Phoebe swallowed and asked, as though there were an answer, “But why did they shoot a woman, Antelope? Why did they have to shoot a mother with a little baby?”
Antelope looked at her for a long moment before he said, “If I could answer that question, Miss Honeycutt, I reckon I’d be God.”
Then Phoebe turned in Jack’s arms and cried onto his shoulder. There was nothing any one of them could say to make her feel better, so nobody even tried.
The Indian woman died as the sun set. She opened her eyes long enough for Phoebe to show her the child; Phoebe didn’t know if the dying mother saw her daughter. The baby reached for her mother, the woman said a word Phoebe didn’t understand then sighed. And then she was dead. The baby started whimpering softly. Phoebe held and rocked her.
Supper was a haphazard affair, cooked primarily because Phoebe insisted the children—all the children—needed nourishment. She finally finished dressing herself while Sarah held the baby.
A very subdued group sat on logs and boulders around the campfire that night. William and Sarah apparently felt too intimidated by the grim events of the day to chatter and argue as they usually did. Phoebe held the baby as if her own life depended on it.
Jack sat next to her and wanted to put his arms around her again, but didn’t. What with being attacked by love and everything else that had happened today, he felt as helpless as he’d ever felt in his life. He didn’t like the feeling.
Antelope clutched a long stick in his thick brown fingers and drew circles and lines in the dirt at his feet.
“I don’t even know what her name is,” Phoebe murmured after they’d been sitting in silence for a long time. She stared into the face of the child asleep in her arms.
Antelope looked at Phoebe without lifting his head. Nobody spoke.
“Did that poor woman say anything to you, Antelope?”
He shook his head. “Don’t understand Mescalero anyway. Wouldn’t have understood her.”
“Oh.”
More silence. Thick as porridge. Black as soot.
“I thought maybe she’d told you the baby’s name,” Phoebe whispered after a while.
Antelope didn’t look up; he just shook his head again.
“What are you going to do with the baby, Phoebe?” Jack asked softly. He looked as depressed as she felt.
Phoebe peered at the little girl. Her hair was still dirty and caked with desert grime, even though Sarah had given the rest of her a good washing up. Her features looked pinched and small, as though she’d had to do without proper food her entire life. Even in sleep her little face held an expression of grave caution.
Phoebe knew that when the baby was awake, her eyes were huge and watchful and her face was pretty. The poor thing looked exotic to Phoebe, who’d never seen an Indian until she came to Texas. Her features reminded her of pictures of Chinese people she’d seen in books.
“Do with her?”
“Yes.”
“Reckon the Army’ll take her to the Bosque Redondo.” Antelope still didn’t look at his companions. Jack heard the scratching of that stick in the dirt and wondered what the Indian man was thinking about this turn of events.
“Bosque Redondo?” Phoebe stared at Antelope.
“Reservation. Army’s stickin’ the Mescalero in there with the Navajos left over from the Long Walk.” He offered the dirt a wry, humorless grin. “They’re traditional enemies, the Navajos and Apaches. Kinda like the north and the south.”
Jack and Phoebe exchanged a glance, and Jack’s heart squeezed at her expression of horror. Then Phoebe looked at Antelope again.
“No,” she said.
“No what?” Antelope sounded almost bored.
“No, this child is not going to be given to the Army to be taken to a Reservation.”
Now Antelope did lift his head. He gave Phoebe a hard look, one that held little of kindness and nothing of brotherhood. “You gonna leave her here with her mama?”
He and Jack had buried the woman shortly after her death. Neither man knew the first thing about Mescalero funeral customs, and burial was the most respectful way they could think of to dispose of her remains. They’d done the same with the rest of her band earlier in the day. She weighed almost nothing. Phoebe had read some Bible verses over the little mound of dirt. When she’d asked Antelope about the appropriateness of reciting Christian verses, he had said with an indifferent shrug that she might as well.
“Am I what?” Phoebe’s voice was shrill, and Jack put an arm around her shoulder. To hell with what people thought.
