"I plan to stay right here," Josh answered, staring bleakly into his empty glass. "I've got a good job, a nice house. As soon as Hannah's feeling better, I plan to give her sons. Lots of sons."
"What about Mary and the boy?"
"I don't know. I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."
Kincaid leaned forward, his face only inches from Berdeen's. "You're at it," he said evenly. "Those kids are my grand-kids, and if anything happens to either one of them, anything at all, I'll come after you. You savvy my meaning?"
Joshua swallowed hard. "I understand."
"Good. I'll be going now, but before I go, I've got just one more thing to say. It's about my girl. You make her happy, Berdeen. You give Hannah anything she wants, and if she wants those kids living with her, you let her have them. Hannah deserves that much. And she sure as hell deserves someone better than you."
Josh nodded, intimidated by the fierce expression in Kincaid's eyes. It would not be wise to cross the man, that was certain.
Josh stayed in the saloon for a long time, methodically working his way to the bottom of the bottle. Sam Kincaid was a meddlesome old fool, Josh mused. Who the hell did Kincaid think he was, anyway, to tell Joshua Berdeen what to do? Old windbag, full of dire threats and warnings. But as long as Kincaid was around, Hannah would never be completely his. And as for that Indian brat, Josh had no intention of having the little bastard underfoot now or ever. Or the girl, either, though she could easily pass for white. No, there was only one thing to dotake Hannah and leave New York for good.
Josh smiled crookedly at the thought. He had always had a secret yearning to see California and the Pacific Ocean. Perhaps he would take Hannah to Los Angeles or San Francisco. Let the old man keep the kids. He wanted Hannah, only Hannah.
XIV
I was sitting in the parlor, mending a pair of Joshua's socks, when Heecha came storming through the door, his handsome young face dark with anger and frustration.
"I will not have a white man's name!" he cried, stamping his foot. "My father said I did not have to have one, and I won't!"
"Heecha, calm down." I laid my mending aside and drew the boy close. "Who said you must have a white man's name?"
"My teacher, Mr. Patten. He said if I did not pick one out by tomorrow, he would give me one. Can he do that? Why must I have a white man's name? I am Cheyenne!"
"You are white, too!" I reminded him gently. "Your mother is white."
"You are my mother," he said with an exasperated sigh. "Why do you not remember?"
"I don't know. I wish I could."
"I want to come and live with you. Why can't I?"
"You ask difficult questions."
"Don't you love me any more?"
"I do love you, Heecha," I answered slowly, realizing it was true. "It's just that I'm so confused. I don't know what to do. I don't know who I am. But I do love you. You are a fine, brave boy."
Heecha's dark eyes regarded me solemnly, reminding me of other eyes, but I could not remember whose. It was all so frustrating. Every time I thought I was on the verge of remembering something, the memory faded, leaving me sadly disgruntled.
"I'll talk to Joshua soon," I promised. "I'll ask him tonight if you and Mary can come and live with us."
"Mary would like that. She cries for you at night."
"Does she?"
"Yes. She is very lonely for you, and for our father."
"Do you know where your father is?"
"No. He was shot the day you were hurt."
"Shot? How? By who?"
"He killed the man who hurt you. My grandfather told my father to run away.
My father did not want to go, but Namshim said he must or he would be arrested for killing a white man. We did not see him again. Namshim. said my father might be dead, but I do not believe that. I know he is alive. He will come for me one day. I told Mary this, but she does not believe me."
"I hope you're right, Heecha. I'm sure he is a fine man."
Heecha nodded gravely, and I thought how grown up he was for a boy his age.
"Have you decided on a name?"
"No. I will not take a white man's name."
"How about a Cheyenne name, only in English?" I suggested.
Heecha frowned, and then smiled. "I shall be called Hawk!" he said resolutely. "It is my father's special spirit."
"Hawk." I repeated the name, wondering why it sounded so familiar. An image danced in the back of my mind, an indistinct image of a tall, dark-skinned man and a soaring red bird. Frowning, I tried to bring the blurred image into focus. Almost, I could see the man's face and I felt as if I were on the verge of remembering something vitally important when Josh called my name and the moment was gone.
