that night.

  “It’s a distinct possibility,” Adam calmly replied. “I just thought I’d give the malcontents an extra day or so to organize. They would have heard soon, anyway. Meagher travels with fanfare.”

  “A leaderless militia would ease the pressure on our people.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Are you planning on taking a hand in it?”

  Adam shook his head. “We’re going to be a good distance away by next week. Preferably at some social function attended by numerous people who can attest to our presence. It never hurts to be prudent.”

  “Since when have you been prudent?”

  “Since I heard Meagher was going to be in Fort Benton next weekend. Why don’t we accept Harold Fisk’s invitation to his ball in Helena? I think it’s scheduled for Saturday.”

  “Certainly Fisk is suitably rabid in his denunciations of Meagher to offer an ironclad alibi. And his wife presents an elaborate table,” James added with a smile. “But we’ll have to set out for the camp tomorrow if we want to deliver the Winchesters and travel to Helena by Saturday.”

  “We’ll leave at first light,” Adam said.

  Chapter Nine

  Adam and James walked into the elegant walnut-paneled bar of the Planters House Hotel, their throats parched from their long ride, their boots dust covered, their eyes straining to adjust to the sudden dimness. Moving toward the oasis of the ornate marble bar, they ordered drinks and were leaning comfortably against the pale polished stone, their gazes resting on the painting of a reclining nude customary above every bar with pretensions to gentlemanly style, when someone shouted, “Adam, Adam Serre!”

  Adam turned, searching the shadowed interior with a narrowed glance.

  “Over here,” a familiar voice urged.

  Adam recognized the accent before he actually saw the Earl of Haldane and, picking up his drink, walked toward him, followed by James.

  “You’re a long way from Sun Creek,” Adam said with a smile as he approached the red velvet banquette against the wall.

  “You’re no little way yourself from the ranch. What brings you to Helena?”

  “My question exactly,” Adam replied with a grin as he sank into a fringed velvet chair. “We’re here for a short visit.”

  “We’ve been in town replenishing our supplies. Four Chiefs moved his herds north last week.”

  “How has your research been going?” James asked.

  “Extremely well. What are you drinking? Cognac? Bourbon?” George Bonham signaled for a waiter.

  Over several bourbon and branch waters, the three men went on to discuss their various activities of the past weeks. In the course of the next half hour, Flora’s name wasn’t mentioned, although she was prominent in Adam’s thoughts with the earl seated opposite him. Was she here in Helena? he wondered. Or had she stayed behind in camp? Did she look the same? he mused, as if they’d been parted for years. Had she thought of him during their separation?

  But when the earl suggested they come up to his hotel suite to look at some of Alan’s watercolor drawings, Adam found himself momentarily indecisive. If she was there … He wasn’t sure. Despite a sharp-set desire, more prudent counsel warned him off.

  His hesitation generated a small pause.

  “Perhaps you’d like to come up later,” the earl politely suggested. “After you’ve settled into your own rooms.”

  James glanced at Adam, sensitive to his struggle of conscience.

  As the silence lengthened, James opened his mouth to speak, intent on offering some plausible excuse.

  “Why not now?” Adam softly said into the cigar-scented air, and, smiling briefly at his cousin, he lifted his glass to his mouth and drained the liquor.

  She wasn’t there when they entered the ornate sitting room. No evidence of her presence was apparent. He looked—his gaze swiftly surveying the room decorated in striped silks and ponderous furniture. But he smelled her scent, like a wolf recognizing his mate, and Adam glanced at the two closed doors in the east wall, wondering which was hers.

  Would she appear over one of those thresholds? Would he inhale her rose perfume at close range? Or was she being entertained this afternoon by another man?

  The subsequent image hit him like a blow, and with effort he focused on the conversation directed at him.

  “Alan did spectacular work on the drawings of Absarokee garb,” the earl was saying as he motioned them across the room toward a large table spread with leather folios. “I can’t thank you enough, Adam, for introducing me to Four Chiefs. His recall is almost complete, and he recaptures the mood and atmosphere of the days past with scrupulous detail.”

  “He was already an old man when my father first met him in the thirties,” Adam replied. “Father spoke of his phenomenal memory too. I’m pleased he’s been of help to you.”

  “He mentioned your father,” the earl said, untying the strings on the folio covers. “Four Chiefs said the duke had been generous with his gifts to the River Crow.”

  “Papa lived with mother’s clan for almost two years before they returned to France. He always remembered those days as the happiest times of his life.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” the earl said with feeling, his own pleasures found far afield from London society. “See what you think now of Alan’s drawings. To my mind he captures the colors and tex
tures perfectly.”

  They were standing at the picture-strewn table when Flora walked in on the arm of Governor Green Clay Smith’s nephew. A tall young Kentuckian who’d just made his fortune in the Lucky Blue Grass Mine north of Helena, he was smiling down at Flora as they entered the room.

  She suddenly laughed at something he said, the sound an enchanting trill of delight. Then she spoke inaudibly, in a rush, half turning toward him, the roses on her bonnet trembling when she laughed again, so she wasn’t aware of their visitors.

  Ellis Green playfully touched her uplifted chin with a brushing fingertip. “Now you keep that up, Lady Flora, and I’ll forget my gentlemanly manners,” he said in his soft Kentucky drawl. “A man can only take so much teasing.”

  Some men didn’t take any, Adam thought, reacting with hot-tempered exception to the dalliance, instantly wanting to carry her away and still her flirtatious laughter with a hard, scorching kiss.

  With her left arm still entwined through Ellis’s arm, Flora swung away from her escort in a coquettish sweep of green pongee and white guipure lace. Then she saw Adam, and her gliding movement abruptly checked mid-turn.

  A second of hushed expectancy descended on the large parlor of the suite.

  Ellis Green, reacting to Flora’s fingers cutting into his arm, took note of the earl’s guests.

  Adam shifted on the soles of his riding boots, restraining his impulse to move only with enormous effort.

  James touched his cousin’s arm in warning.

  The earl, less personally involved, spoke first. “Ellis, come and meet my friends. They’re in town from their ranch on the Musselshell. Flora, you remember Adam and James.”

  “Yes, of course,” she managed to reply in a near-normal voice. Her fingers relaxed, then slid away from Ellis’s arm.

  The two men were dressed for riding, Ellis Green reflected, the dust of the trail still evident on their boots and clothing. And even if he hadn’t known the Musselshell was Crow land, their looks proclaimed their heritage. Half-bloods, he thought, even without the clue of their beaded leather shirts; gradations in skin color were easily distinguished by a man from a border state.