“It’s all right, Phoebe,” he murmured.
She glared at him as though it had been he to suggest she leave this child on the desert to die.
“No, it is not all right, Jack Valentine. Nothing about this situation is all right.”
With a sigh, Jack silently agreed with her.
“I shall keep this poor little orphaned girl and rear her as my own, is what I’ll do with her, Mister Antelope.”
Antelope ignored her sarcasm. He never took his gaze off her face. “Army might have something to say about that.”
“The Army can go straight to hell.” Phoebe was so furious she shook. Jack tightened his arm around her.
“What about her people?” Antelope gestured toward the little girl. “You think they’d like some white lady waltzin’ in here and snatchin’ away one of their own? White people’s the ones killed her mama.”
“Snatch—” Phoebe was as indignant as Jack had ever seen her. He considered stepping into the fray but sensed somehow its outcome would be important to both Phoebe and Antelope, so he kept his mouth shut.
“I had nothing to do with the murder of this child’s mother, and you know that as well as I do. I did not waltz in here and snatch this child away from her. I tried to save her life, for heaven’s sake!”
Antelope said nothing.
“Now, I may not be much of a substitute parent, but I expect anything I can offer this child will be a sight better than some damned Reservation run by the same damned Army that murdered her mother!”
Jack had never heard Phoebe swear in front of the children. He did not reprimand her.
“Probably murdered her pa, too,” Antelope observed.
“Oh!” Antelope’s wry tidings were more than Phoebe could take for a moment. She dropped her head and had to take several large gulps of air before she managed to get her raw emotions under control.
Jack shook his head and wish none of this had happened. When Phoebe lifted her head again, she looked as though she were in flat despair.
“Then what do you suggest I do? Do you really think it’s better for this poor child—she can’t be more than two or three years old—to go live on a reservation? I know I’m white. I can’t help being white. But I can offer her a home and food and love. Isn’t that better than life on a Reservation?”
“I ‘spect the Mescalero have a strong medicine life.” Antelope’s voice carried no inflection at all.
“Medicine life?”
“Sort of like religion, Phoebe.” Jack wasn’t sure he should get involved, but he wanted to help her understand.
“Most of ‘em don’t have no truck with Jesus. Don’t hold with no Mary Mothers and that crap.” Antelope’s words might have been chipped from granite.
Phoebe swallowed. Jack guessed she’d never heard her own Christian religion referred to in such a flippant, disparaging manner.
“I—I hadn’t considered that.”
Antelope grunted. “She’s a Mescalero, no matter who brings her up.”
Jack peered at the bundle in Phoebe’s arms and guessed there was no denying Antelope’s observation. The dark face, black hair, and almost Oriental features would proclaim her origin for as long as she lived.
“I . . . I don’t know anything about her people, though, Antelope.”
Another grunt was all the reward Phoebe got for confessing that obvious fact of her life.
Staring at the bab
y, Phoebe murmured, “But I expect I could learn. I could teach her the ways of her people as she grows up.”
For the first time Antelope showed some emotion. Jack cringed when the biting, sardonic grin twist his mouth. “By that time, she might just be the last one left. You better work fast.”
Phoebe’s little gasp and soft, “Oh, my,” made the Comanche return his attention to the dirt.
“Hell,” he continued, “you might as well take her. If you can get her past the Army, I don’t expect any Mescalero are gonna come runnin’ up and beggin’ for another mouth to feed. They’re all starvin’ to death as it is.”
Nobody said a word.
After another few minutes, Antelope muttered, “They’re fools, them Indians. White people are like grains of sand, blades of grass. Like fleas on a dog. There’s no way to get rid of ‘em. Might as well join ‘em. You just keep comin’.”
He raised his head and gave Phoebe another hard look. “Yeah. Take the kid and raise her up white. There’s nothin’ for her here but starvation. Maybe a bullet.”
Then Antelope pushed himself up from of his log and stumped off. They all stared after him. Jack could tell Phoebe was distraught, both at Antelope’s words and at his attitude. He wished there was some way he could help her.