Heecha left the house a few minutes after Joshua came home. Heecha did not like Josh. And Josh did not like Heecha. I thought that was odd, because I knew Joshua liked children. He had told me often that he was eager for us to have sons, lots of sons. Nevertheless, I knew Josh would not want Heecha to live with us, but I was determined to have my son and daughter with me. I did not remember having children, but I had grown to love the solemn-faced boy and the sweet shy girl, and I meant to give them a home and all the love they would ever need.
I mentioned as much to Joshua at dinner that night.
"Perhaps, in time," he said coldly. "For now, I don't want to share you with anyone else."
I did not like the tone of Joshua's voice, or the look in his eyes, and so I let the matter drop, at least for the time being.
After dinner, we went into the parlor. Josh picked up his pipe and the newspaper; I sat beside him on the sofa to finish mending his socks. We sat in companionable silence until, by chance, I glanced at the front page of the paper.
There, in bold black print, I read, "NINE YEARS SINCE CUSTER MASSACRE" and below there was a replica of the headlines the paper had featured on July 6, 1876:
"A Bloody Battle."
"General Custer Killed."
"The Entire Detachment Under His Command Slaughtered."
"Seventeen Officers Slain."
I leaned forward, all else forgotten as I read a detailed account of the massacre of General George Armstrong Custer and his men. I read names, many names: Boston Custer. Alfred Terry. Medicine Tail Coulee. Lonesome Charlie Reynolds. Sun-dance Creek. Mitch Boyer. Varnum, Custer's chief of scouts. Bloody Knife, the Arikara scout. The steamer, "Far West." Captain Keogh's horse, Comanche, the only survivor of the battle. Mark Kellogg, the newspaper reporter. Isaiah Dorman, the Negro interpreter. Tom Custer. Crazy Horse. Gall. Sitting Bull. And there, in among all the others, was the name of Two Hawks Flying, war chief of the Cheyenne.
I felt as if a veil was suddenly taken from my mind and I remembered clearly the battle that had taken place at the Little Big Horn on June 25, 1876. I remembered being desperately afraid the man I loved more than my own life would be killed, and when his big red roan horse came back from the battle without him, I knew a terrible, heart-wrenching fear. I remembered climbing aboard the big red stallion, hoping the animal would carry me to its master.
And he did . . .
I found Shadow standing atop a high bluff, a pensive expression on his handsome face. Blood was leaking from a jagged gash in his right side; his leggings were covered with it. He did not seem aware of my presence as I drew rein beside him.
Following his gaze, I saw the cold, unmoving forms of Custer's men scattered below us. Stripped naked, they made an eerie sight in the dusky twilight. Many of the bodies had been scalped. Others had been mutilated with the Cheyenne cut-arm sign or the Sioux cut-throat sign. Ribbons of dried blood made dark stains against their pale waxy flesh.
A single horse grazed in the distance . . .
''Shadow." I whispered his name, felt my heart leap with joy as I remembered who he was. And who I was.
Joshua looked up, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. "What did you say?"
"You!" I recoiled in horror as I recognized the man
who had lied to me. The man who had wanted to kill my son. Had I gone mad? Joshua was dead, long dead.
"So," Joshua mused ruefully. "You remember."
"Everything," I said bitterly. I looked at the sock I had been mending and threw it to the floor. I did not want to touch anything that belonged to Joshua Lee Berdeen.
I stood up, my eyes flashing defiantly. "I'm leaving," I said tersely. "Don't ever try to see me again."
In a quick movement, Joshua was off the sofa, his hand biting into my arm. "You're not going anywhere, Hannah Berdeen. Yes, Berdeen! You're my wife, all nice and legal, and I intend to be your husband. In every way."
Joshua's face was close to mine, his blue eyes alight with the heat of his desire. I struggled wildly, trying to loosen his hold on my arm. Shadow needed me. Heecha said he had been wounded, might be dead. But he couldn't be dead. I couldn't live without him. Or Heecha. My heart swelled with love and my arms ached to hold my son and daughter again.
