“What will happen now, Father?” Ellen asked.
He studied his pipe. “I expect there will be Indian raids and warring on a scale bigger than anything the white men have seen yet,” he replied. “By trying to wipe out the Indians they’re only making more trouble for themselves.”
“They are digging their own graves!” Wolf’s Blood growled. He shoved back his chair. “I am going out for fresh air,” he told them, walking slowly over to his heavy buffalo-robe coat. He took it from a hook and winced with pain as he put it on.
“You should come back in soon, Wolf’s Blood, and lie down,” Abbie told him pleadingly, knowing how restless the boy felt. “You must rest.”
He looked at her with tears in his eyes. “When I remember lying next to Morning Bird, my arms around her dead body, it is hard to rest, Mother,” he replied, his voice choking. He walked slowly to the door and went out, and Abbie knew that if it were not for his wound, he would get on his horse and ride north. She was almost grateful for the wound. It would keep her son with them awhile longer. She looked at Zeke and saw his grief. He was losing his favorite son, and he knew it.
Zeke scanned his children, resignation in his eyes. “Your brother is going through a difficult time,” he told them, his voice sounding weary. “Be patient with him. He still isn’t healed, not just in body but in heart. Morning Bird was very special to him. Don’t be noisy around him, and give him your support. Perhaps some of you don’t look or feel Indian, but Wolf’s Blood is just the opposite. He is proud of being Indian, and he has a wildness about him that none of the rest of you have.”
“He’s like his own pa, that’s what he is,” Lance spoke up. Zeke met the man’s eyes and nodded.
“I suppose he is, at least like I was back in Tennessee—young and restless and full of revenge. I know how he’s hurting.” Zeke looked back at the children. “All of you eat a good supper now. Margaret, help your mother get the food on the table.”
“You should eat too, Zeke,” Abbie spoke up. “I’ve fixed a good supper every night, never knowing when you’d get here. And you should get Wolf’s Blood back inside and make him eat. You both need the nourishment.”
He met her eyes. “I’ve got no appetite yet, Abbie. I know you’re right, and I’ll try to get Wolf’s Blood to eat, but he needs some time alone.” Their eyes held. There was so much to say, and they hadn’t had a chance to be alone themselves since Zeke and Wolf’s Blood had arrived.
“Will Wolf’s Blood be all right?” Jeremy asked.
Zeke looked at the son who was so different from Wolf’s Blood. He loved Jeremy as any man loved a son, but he knew the two of them would probably never think alike. He felt that Jeremy Monroe would be one of those who would run from his Indian blood. “He’ll be all right, son … in time.”
The boy swallowed and stared at the big, wild man who was his father, a man he knew he could never be like. “I helped with all the chores, Father, like you said to do before you left.” He swallowed. “I worked real hard.”
“That he did,” Lance put in, walking over to sit down at the table. “He’s a hard worker, that one.”
Zeke saw the boy’s hopeful eyes, hopeful that he had somehow pleased his father. Zeke gave him a smile, aware that the boy always felt he was being compared to Wolf’s Blood. It wasn’t Jeremy’s fault that he was more white than Indian. Each of the children was different, unique in his or her own way. “Jeremy’s the hardest worker on the ranch,” Zeke said to Lance, his eyes still on Jeremy. Jeremy’s eyes lit up and his face reddened slightly.
“I’m not afraid of Thunder anymore,” the boy told Zeke, speaking of one of the wilder Appaloosas. “I rode him twice while you were gone, Father.” The boy had always been afraid of horses, taking much longer to get used to them and to learn to ride properly than his older brother and his two older sisters.
“Well then, we’ll have to go for a ride tomorrow and you can show me how well you’re doing,” Zeke answered.
“Really? Just the two of us, like you and Wolf’s Blood do sometimes?”