But Antelope had merely told the truth. It was the same truth Phoebe herself hadn’t wanted to face when her way of life had been smashed to pieces in her face. The Comanche’s attitude toward her was the same as hers had been toward Jack when he’d encountered her and her wards lost on the Texas plains.
Truth wasn’t always easy to accept, nor was it always pretty. One could regret it, but one couldn’t change it. Right now, Jack could only curse the truth.
“I’m sorry, Phoebe,” he told her gently.
Phoebe still stared after Antelope. Night was falling fast, and they could barely discern his form as he came to a halt near the fresh mound of earth he’d helped to create a couple of hours earlier. Jack felt Phoebe’s shoulders heave in a silent sob when Antelope squatted beside the grave and didn’t move, fists clenched, head thrown back as though to howl at the moon, or at God.
After what seemed like hours, Sarah’s small voice lifted across the fire to them. “Are you really going to keep that little baby, Aunt Phoebe?”
“I certainly aim to, Sarah.”
“You gonna be like a mama to her, like you are to us?”
“I’m going to try my best.” Phoebe’s voice teetered.
William nodded. “That’s good. Livin’ on a Reservation don’t seem right somehow.”
“No. No, it certainly doesn’t.”
“How you gonna do it, Aunt Phoebe?” It sounded as though Sarah wasn’t trying to stir up trouble, but was merely curious.
“The same way I planned to do it before. When we get to Santa Fe, we’ll ask if my Uncle Fred can’t put us up until I find a position. Then I shall work to support us all.”
And kill yourself doing it, Jack thought bitterly. “You might find a good deal of prejudice against the baby in Santa Fe, Phoebe.”
“Really?”
“I’ve noticed before that the closer people are to a problem, the more their attitudes harden. In New York where I come from, people don’t worry about Indians because we killed all ours off a century or more ago. New York—the eastern states—is where you find a lot of Indian sympathizers. They can afford to be soft-hearted back east because the problem doesn’t affect them. Out west, where Indians can still pose a threat—and vice versa—people don’t take so kindly to them. There might be trouble.”
“Oh, Lord.” Phoebe’s little whisper tore at Jack’s heart.
“San Francisco now, there’s a different story. You come to San Francisco, and that little girl will be treated like a princess. San Francisco’s funny that way.”
Phoebe gave him a look as bleak and full of weariness as any he’d ever seen. It told him as eloquently as words that she’d fight this fight, too, as she’d fought all the other fights in her life.
Damn. He guessed he really did love her. Astonishing.
“But we’re not going to San Francisco. We’re going to Santa Fe.”
Since he was not yet reconciled to his fate, Jack didn’t answer.
Chapter Fifteen
Phoebe slept with the baby that night. She wasn’t about to give up this child who’d just lost her mother and leave her to pass the long, cold night alone.
Jack lay down next to Phoebe, and she appreciated it. She didn’t much want to spend the cold night alone, either.
“Are you going to be all right, Phoebe?”
His voice sounded so full of sweet concern, Phoebe felt its warmth through her entire body. “I hope so. I think so.”
“Antelope says he thinks Pete will be here with the Army tomorrow. I expect they’ll bring smithing equipment and extra spokes and we’ll be able to get the wheel fixed and the axle mended and be on our way again tomorrow or the next day.”
Phoebe wasn’t sure she was glad about that. Terrible things had happened in this little makeshift camp. But beautiful things had happened here, too. She’d fallen in love here, God help her; she’d even pretended to have been loved back. The experience was something she’d cherish forever.
She’d found a daughter here, too.
“Do you think the Army will give me any trouble about this child, Jack?”
The facts of her life had been spinning madly around in Phoebe’s brain and making her crazy ever since she’d declared her intention to keep the girl. Among others, those facts included no money, no employment, no home, and two other children to support. Who in his right mind would allow Phoebe Honeycutt to keep another child?
