Willow, Riley, Sam, and Two Feathers carried the coffin through the back door of the parlor onto the rear porch. From there they led the funeral procession to the massive oak that spread over the back lawn. A double tombstone had already been set at the foot of the oak. His mother lay six feet beneath it. Both her white and Sioux names had been chiseled into the stone. She had asked to be buried here, at Mayfair, beneath the oak. And David had asked to be interred at her side.
So it would be.
The Reverend Mathews finished the service, sprinkling dirt upon the coffin after it had been lowered into the earth. The last words were said. Sandra and Megan, huddled together, cried softly. Lily embraced them both, then led them back to the house. People began to drift away from the grave. Hawk remained, Skylar still at his side.
He disengaged her fingers from his arm. "Go in. I'll be along."
She hesitated. She began to speak, awkwardly at first, then more strongly and quickly. "Hawk ... he ... I want you to know that he died easily. He had known about his illness; he was truly at peace with God and himself. It isn't easy, it can't be easy, but it was a gentle death. I'm sorry, truly... he was a very good man. Please believe that he didn't suffer."
Hawk nodded after a moment. She wasn't telling him much, but she was trying to give him something. "Thank you," he told her quietly. "Now, please, go on in," he urged her, and despite the feeling of warmth her words had evoked within him, his tone was sharper than he had intended.
As he had commanded, she turned and left him.
He stood at the gravesite, realizing oddly enough that Dark Mountain had been the greatest comfort to him today. Death was part of life. It had been a large enough part of his. He'd said good-bye to a mother, a brother, a wife, and a child. Today, he set his father into the earth. He needed sons, Dark Mountain had said. Sons who he could tell about his father. In the telling, he would remember.
He heard a soft whining sound and realized Wolf had come to mourn with him. He hunkered down by the dog and patted him reassuringly. "He's gone, fellow," he said, then rose, speaking to the grave.
"Pa," he said softly, "I hope you knew. I didn't come to you a very good son. I spent years trying to tell myself what you weren't—because you weren't Sioux. Others saw earlier what I didn't. That you were more Sioux than I, you had all the virtues of the Sioux: courage, generosity, wisdom. I did love you. So much. I'm just not at all damned sure what you were doing there at the end, and I wasn't with you. I mean, Pa, who the hell is she? What was going on? How badly were you hurting at the end?" His eyes blurred. The whites said that Indians didn't have any emotions. But the whites didn't understand. Indians felt as deeply and painfully as white people. They just didn't betray their emotions. "I love you, Pa!" he murmured.
He turned from the gravesite and headed back toward the house. Massive amounts of food had been prepared, and he saw people gathered around the buffet tables that had been set out on the porch.
Skylar had done her job well today; he could definitely acknowledge that fact. Willow had told him she had worked with Megan on pastries and bread all morning, up to her elbows in flour. She had arranged the flowers, set out silver, plates, glasses. Greeted strangers.
Now she stood by one of the buffet tables with Sloan Trelawny. She smiled at what he was saying. Well, Sloan could be a wretchedly charming devil. Hell on women. His manner and dark, striking appearance easily seduced them, and it didn't seem to matter that he carried the blood of a Sioux war chief. But he was a loner, never letting anyone get too close to him. He'd changed—become more distant from his old friends sometime after the War of the Southern Rebellion, Hawk thought. Whatever had happened, Sloan hadn't yet decided to share it with him.
Sloan could easily flirt with Skylar and enjoy her company because he would never touch his best friend's wife. Even though he knew that, Hawk couldn't help feeling irritated because she seemed to be enjoying Sloan's company too much. Her eyes were very bright. Her laughter genuine. Talking with Sloan, she was at ease. Absolutely stunning, graceful, dignified, beautiful.
Sloan turned away from her for a moment. Henry Pierpont, looking very much the attorney in a pin-striped suit and starched-collar shirt, approached her, pushing his spectacles up his nose as he handed her an envelope. She frowned. Henry explained something to her. She nodded quickly, smiled, and thanked him.
