“If you’re a boy, we could call you Nate, after Zach’s pa, or Shakespeare, after the nicest man who ever lived. Your pa-to-be has his mind set on a name, but he won’t tell me what it is. He says it’s a secret and he’ll only say after he’s holding you in his arms.”
The white woman’s voice, so low and soft, reminded the Outcast of her voice. He edged forward.
“I don’t know why he’s keeping it a secret. But then, he’s a man, and men do the silliest things. But I wouldn’t trade mine for all the silk and jade in China.” Lou giggled, and rubbed her stomach some more. “Listen to me, talking to you as if you can hear me. I guess Zach isn’t the only silly goose in this family.”
The Outcast moved closer. He was almost within striking range.
“If you are a girl, I want you to know I’ll be the best mother I can possibly be. I may not always do everything right, but I’ll always try.”
The Outcast’s insides were twisted into a knot. He wished she would stop rubbing. The memories were almost more than he could bear.
“One last thing and I’ll stop babbling. This is a hard life, baby. We like it to be nice and often it is. But hard times come whether we like them or not. I lost my ma much too early. I lost my pa to hostiles. I pray to God I get to live longer than they did. I pray I see you grow to be a woman, and see you with a husband of your own one day. I pray I can hold my grandchildren in my lap and rock them in front of the fireplace in the evening. That would make me happier than anything I can think of.”
The words were meaningless to the Outcast. Her expression, though, said more than words ever could. He stopped and looked down at his knife, and when he looked back up, the woman was staring at him in bewilderment.
Lou couldn’t believe her eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest. She realized she had left the front door open. If Zach had warned her about that once, he had warned her a hundred times. Worse, her pistols were on the dresser in their bedroom and her rifle was propped against the wall over by the front door.
The Outcast willed his arm to move. He willed his hand to bury the knife. He did not need her alive. She would serve his purpose as well dead.
Fear washed over Lou, but she did not let on that she was afraid. Zach told her once that she must never show fear to an enemy.
The Outcast’s hand didn’t move. Nor did he. He saw that she was unafraid, and his respect for her climbed. Then he remembered why he was there. Taking two long steps, he touched the tip of his blade to her throat.
Lou swallowed, but that was all. She looked into the warrior’s dark eyes, and she forced a smile. “How do you do? My name is Louisa King. Who might you be?”
The Outcast cocked his head and studied her. This wasn’t what he expected. This wasn’t what he expected at all.
Lou was trying to tell which tribe he was from. She thought at first he might be a Ute since the Ute lived closest to King Valley, but she had seen Utes and they were different. He wasn’t a Crow or a Nez Perce or any of the other Indians she was familiar with. The tribe he most reminded her of were the Blackfeet, but his face and his buckskins were not quite as theirs were.
The Outcast was confused. Here he was, holding a knife to her neck, and all she did was stare at him. Most enemies would fight or cringe in fright.
Lou knew a little Shoshone, so she tried that. She didn’t realize she still had her hands on her belly until she saw him look down at them.
The Outcast was thinking of her again. Of how happy he had been when the baby was born. He remembered its wail when the lance pierced its body, and he broke out in a cold sweat.
Lou wondered why the warrior was just standing there. She’d thought she was a goner, but now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe he wanted her alive. She kept on smiling and said quietly, “I will be your friend if you will let me. Me and my husband both.” Those last words weren’t entirely true. Were Zach to walk in the door, he’d kill the warrior before he could blink.
The Outcast shook himself and stepped back. He had come in determined to slay her, and now he couldn’t. He didn’t understand what he was feeling. Or did he, and he was unwilling to admit it? The Outcast started to raise his free hand to his brow and caught himself. He must be strong. He must not let her stir his memories. It would be so easy to kill her. She was so small, so fragile. Then he saw her eyes and was startled. He had not noticed until now that they were blue. Blue had been her favorite color. The baby was bundled in a blue blanket on that terrible day, and in his mind, as vivid as if it were happening again, he saw the splash of red against the blue, and a growl of torment escaped him.
