by Kaki Warner
“So why did you keep sending him away?”
“No man deserves to be rejected so summarily,” Lucinda added with a scolding look. “I don’t blame him for being angry with you.”
“You don’t love him,” Edwina accused. “That’s why you wouldn’t come back with him, isn’t it?”
“Of course I love him!” Pru slapped jelly on her toast, wishing she were slapping her sister instead. “Thomas is the finest man I know. But I explained about my work and how important—”
“Nonsense! It’s because of Lone Tree, isn’t it?”
The toast fell to her plate. “What?”
“It’s because of what happened to you in the Indian camp and what that vile Arapaho did to you. You can’t bear to have Thomas touch you.” Her sister’s indignation gave way to rising tears. “Oh, Pru. I wish you could forget. I wish I could kill him for you all over again.”
“You didn’t kill him the first time,” Lucinda reminded her. “It was the seventy-foot fall that did him in.”
“After I hit him with the shovel.” Edwina paused, a distant look in her blue eyes. “It made the most amazing sound—almost musical—when it struck his head. Like a bell, only twangier. I remember it so clearly.”
Lucinda gave the Southerner a wary look.
Pru, being more accustomed to her sister’s strange drifts off subject, let it pass. “Lone Tree didn’t rape me, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Lifting her cup, she took a sip, pleased by the matter-of-fact tone in her voice. In the past, simply speaking his name would have sent her into panic, but now, she scarcely felt a thing. “The rape happened years earlier.”
She blinked, shocked by her own words. Where had that come from? She hadn’t thought of Black Sam in years. Realizing her hand was shaking, she set her cup back into the saucer. Seeing the faces gaping at her from across the table, she looked away and tried to calm the pounding of her heart.
Edwina found her voice first. “You were raped earlier? How much earlier? And by whom?”
Pru pressed both hands against her stomach, sorry she had eaten so much. “It was a long time ago.”
“Answer me, Pru!”
Pru closed her eyes, saw that sweating, leering, snarling face above hers, and snapped them open again.
“Who?”
“Black Sam.”
“But . . . the slave who ran the smithy? He raped you?” When Pru nodded, Edwina slumped back in her chair, one hand at her throat. “I remember the way he looked at us. He scared me. I knew he hated us, but . . . he raped you?”
“He did. His way of showing me that I was no better than him, even if I had white blood.”
“Oh, Pru . . .” Tears brimmed again. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Pru pushed away her plate, appetite gone. “I was afraid of what Father might do. To me and to him. He probably would have hanged Black Sam. Or worse. Father was mostly a fair man, but I’d seen the whippings. Heard the cries and pleas when the overseer uncoiled his rope. I hear them, still.”
“Father only punished them if they deserved it.”
“Deserved it how? By being Negro?” A lifetime of bitterness left a vile taste in Pru’s throat. “I was barely twelve when it happened. But even then, I knew I was treated better than the other coloreds. Educated, fed, clothed like a white. But whenever they looked at me, I knew it was a lie. I hate what Black Sam did to me. I still wake up with night terrors. But they had all suffered so much. Even him. Every day as a slave was a misery for them. I couldn’t add to it.”
Edwina dashed the tears from her eyes. “That’s not fair! How were they miserable? Daddy wasn’t cruel to his people. And he did everything he could for you. I don’t understand why you’re saying such mean things about him.”
Pru put her hand over her sister’s. “I loved Father, too. And I’m eternally grateful for all he gave me. But the world isn’t always a fair place, Sister. People look at you and see a beautiful woman with a smile that lights up a room. They look at me and see an uppity colored stepping above her station. Same father. Same advantages. Same hopes and dreams. But viewed totally differently because of the color of our skin.” She shrugged. “Maybe that’ll change someday. I hope so.”
Pru doubted Edwina would ever completely understand what it meant to be Negro. Or a slave. Where she loved, she loved completely. It truly didn’t matter to her that her sister was mulatto. And Pru cherished her for that.
But Lucinda was Irish. She had seen much of the same ugliness Pru had. And although she might have clawed her way out of the foulest Irish hellhole and brothel district in New York, remnants of that cruel treatment still showed in her lovely green eyes.
“I understand all you’ve said here, Pru,” Lucinda said now. “And I’m deeply saddened that you had to suffer. But there’s one thing I’m confused about. If Lone Tree didn’t force you, why were you so upset when you came back?”
Edwina nodded in agreement. “You were a mess. Wouldn’t talk to anyone. Not even me. If you weren’t raped, why were you so devastated?”
Pru wished Maddie were here. Maddie never judged, never criticized, and always found a better way to look at things. “It’s complicated. I don’t know if I can explain it so it would make sense.”
“Try.”
She thought for a moment. “As I said, Lone Tree didn’t rape me, although he did make the attempt. Repeatedly. I think because he drank alcohol all day, he was incapable. And every time he tried and failed, it was my fault. He beat me. Kicked me. Treated me worse than the lowest dog.” She looked down at the hand over her stomach and felt that empty ache that never seemed to go away. “I think he damaged something inside that prevents me from conceiving.”
