His eyes widened when the Sioux laughed even more loudly and mockingly as one by one they ripped up the blankets with their large knives, then spilled the food across the ground and stomped on it.
White Fire now truly knew the danger the people in this area had been in. The Sioux had not truly wanted the provisions! It had been a test. Only a test to see how far they could push the white eyes.
He numbly watched until the Sioux were finished with their fun. He was glad when they all embraced, then departed, traveling in all directions on their horses and in their canoes. For now, it seemed the Sioux had been appeased.
“But for how long?” White Fire whispered, a chill riding his spine.
Chapter 17
I wonder by my troth what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then
But sucked in country pleasures, childishly?
—John Donne
White Fire had left the fort after having found just the right pony to buy for his son, Michael. The more he had thought about Michael and how he was being raised in velvet breeches and curls, the more he had known that some of that money that he had hidden in his chimney would be well spent on a way to introduce his son to the “other world” from which he had been kept.
White Fire shuddered inwardly at the thought of his son’s face being so pale, which meant that rarely did he go out of doors to play in the sun.
“I will change that and many more things,” White Fire whispered to himself as he rode into the outskirts of Pig’s Eye.
But things weren’t happening fast enough and he hated practicing the art of restraint. Yet he knew that it was best for Michael if things went slowly. He would be less traumatized than being whisked from one family to another. White Fire would work him into it gradually.
When White Fire saw the Greer mansion at the side of the road, he drew rein, and stopped. He winced. He hated having to go and knock on the door like a total stranger when, in truth, his son was in that house.
And he dreaded coming face-to-face with Maureen Greer again. She was cold, and it was obvious that she was going to fight him every inch of the way where Michael was concerned.
When White Fire felt eyes on him, he shifted his gaze to the upper windows of the two-story stone house. His heart skipped a beat when he found Michael standing at a window, holding the curtains aside as he peered down.
White Fire’s insides lurched when Michael suddenly left the window, as though someone had purposely grabbed him and yanked him away.
That made White Fire even more determined to get his son out of that house today, if only for a short while. He would go horseback riding with him. He would be excited over having a pony of his very own.
His spine stiff, his blood throbbing nervously through his veins, White Fire dismounted. On foot, he led his horse and the pony down the narrow gravel drive.
When he reached the house, he tethered the steeds to the hitching rail. Without hesitation, he went and boldly knocked on the door.
When no one answered, White Fire understood that he was being ignored. This made him even more adamant that he would see his son today, that he would be with him, that he would give him his special gift.
And if Maureen and George Greer were not more gracious about this, White Fire would give up on taking it a day at a time with his son. He would whisk him away today and be in his right to do so. He was the boy’s blood kin. No judge in America would deny him the child.
But not wanting to get into a court battle over Michael knowing that it might damage him forever, White Fire stood his ground and knocked until his knuckles grew sore.
Finally the door swung slowly open. A butler dressed in solid black was suddenly there, his eyes cold, his chin smugly lifted.
“Sir, I have been asked to tell you that Mr. and Mrs. Greer are indisposed this fine morning to whoever knocks at the door,” the butler said. “So I must bid you good day, sir. Do try another day.”
As the butler started to close the door, White Fire placed his hands against it, and with brute force, kept the door from closing.
“You can tell Mr. and Mrs. Greer that I have not come to see them,” he said dryly. “They can stay indisposed. It is Michael that I wish—that I am going to see. And not only see. I am taking him on an outing.”
“That will do for now, Payton,” Maureen Greer said, addressing her butler with a sigh. “I see that the gentleman will not take no for an answer.”
White Fire’s eyes gleamed into Maureen’s as she replaced the butler at the door.
“Why do you persist in coming here when you know that you are not wanted? That, actually, you are trespassing,” Maureen said, her face flushing red from anger. “Can’t you see that Michael does not want to see you? Wouldn’t he be here if he did?”
A voice spoke up from the shadows of the foyer behind Maureen, causing hope to rise within White Fire. He looked past Maureen as his son spoke again, his voice filled with fear.
“I do want to see him . . . but . . . you forbid it,” Michael said, tears falling from his eyes.
“Michael!” Maureen gasped, turning sharply to stare at him. “Get back to your room this instant. Do you hear?”
Hearing the hurt in his son’s voice and the sternness in Maureen’s, White Fire brushed quickly past her.
As Maureen stared in disbelief, he swept Michael into his arms and carried him from the house, outside to the porch.
“Son, I am glad you want to see me,” White Fire said, so happy that Michael had spoken up and voiced his wishes. “Son, I could hardly wait until we could be together again.”
“I had a dream,” Michael said, wiping tears from his eyes. “In the dream I saw you and Mommy together. . . my real mommy. Although, I was so little, I do remember now so many things that I didn’t before . . . before . . . the dream. Father, I remember a toy horse that you carved for me out of wood. I remember sitting on your lap as you carved it.”
White Fire was stunned by what his son was saying he remembered.
And it had come to him in a dream?
He smiled, for he did know the power of dreams. In them, many things of the future and past could be seen.