Lunging, the Outcast gripped the white woman by the throat.
Chapter Six
Shakespeare McNair waited until they were half a mile south of the lake. Then he coughed and casually asked, “So, is there any news you care to tell me, Horatio Junior?”
Zach was scouring the ground for sign. “None that I can think of. And how many times have I told you not to call me that?”
“None at all?”
“I expect my parents back in a week or two. And there were elk at the lake this morning.” Zach scratched his chin and pretended to ponder. “Oh, wait. Lou and I saw two squirrels the other day. She thought they were downright adorable.”
“Which is more than I can say about her husband.”
Zach shifted in the saddle. “Pardon me?” he innocently asked.
“ ‘You are a knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats,’ ” Shakespeare quoted. “ ‘A base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy worsted-stocking knave.’ ”
“Why, Uncle Shakespeare, whatever do you mean?”
Shakespeare wasn’t done. “ ‘Thou cruel, ingrateful, savage and inhuman creature.’ To think I bobbed you on my knee and tickled you and let you pull on my whiskers, and this is how you treat me?”
“You’re not making any sense. Maybe Blue Water Woman is right. Maybe you do just talk to hear yourself speak.”
Shakespeare puffed himself up like a riled rooster. “A pox on her and a pox on you. You know very well I wanted to hear about the baby.”
“Oh. You know about that? Then why should I need to tell you?” Zach couldn’t hold his laughter in any longer.
“I am a cushion and everyone pricks me.” Shakespeare reined the mare to go around a boulder. They were in the middle of the valley; the scent of the grass was keen in his nostrils, the sun warm on his cheeks. He felt grand to be alive. “But enough tomfoolery. Be honest with me. How are you taking it?”
Zach never held anything back from McNair. It wouldn’t do to try. The oldster had an uncanny knack for seeing right through him. “I made a mess of it at first. I got her all upset because I wasn’t sure I was ready to be a father.”
“I can’t think of anyone more ready. Remember, you are the fruit of your father’s loins.”
“Thank you for reminding me of that.”
“What I meant is that you have root in a fine tree. Your pa is the best man I know. That includes me. You take after him, whether you admit it or not, and you’ll be as good a pa as he is.”
Zach hoped so. “What do you mean by best?”
“I should think it obvious. Not all men are as devoted husbands and fathers as your pa. White or red, a lot of them care more for their horses and their guns than they do for their wives. Or they can’t be bothered to spend time with their children because they’d rather be off hunting or fishing or just getting out of the cabin or the lodge.” Shakespeare paused. “The true measure of a man isn’t in how straight he shoots or how tough he is. The true measure of a man is in his capacity to love. In that regard, your pa beats every gent alive all hollow.”
“Capacity to love?” Zach regarded that as an odd standard. But his uncle might have a point. Until he met Louisa, his whole purpose in life was to count coup. Now his purpose in life was her.
“Love is the hardest thing in the world to do right. I’m not talking about giving someone a hug every
blue moon and saying you love them. I’m talking about true love, real love. The kind of love you have to work at. The kind where you live for the person you love and not for yourself. The kind where making them happy matters more than your own happiness.”
“And you think my pa is that way?”
“Think back. Think of how devoted he is to your ma and your sister and you. Any time you’ve had a problem, he was right there helping you. He’s never set himself above you, never bossed you around like you were—”
“He made me keep my room clean,” Zach mentioned.
“Even that was for your own good. Let a child be lazy and they’ll be lazy later in life. Mostly he’s let you grow true to your nature, and been there to snip and prune when need be.”
“You keep comparing me to a plant.”
“Because you are. We all are, and when we’re young we need the right nurturing. Your pa took care of you just right, and you’ll do the same with your own offspring.”
Zach drew rein and stared at him.
“What?”
