The Piper_The Eleventh Day

by Amanda McIntyre

  Penelope’s gaze focused on a group of men who’d just come out of the Nugget. They’d stopped to chat, and, given the glances cast their way, it was likely that the topic was about Silas’s sudden departure. It was a small town. News traveled fast.

  “If he isn’t superstitious, then he must not be from around here,” Penny commented, returning her attention to Genevieve.

  It was a crumb. Not much, but enough for Genevieve to work with. If nothing else, she wasn’t entirely disinterested. “If ever there was a man on the face of this earth who needed the gentle care and companionship of the right woman—that being you—it is this man they call Kyi-yee.”

  Penny’s eyes darted to hers. A flicker of concern crossed her face. “Does he even speak English, Mrs. Walters?”

  Genevieve nodded. “He came from the East with his brother three years ago. His brother was killed in a mining accident—tragic, really. He wandered then at some length, and when he was attacked by a grizzly and survived, the local Indians took him in and nursed him back to health. Because he survived, they gave him the name Kyi-yee, which means ‘bear’.” Genevieve hurried on before Penelope could ask questions that she could not answer. She wasn’t aware of what physical scars the man might carry from the attack, but she prayed that Penelope would have the constitution to look beyond the scars to the man. “He has since acted to protect the town from predators as he is an excellent hunter and also serves as liaison between the Indians and the town during times of great tension. He is fearless it seems, but a good provider. I doubt you would ever want for anything. He trades his pelts in town in exchange for goods, providing the means for the people here to have warm boots, blankets, jackets. It’s no wonder he is regarded so highly around here.”

  Penelope’s lackluster eyes looked at Genevieve. There was no joy embedded in her expression; simply a dull apathy. “He sounds fine enough.”

  Fueled by hope, Genevieve continued with more enthusiasm. “Pastor Hammond has spoken to him and he has told him he wishes to marry you. He knows nothing of your past. Here is a man you could build a good future with and I am certain,” she added with a smile, “that beneath all of those pelts and…well, hair…walks a man who is undoubtedly handsome.” She might have gone on about the strength of his muscular thighs, but she chose to keep that to herself. Besides, if Penny agreed, she would see for herself soon enough.

  Penny looked off into the distance. “I admit he sounds too wonderful, nearly out of a dream. In fact, the manner in which you speak of him gives the inclination that he is more suited to you, Genevieve.”

  She was taken aback. “Surely, you jest,” she said. “May I remind you that I have a life, a position at the mission back in Denver. And the success of this endeavor and my part in it, is being watched carefully by my superiors—most of them men who had little faith that we would even survive the train. See what we’ve accomplished already? There are only two days left until the obligation with the rail road is to be met. Remember, that is our goal. Our sole purpose in traveling all this way.”

  “Is that all this is to you, then? A job? An obligation? How can you know what will make others happy if you deny happiness yourself?”

  Penelope’s point was well taken, however misguided it was. Genevieve turned the woman’s face to hers, meeting her eye-to-eye. “I have experienced marriage in my life. I have known what love is, and what responsibility and companionship is. I have also known loss. And that is why I feel called, you see, to help others find the happiness I’ve known.” She forced a smile, realizing that her tale was not entirely true. Her marriage had been brief, their time together cut short by the responsibilities of war. But her heart had been known to flutter seeing him in his uniform, sitting grand upon his horse. Their last kiss, though chaste, was infused with her need to be strong for him. Genevieve dropped her gaze, her face warming to another time, to when the stolen kiss of a young soldier caused her body to stir in ways unimaginable.

  “If you had loved once, it would seem that you would desire to find such love again. I know I would.”

  “Yes,” Genevieve said. “That is precisely what I am asking…don’t give up. Give this man a chance.”

  Resignation painted her small smile.

  “Pastor Hammond is speaking with Mr. Malone even as we speak, making the arrangements for the ceremony this evening. As you are aware, the vows must be completed in twelve days of our arrival according to the agreement with the railroad. This may well be your perfect match, Penelope. I beseech you reconsider.”