White Fire was thankful for his son’s ability to dream. It was because of the Indian side of his heritage. The Indians put much weight in their dreams. They made decisions because of them.
He suddenly recalled Chief Gray Feather’s dream: how he had seen White Fire sitting at his right side in the place of a son. He wondered what meaning there was in that dream. But now was not the time to delve into any dreams, except for his son’s.
“Yes, I made you the toy,” he said thickly. “It is at our home. I found it when I returned there recently. I will take you there soon and give it to you again, so that it will be yours forever.”
“That would make me very happy,” Michael said, smiling widely. “Father, one day will you tell me about your time away from me? How you lived? How you survived?”
“Yes, one day—” White Fire said, when he was interrupted by Maureen. She came out on the porch and stood stiffly at their side.
“Michael, you shouldn’t be out here in the sun without a hat,” she said, her hands clasped tightly before her. “You should have a cape around your shoulders!”
“Both the sun and the air will do my son good,” White Fire said, glaring down at Maureen. “And today I plan to give him plenty of both.”
“What do you mean?” Maureen asked faintly, paling.
“Do you see the pony?” White Fire said, more to Michael than to Maureen as he watched his son turn his head to stare at the steed. “I have brought it to you, Michael, as a gift from father to son.”
“The pony is for me?” Michael said, scrambling from his arms.
Michael ran down the steps before Maureen could reach out and grab him. He went to the pony and began to stroke its rust-colored mane.
“I won’t allow you to take him out on that . . . that . . . creature,” Ma
ureen said, puffing as her anger rose within her.
White Fire turned and frowned at her. He made two tight fists at his sides. “Did you not hear my son speak of things past?” he said dryly. “Do you not understand now that he remembers things about his mother? About me, his father? Do you not see that I could take him even now, and you could not stop me?”
“You wouldn’t,” Maureen gasped out, placing her hands to her throat as she took an unsteady step away from White Fire.
“No, I do not plan to change his home that quickly,” White Fire said. “Not even if he asks me to. I do see the need in taking him from one household to the other gradually. He has had so much here that he will never have while living with me. I must first make him appreciate the smaller things in life for him to, in the end, truly accept them.”
“But please don’t take him on that . . . that thing today,” Maureen pleaded. “It’s so dangerous!”
“Only if I was not with him to see that he will be taught how to ride the pony properly,” White Fire said.
Seeing the woman’s building grief, realizing how she would miss the child once he was gone, he softened his tone with her.
“Ma’am, I do understand how you are feeling about losing Michael to me,” he said, his voice drawn. “I have been without my son for three years. One never adjusts to losing a son, ever, even . . . if that son was never truly theirs to begin with.”
Maureen’s eyes filled with tears. She stared up at White Fire for a moment longer. Then she broke into fitful sobs and ran inside the house.
White Fire went down the steps and knelt beside Michael. He placed his hands at the boy’s shoulders and turned him to face him. “Son,” he said, swallowing hard as he ran his fingers over Michael’s pale, white face. He lifted his fingers to Michael’s curls and cringed as he ran them through the thick tresses.
Then he slid his hands over his son’s velvet suit, disgusted at the lace collar that lay around his neck.
“Father, can we go riding now?” Michael murmured, placing a soft hand to his cheek. “Can I ride my pony? I truly love it.”
White Fire was touched deeply by Michael’s trust in him. If not for Michael having remembered him in his dream, surely he would be frightened of him, for White Fire’s appearance showed nothing of his white heritage. Except for those who knew of his mixed blood and saw him as a ’breed, everyone else saw him as an Indian through and through.
“Michael, for now I want you to ride with me on my horse,” White Fire said, taking Michael’s hand, and leading him over to the larger horse. “We will ride awhile on mine so that you can get used to being on a horse again. Then you can ride your own when I feel you are ready.”
He placed Michael in his saddle. He untied the pony’s reins and brought the pony up beside his steed. Still gripping the pony’s reins, White Fire mounted his horse.
He then handed Michael the pony’s reins.
“You hang on to these while we ride for a while on my horse,” he said, smiling as Michael took the reins.
White Fire slid an arm around his son’s tiny waist and held him in place as he wheeled his horse around and rode in a slow lope away from the Greer mansion. He could feel eyes on him and knew that Maureen was watching them.
He ignored her and absorbed the wonder of being with his son. That his son actually remembered him and loved him. It was sad that Michael could not be as happy about his true mother, for she had been taken from him forever.
One day soon he would take Michael to his mother’s grave. That, too, was a part of him growing up and accepting life as it would be for him.
“The air and sun are warm,” Michael said, smiling over his shoulder at his father. “It feels good.”
“Days like today are made just for little boys like you,” White Fire said, making a wide turn toward the open prairie of blowing grasses and wild flowers.
Michael laughed, then turned and gazed at the pony. “Can I ride him soon?” he asked. “Will you teach me how? I remember riding a pony when I was small, before you left and did not come back.” He lowered his eyes. “Before Mommy died.”