Zeke’s smile faded. He knew he was guilty of paying more attention to Wolf’s Blood than to the other children, but it hadn’t been deliberate. It was just that Wolf’s Blood was a replica of his father, not just in looks but in nature. Their closeness and keen understanding of one another had been natural and easy. “Yes, just the two of us,” he told Jeremy. “We’ll talk. Maybe we can learn to understand each other a little better. You can tell me about your studies and some of that fancy book learning your mother has taught you, and I’ll teach you more about riding.”
The boy smiled and nodded, and Zeke looked toward the door, then rose. “All of you eat now. I’m going out to try to get Wolf’s Blood to come back inside.”
“Mama killed a deer all by herself!” little Jason spoke up, his young and happy mind oblivious to the gravity of the day. “A great big one with horns!” He put his hands at the top of his head and stuck his fingers up.
Zeke looked over at his wife in surprise and she blushed. “I was just walking, carrying Pa’s Spencer for protection, and I just… came upon him … standing there looking at me. So I shot.”
Zeke flashed the handsome grin that always warmed her heart, and the mention of her “kill” seemed to break some of the tension around the table. She thought of telling him about the Englishman coming to visit that day, but she decided not to do so, suspecting it might upset him. There would be a better time to tell him. Praying that none of the children would bring the subject up just then, she shot a warning look at Margaret and Lance.
“Well, Abbie girl, it looks like you’ve still got what it takes to survive out here, woman. First it’s Crow Indians, then outlaws, now a deer. I told you you’d quit feeling sorry for those animals someday when you thought about all the hungry mouths we have to feed.”
She rose to help Margaret put supper on the table. “He was just standing there as though God sent him to me, so I shot him. But I properly thanked his spirit.” She met Zeke’s eyes and saw a strange sadness there, as though he was sorry she had had to be a part of putting food on the table. She hoped his Indian pride was not injured. Cheyenne men took great pride in being the hunters, the providers. His dark eyes roved her lovely form. “You’re some woman, Abbie.” He winked then. “Did you save the rack?”
She blushed again and picked up a spoon. “It’s in the barn.”
“The barn! That’s no place for a woman’s first hunting souvenir. We’ll bring it inside and hang it on the wall for everybody to see.”
Their eyes held for a moment longer, then he turned to go out.
“Zeke!” Abbie spoke up. “You didn’t mention Tall Grass Woman.”
He had already told himself to be prepared for the question, for Abbie and Tall Grass Woman had been close in the days when they could frequently be among the Cheyenne. Abbie had even saved Tall Grass Woman’s daughter from drowning that first year Abbie lived among the People, but the little girl had since died from cholera.
“Tall Grass Woman was among the survivors at the Smoky Hill,” he told her. “She and Falling Rock are all right. She said to give you her love. She and a lot of the other peaceful ones will be heading for Kansas soon.”
Abbie sighed deeply. “Thank God. I hope I can see her again.” She turned back to her cooking and Zeke quickly left. He apparently had fooled her, for he did not intend to tell her yet that he had found Tall Grass Woman at Sand Creek, slain alongside her husband and son, mutilated like the others. He would not put that burden on his wife right now. She had enough on her shoulders. There would be a better time to tell her.
Inside the cabin, Abbie sliced some bread, her heart heavy for her husband. Something was different about him since his return. It was as though some of the fight had gone out of him in spite of his encounter with the buffalo hunters. That was a single fight, but what was happening to the Cheyenne was occurring on a much larger scale. It was something one man could do nothing about.
Sand Creek had had a great effect on Zeke Monroe, and it would take some time to get over it. She felt an odd apprehension that she could not put her finger on. It went deeper than the fact that Wolf’s Blood might go north, although that would be very hard on Zeke. More had been lost at Sand Creek than lives, something much more important had been trampled there … something called spirit. She felt her husband slipping away from her, even though he was present in body. Their love had survived many terrible tests. Could it survive the demise of the Cheyenne?