  Penelope seemed faraway in her thoughts.

  Genevieve touched her shoulder. “Come a little early, say eleven. and at least meet the man. You can then judge for yourself whether Mr. Kyi-Yee is suited to you.”

  Penelope offered a weary sigh. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to rest.” She lifted her skirts and turned to walk towards La Maison.

  Genevieve clasped her hands to her chin and watched her leave, compelled to offer one last vote of confidence for the potential groom. “Did I mention what a fine physique he has?” And the bluest eyes. “I’m sure he’d appreciate a woman who loves adventure.” And doesn’t mind living in a cabin in the mountains. “Who loves to cook as much as you do!” she called at the top of her voice. And hopefully you have recipes for bear meat.

  Genevieve shaded her eyes to the shaft of sunlight beaming straight down from overhead. It was only noon. She sighed. With any luck, Penelope might feel entirely different after she rested. That was her hope. And with that hope, she turned on her heel to find Birdie and retrieve the veil she’d made for Penny. Besides, she might need to enlist Birdie’s help in convincing her friend to marry tonight.

  She walked out into the street, feeling the warmth of the sun, however fleeting before the gray clouds overcame its brilliance. She would take it as a sign from above that all would be well and that, with a little rest and a smidge of divine intervention, Penelope would see the God’s open door had provided a man far better than Silas.

  Chapter 10

  “You’re a damn fool,” Zeke muttered to himself as he pulled his sled up the steep trail he and Clem had once blazed up the mountainside. The ache in his chest reminded him how unfair it was to marry one woman when his heart belonged still to another. But for her happiness, he would go through the ceremony at least. The union might last, it might not. Once she saw the scars left on his body, she’d likely leave just as his first wife had done.

  He tied the horse in the barn and stoking a roaring fire in the cabin, dragged the copper tub close to the stone fireplace. Using a yoke fashioned with two buckets balanced over his shoulders, he walked a few yards from his home and using a pick ax broke the ice enough to gather in three trips enough water to fill the tub halfway.

  He dropped his jacket over a rack made of deer antlers and unlacing his boots, skimmed down to his long underwear. Testing the water, it was still too chilly for his tastes, so he sat down at his small dining table with one chair and scanned the room, regret of his choice beginning to swell inside him as he thought of what type of home he had to offer a new bride.

  There was nothing feminine--no lace, no gingham curtains, none of the finery a woman from the cities back East would consider proper.

  Everything had been crafted with function in mind. The furnishings were simple. There was a large bed that he and his brother had shared until they could build a bigger cabin. It was made with wood and rope, its mattress stuffed with straw. There was a table and only one chair now. Zeke had burnt the other in an emotional rage after his brother died. Then came the bear attack.

  His recovery from that was more of a blur. He’d determined later that he’d spent several months in the Ute camp under the watchful eye of an old Indian—one of the elders who had been asked to leave by the government, but returned to live out his days in the only place he’d ever known as home. Given what Zeke saw with the aid of a broken piece of mirror he had been lucky to survive. It had taken him days to get the strength
to stand, longer still until he’d made a full recovery.

  He’d bonded as a son to the Native American elder and had learned much about surviving the wilderness. In the process of recovery, he’d learned how unfair the government had been in their desire to acquire the land and the gold believed to be on it.

  He’d shied away from people, living off the land, becoming an expert hunter, and fishing with a spear—sometimes with his bare hands. After the attack, he’d found that soaking in a warm spring eased the sensitivity of the formation of new skin and his nerve endings reconnecting. But when the weather turned, it became apparent he’d need a tub of his own. And after the reaction of his former bride, the thought of bathing in a public place was out of the question.

  It had been Culver at the blacksmith shop who’d suggested a place that made copper tubs, and he’d offered his wagon and assistance in hauling the tub. He was the first white man Zeke had spoken to since the bear attack and, once the flood gates opened, Zeke had found himself pouring out to the rough-looking blacksmith everything from his guilt about his brother to the grizzly attack and so, too, the bride who’d rejected him because of it. Culver had been the first person he’d ever spoken to about his personal demons.