"Let me go!" I shrieked. Lifting my knee, I rammed it into Joshua's groin, felt a quick satisfaction as he groaned and doubled over, releasing my arm.
Triumphant, I headed for the door, screamed as I felt Joshua's hand close around my ankle. I fell face down, scraping my cheek against the edge of a table. We grappled on the floor for several minutes, but I was no match for Joshua's strength and he soon had me pinned to the floor, his hands trapping my arms above my head, his body straddling my hips. I did not like the smile that twisted his lips, or the lust burning in his eyes.
"You're mine, Hannah," he said huskily. "Only mine."
I shuddered at hearing those words, for they were similar to what Josh had said on our wedding night just before he ripped my wedding gown from my body and forcibly made me his. Only I had never been his. And I never would be.
I cringed as he unfastened the bodice of my dress and ripped away my chemise. His hand was hot against my flesh, his mouth hard and unyielding as he kissed me.
Knowing it was useless to fight, I closed my eyes and summoned Shadow's image to mindeyes like a dark flame, a wealth of thick black hair, muscles that rippled like silk beneath smooth, copperhued skin . . .
I felt nothing that night as Joshua possessed my body, nothing at all. In my mind, I was far away in Bear Valley, warm and safe in the arms of the only man I had ever loved.
XV
Shadow Rebecca Matthews sighed as she spread her blankets beside the fire. Tomorrow, they would reach New York and Two Hawks Flying would be reunited with his woman. How could she bear to watch him with his precious Hannah? Just thinking of him holding someone else made her want to scratch the woman's eyes out. It was so unfair!
She put her unhappy thoughts from her as she heard footsteps coming through the brush behind her. This was her last night with Two Hawks Flying. She would not spoil it by brooding about the future.
Putting a smile on her face, Rebecca turned around, felt the smile fade as she saw three men riding toward her. Rebecca knew, by the look of them, that they were the kind of men decent women avoided. She took a step backward as the three men reined their horses to a halt. Dismounting, they walked toward her, their eyes taking in the blankets spread before the fire, the wagon parked in the shadows, the horses grazing nearby. and the woman standing alone.
"Well, now, looky here," mused the tallest of the three. "Just what the doctor ordered. A warm fire, a little food, and a woman to cuddle."
"Settle down, Lem," cautioned a ruddy-faced man with a full black beard and a scarred face. "Let's find out just who the little lady is, and what she's doing out here all by her lonesome." The man walked closer to Rebecca, his close-set eyes traveling up and down her body. "Who are you, missy? What are you doing out here by yourself?"
"Who I am is none of your business," Rebecca answered haughtily. "And I am not alone. My . . . my husband is due back any moment. He . . . he went into the woods to . . . to relieve himself."
"That right?" the man called Lem said with a leer. "Just the two of you here alone. Romantic, ain't it, Harv?"
The third man grinned, revealing stained yellow teeth. "Yeah," he agreed. "I could use a little romancin' myself."
"All in good time," the ruddy-faced man said cheerfully. "All in good time. Lem, you go search that wagon, see if there's any money or liquor under the seat. Harv, you search the woman."
Rebecca's eyes widened with fear and revulsion as the man called Harv laid his rifle down and walked purposefully toward her. Her mind screamed for her to run, but fear held her frozen to the spot. She gasped as Harv reached out and ran his dirty hands over her breasts and thighs and buttocks. She cringed as his foul breath filled her nostrils, cried out as he pushed her down on the ground. She began to thrash wildly as the man lowered himself over her, his mouth tasting her lips.
"Hold on, Harv," growled the ruddyfaced man. "I'm the ramrod of this here outfit. I figure that gives me first crack at the woman."
Harv reared up, his eyes flashing in protest. "Shit, Hooper, don't stop me now!"
The man called Hooper opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he was going to say died with him. There was a sharp retort and Hooper fell backward, blood spurting from a hole in his chest. Rebecca screamed as his blood sprayed over her. A second gunshot killed Lem as he reached for his rifle.
Harv sprang to his feet, his hands over his head, his face pale as death. "Don't shoot!" he cried. "Don't shoot. I give up."