“Yes, before I was abducted by the Sioux and before your mommy died, you had your own pony, and though you were so tiny, you learned quickly how to ride it,” White Fire said thickly. “Michael, son, turn and look at me.”
When Michael turned his dark, trusting eyes up at him, White Fire swallowed hard. At this moment it was as though time was turned back to the day Michael was born, with his midnight dark eyes, and coal-black shock of hair. In his eyes back then there had been the same trust as there was today.
So much love for his child bubbled over inside White Fire that for a moment he could not speak from the joy of being with him again.
“Father, why did you want me to look at you?” Michael asked, his eyes innocently wide. “You suddenly look so sad.”
“I am anything but sad,” White Fire said, sighing. He smiled. “Son, there are so many things I wish to say to you. There are so many things I wish to teach you. From this day forth I will teach you many things that have been denied you. You have been denied the Indian side of your heritage too long. It is important that you know both sides of your heritage. You are part Indian. Never feel ashamed of that. Michael, Indians are a proud and courageous people. You should be proud to be a part of those people.”
“I am proud to be your son,” Michael said, turning and wrapping his arms around White Fire’s neck. “I am so glad that the dream came to me and made me remember things the way they were.”
“Dreams are friends,” White Fire said, relishing this moment with his son.
When they came to a stream that wove, snakelike, through the meadow, he drew rein and stopped his horse. “The horses can get drinks here,” he said, lifting Michael to the ground.
He slid from the saddle and led both horses to the water. Then he knelt down on his haunches and took Michael’s hands. “You truly aren’t afraid to ride the pony?” he asked, searching his son’s eyes for any signs of fear, and seeing nothing but excitement.
“I have always liked horses,” Michael said softly. “But my adopted mommy and daddy forbid them to me, as they forbid the outdoors to me. They treat me like a baby—like a girl.”
Michael reached a hand up to his hair. “I hate curls,” he said, gagging. “I want them cut off!”
“You do not have to cut your hair to be rid of curls,” White Fire said, smiling at the boy’s dislike of them. “They can be straightened. Then you can wear your hair like mine.”
“Yes, I like yours,” Michael said, reaching a hand to run it over the smoothness of White Fire’s thick mane.
The horses whinnied, drawing Michael and White Fire apart.
“The pony wants me to ride it,” Michael said, begging with his eyes to White Fire. “Can I? Now? Please?”
“You are not in the least bit afraid?” he asked, lifting Michael into his arms.
“Well, just a little,” Michael said, giggling.
White Fire could feel Michael stiffen as he placed him in the tiny saddle. “Relax,” he said softly. “I shall take the reins and lead the pony for a while. Then I will return the reins to you.”
Eyes wide, Michael nodded.
As Michael clung to the pommel of the saddle, White Fire walked him back and forth beside the stream.
Then Michael reached for the reins and gave them a soft yank. “I am ready to do it myself,” he said, smiling at his father. “Can I have the reins? Can I?”
“If you truly believe you are ready,” White Fire said, hesitating at giving the reins over to the child.
“I am ready,” Michael said. “I remember how. I want to do it myself as you allowed me to when I was way smaller than I am now.”
“Your memory amazes me,” White Fire said, handing the reins to him. “Remembering is a gift. Thank the Great Spirit that he has blessed you with it, that he gave you cause to remember again things of your past.”
“The Great S
pirit is the same as God?” Michael questioned, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes, the same as God,” White Fire said. Then he stepped aside and watched as his son rode off in a slow lope, looking natural in the saddle. White Fire gazed heavenward and gave a silent thanks for small miracles.
Michael came back on his pony. “Ride with me now, please?” he asked, running a hand over the pony’s mane.
White Fire swung himself into his saddle. But before they could ride off together, another horse and rider appeared a short distance away.
White Fire soon recognized the rider. “Flame,” he whispered.
Chapter 18
Shall I love you like the wind, love,
That is so fierce and strong?
That sweeps all barriers from its path,
And reeks not right or wrong?
—R. W. Raymond
Flame couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw White Fire only a short distance away. When she had gone to his cabin and found him gone, she had given up on seeing him today. She had then sought only to enjoy her momentary freedom from her tyrannical father. He was getting more unbearable as each day passed.
She tried to understand why he was so headstrong about her horseback riding. She did know the dangers. But she would not sit idly in her room embroidering or reading. Life was meant to be lived. She would live it.
She gazed at the child. She knew that he was White Fire’s son without even being told. Although his skin was white, so many other things about the child resembled White Fire—the set of his jaw, the coal black hair, the dark eyes.
She smiled when White Fire started toward her on his white steed, his son beside him on his pony. She waved, then sank her heels into the flanks of her horse and rode in a hard gallop toward them.
Her heart beating excitedly inside her chest, Flame drew rein and brought her horse to a shimmying halt beside White Fire. He also drew a tight rein, his eyes wide and questioning as he gazed at her.
“White Fire, I went to your cabin,” Flame said, before he had a chance to say anything. “I was so disappointed when I found that you were gone.” She smiled broadly. “What luck that I found you.”
White Fire Page 11