Several days passed, during which time Zeke threw himself into his work with more fervor than usual. He seemed to be trying to take out his need for vengeance through his work. At night he was too tired and still too full of the recent tragedy to make love. He simply held Abbie, and he seemed to have an urgent need to do so, as though each time might be the last time he held her. He spoke little and slept restlessly, and Abbie often awoke in the night to see him standing at the window. Sometimes he had even gone outside. She knew that the wild side of him wanted to ride north with his son and make war. When Wolf’s Blood left, which he still swore to do, it would be very hard on Zeke Monroe.
It was a full week after his return when Abbie noticed some spark to the quiet, withdrawn man who had returned from Sand Creek. The children were sleeping in the loft while January winds howled outside when Zeke sat down at the edge of their bed of robes. That was the kind of bed Zeke had preferred early in their marriage, and they had never purchased a conventional one. He pulled off his buckskin shirt, and in the dim lamplight she studied the broad shoulders of his muscular back. His black hair hung long and straight, and he removed his headband. He sat there for a moment saying nothing; then he turned and looked at her, studying her lovely face, the dark brown hair spread out on the pillow beneath her head.
“Margaret said that Englishman was here while I was gone,” he stated with a frown. “What the hell did he want?”
She watched his dark eyes, wanting to smile at the hint of jealousy in them, but he was too serious for her to make light of anything.
“He wanted to look at some horses. I told him to come back when you were here.”
“After you served him tea and talked awhile,” he answered, standing up and removing his pants.
Abbie sat up straighter. “Zeke Monroe! So far the man hasn’t done a thing against us, and he seems to want very much to be on friendly terms. Neither one of us likes the fact that he is here, but he is, and we have enemies enough without creating more deliberately. I may have become more suspicious and careful of people since I’ve lived out here, but I refuse to totally forget the art of being neighborly. I’m no different now than I was nineteen years ago when I offered you that cup of coffee when you came to offer your services as a scout for our wagon train!”
“Yeah?” He got into bed and sat beside her. “Well, look where that led!” he reminded her.
As he met her eyes, she smiled softly, reaching out and tracing her fingers over his chest. “Yes. Look where that led.”
He grabbed her hand, then broke into the wonderful, handsome grin she had not seen since his return. She reached up and touched his face. “Zeke, there are so many terrible things going on around us, and our son might go away. We’ve been through so much. Don’t let a silly thing like Sir Tynes get in the way. I love you, Zeke Monroe. And I’ve missed you so—need you so.”
He grasped her wrist and moved his lips to kiss the palm of her hand. “I guess I just look at someone like the Englishman and then I think about all we’ve been through, Abbie—all that is to come—and I see what life might have been like for you if not for me.”
She leaned closer and kissed the scarred cheek. “Zeke,” she spoke in a near whisper. “Without you there would have been no life for me, and you well know it. With you I can bear anything that happens. Without you I am nothing. And you can’t tell me it isn’t the same for you.”
He studied the honest, soft brown eyes of his Abbie girl. Her eyes had never changed over the years. They were still the eyes of the young girl who had been so in love with him nineteen years ago. Abigail Monroe would not be untrue to her man or even think of doing so. But then maybe she didn’t know what was best for her. Surely it wasn’t a half-wild, half-breed Indian who was followed by trouble wherever he went. Yet their marriage had been good, their love rock strong. Maybe he loved her too much.
He leaned down and kissed her neck, unbuttoning the front of her gown as he did so. “It’s the same for me,” he said softly. “And I need you, Abbie.”
His lips found the soft fullness of her breasts, and he began to move more quickly, hungry for her now, hoping to forget Sand Creek and his other problems for the moment and just enjoy being one with his woman. He pulled her gown over her shoulders and down over her arms, his lips moving over her breasts, her stomach, and down over her body as the gown came off. He threw it aside and removed his loin cloth and pulled her close, enjoying the feel of her softness against his body. It had been so long since they had done this. He wondered why he had allowed so many things to get in the way, for he found his strength and peace with this woman who loved him just the way he was.