“The things that come out of your mouth never cease to amaze me. If it’s not all that silly Bard stuff, it’s plants.”
“Have a care. Old William S. was never silly. He played with words the way you used to play with those blocks your pa got you. He was—” Shakespeare abruptly stopped.
Zach had held up a hand for silence. Turning, he gazed to the north. “Did you hear that?”
“No. What?”
“I don’t know,” Zach admitted. “A scream, maybe.”
“A scream?” Shakespeare twisted around, his saddle creaking under him, and listened. All he heard was the rustle of the wind and the swish of the mare’s tail. “Maybe you imagined it.”
“No. I’m pretty sure.”
They waited, but the sound wasn’t repeated. Zach scowled and reined his bay around. “I think we should go back.”
“If they were in trouble, they’d fire shots.”
“I still think we should.”
“We’d end up wasting most of the morning,” Shakespeare replied. “Besides, we haven’t seen any sign of hostiles or other whites since those goldcrazy coyotes paid us a visit a while back.”
“I know.” But Zach wanted to go back anyway. He had an uneasy feeling he didn’t like.
“Listen. You just found out your wife is going to have a baby, so naturally you’re a little nervous about leaving her alone. We’ll look ridiculous, riding all the way back without a reason.”
The next instant they had one. From the vicinity of the lake and the women they loved came the crack of a shot.
Blue Water Woman was happy to have some time to herself. She loved McNair dearly, but she needed quiet spells now and then, and with him around it was never quiet. If he wasn’t quoting his precious Bard, he was griping about aches in his bones and joints or prattling on about anything and everything under the sun. She’d never met a man, red or white, who talked as much as he did.
Today, after she fed him a breakfast of eggs and potatoes and he rode off, Blue Water Woman took up her knitting and sat in the rocking chair. She loved to knit. Winona had given her the metal needles and taught her the white way, which Winona had learned from Nate. It had surprised Blue Water Woman, a man knowing such a thing. Apparently Nate had learned it from his mother when he was a boy, much to his father’s annoyance.
Rocking slowly, Blue Water Woman lost herself in the click of the needles and the intricate weave. She was making Shakespeare what the whites called a sweater. The name puzzled her. Sweaters were usually worn in cold weather, when people sweated least. She thought it made more sense for whites to call it a warmer, but then, the whites did and said many things that to this day perplexed her.
Blue Water Woman sometimes marveled that she had wed a white man. The Flatheads didn’t hate the whites, as the Blackfeet and some other tribes did, but few took white mates.
She remembered when they first met. Back then he’d had brown hair and he didn’t quote the Bard every time he opened his mouth. Truth was, he’d been shy and quiet—as incredible as that was to believe—but he’d had the same wonderful personality. The one thing he did then that he still did now was love to laugh, and that laugh of his was infectious. When Shakespeare laughed, the whole world laughed with him.
He was handsome, too. Age had changed his features, as it did everyone’s. Now he had more lines on his face, but his eyes held the same twinkle. To her he was the handsomest man alive. She would never tell him that, of course. He would boast of it forever.
It was a mystery, love. Part of it was plain to understand; two people met, they were attracted, they wanted to be together. But another part, the deeper part, was a mystery to her people and, she had found, to the whites, as well. It was fine to say that love happened when one heart reached out to another. But why that particular heart out of all the hearts in the world?
Blue Water Woman stopped knitting and chuckled. Here she was, thinking thoughts more fitting for a girl who had seen but sixteen winters.
The sitting had made her stiff. She got up, put her knitting on the rocking chair, and went out. She took her rifle, as she always did, and strolled to the lake. A haze hung over it, as was common in the summer.
The lake teemed with water birds. She liked to watch them swim and dive. She particularly liked the couples, and the mothers with their little ones.
Blue Water Woman regretted not being able to give McNair children. She’d told him she didn’t, but she did. Had they wed when they were young, she would have delighted in having babies until she couldn’t have had them anymore.
