Home by Morning

by Kaki Warner

  The answer was so unexpected it took her mind a moment to accept it. She sat up, too stunned to hide her surprise. She had taught Thomas his letters and numbers at the school in Heartbreak Creek, but she didn’t think him advanced enough to write an entire book. “A book about what?”

  “Chief Black Kettle.” Seeing her confusion, he explained. “Before his death at Sand Creek, he told me to go out into the world and learn the white ways so we would know how to defeat them. But when I returned, after my wife and son were taken from me, it was too late. The People were already being herded onto reservations. I stayed behind, thinking I could use my white blood to help them. But there was little I could do.”

  He frowned down at the clenched fists resting on his thighs, battling the frustration that never seemed to leave his mind. “The time for war is past, so now I will fight with words. Rayford Jessup helped me write them down. We finished when we sailed over the big water, and he sent the papers we wrote to a man in England who will put them into a book.”

  When her shock prevented her from responding right away, he looked over at her, his expression daring her to mock him.

  Instead, she threw her arms around him. “I’m so proud of you, Thomas! An entire book! That must have been very difficult to do.”

  He shrugged, but she saw the quirk of a pleased smile at the corner of his mouth.

  “Will you write another? If so, perhaps I can help you.”

  “You will be too busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  Laughing, he whipped around in one of those lightning moves that seemed impossible for a man his size and pinned her on her back. “Doing this,” he said, and kissed her. One kiss led to another, then another, until they were both breathless and she had forgotten what they had been talking about.

  “We have been apart too long.” Pushing the covers aside, he kissed her breast through the thin fabric of her gown. “We have much to make up for.”

  She arched to his touch, all her pent-up desire rising again in a warm rush. “Stay with me,” she said breathlessly. “Just for tonight.”

  His mouth stilled. With a sigh, he straightened, covered her breast, then rose. “I cannot. But I will keep you safe from the man you call Marsh.”

  A chill swept her. “What makes you think he’s a threat to me?”

  He looked down at her, his face set in implacable lines. All warrior now. “Why does he warn you to behave?”

  She blinked in surprise, wondering how he knew, then remembered the small figure in the hallway the day they had left for Indianapolis. “Lillie told you.”

  His dark brows drew low over his deep-set eyes. “Did you think you could keep it from me, Prudence? That I would not see the fear in your eyes?” Muttering in Cheyenne, he lifted his jacket from the chair. He walked to the door, then stopped. Without facing her, he said, “Tomorrow you will tell me of this man. And of the one who speaks in the big tipi. Then I will decide what to do.”

  “You’ll do nothing!” Fear sent her scrambling off the bed. “Just leave it be.”

  He turned, the jacket hanging in his grip. “You defend this man?”

  “No!” She made a dismissive gesture. “Marsh is nothing. A nobody. He shouldn’t even concern you.”

  “Did he not threaten you, Eho’nehevehohtse?” he asked in a tight voice.

  She stared mutely at him. Thomas might be lethal, but he was also honorable. He would be no match for the deviousness of a man like Cyrus Marsh.

  When she didn’t answer, he nodded. “So he does concern me.”

  Desperate to stop him before something terrible happened, she gentled her tone. “He’s my employer, Thomas. I don’t want any trouble. Please.”

  Grim-faced, he turned toward the door.

  “Promise me you won’t start anything,” she pleaded.

  He hesitated, one hand on the door latch. “I will not start anything.” He looked back at her, and the malice in his smile almost drove the air from her lungs. “But I will finish what he has begun. That is what I will promise to you.”

  * * *

  Thomas awoke to a scream, a knee in his belly, and someone crawling over his chest. Fearing a knife would come next, he grabbed the flailing arms and struggled to catch his breath. “Lillian, be still.”

  “Daddy? That you?”

  He saw no knife, and slumped back. “Yes. To’estse—get up.”

  She plopped beside him. “Lawdy. I thought you Cooter Brown.”

  “Who is Cooter Brown?”

  “Old drunk boogeyman who not fight. What you doing on the floor?”