“No!” Edwina cried. “I don’t believe it. You can’t know that for certain until you and Thomas . . .”
Her voice trailed off when she saw Pru shake her head. “We have. Several times. And nothing has happened. I bled for a long time after I left the camp. Then I had terribly irregular courses. Now, I have none at all.”
“Oh, dearest.” Edwina leaned over to give her a hard hug, then sat back and wiped her face. “That bastard! I hated him before, but now I’m so glad I killed him.”
“I’m glad he’s dead, too. He was vermin. Less than human. But in some ways, what he did to me wasn’t as bad as what the rest of his tribe did.”
“What did they do?”
“Nothing.”
Edwina blinked round blue eyes. “Nothing? No one tried to help you or stop Lone Tree?”
Pru shook her head. “They went about their lives as if my suffering was inconsequential. Beneath their notice.” She gave a broken laugh. “Oh, a few of them jeered. One or two even sat and watched for a while. But most went by without even looking my way.”
Long-buried anger rose, erupting from her body in the shaking of her hands and the rawness of her voice. “I know whites and Indians have done terrible things to each other. I understand hatred and resentment. I saw it in Black Sam, and on the faces of whites who wanted to blame me for all that they lacked. But to be treated as if I didn’t exist? As if my life and suffering were meaningless?”
Unclenching her fingers, she pressed her hands flat against her thighs. “That hurt. Worse than you can know. And at that moment, I finally realized what had driven Black Sam to do what he did. And what being a slave truly meant—the helplessness, the humiliation, the degradation. And I resolved to do something about it.”
Edwina looked at her in confusion.
But Pru could see that Lucinda understood. “That’s when you decided to teach freed slaves,” she guessed. “And what has prevented you from making a life with Thomas. You felt your work was more important.”
Pru gave her a grateful smile. She felt she had been swimming upstream for so long, but finally, someone understood.
“Is your work more important?” E
dwina asked.
“For a time, it was. But I’ve done all I can do. I brought my proposal to Washington. If it’s worthy, someone else can take it and fly.”
“And Thomas?”
Pru shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s a remarkable man. I don’t think I could ever love anyone but him. But we’re different on so many levels. How do we bridge the divide between us?”
“If you love him enough, you can.”
Pru waved that away. “The question isn’t whether we love each other enough. It’s how much of ourselves we’re willing to give up to close the gap.”
“Seems like he’s come farther over that bridge than you,” Lucinda observed as she refilled her cup.
Pru frowned. “What do you mean?”
Lucinda took a sip, then returned the cup to its saucer. “What have you done for Thomas, except finally return to Heartbreak Creek?”
The barb struck deep. Did they truly expect her to live in a tipi and chew buffalo hides? “You think I’m being unfair to him?”
“Don’t you?” Edwina burst out. “He’s hardly Indian anymore. He’s cut his hair, taken a job, given up most of his Cheyenne ways. He’s even written a book! How much farther does Thomas have to go to close that gap before you’ll even take the first step?”
Pru was so shocked she couldn’t respond.
In her bassinet, Rosie began to fuss.
Seeing Pru’s distress, Edwina made a dismissive motion. “I don’t mean to sound harsh, Sister. But think about it. Thomas did everything he could to make himself worthy of you. Yet you sent him away. Now he’s struggling to build a life—a civilized life—for him and Lillie, even though that means giving up most of who he is. And you still say that’s not good enough.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to. Your actions speak for you.”
“Now who’s being unfair?”
“Stop it, you two!” Lucinda glared at them, tears streaming as she bounced her fussing daughter. “Now you’ve got me crying and you’ve upset Rosie. Forget everything I said. I was wrong. All of it. I can’t bear it when you fight.”
“Oh, Luce.” Edwina bounded from her chair to give her and Rosie a hug. “We’re sisters. We don’t mean any of it, do we, Pru?”
“Of course not.” Keeping her head down, Pru blinked tears from her eyes so she could see the dial of the watch pinned in her skirt pocket. “Mercy,” she said with false gaiety to cover the hurt. “It’s after ten. I must go. I told Thomas we would talk more today.” As she pushed back her chair, she sensed movement behind her and turned.
Then froze.
Thomas stood in the dining room doorway.
His eyes met hers, dark and impenetrable. Then, without a sound, he turned and left the hotel.
* * *
Thomas was sorting through the day’s mail and trying to come to terms with what he had heard when Prudence burst through the door. She stopped, one hand still on the knob, her eyes wide with panic, her lashes still damp with tears.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
She studied him, as if trying to read his thoughts, then let out a deep breath and closed the door. “How much did you hear?”
He went back to his mail. “Enough to know they should not have said those things to you.” And to finally know what happened to you in the Arapaho camp.
“And if they were right?”
“One right thing does not make a whole truth.” He set the papers aside. Poor Prudence. She wanted everything neat and tidy like the tintypes Maddie Wallace made—stark and colorless, bound by a clean, defined border. There was a reason many of the People thought photographs stole their spirits: in a single moment, everything that had gone before, and everything that was yet to come, was reduced to a single, flat, unchangeable image.