  And the last.

  Forcing himself from his reverie, Zeke gathered his shaving supplies, including a small mirror he’d traded for in town and set them beside the tub. Dipping his hand in the water, he checked to make sure the warmth of the fire had succeeded in making the water tepid enough to tolerate.

  He undressed, aware of the places where his muscles ached deep. Easing into the tub, he winced as the now-tepid water enveloped him. The heat from the fire helped some. He leaned his head against the edge of the copper tub and, closing his eyes, let go the notion that he was making a mistake even as the memory of the first day he’d met Genevieve Walters slipped into his thoughts.

  Weary from riding, Zeke slid off his horse and dropped the reins. For a moment, he stood and took in the lush, green spans of lawn around him. It felt as though his lungs were caked in gun smoke. He closed his eyes, breathing deep the fresh air, grateful for the scent of lilacs in bloom instead of the stench of death.

  He looked at the stately home before him--a mansion in comparison to the simple clapboard farm house in which he grew up. The graceful three-story home with its gabled turret was painted a pristine white. Same color porch posts, gingerbread and lattice, decorated the porch that wrapped around three sides. A wooden swing anchored one end of the porch overlooked a row of short lilacs bushes in a welcoming fashion.

  Zeke fought the urge to drop to his knees and kiss the earth. Remembering his purpose, the woman he’d come to see, he forced his feet to climb the steps to the front door.

  An odd mix of fear and anticipation caused him to hesitate before knocking. It was a late May afternoon. The slow buzz of crickets filled the air. He knocked. The front door opened. And there she stood--the embodiment of the hope and tenderness he’d come to know through the letters she’d written to her husband, giving him the will to survive the horrors of war. And she didn’t even know his name. Zeke found his tongue, her beauty threatening to scatter his reason to the four winds.

  “My name is Sergeant Christian Ezekiel Kinnison, ma’am. Good day. I’m here on personal business for Mrs. Walters.” He was certain he’d stuttered and remembering his hat, yanked it from his head.

  Her expression was pensive as she assessed him. Still there was kindness in her thoughtful gaze. “Are you looking for my mother-in-law or me, sir?”

  Pulling himself from the reverie of his lovesick thoughts, he averted his eyes, looking instead at his tattered boots, mentally scolding himself as a reminder of why he was there. His heart pounded in his chest. The news he’d been trusted to deliver now sat like boulders around his neck. He could not bear to see this woman in pain “Are you…Genevieve?” He pulled his gaze to hers and her hand flew to her heart.

  She knew.

  “I am Genevieve Walters,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “Perhaps, ma’am, we should sit,” he suggested.

  Another woman, older, appeared behind her. Her expression was curious until Zeke realized she’d taken in his Union uniform.

  “Is it Levi?” Her question held fear and resignation. Many families would be feeling the same in the days ahead as the ravages of war became clear.

  A lump formed in his throat as he stared at the two faces willing him not to speak the dreaded words. “It is my duty to inform you”--he stumbled over the words, emotion making it difficult to speak--“that Captain Walters succumbed to injuries received while serving in battle.”

  Zeke watched as the blood drained from the elderly woman’s face. Her knees buckled and he lunged forward catching her before she crumbled to the ground. He carried her limp body to the parlor, where an older man and woman appeared from another door assisting him as he eased her to the parlor sofa.

  He stepped away to address the young woman he’d left in shock. He’d seen her photograph only once carried in the frame of his captain’s watch fob. He pulled out the watch and a bundle of letters, both of which he’d promised his superior to return to his wife should the unthinkable ever happen. Zeke never expected to be standing here.

  “Did he know the war had ended? That the Union won?”

  Zeke paused, debating how to answer. He’d not been at his captain’s side, but had made his way to the infirmary as planned the moment a messenger had informed him of his passing. “I’m not certain that he was aware the battle had officially ended.” He looked at his tattered, worn boots, thought of the men—young and old—he’d seen lying dead on a string of open fields. “I don’t know that it’s possible to say there was a victory, ma’am.” He met her narrow gaze. “My apologies. I should keep my thoughts private.”