Rebecca scrambled to her feet and ran to Shadow's side. Now that the danger was past, she felt suddenly weak. She glanced at Shadow, gratitude in her eyes, but he was glaring at the man called Harv. His black eyes were ablaze with fury, his mouth was parted in a feral snarl. He looked suddenly savage and merciless and she took a step backward, more afraid of the man beside her than she had been of the three strangers.
"Listen, there was no harm done, mister," Harv said, speaking rapidly. "Me and others just got carried away a little, but we didn't do nothing. Honest!" He looked at Rebecca pleadingly. "Tell him nothing happened, lady." His voice rose shrilly. "Tell him, lady! For God's sake, tell him before it's too late."
"It is already too late," Shadow said coldly, and pulled the trigger a third time.
Rebecca turned away as Harv lurched forward, a hand pressed against his chest. Blood trickled through his fingers. "Help me," he begged, his voice faint. And then he fell forward to move no more.
Rebecca stared at the three bodies in horror. Only moments ago they had been alive and now they were dead. She looked at Two Hawks Flying out of the corner of her eye. His face was hard, cold, and cruel. A look of satisfaction lurked in his deep black eyes.
He had killed three men, and he was glad. The thought frightened her and she turned on her heel and began running, away from the man who had become a stranger, away from the bodies lying in the dirt.
She heard Two Hawks Flying call her name, but the sound of his voice only spurred her on and she ran blindly into the woods, running as if the devil himself pursued her. She had to get away. Away from Two Hawks Flying. Away from her own desire for a man who was a heathen, a savage, a coldblooded killer.
She screamed as she felt his arm close around her waist, and then he was pulling her close. She struggled wildly, her nails raking his cheeks as she kicked at his shins. He grunted once as her knee slammed into his groin, but he did not release his hold and in a few minutes she stopped fighting, suddenly too tired to care what happened.
"Rebecca, do not be afraid. I will not hurt you."
His voice was kind, tender with concern. Lifting her face, she looked into his eyes. The savage killer was gone. Relief washed through her and then the tears came, washing away the nameless fear that had sent her fleeing into the night.
Lifting her in his arms, Shadow carried Rebecca back to the fire, placed her carefully onto her bedroll, covered her as if she were a child.
"Sleep now," he said, stroking her hair. "I will keep watch."
Rebecca nodded wordlessly, knowing if she tried to
speak, she would beg him to share her bed again, to hold her one last time. Knowing that if she asked, he would refuse.
The thought hurt worse than anything else.
In the morning, the bodies were gone, all traces of them completely erased.
That evening, they arrived in New York.
It was a big city. Shadow looked around in awe. He had forgotten how strange the white man's dwellings were, how noisy the city was. There was the shrill sound of a woman hawking vegetables, the constant clatter of iron-shod hooves, the creak of numerous carriages and buggies and wagons, the chiming of a distant clock as it struck the hour. People crowded the sidewalks, all of them apparently in a hurry to be somewhere else.
Rebecca reined the team to a halt before one of the many hotels, draped the lines around the brake. "Well, we're here."
Shadow nodded. He felt strange in the white man's city clad in the clothing of a white man.
"This place looks nice," Rebecca remarked, nodding toward the hotel. "We might as well stay here for the night, if that's all right with you. Tomorrow we'll start looking for your woman. Do you know where she's staying?"
"No."
"Well, I guess we'll just have to ask at every hotel and boarding house in town until we find her." Rebecca climbed down from the carriage and followed Two Hawks Flying into the hotel. She did not say what she was thinking, but she was hoping he never found Hannah. Perhaps then he would turn to her for the love and comfort every man needed.
The clerk standing behind the front desk frowned as Rebecca informed him they would like a large room with a double bed and a bath.
"How much will that be, please?" she asked politely.
"It's . . . uh, excuse me, ma'am," the clerk said, running a nervous finger around the inside of his starched white collar. "You see, we're . . . uh, full up just now."
Rebecca drew herself up to her full height. "And would you still be full up if my . . . my husband were a white man?" she demanded, her brown eyes flashing angrily.
The clerk grew red around the ears. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but it's company policy not to rent rooms to Indians."
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