Their bodies seemed to melt together naturally, in tune to one another’s needs, and the excitement never really changed for them. His lips searched her mouth, and she gloried at how gentle he could be with her as his hands massaged and explored, for she had seen the vicious side of Zeke Monroe, knew what he could do to his enemies. But this was not that man. That man had never been in her bed. She knew a side of him that few others could imagine existed.
“Abbie, my Abbie,” he whispered, his lips moving to her breasts again, tasting their sweet fruit, drawing out her passion. She touched his hair, breathing deeply, allowing herself to enjoy the moment, never knowing what tomorrow might bring. He moved between her legs so that she could not close them, but she didn’t want to. Even that first time he’d taken her, despite being frightened and unsure and hardly more than a child, she had wanted him this way. She had always wanted him, always would.
“Don’t let anything change between us, Zeke,” she whispered. “Don’t let anything ever change between us. You’re my Zeke.” She gasped as he quickly entered her then, arching up to him in great waves of love and relief, turning her face and smothering her whimpers of ecstasy in the pillow as her body pulsed in the sweet explosion he forced from her by bringing her such intense pleasure. His powerful shoulders hovered over her while he whispered gentle words of love in the Cheyenne tongue and filled her with his power and masculinity, bringing out all that was womanly about her. In this act they drew strength from one another, shared joy and sorrow, gave and received pleasure. Over and over he pushed himself into the silken softness that welcomed him. She could no longer give him children, but he was glad she’d had the operation that had put an end to her child bearing. To have another baby would have endangered her life, and the seven they had were almost more than they could handle. It was nice to be able to simply enjoy Abbie as a woman, to ravage her, devour her, take his pleasure with her whenever he needed without the worry of pregnancy.
He shuddered and grasped her hair tightly in his hands, then as his life poured into her, he relaxed and pulled her close, kissing her eyes and staying inside of her. He wanted more of her before they slept. That night they would both forget the hardships of living in this land. There would only be Zeke and Abbie. There was no Sand Creek. There was no rebellious son … and there was no Sir Edwin S. Tynes.
The children sat around the table listening in awe as they always did when their father played his mandolin. The music was enchanting and magical, made more so by the fact that Zeke did not play the instrument for them very often. He had taught himself to play the instrument early in life, in the lonely moments when he’d retreated to the swamps behind his father’s house to get away from taunting whites and a chiding stepmother who’d never failed to remind him that he did not belong in her house. Actually, he had decided she was right.
He belonged in the mountains, in the out-of-doors, with the animals and the earth. It was there in the swamps that he’d begun to toy with the mandolin. His father, who had gotten it from a friend, had given the mandolin to him in the hope of interesting Zeke in something, anything, for as a boy he was restless and inattentive in school, wanting only to get back outside, never fitting in with anyone.
Alone, the young Zeke had taught himself to play, and he’d made up his own mountain songs, which he occasionally sang now to his family and Abbie. Mostly he played and sang for Abbie, for when he did he was all Tennessee man again. He knew he took her to her own childhood home through his songs.
Wolf’s Blood watched, feeling less a part of the family than ever as his sisters and brothers listened attentively, Jeremy holding a book in his lap. He waited until Zeke finished and told the children it was time for bed before making his announcement.
“I am leaving tomorrow, Father, to go north,” he spoke up. “I am well enough now.”
The room quieted, and Zeke set the mandolin down, leaning its long neck against the table. Abbie saw the determined look on her son’s face and knew she could not hold him there any longer. A wave of despair engulfed her and she looked away. “Get to bed, children,” she told the others.
“But we won’t see Wolf’s Blood again!” Margaret lamented.
“Yes, you will,” Abbie replied, looking at Wolf’s Blood almost chidingly. “I am sure he will be kind enough to stay around long enough in the morning to see all of you one last time.”
Their eyes held. “I will not leave without saying good-bye,” he assured his mother. He saw the hurt in her eyes and it pained him, but he refused to let it make him stay.
Climb the Highest Mountain Page 12