Then, looking around somewhat furtively, she curled the envelope into her hand.
"That spectacle-wearing little rodent!" Hawk murmured to himself. "What the hell did he just give her?"
Sloan turned back to Skylar, handing her a glass of sherry. Skylar offered him a charming smile and quickly slid the envelope into a pocket in her skirt.
Hawk could tell she liked Sloan. That much was evident. But she eluded him with a few words and a smile, slipping back into the house.
Hawk determined to follow her.
It wasn't so easy. He was waylaid by his guests, some of them commiserating with him on his father's death, others congratulating him on his exquisite new wife.
When he finally reached the parlor, he saw her standing before the fire, staring into it, with tears in her silver eyes. "Skylar!"
She started, looking his way. Her hand slid back into her pocket.
She wasn't going to volunteer any information regarding the envelope. He would most probably get nowhere by demanding she do so.
"Yes?" she said defensively.
"We've a number of guests," he told her.
"Indeed."
"Has something happened?" he asked her politely.
Her lashes swept her cheeks. She lifted her chin, shaking her head. "No. Nothing. Why?"
"I thought I saw Henry give you something."
"Oh ... that. It was a wire, but it must have been a mistake. There was nothing on it."
"How curious. May I see it?"
"I burned it. It was blank, so I tossed it into the fire. I ... I think I need to make sure that the punch bowl is filled for the ladies."
She moved past him quickly as if she were afraid that he would stop her.
But he didn't lay a hand on her. He watched her as she left, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
His time would come.
Eleven
Skylar returned to the porch and circulated among the guests. Hawk watched her all the while.
The evening wore on. People ate, drank. Talked over old times, politics—and Indian policy. Hawk didn't participate in the conversation. Even among the soldiers, there could be disagreement. Add the agency Indians and such conversation could be explosive—if not deadly. At several points during the evening his guests very nearly quarreled. Skylar had a knack for stepping in at the right time.
Finally, everyone had gone except for the household, Willow, and Sloan Trelawny. Hawk and his two old friends retired to the downstairs library together, closing the doors on the rest of the world, drinking brandy. It was natural that such close friends should stay with him late that night.
But he was more temperate in his consumption of brandy than he might otherwise have been on such an occasion.
"It's dying," Sloan was saying, swirling his brandy in its snifter. "The way of the plains. When I try to explain that to friends, they don't understand. But I know that you do, Hawk. And it doesn't matter that you grew up among your mother's people or that you rode with Crazy Horse years ago. You see it as clearly as I do."
"Maybe the army will eventually give up," Hawk suggested. "Leave the Sioux their last hunting grounds. There's enough land—"
"There's never enough land; you know that," Sloan said. "But don't think that the whites aren't aware that the Indians are cheated," he added. "There are many who know this is true." He looked at Hawk. "Scandal is about to erupt like wildfire in Washington. Your friend Custer—"
"My friend?" Hawk queried.
Sloan shrugged with a wry grin. Hawk and Custer had been known to clash upon numerous occasions. They'd been at West Point together. They'd ridden
into the Civil War together, and from that point on, had often taken decidedly different sides on numerous issues.
"Custer is a popular man," Sloan reminded him.
"Even if those in the military know that he is an incredible braggart."
"He's a war hero—there's talk he could run for president. But my point here is that the man has been vociferous in attacks on Indian agents and all the corruption and graft that has occurred out here. I don't think that he wants to take on the entire Grant administration, but being Custer, he may well do so. And still, being a man who says what's on his mind, he's let it be known that he thinks the Indians have been cheated as well."
"He's champing at the bit to lead an expedition against the Sioux," Hawk said heatedly.
"He's a soldier—he needs a war victory. Just as Crazy Horse is a warrior—who needs to make war," Sloan said.
"Custer is too eager to campaign. He doesn't want peace," Hawk argued.
"If you think that you can blame the national sentiment on Custer, Hawk, you are wrong."