  “Sleeping. Why would he not fight?” The idea was alien to Thomas.

  “’Fraid, I ’pose. You not sleep in bed?”

  “Not if someone else is already in it.” Unless that someone was Prudence Lincoln. He smiled, remembering how she had trembled beneath his hands and the little sounds she had made when he’d kissed her hours ago. He liked making her forget all her proper ways. He liked making her cry out his name.

  “When we eat? My stomach howling.”

  Images of a warm, soft body faded on a sigh. He rolled onto his feet. “Put on your clothes and we will go.”

  Several minutes later, they walked downstairs to the room called a lobby, where they found Prudence Lincoln sitting with the man who had spoken in the big white tipi the previous night. Thomas saw no sign of the other man, Marsh.

  Smiling, Prudence rose. The man rose, too, but hung back when Prudence came to meet them. Thomas studied him.

  He was broad rather than tall, with a round face and no hair on his head. His skin was the color of the rich, brown earth along a slow-moving river. His hands were damaged, as if they had been broken in the past and left to heal wrong. The fingers were as bent as twisted twigs. He had the eyes of a man who had seen much, and suffered more.

  Prudence stopped before him and Katse’e. “What happened to your braids, Lillie?”

  “Daddy hands too big to make ’em.”

  Thomas had done his best, but the girl’s wiry hair poked out in all directions. Whenever he tried to flatten it down, it sprang back up.

  Prudence eyed the temple braids tucked behind his ears. “Who did yours?”

  “The man who cut my hair. He did not want to put in the braids.” Thomas gave a tight smile. “But I convinced him it would be a good thing to do.”

  “When we eat?” Lillian cut in. “I so hungry my belly cavin’ in.”

  “Ladies don’t talk about their bellies,” Prudence reminded her as she led them to the waiting black man. “The hotel has a lovely tearoom here. After we say hello to Brother Sampson I’ll get you a muffin.”

  “Jist one?”

  The man smiled in welcome, but Thomas saw sadness in his dark eyes.

  “Thomas, please meet Reverend Brother Sampson. Brother, this is Thomas Redstone, the Cheyenne Dog Soldier I told you about.”

  The man’s smile broadened. “Delighted, Mr. Redstone.” He offered a hand.

  Thomas accepted it, taking care not to grip too hard.

  “You gots peppermint?” Lillian asked, bouncing on her toes.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Check you pocket.”

  “Mind your manners, Lillie,” Prudence murmured.

  “I jist helpin’ case he forget.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.” Laughing, the man pulled a hard candy from his pocket and put it in Lillian’s outstretched hand. That kept the girl quiet, and after a few comments about the weather, they followed Prudence into the small eating room and asked for food to be brought.

  Thomas ate in watchful silence. Although Reverend Brother Sampson moved like an old man, he was probably not much older than Thomas—maybe thirty-five winters. Yet he showed only a fatherly interest in Prudence Lincoln, which surprised Thomas. Even the men in Heartbreak Cr
eek looked at Eho’nehevehohtse with admiration, although none would dare act on it. Maybe this man was like the Catholic priests who had come to the Cheyenne village when Thomas was young. Maybe he was not allowed to have a woman. That would account for the sadness in his eyes.

  While they ate, the reverend spoke often about his Christian god. Thomas remembered similar words from the book the missionaries had used to teach the Cheyenne children their letters. When he saw the interest in Prudence Lincoln’s eyes, he wished he had paid better attention to those early lessons.

  Smiling, the black man turned to Thomas. “Are you a Christian, Mr. Redstone?”

  “I am Cheyenne.”

  “Does that mean you don’t believe in our Savior?”

  Thomas glanced at Eho’nehevehohtse. Even though they seldom spoke of such things, he could see that his lack of an answer disappointed her. “The Shawnee have a saying,” he said to the reverend. “‘We are all one child spinning through Mother Sky.’ That is what I believe.”

  “Black people, too?”

  Thomas nodded. “Even white ones.”

  The reverend threw back his head and laughed, showing many white teeth. “True equality. I like that, Mr. Redstone. And I pray that someday it will be true.”