But life was messy and confusing. It required a person to change in many ways if he was to survive. And some had to change more than others.
He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit, Prudence.”
With a look of defeat, she sank into the chair.
Not wanting barriers between them, he pulled his chair from behind the desk and put it near hers, then sat. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he took her hands in his. He had much to say, and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts.
“Eho’nehevehohtse, I will not ask you to live in a tipi . . . although it would not upset me if you spent a night or two in one. With me. Alone.”
She rewarded him with a small smile. It gave him hope.
“And I did not put aside my eagle feathers only to please you. Nor have I put them aside forever. It is not my hair, or my clothing, or the redness of my skin that makes me who I am. It is what is in my heart.”
He brought a hand to his chest. “Na’tsehe’stahe—I am Cheyenne. I am also part white, a sheriff, a warrior, a father, maybe still a husband, and a man who has made mistakes.” He let his hand fall back over hers. “But I know I must change—not who I am, but the way I live—if I am to understand this new world around me. I can do that.”
A tear rolled from her eye. He reached out and brushed it away, then took her hands in his again. They felt cold, and soft, and fragile. Yet the pulse beneath his fingertips at her wrists was strong and steady . . . just as this woman was.
“Your friends tell you I have worked harder than you to cross the space between us. They are right. Perhaps I have had farther to go. Or, because I am stronger, I must take the harder path. I do not know. It is not important, anyway. As long as you take a single step toward me, then I will know someday we will come to a meeting point. One step. That is all I need from you.”
Her lips quivered on a smile, even as another tear left a trail down her cheek. “Please tell me I won’t have to chew buffalo hides.”
“I will not ask you to do that. Nor will I ask you to join with me on a horse.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“It is uncomfortable. And the horse does not like it.”
“You’re jesting.”
He looked at her and smiled.
Some of the stiffness eased from her shoulders. “What is this one step you do ask of me?”
His amusement faded. “It is a big one, Prudence. And it will be hard for you to take. You must think well before you make your decision.”
Thomas worried that he was expecting too much of her too soon. But better they face it now than later, when it would be harder to break away.
“I do not believe in your Christ, Eho’nehevehohtse. To the People, all life comes from the same Creator, and all things share the same breath, whether it is man or beast or the grass beneath our feet. And no one man stands for us before the Great Spirit. Can you accept that I am not Christian?”
She looked at him for a long time. “But you do believe in a power higher than yourself?”
“Yes. We call it by many names—Great Spirit, Creator, Ma’heo’o. We regard Heaven as our father, and Earth as our mother, and all things in between as our brothers and sisters. As I told Reverend Brother Sampson, we are all one child spinning through Mother Sky.”
Another long pause, then a sigh. “I’ll consider all that you’ve said, Thomas. But I’m beginning to think we’re not that different, after all.”
“That is my hope.” He released her and sat back, hands tucked beneath his crossed arms so she would not see them shaking. “I also heard you tell them what happened to you in the Arapaho camp. I wish you had told me, Prudence. I wish I could take those memories from your mind and heal the scars in your heart. But I cannot. I can only love you. And hold you when the terrors rise in the night. And try to keep you safe from any harm yet to come.”
She was weeping like a child now, her breath coming in hoarse, hitching sobs. Yet she was not pulling away from him and he took heart in that.
He waited for her to calm her tears, then spoke again. “It is also my hope, Prudence, that you will stop crying so much. I do not like it and it will upset our daughter. She becomes upset enough as it is.”
“That’s two things. But okay.” Another tear dropped, even as her lips spread in a smile. “Now I have something to ask of you.”
He nodded and braced himself. He would do much—give up much—to have this woman in his life. But still, he had to remain true to himself.
“If we decide to stay together, will you marry me again? In the church? So all our friends can be there?”
He closed his eyes and pictured it. The people—the crying and singing—Katse’e bouncing on her toes and waving her stick—that preacher, spewing damnation and tearing at his hair. He would almost rather go through the Sun Dance ceremony again.
Almost.
He opened his eyes and looked on her beautiful, tear-stained face. How could he deny this woman anything when she looked at him like that?
“Yes, Eho’nehevehohtse,” he conceded, although it wasn’t much of a concession at all. “But that will be the last time we marry.”
Twenty-three
“You got married without me?” Lillie accused when Thomas brought Prudence to the house later that afternoon. “If you my mama, I ’posed be there, ain’t I?”
“Aren’t I.”
“She is upset,” Thomas murmured, setting down Pru’s valise. “Usually she speaks better.”
“And who’s this?” Pru struggled to fend off a gangly puppy pawing at her skirt. “If we marry again, Lillie, I promise you will be there.”
“And I can sing? I always want to sing at a wedding.”
“Of course. I would have no other. Down, boy! And you’ll have a new Sunday dress and white bows in your hair and flowers in your hands. Will somebody call off this dog?”
“Bitsy,” Thomas said in a low, firm voice.
The dog immediately dropped to his haunches and stared up at him with tongue-flopping devotion. As well he should.
“You named him Bitsy?” Pru laughed. “Ash will be so proud.”