"I don't blame the national sentiment on him, just the way he works. He—" He paused, shaking his head. George Armstong Custer, "Autie" to friends and family, had enjoyed playing pranks at West Point. He'd scalped squirrels on occasion to leave upon Hawk's pillow. Hawk had swallowed down the jest against his Indian pride, but he had seethed, and retaliated by taking Custer where it hurt him in return—making the best shot on a hunting expedition, outriding Custer in a show of military horsemanship. That his marks were better meant little to Custer; he just got by in school, though Hawk had to admit he did so brilliantly. No cadet could receive more than a hundred demerits a term. Custer could receive ninety-nine demerits almost immediately, but then manage never to get the final citation. He had his good points. To Custer's credit, despite the fact that war—and death—definitely helped men rise in the military, Custer was never prowar; he was sorry to fight his Southern brothers.
Yet it was during the war that they first clashed. They were both young, daring cavalry commanders. They crossed paths upon occasion. Once, Custer had been so aggravated with Southern Colonel Mosby's raiders in the Shenandoah Valley that he had ordered a number of the captured raiders hanged. As Custer had ordered, the deed was done. Sent to the same stage of fighting, Hawk had been appalled. It was war, Custer said. The Southerners would gladly hang him. It had been wrong, Hawk was convinced. Such brave men, fighting for their states and what they believed to be right, shouldn't have died so. He realized that he and Custer were fundamentally opposed, even though Custer remained fond of reminding him that he was Sioux—and suggesting he refrain from scalping his Confederate enemies.
Over the years, they'd often had occasion to meet again. With time, Hawk began to feel that Custer had remained an overgrown boy. He was ambitious to a fault. He was also honest. His courage could never be questioned, even if his wisdom could. Again to his credit, he never asked a man in his command to do anything he would not do himself. But then, most men found it difficult to ride as hard as Custer did, or drive themselves so diligently. Though he fought the Indians with perseverance—and adored his wife,
Libby—it was either common knowledge or accepted rumor on the plains that he'd had a Cheyenne child. The baby, however, had supposedly perished from disease as a toddler.
But then, Custer was a man of many contrasts. Again, though he doted on his wife, it was also common knowledge or accepted rumor that she often vied with his beloved hunting dogs for space upon their bed.
None of these things mattered on the battlefield.
"Custer disturbs me," Hawk said at last, "because he is far too eager for glory."
"But he may wind up in political trouble," Sloan told him. "You know, he had President Grant's son arrested on his expedition through the Black Hills. Arrested him for being drunk. Custer might well have been in the right. He's at odds with the administration on other matters. He may well find himself without a command when the campaigns against the Indians begin in earnest. If someone reasonable spearheads these movements, there will be war and blood, but someone may live to tell about it."
"Autie Custer is a hero," Hawk argued. "People love the boy, whatever his failings. I fear him—and fear for him."
"But can there be peace?" Willow said, his very tone suggesting it was not possible. "It will do no good for you to speak with either Crazy Horse or Sitting Bull," Willow told Hawk.
"I know."
"But you plan on speaking with them anyway?"
Hawk nodded gravely. "I'm riding with Sloan."
"You're sure you're willing to take the time now?" Sloan asked him.
Hawk nodded. "I'm sure. I know that I can speak with them if anyone can." He smiled. "It was my vision quest, remember? I'll bring the word of the eagles to the buffalo. It wouldn't be right if I did not, because they must hear one another, then weigh their choices. Sloan, what made you think that I might not go?"
Sloan lifted his snifter, indicating the floor above. "We'll have to leave quite soon. Within a week, if at all possible. Were she my new wife, I'm not certain I'd be undertaking any journeys."
"Ah, yes. My wife," Hawk murmured. He lifted his snifter toward Sloan. "To my new wife!"
"Here, here," Willow and Sloan agreed.
Hawk set down his snifter. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me ... Sloan, if you've leave from the army for the night, both guest bedrooms remain empty. Take your pick. Willow, good evening. Thank your wife for the time she has given me and for her generosity in lending her husband to a friend in his time of need."
"Lily is glad to help. Goodnight, Hawk," Willow said.