  Thomas shrugged. “In death we are all equal.”

  They continued eating. Thomas tried to curb his impatience. He had not been outside since waking. He needed to breathe. Feel the breeze on his face and the earth under his feet. Staying inside too long made him restless.

  “Do you live in Colorado Territory, too?” the reverend asked after a while.

  “Yes. In the mountains.” Thomas glanced at Prudence. “Unless I have a reason to stay in town.”

  “You owns two houses?” Lillian grinned, smears of berry jam stuck to her cheeks. “We rich!”

  “I have little use for money and own no houses, except for a xamaa-vee’e—a tipi made of buffalo hide and wood that I put up when I need shelter.”

  Lillian’s spoon clattered to her plate. “You ain’t gots no house? None at all? Where I ’posed to sleep?”

  Thomas looked at the faces staring back at him, showing surprise, shock, and, from Prudence Lincoln, a small, troubled smile. And in that moment, like a rockslide roaring toward him down a hillside, the truth slammed into him. Cutting his hair and wearing ve’ho’e clothing was not enough to look white. He would have to go to their church, too. Speak like they did. Earn money to buy the things white people thought they needed. He would have to give up his tipi, too, and live in a dwelling made of wood and stone and mud. The thought of locking himself inside four walls every night made his chest so tight it was hard to take a breath. But if that was what he must do to keep Prudence Lincoln by his side . . .

  “If I need a house, I will build a house,” he said, ending the discussion.

  “Good. ’Cause I ain’t sleepin’ outside, no ma’am, not me.”

  The meal was almost over and they were laughing about something Lillian had said when Thomas saw Prudence Lincoln tense and look across the room. Turning, he saw the man called Marsh standing in the doorway.

  Sitting back, his hands resting on his thighs within easy reach of the knife under his coat, Thomas watched him walk toward them. Unlike Reverend Brother Sampson, this man showed no warmth in his smile or his odd, pale eyes. Thomas had seen eyes that same yellow color on ma’ehóóhe—a fox—its muzzle red with blood as it calmly tore apart a screaming rabbit.

  Except now, Prudence Lincoln was the rabbit.

  The reverend rose as Marsh approached. Thomas didn’t, and when Prudence Lincoln started to stand, he murmured, “He does not deserve your respect, Voaxaa’e.”

  She stood anyway. Always proper, his Prudence.

  On his other side, Lillian stopped picking at her muffin. “Who here?” she whispered, her eyes round and anxious. “Mistuh Marsh?”

  Thomas patted her arm. “You are safe, Katse’e. I am here.”

  Some of the worry left her face. But not all of it.

  The preacher introduced Marsh. Thomas nodded without speaking. As the others returned to their seats, Marsh took the chair beside Lillian. “Aren’t you from the Friends school, girl?”

  Lillian nodded and stuffed the muffin in her mouth.

  “What is she doing here?” he asked the others.

  “I brought her,” Thomas said.

  “Did you? Why?”

  Seeing Prudence tense, Thomas did not respond.

  “How did your meeting with the senator go?” she asked in a nervous voice.

  “Very well. He wants to host a fund-raiser for the reverend next week. He expects you to attend, too. It would be an excellent opportunity to put your education initiative before key donors.” He turned to Thomas with a smile that was more of a sneer. “And by all means, bring your friend along.”

  A hot surge moved through Thomas. Crossing his arms over his chest, he met the smile with a glare. “And if I do not behave, will you threaten me, too?”

  Shock. Then a false laugh. “Threaten you?” Marsh looked innocently at Prudence Lincoln and Reverend Brother Sampson. “What’s he talking about?”

  Thomas held out his hand. “You will give me the letter now.”

  Marsh frowned at him. “What letter?”

  “The one Miss Pru write,” Lillian piped in, bouncing with glee. “The one you ’posed give Friend Matthews, ’cept you didn’t.”

  Seeing the look Marsh gave the girl told Thomas he now had two to guard.