Blue Water Woman stretched. She gazed across the lake, toward Zach and Lou’s cabin, barely visible on the far side. She thought she saw two people come out. One had to be Louisa; she was wearing a dress, unusual for her, as Lou preferred buckskins. The other figure was a man—and he appeared to be pushing Lou ahead of him.
Blue Water Woman blinked, and the pair were gone around a corner. She moved to her left to try and see them again, but couldn’t. Alarm spiked through her. The man couldn’t be Zach. Zach was off with Shakespeare. And anyway, Zach would never push Lou, not for any reason.
She told herself she must be mistaken. There had been no sign of strangers in the valley. But she couldn’t deny her own eyes. Quickly, she hurried to the corral and brought out her dun. She didn’t bother with a saddle. She had no need of one; she had been riding bareback since she was old enough to straddle a horse.
Mounting, Blue Water Woman jabbed her heels and brought the dun to a gallop. The wind on her face and in her hair felt nice. She glanced to the north, but she still couldn’t see the two figures.
It was a long way from her cabin to Lou’s. She passed Nate and Winona’s at the west end, and then flew along the north shore until she reined up in a swirl of dust.
The front door was wide open.
Alighting, Blue Water Woman leveled her Hawken. “Louisa? Are you in there?” When she got no answer, she warily stepped to the doorway.
Inside, it was neat and tidy, as Lou always kept it. Pans and a bowl were on the counter. Nothing looked out of place. Blue Water Woman saw no signs of a struggle. She saw Lou’s rifle propped near the door. That puzzled her. If Lou had been taken by hostiles, they would surely have taken it. Guns were as highly prized as horses.
Blue Water Woman went around the corner. The thick woodland that bordered the lake was an unbroken wall of green.
“Louisa! Where are you?”
Again, no answer.
Her dread climbing, Blue Water Woman shouted several more times. When she still got no response, she came to a decision. She moved to the water’s edge, raised her rifle over her head, and fired. The shot would carry a long way. Shakespeare and Zach had not been gone that long. They were bound to hear it and fly back.
Blue Water Woman reloaded. She debated whether to stay and wait for them or to go after Lou by herself. She really had no choice. Lou must be in trouble. T
he more time that went by, the greater the chance that whoever took Lou would get away.
Blue Water Woman climbed back on the dun. She reined toward the forest. Once more she called out to Lou. The silence preyed on her nerves. It was too quiet. All the birds, the squirrels, everything had gone silent. A bad omen. She wished Nate and Winona were home. She could use their help. Indeed, whoever took Lou would find her father-in-law a formidable adversary. Nate King was a superb tracker and a skilled fighter.
His son was a holy terror.
Blue Water Woman imagined that Zach would be beside himself. It wouldn’t surprise her if when Zach caught whoever took Lou—and Zach would catch him—he chopped the man into bits and pieces. Blue Water Woman cared for Zach, cared for him dearly, but there had been times, especially when he was younger, that he worried her. When his blood was up he was a rabid wolf.
Off in the trees, something moved.
She drew rein, tucked her rifle to her shoulder, and put her thumb on the hammer. But whatever she saw was gone. It might have been a deer. She waited, and when the woods stayed still, she lowered the Hawken and rode on.
Shadows dappled her and turned the vegetation into a patchwork quilt of light and dark. It played tricks on the eyes. Twice she thought she saw a two-legged shape silhouetted against the green, but either it vanished or it was never really there.
Blue Water Woman didn’t realize her mouth had gone dry until she tried to swallow. The clomp of the dun’s hooves was the only sound. She looked every which way so she wouldn’t be taken by surprise, and soon had a crick in her neck. She willed herself to stay calm and shut her worry from her mind. She must stay focused on one thing and one thing only.
A patch of white appeared. Then others, mixed with patches of brown. It took a few seconds for Blue Water Woman to recognize them for what they were—the coat of a pinto. She drew rein.
The pinto was just standing there, head bowed, dozing.
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