Sloan echoed him. "If I stay, I'll be gone early. I've still supplies to gather. And you've still time to change your mind."
"I won't," Hawk said. "I can't."
Hawk left the library behind and quickly climbed the stairs to the master bedroom.
Skylar was asleep. The lights were out, the fire was low. He was quite certain she wasn't feigning her rest, because the hour was so very late. She was in soft blue flannel tonight. Another nightgown that encompassed her from neck to toe. He shook his head. She didn't seem to realize yet that no matter how concealing her gown, it would mean nothing against him if his determination was set. But for the moment, he let her rest.
He silently looked through the wardrobe until he found the black silk skirt she had worn for the funeral. He found the pocket, slipped his fingers inside. He found paper. The wire envelope. And in it...
The wire.
Not burned.
But here. In his fingers now. He carefully opened the paper, wondering if it could give him some clue to his wife.
But the words were cryptic.
"Trouble. Have you legal title? Can manage no more than a few weeks. Help fast. Pray you're well."
The wire wasn't signed. There was no indication of who had sent it.
If the sender had been male or female.
He folded the telegram thoughtfully, sliding it back into the pocket of her skirt. He closed the wardrobe doors and came to stand over his wife once again. She still slept, the picture of angelic chastity in her modest flannel. In silence he stripped down, mechanically folding his clothing, leaving it lying on the trunk.
He slid in beside her, keeping to his side of the bed. For tonight, he'd leave her in peace. He stared at the ceiling, closed his eyes. Heard his heartbeat. It was slow, soft.
She shifted beside him. He felt just the movement of the bed. Then the soft brush of her golden hair against the flesh of his arm. He smoothed it away.
He felt his heartbeat once again, its pace growing faster. Louder. Pounding throughout him.
If he'd meant to leave her alone, he should have retired to his own room.
He could smell her. The scent of her flesh, clean, carrying the subtle, evocative scent of Mayfair's rosewood soap. She'd washed her hair recently as well. It, too, carried a soft, titillating scent. He moved a hand, running it over the golden tendrils curl
ed over the sheets by his side. They were unbelievably soft, silky ... he buried his face in them. Closed his eyes again. Leaned back.
His heartbeat shuddered, skipped. Pulsed into his limbs, his loins, his blood, body, sex...
He rolled next to her, lifted her hair, nuzzled his lips against the lobe of her ear, her throat. She didn't awaken, but twisted, her body coming flush against his. He pulled down the sheets, slipped his hand beneath the hem of the chaste flannel gown, drawing it up. He stroked her thigh, drawing incredibly soft, lazy circles against it. She moved against him, a long expulsion of breath escaping through her lips, some slight, sensual sound mingling with it. He brought the movement upward, caressing her hips, belly, ribs. Lower, higher. A feathery touch against her breasts. Between her thighs. She roused but didn't waken. Undulated, pressed against him. Her neck arched. He placed his hps against it, felt her pulse, then...
Fierce impatience seized him. He caught her hips and drew her buttocks hard against his loin. One swift movement and he was within her, satiation of the pulsing hunger within him his one driving goal.
At the invasion of his first thrust, she woke fully. Had she wished to protest, it would have been far too late. But she wouldn't protest. Nor would she allow herself in a fully conscious state the subtle but sensuous movements that had served to so fully rouse him. She buried her face against the bedding. Her fingers fell upon his hands where they steadied her hips, holding her to his will. She didn't try to stop him, she simply dug in, as if she braced herself, and waited.
Not even her stubborn determination to remain unmoved could dampen his fire. Within minutes he rose to a swift, violent climax, ejaculating into her with a shudder that ripped through the length of him. First, the sweet simple warmth of basic satiation filled him. Then the ragged edge of disappointment. He rolled to his back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. But then, I guess I actually didn't."
She spoke without turning to him. "I told you—"
"I know. You'll give me nothing. Whatever I get I must take. Perhaps you should be careful. When I set my mind to it, I can take a lot."
No Other Man Page 15