  Prudence rushed into the sudden silence. “You probably forgot, with the rush to leave and all. No matter. Thomas is here now.”

  “Yes.” Thomas gave Marsh a thin smile. “I am here now.”

  Bolting to her feet, Prudence grabbed Lillian’s hand with such vigor she almost pulled the girl from her chair. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Marsh, we’ll leave you and Brother to discuss the fund-raiser. Thomas, I need you to show me where you put Lillie’s hair ribbons.”

  It was more of an order than a request for help, but seeing the worry in her eyes, Thomas rose. With a nod to the black man and a long, level look at Marsh, he followed Prudence and Lillian from the room.

  “I asked you not to start anything,” Prudence murmured as they went down the hall toward their rooms.

  “I remember.”

  “Yet you were baiting him.”

  “What ‘baitin’’ mean?” Lillian asked.

  “Why, Thomas? What do you hope to gain by making him your enemy?”

  “Who him?”

  “He, Lillie,” Prudence said in exasperation. “Who is he?”

  “That what I ask.”

  Reaching past Lillian, Thomas stroked a hand down Prudence Lincoln’s tense back. “You worry too much, Eho’nehevehohtse. And he is already my enemy because he frightened you. I only wanted him to know I will be watching him.”

  “You talkin’ ’bout Mistuh Marsh, ain’t you?”

  “Aren’t you, and this doesn’t concern you, Lillie.”

  “’Course not. I jist a po’ no ’count blind black girl. Don’t mind me.”

  “That, Katse’e,” Thomas said, giving the girl’s shoulder a thump, “is baiting.”

  Four

  They spent the rest of the morning shopping. Although she and Thomas hadn’t discussed what to do about Lillie—whether to take her back to Schuler or on to Heartbreak Creek—Pru could see the child needed a warm winter coat to replace her castoff from one of the older children at the Friends school. She also wanted to use shopping as an excuse to stay away from the hotel so there would be no repeat of the breakfast confrontation between Marsh and Thomas.

  She knew the Cheyenne only wanted to shield her from harm. Even as they walked, he kept turning his head to look behind them, as if expecting to see March leap out of an alley. Having lost his wife and son
years ago in a senseless act of violence, he had become overly protective of the people he now considered his “tribe”—his friends in Heartbreak Creek, her, and now, apparently, Lillie, too. The bond between the solemn warrior and the blind child was already strong, and Pru doubted Thomas would leave the girl behind when he returned to Colorado. She hoped not. They probably needed Lillie as much as she needed them.

  “While we’re out, there’s a bookstore I would like to visit,” she said, trying to ignore the way women looked at Thomas as they walked by. The man had a way about him that made heads turn. And he knew it, judging by that devilish grin he sent her over Lillie’s head.

  Pretending indifference, she feigned admiration for the Christmas items already on display in storefront windows and the wreaths and garlands hanging on shopkeepers’ doors. In truth, the colorful decorations soured her mood, bringing to mind unpleasant memories of Christmases back at Rose Hill Plantation in Louisiana.

  Her white father, Charles Whitney, always tried to include her and her slave-born mother, Ester, in the yuletide celebrations. But Pricilla Whitney, his wife and the mother of Pru’s half sister, Edwina, ruined the festivities with her erratic behavior and daily tantrums. It all came to a head on the Christmas Eve when Pru was seven and Edwina six. Thrown into a rage over a pitcher of spilled milk, Mrs. Whitney had begun to shriek and beat her daughter so hard the switch left bloody marks across the back of Edwina’s dress. When Pru tried to intervene, a pot of scalding water had spilled over her, leaving her with the scars she bore today. They never knew if it was an accident or a deliberate act, but thereafter, Christmases were barely marked at Rose Hill.

  But she wouldn’t let those sad memories ruin Lillie’s Christmas, or her own fun in finding the perfect gifts for the child and Thomas. She had already begun teaching Lillie the embossed alphabet of the Braille six-dot method of reading and writing, and with the recent French invention of the Braille keyboard printer, she was hoping to find a book Lillie could read . . . a more appropriate form of entertainment than eavesdropping.