If she had to give up this poor little girl, though, something in her would die and never live again; of that Phoebe harbored no doubt at all.
“I don’t know, Phoebe.”
Phoebe appreciated Jack’s honesty even as she wished he’d offer her some hope. With a sigh, she guessed offering hope was expecting too much of him. Of life. She also guessed she should have anticipated his answer. Although she’d found Jack Valentine exasperating from the very moment of their first encounter, she’d never known him be anything but honest. It was a trait she both admired and found unnerving.
“Well, I know it will be difficult to earn a living, but I’ve done harder things in my life, I reckon.”
“I guess you have at that.”
Phoebe heard the hint of a smile in his voice.
She lay on her side, staring at the little girl sleeping next to her. She couldn’t quite keep her hands away from her; but touched the toddler’s cheek and pressed her small hands, and smoothed the hair out of her face. Tomorrow she guessed she’d have to wash the poor thing’s hair. It seemed almost cruel in light of the baby’s horrible losses and how children seemed to hate having their hair washed, but it had to be done.
“I wish I knew her name,” Phoebe said softly.
“I’ve been told that in some tribes Indian children earn their names. Maybe if you don’t worry about it for a while, get to know her better, a name will come to you.”
“Sort of like an inspiration,” Phoebe whispered. She liked the idea a lot.
Jack’s soft chuckle made gooseflesh rise on her arms. “I reckon.” After another moment or two, he said, “How are your hands now, Phoebe? They look better. Do they still hurt?”
Phoebe hadn’t given so much as a thought to her hands for several days, a fact that amazed her when his question brought them to mind. Her battered hands had tormented her for years. “Why, I do believe they’re all better now, Jack. That stinky salve you gave me cured ‘em right up.”
“That stinky salve and the bandages. Without the bandages, the salve would have rubbed right off.”
Grudgingly, she murmured, “I expect.”
“You know it, Phoebe. Admit it.”
With feigned exasperation, Phoebe sighed, “Oh, all right. I admit it.”
“See? I know
what’s best for you.” He nuzzled her neck.
Although she said a mere, “Humph,” Phoebe had the depressing feeling he was right.
They were quiet for a while. Phoebe was pondering the sleeping girl, hoping for inspiration to strike, when Jack’s soft voice startled her.
“What do you miss most about your home before the war, Phoebe?” He rubbed his hand up and down her arm in a soothing gesture that made Phoebe want to purr.
His question, though, coming unexpectedly out of the deep, silent night, sent Phoebe’s thoughts spinning. They whirled back and back and back until she was a little girl again. She was sitting on her papa’s lap in the big, creaky rocker on the front porch, while the family chatted softly, as they always did after supper. She felt secure, loved; two emotions she’d forgotten she’d ever, ever felt.
Phoebe could practically smell the blossoms on the big old magnolia tree growing beside the house. And the gardenias. Oh, my. The fragrance of those gardenia blossoms used to get trapped in hot summer air pockets. When one of those pockets of air would waft by her, the aroma was so sweet and powerful it used to make her senses swim and her heart pitter pat in her young chest.
If her brothers were there, they’d be teasing her. And Philippa would be fanning herself lazily and looking pretty and ladylike by the glow of the candle lamp. Philippa’d be talking, sweet and low and slow, about her balls and her beaux, just as she used to do. Mama would be creating one of her endless embroidery masterpieces. Phoebe would give her eyeteeth to have just one of her mama’s embroidered cushions now. But they were all gone. Burned up. Ashes.
“I miss my family,” her whisper came at last. Then she turned into Jack’s embrace and let him hold her tight.
A long time later, she murmured, “Thank you.”
She could feel him shake his head. “Thank you, Phoebe. You’ve given me a great gift by allowing me to share your life.”
She had no idea what he meant, but the words sounded pretty. If she’d felt stronger, mentally and physically, she might have asked him what he was talking about, but she didn’t.
Instead, she asked, “What about you, Jack. What was your life like when you were a little boy? What do you miss?”
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