  “No, please. Share them. I know the ideals my husband fought and died for, sir. What is it you fought for?” There was a measure of anger mixed with grief in her voice.

  He paused to consider her question. “I fought, as many did, for the ideals which Captain Walters believed in, ma’am.” He shook his head. “But the cost of preserving those ideals has come with a heavy toll--to families, to children who will never have fathers, to mothers who have lost their children, the toll of what I’ve seen--” He stopped and sighed. His soul weighed with weariness and sorrow. “The loss is high. I only hope we can retain those ideals for which so much blood has been shed.”

  Her frustration seemed to subside. She regarded him with a kindness that soothed his soul and, at the same time, riddled him with guilt. “Forgive me, Sergeant Kinnison, I meant no disrespect. I thank you for your service and continue to believe that one day all men…and women will be of equal importance in this world.”

  When the elder Mrs. Walters had recovered from her fainting spell, she’d graciously asked him to dine and recuperate before he began his journey home. Zeke had agreed, but his motives were anything but chaste. He’d been the right arm of his captain, gained his explicit trust, and had been given the privilege of reading each and every one of his wife’s letters aloud to his war-weary superior. And in doing so, he’d fallen in love with the woman in those letters. Which is why it was important that he keep his distance from her.

  “Sergeant Kinnison, what are your plans now?” the elder Mrs. Walters asked him at supper the next night. He’d been given other clothes to wear during his stay so that his uniform might be cleaned. He shifted uncomfortably in the trousers and jacket that fit a trifle snug on his broad shoulders. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin before he spoke. His gaze met Genevieve’s emerald green eyes across the table and, though he hadn’t purposely kept count, he’d noticed a number of her stolen glances.

  “My brother and I have plans to go west.” The thought of his brother, his excitement to explore the new frontier, brought a smile to his face. “He feels we should be among those to stake our claim in the West.” He snorted softly. “I believe he’s been taken in by
claims of gold in the mountains.”

  Genevieve smiled. Zeke could not take his eyes off her.

  “Yet, Mr. Kinnison, you do not share the same interest as your brother?”

  He regarded her before he spoke. “Perhaps it is battle that gives a man clarity, Mrs. Walters. I am not entranced by the glint of gold.” He glanced at his plate—fine china, silver utensils, and crystal goblets. There were all very nice, but nothing like his farm upbringing. “I am a simple man.” He scanned the room before meeting the gazes of his two dining companions.

  “I look around at your lovely home, with a warm fire in the hearth, food on the table, seeing the generosity and kindness among those who live here—that, along with a beautiful, devoted woman that Captain Walters was fortunate enough to call his wife—it is my belief that he was one of the wealthiest men I’ve ever known.”

  Genevieve held his gaze, though he noted the faint blush at his complimentary description. She blinked and suddenly averted her gaze.

  “You are a gracious young man,” said the older Mrs. Walters. “My husband, rest his soul, poured everything he had into this land. He was son to immigrants and they had to fashion a life on their own. It is my belief that good men understand the importance of hearth and home.”

  Her words touched him. “I have seen the best in a man and his worst. It has led me to believe that our Creator had more in mind than the destruction brought about by misperceptions of our fellow man.” A quiet sigh escaped his lips. “Freedom, I surmise, is not given freely. There is always, sadly, it seems, a price.”

  Wishing to turn the conversation to more pleasant topics, Zeke looked at the woman who by right, owned this house and its land. “Have you plans to stay on and carry on your husband’s work, ma’am?”

  The older woman shook her head. “We’d planned on Levi and Genevieve to take over and carry on.” She hesitated and glanced at her daughter-in-law. “I have a brother in Denver, who has invited us to come live with him and his wife. He has grave concerns of us living alone—just the two of us.” She smiled at Genevieve. “Perhaps it is best we now consider his offer with greater seriousness.”